Sharpe leaned back against the wall, his head back, touching the stone. 'Oh Jesus. Oh God. He was panting, the sword arm limp, and the pavement ahead was shredded with blood. He looked down at the artillery officer, torn into a grotesque death. 'Oh God. He was surrendering.
'It doesn't matter. Harper had recovered first, the axe shattered in a killing strike, and he had watched in awe as Sharpe had killed. Now he quieted Sharpe, soothed him, and watched the sense come back even as the madness climbed up the city streets.
Sharpe looked up, calm now, his voice bereft of all feeling. 'We did it.
'Yes.
Sharpe leaned his head back again, on to the wall, and his eyes closed. It was done, the breach. And to do it he had discovered that a man must banish fear as never before, and with that fear must go all other emotion except rage and anger; humanity must go, feeling, all must go except rage. Only that would conquer the unconquerable.
'Sir? Harper plucked at Sharpe's elbow. No one else could have done this, Harper thought, no one but Sharpe could have led men past death's peak.
'Sir?
The eyes opened, the face came down, and Sharpe stared at the bodies. He had slaked his pride, carried it through a breach, and it was done. He looked at Patrick Harper. 'I wishI could play the flute.
'Sir?
'Patrick?
'Teresa, sir. Teresa.
God in heaven. Teresa.
CHAPTER 28
Hakeswill had not meant to go into the ditch, but, as soon as the South Essex made their attack and had left the Light Company to give covering fire from the glacis lip, he had seen that there was greater safety for him in the shadow of the ravelin. No chance, there, of an axe-blow in the dark from Harper, and so he had swung himself down a ladder, snarling at the frightened men, and then, in the chaos, had burrowed deep into the bodies in the shadowed ditch. He saw the attack go in, saw it fail, and he watched as Windham and Forrest tried to rouse other attacks, but Sergeant Hakeswill was snug and safe. Three bodies covered him, still warm in death, and he felt them shudder from time to time as the grape fragments struck home, but he was safe. At some time in the night a Lieutenant, a stranger to Hakeswill, tried to provoke him from his lair, screaming at the Sergeant to move and attack, but it was simple to grip the Lieutenant's ankle, trip him, and the bayonet slid so easily between the ribs and Hakeswill had a fourth body, surprise on its face, and he cackled as he slid expert hands over the pockets and pouches and counted his loot. Four gold coins, a silver locket and, best of all, an inlaid pistol that Hakeswill tugged from the Lieutenant's belt. The weapon was loaded, balanced to perfection, and he grinned as he thrust it into his jacket. Every little helped.
He had tied his shako with strings beneath his chin. He fumbled at the knot, tore it apart, and held the hat close before his face. 'We're safe now, safe. His voice was ingratiating, plaintive. 'I promise you. Obadiah won't let you down. Near to him, just beyond his parapet of corpses, a man sobbed and screamed and called for his mother. He was a long time dying. Hakeswill listened, his head cocked like an animal, and then he looked again into the hat. 'He wants his mother, he does. Tears came to his eyes. 'His mother. He looked up into the darkness, over the flames, and he howled at the sky.
There were periods of quietness in the ditch, periods when the death did not plunge downwards and when the mass of men, living and dead, crouched motionless beneath the high muzzles, and then, just when it seemed that the fight might be over, there would be a stir in the ditch. Men would try to rush the breaches, be restrained by other men, and the guns would fire again and the screaming would start again. Some men went mad, the agony too much, and one man thought the guns were the sound of God hawking and spitting and he knelt in the ditch and prayed until a lump of God's spittletook off his head, but Hakeswill was safe. He sat with his back to the ditch scarp, his front protected by the dead, and he talked into his hat. 'Not tonight. I can't do it tonight. The pretty lady will have to wait, yes she will. He wheedled into the, hat, and then listened to the fight with a professional's ear. He shook his head. 'Not tonight. Tonight we lose.
He did not know how long he was in the ditch, or how long it took the dying to die, or how many times the lifeless flesh quivered around him as the canister pulverized the pile. Time was measured by sobs, by guns, by the passing of hopes, and it ended, unexpectedly, with the great shout. 'Sharpe! Sharpe! Sharpe! Hakeswill's face twitched over his parapet and watched as the living climbed from the spaces between the bodies and they were going away from him, over the ravelin, and to his right another attack clawed up the Trinidad.
'Sharpe! Sharpe! Sharpe! The two men, he thought, must die, and he cackled at them, willing the canister to shred them, but they kept climbing and the shout went on. 'Sharpe! Sharpe! Sharpe!
Hakeswill saw Sharpe slip almost at the top of the ramp and the Sergeant's heart leaped for joy; he was shot! But no, the bastard was pushed on by Harper, reached up for a chain, and there he stood, high on the central breach, lit by flames, and the Irishman was beside him, blades in their hands, and Hakeswill watched as they turned once to gesture a great triumph towards the British. Then they had gone, down to the city, and Hakeswill pushed the bodies aside, rammed his shako on his head, and kicked his way through the crowd that was flooding towards the Trinidad.
At the breach's head men swung the great axes, the chains split, and the Ckevaux de Prise was heaved ahead of them and into a trench the defenders had dug on the rubble crest, and then the British were jumping the blades, shrieking murder, and sliding down the broken stones to the city's interior. They were berserk with rage. Hakeswill could feel it, the madness, and nothing would stop them this night. Even the wounded were pulling themselves up the breach ramps, some on their bellies, trying to reach the city and asking only for a chance to hurt as they had been hurt. They wanted drink, and women, and deaths, and more drink, and they remembered that Spaniards had fired at them from the city's walls and that made every living person in Badajoz an enemy. So they went, a dark, scrabbling stream, over the breaches and up into the alleyways and streets, trampling the wounded in their rush, more coming, more, the breaches living with the mass of men scuttling into the city, spreading up into Badajoz, revenge.
Hakeswill went with them up a long street that led to a small plaza. He knew he was going in roughly the right direction, uphill and angling left, but he was trusting to instinct and luck. The plaza was already crowded with soldiers. Muskets sounded as door locks were blasted open, the first screams were coming from the city's women and some, not wanting to be trapped in their houses, tried to run higher up the hill. Hakeswill watched one caught. Her earrings were ripped from her and blood sprayed on her dress as that, too, was torn from her and she was naked, spinning between the soldiers who pushed her, laughed at her, and then leaped on her. Hakeswill skirted the group. It was not his business, and he guessed that the woman who had escaped would lead him to the cathedral. He followed.
Captain Robert Knowles, elated and tired, leaned briefly on the castle gateway. Hooves echoed in the streets. Philippon, the French General, with a handful of mounted men had ridden away, escaping, down to the bridge that would take them to refuge in the San Cristobal Fort. They had lost the huge fortress and, as they rode, they heard the dark business begin behind them. They whipped the-horses, raked back with spurs, clattered on to the bridge and behind them, running, came the fleeing French infantry. Philippon's face was grief-stricken, not for the city, but for his failure. He had done all that could be done, far more than he had hoped, yet still he had lost. Wellington, damned Wellington, had won.