There was a musket shot and Hector felt a tug at his sleeve. A defender must have seen them and opened fire. Bending double, the two men scurried back to where Sharpe was waiting. 'Now we wait,' he said.
For what seemed like an age nothing happened. Then abruptly there was the sound of a detonation, followed by shouts of fear, then silence.
They waited another minute, but there was no further explosion. 'One bomb seems to have been enough,' said Sharpe. He cocked his head to one side, listening. 'We've given them something to think about.'
There was an anxious shout from below. Someone was calling 'Captain Sharpe! Captain Sharpe!' and a worried-looking buccaneer appeared at the rear of the building. He had a bloody rag wrapped around one hand.
'Who are you calling "Captain"? I'm just one of the company now!' exclaimed Sharpe, looking down.
'The general's dead!' cried out the newcomer. 'He was shot at the barricades. We need someone to lead us.'
'Really?' said Sharpe. 'I thought quartermaster Duill was second in command. Let him take over.'
'Duill has disappeared,' answered the man. 'No one can find him, and we're in a bad way in the town.' He was begging now. 'Captain, come back down to assist us.'
Sharpe descended the final rungs slowly and deliberately. 'Do all the men want me back in charge?'
'Yes, yes. The situation is very bad.'
Sharpe turned towards Hector and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his pale blue eyes. 'Hector, tell the men to abandon the attack on the fort and fall back.'
'We are too few,' the exhausted-looking buccaneer was saying. 'Every time we overrun one of their barricades and move forward, the Spaniards come in behind us and reoccupy the position they just lost. We can't spare anyone to look after all our prisoners. Many of them make their escape and rejoin the fight.'
They had reached the main square, and the extent of the raiders' difficulties was all too evident. The main force had fought its way into the heart of the town but the Spaniards had sealed off all the streets leading from the far side of the central square with piles of stone and rubble. They had placed sharpshooters where they could fire on anyone who tried to advance any further, and several buccaneers had been shot down as they tried to cross the open ground. Their bodies lay where they had fallen. Some two dozen of their comrades were now taking shelter in side alleys or crouching in doorways. Occasionally they fired towards the Spanish positions. A group of about twenty Spanish prisoners, clearly terrified, were lying face down on the ground watched over by a couple of wounded buccaneers. It was obvious that the attack had come to a standstill.
'Our wounded are in that church over there,' said their guide, pointing. 'Our surgeons are with them. They broke into an apothecary shop and took some medical supplies. But the longer we stay here, the bolder the Spaniards are becoming. They're moving up closer. It's becoming dangerous even to venture out into the open.'
He ducked as a musket ball struck the wall above his head. Somewhere in the distance a trumpet sounded.
Sharpe took stock of the situation. 'The Spaniards are bringing up reinforcements, and we can expect a sortie from the garrison in the fort when they are in position. Then we'll be caught in a pincer movement, and crushed. We've no choice but to make an orderly retreat while we are still able to do so.'
'What about our wounded in the church? We can't leave them!' said Hector.
Sharpe treated him to a sour smile. 'You're always worried about leaving someone behind, aren't you? As you are so concerned, I suggest you dash off and check on the situation in the church. See if any of the men can be evacuated. Then report back to me. Hurry!'
Hector swallowed hard. His throat was dry and he had a raging thirst. It occurred to him that no one had drunk anything that day. Nor had they eaten. 'Jezreel and Jacques, give me some covering fire!'
He removed his grenade satchel and laid it on the ground. He would have to cross thirty yards of open ground before he reached the portico of the church, and he could be halfway there before the Spanish musketeers realised what he was doing. He took a deep breath and burst out from cover.
As he sprinted across the plaza's flagstones, he expected a musket ball to strike him at any moment. But there was not a single shot and he crashed full tilt into the great wooden door. The heavy black iron handle was in his hand. He tugged the door open and threw himself inside.
After the blinding sunshine of the plaza, the interior of the church was so dark that he had to pause and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. In front of him the nave was a nightmare scene. All the church furniture — benches, carved wooden screens, a confessional, even the lectern — had either been roughly pushed to one side or overturned and smashed. At the far end the altar stood bare, stripped of its cross. Wall hangings had been torn down and were now spread out on the floor to serve as bedding on which lay wounded men. The place smelled of vomit and excrement. From outside still came the crack of musket shots but here in the half-darkness the sounds were moans, coughs and an occasional whimper of pain. Somewhere a man was cursing, softly and steadily, as if to distract himself from his suffering.
Hector looked around, trying to locate the surgeons. Someone was wearing a loose white cloak trimmed with gold and sitting on the step in front of the altar. He seemed to be unhurt. Hector went forward to speak with him. 'Are there any walking wounded?' he asked even as he realised that the seated figure was wrapped in the altar cloth. The man looked up. He was glassy-eyed and his breath stank of alcohol. 'Go look for yourself,' he mumbled. Appalled, Hector seized him by the shoulder and shook him. 'Where are the surgeons!' he shouted. Under his grip, Hector felt the limp and sagging movements of someone who was completely drunk. The man's head flopped back and forward loosely. 'The surgeons! Where are the surgeons?' Hector repeated angrily. The man hiccuped. 'Over there, waiting for a sermon,' he replied. He gave a tipsy laugh and waved vaguely towards the pulpit steps.
Lolling there was another man. He had a bottle in his hand and was clearly as intoxicated as his colleague. Hector recognised one of the surgeons who had worked alongside Smeeton and stayed on with the expedition. He was waving the bottle at Hector. 'Come and join us, young man!' he called out, slurring his words. 'Come and enjoy the finest fruits of the apothecary's skill. The medicine to cure every ailment.' He raised the bottle to his mouth, drained the last of its contents, and tossed it on the floor where it broke with a loud crash. 'That fool Watling is all piss and wind. A hotbrain who led us all into a death trap.' He wiped drool from his mouth with the back of his hand. 'We are the only ones who will get out of this alive,' he announced solemnly. 'We, the honoured gentlemen of the medical profession, are always welcome guests. The Spaniards will look after us. They need our skills. You were Smeeton's assistant, weren't you? So why don't you join us?' His knees gave way, and he sat back heavily on the pulpit steps.
Hector felt nausea rising within him, and a sense of betrayal. 'Won't you at least help the wounded get out of here?' he asked.
'Let them take their chances. Why should we risk our lives?' the surgeon retorted.
Hector made his way among the rows of wounded men.
The injuries inflicted by musket bullets were brutal. Several of the men on the floor appeared to be dead already, others were delirious or lying with their eyes closed.