Sharpe’s Fortress [181-011-4.2] By: Bernard Cornwell

“They’re practical,” Stokes declared. He knew the breaches were steep,

and that was why the guns were still firing. There was no hope of

making the breaches less steep, the slope of the hill saw to that, but

at least the continued bombardment gave the attacking infantry the

impression that the gunners were attempting to alleviate the

difficulties.

“You’ve made holes in the walls,” Kenny said, “I’ll grant you that.

You’ve made holes, but that don’t make them practical holes, Stokes.

They’re damned steep.”

“Of necessity,” Stokes repeated patiently.

“We ain’t monkeys, you know,” Kenny complained.

“I think you’ll find them practical, sir,” Stokes said emolliently. He

knew, and Kenny knew, that the breaches could not be improved and must

therefore be attempted. Kenny’s grumbling, Stokes suspected, was a

disguise for nerves, and Stokes could not blame the man. He would not

have wanted to carry a sword or musket up those rugged stone slopes to

whatever horrors the enemy had prepared on the other side.

Kenny grunted.

“I suppose they’ll have to suffice,” he said grudgingly, snapping his

telescope shut. He flinched as one of the eighteen pounders roared and

billowed smoke all about the battery, then he strode into the acrid

cloud, shouting for Major Plummer, the gunner officer.

Plummer, powder-stained and sweating, loomed out of the smoke.

“Sir?”

“You’ll keep your pieces firing till we’re well on the breaches?”

“I will, sir.”

“That should keep their damned heads down,” Kenny said, then fished a

watch from his fob.

“I make it ten minutes after nine.”

“Eight minutes after,” Plummer said.

“Exactly nine o’clock,” Stokes said, tapping his watch to see if the

hands were stuck.

“We’ll use my timepiece,” Kenny decreed, ‘and we’ll move forward on the

strike of ten o’clock. And remember, Plummer, keep firing till we’re

there! Don’t be chary, man, don’t stop just because we’re close to the

summit. Batter the bastards! Batter the bastards!” He frowned at

Ahmed who was staying close to Stokes. The boy was wearing his red

coat which was far too big for him, and Kenny seemed on the point of

demanding an explanation for the boy’s odd garb, then abruptly shrugged

and walked away.

He went to where his men crouched on the track that led to the fortress

gate. They were sheltered from the defenders by the lie of the land,

but the moment they advanced over a small rocky rise they would become

targets. They then had three hundred yards of open ground to cross,

and as they neared the broken walls they would be squeezed into the

narrow space between the tank and the precipice where they could expect

the fire of the defenders to be at its fiercest. After that it was a

climb to the breaches and to whatever horrors waited out of sight.

The men sat, trying to find what small shade was offered by bushes or

rocks. Many were half drunk, for their officers had issued extra

rations of arrack and rum. None carried a pack, they had only their

muskets, their ammunition and bayonets. A few, not many, prayed. An

officer of the Scotch Brigade knelt bare-headed amongst a group of his

men, and Kenny, intrigued by the sight, swerved towards the kneeling

soldiers to hear them softly repeating the twenty-third psalm. Most

men just sat, heads low, consumed by their thoughts. The officers

forced conversation.

Behind Kenny’s thousand men was a second assault force, also composed

of sepoys and Scotsmen, which would follow Kenny into the breach. If

Kenny failed then the second storming party would try to go farther,

but if Kenny succeeded they would secure the Outer Fort while Kenny’s

troops went on to assault the Inner. Small groups of gunners were

included in both assault groups. Their orders were to find whatever

serviceable cannon still existed in the Outer Fort and turn them

against the defenders beyond the ravine.

An officer wearing the white facings of the 74th picked his way up the

track between the waiting troops. The man had a cheap Indian sabre at

his waist and, unusually for an officer, was carrying a musket and

cartridge box. Kenny hailed him.

“Who the devil are you?”

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