clearly visible. The British gunners were still firing, hammering
round shot just inches over the Scotsmen’s heads to keep the summit of
the breach clear of the enemy, and then, abruptly, the guns stopped and
the redcoats climbed into the dust that hung thick above the shattered
stones. A mass of Arabs climbed the breach’s inner slope, coming to
oppose the Scots, and scimitars rang against bayonets. The red coats
of the attackers were turned pink by the stone dust. Colonel Kenny was
in the front rank, straddling a chunk of masonry as he parried a
scimitar.
He lunged, piercing an enemy’s throat, then stepped forward, downwards,
knowing he was across the summit and oblivious of the muskets that
flamed above him from the upper wall. The British gunners, their
weapons re laid started to fire at the upper wall, driving the
defenders away from the fire step The Scots rammed their bayonets
forward, kicked the dead off the blades, stepped over the corpses and
followed Kenny down to the space inside the walls.
“This way!” Kenny shouted.
“This way!” He led the rush of men to the left, to where the inner
breach waited, its slope twitching as the round shot slammed home. Some
Arabs, fleeing the Scotsmen’s snarling rage, died as they tried to
climb the inner breach and were struck by the cannonballs.
Blood spattered across the inner wall, smeared the ramp, then was
whitened by the dust.
Kenny glanced behind to make sure that the column was close behind
him.
“Keep them coming,” he shouted to an aide who stood on the summit of
the first breach.
“Keep them coming!” Kenny spat a mouthful of dust, then shouted at the
Scots to start the ascent of the second breach.
“Hurry! Hurry!” Kenny’s aides who were still outside the walls urged
on the column. The rearmost ranks of the Colonel’s assault party were
stringing out, and the second storming group was not far behind.
“Close up!” the aides urged the laggards.
“Close up!”
Morris reluctantly quickened. The sepoys carrying the ladders were
running down the slight slope which led to the narrow space beside the
tank where the enemy’s guns were aimed. All along Gawilghur’s walls
the smoke jetted, the flames spat and the rockets blasted out in gouts
of smoke and streams of sparks. Even arrows were being fired. One
clattered on a rock near Sharpe, then spun into the grass.
The Scots were climbing the inner breach now, and a stream of men was
vanishing over the rocky summit of the outer breach. No mines had
awaited the attackers, and no cannon had been placed athwart the breach
to blast them as they flooded through the wall. Sepoys scrambled up
the stones.
“Hurry!” the aides shouted.
“Hurry!”
Sharpe ran down the slope towards the tank. His canteen and haversack
thumped on his waist, and sweat poured down his face.
“Slow down!”
Morris shouted at him, but Sharpe ignored the call. The company was
breaking apart as the more eager of the men hurried to catch up with
Sharpe and the others dallied with Morris.
“Slow down, damn you!”
Morris called to Sharpe again.
“Keep going!” Kenny’s aides shouted. Two of them had been posted
beside the tank and they gestured the men on. The round shot of the
breaching batteries hammered above their heads making a noise like
great barrels rolling across floorboards, then cracked into the smoke
rimmed upper wall. A green and red flag waved there. Sharpe saw an
Arab aim a musket, then smoke obscured the sight. A small cannonball
struck a sepoy, throwing him back and smearing the stony road with
blood and guts. Sharpe leaped the sprawling body and saw he had
reached the reservoir. The water was low and scummed green. Two Scots
and a sepoy lay on the sun-baked mud, their blood seeping into the
cracks that crazed the bank. A musket ball hammered into the mud, then
a small round shot lashed into the rear of Morris’s company and bowled
over two men.
“Leave them!” an aide shouted.
“Just leave them!” A rocket smashed close by Sharpe’s head, enveloping
him in smoke and sparks. A wounded man crawled back beside the road,