Sharpe began sliding back down the slope. ‘Come on.’
The French were shouting, making enough noise to cover their movements. There was little time. Sharpe thought what he would do if he was the French officer and imagined fetching water that could be thrown down on to the kegs and whatever fuse remained. He needed to see what was left. He slammed to a stop and looked upstream. The new carcasses brilliantly lit the foot of the dam; the kegs were clearly visible and so was the fuse. One end had fallen from a bung-hole in the lowest row of powder barrels, the other had dropped into the stream which had extinguished the fire. Even without the water, the fuse would have been useless. Harper crouched beside him. ‘What do we do?’
‘I need ten men.’
‘Leave it to me, what then?’
Sharpe jerked his head towards the rampart. ‘Six to take care of them and three to push those carcasses into the water.’
‘And you?’
‘Leave me one carcass.’ He began to load the rifle, hurrying in the darkness, not bothering with the leather patch that surrounded the bullet and gripped the seven grooves of the Baker’s barrel. He spat on the bullet and rammed it down. ‘Are we ready?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Harper was grinning. ‘I think this is a job for the Rifles.’
‘Why not, Sergeant?’ Sharpe grinned back. Damn Rymer, damn Hakeswill, Windham, Collett, all the new people who had disturbed the Battalion. Sharpe and his Riflemen had fought from the northern coast of Spain down through Portugal, then out again, to the Douro, to Talavera, to Almeida and Fuentes de Onoro. They understood each other, trusted each other, and Sharpe nodded to Harper.
The Sergeant, as Sharpe thought of him, cupped his hands. ‘Rifles! To me! Rifles!’
There were shouts from the ramparts, faces leaned over.
Sharpe cupped his own hands. ‘Company! Skirmish order!’ That should spread them out, but would they obey the old voices? Muskets fired from the fort, the bullets tearing the thorns, and Harper shouted again.
‘Rifles!’
Feet trampled up the ravine. An officer shouted from the rampart and Sharpe heard the sound of steel ramrods in French barrels.
‘They’re coming, sir.’
Of course they were coming! They were his men. The first shapes came into sight, dark uniformed without the cross belt of the red coats. ‘Tell them what to do, Sergeant.’ He thrust his loaded rifle at Harper, grinned at him. It was like the old times, the good times. I’m going.’
He could trust Harper to do the rest. He broke from the cover of the trees and ran upstream, into the light. The French saw him and he heard the shouted orders. The ground was wet and slippery, dotted with smooth rocks, and once he skidded wildly, flailed his arms for balance, and sensed the musket balls banging down at him. It was a difficult shot for the French, almost straight downwards, and they were hurrying too much. He heard Harper behind him, shouting the orders, and then the distinctive sound of Baker rifles. He followed the white fuse, and the great, sloping earth dam was above him, holding the tons of water, and bullets flecked the slope as Sharpe threw himself at the base of the barrels. The fuse had fallen free and he pushed it into the bung hole, feeling the gritty resistance of the powder. The bung had gone! He looked round, trying not to hurry. The damn thing had disappeared. He tried to pull one loose from another keg, but it had been hammered tight. Then he thought of a stone and scrabbling with his hand, found one, and rammed it into the hole. A musket ball tore at his sleeve, burning the skin, but behind him the light was disappearing as his Riflemen kicked carcasses into the water. They were still firing, and he was aware of voices shouting, and then he was finished, the fuse tight, and he backed away, pushing the white line up the bank, away from the water. He needed fire! He turned and saw one carcass burning, on the far bank. He leaped over to it and the bullets hammered down from above, one hitting the carcass so that it seemed to jump like a live thing. His Riflemen must be reloading.