Some of the devils fought, squabbling over women or wine, and Sharpe saw two Portuguese soldiers bayonet a British Sergeant, seize the woman beneath him, and drag her into a house. Her child, screaming hysterically, toddled after, but the door was slammed and the child left. Harper's face showed a terrible fury. He kicked the door, bursting it open, and plunged into the house. A shot was fired, splintering the lintel, and then the Portuguese came out, one after the other, thrown with a bone-crunching force and the Irishman picked up the child, handed it in, and shut the door as best he could. He shrugged at Sharpe. 'Others will get her.’
Which way? Two roads led uphill, the larger to the left, and Sharpe took it, pushing through the riot, the scenes from hell. Once, inexplicably, the pavement seemed to be running with silver coins that no one touched. One by one the doors were shot open, the houses ripped apart, a whole city at an army's mercy, and the army had little. A few men showed decency, protecting a woman or a family, but the decent men were too often shot down. Officers who tried to stop the carnage were shot, discipline was dead, the mob ruled Badajoz.
Screams deafened the two men, and they were thrown back on to a wall by a horde of women, stark naked, who, slobbering and spitting, had erupted from an unbarred door. A nun screamed at them from the doorway, but more women came from inside and Sharpe knew a madhouse was emptying itself into the streets. There was no point in locking up the mad in Badajoz this night and there were whoops from behind and cheers as the soldiers charged up and into the lunatics. One pulled at the nun, while another leaped on to a huge, naked woman's back, gripped her wild, grey hair as reins, and all the soldiers tried to ride a lunatic.
'There, sir! Harper pointed. Above them and ahead was the cathedral tower, its square, crenellated outline obvious in the sky, and from its arched openings the bells jangled a cacophony because drunken men were dangling on the ropes, signaling a victory.
They stopped at the street's end, in front of the cathedral, and to their left was a great plaza, the rape beneath its trees lit by a huge fire, and to their right a dark alley. Sharpe started towards it, but his arm was pulled, and he turned to see a girl, short and weeping, clinging to his sleeve. She had been roused from a house, chased, and her pursuers came after as she held on to the tall man whose face had looked untouched by the madness. 'Senor! Senor!
Her tormentors, in the white facings of the 43rd, reached for the girl and Sharpe swept the sword at them, cutting one man's arm, and he watched their bayonets drop for the attack and the girl was hampering him. He swung again, being forced back by British bayonets, but then Harper came between him and his attackers, the seven-barreled gun whirled as a club, and they went back.
'This way! Sharpe shouted and, with the girl still clinging to him, he pushed into the alley. Harper came behind, threatening the men of the 43rd with the giant gun until they gave up and went for easier spoils, and then the Sergeant turned after Sharpe to find the alley was a dead end. Sharpe swore.
Harper seized the girl, who shrank away, but his touch was gentle and his voice urgent. 'Donde esta la Casa Moreno? It was the limit of his Spanish, and the girl shook her head. He tried again, letting his voice reassure her. 'Listen, Miss. Casa Moreno. Comprendo? Donde esta la Casa Moreno?
She spoke in fast, excited Spanish, and pointed to the cathedral. Sharpe swore again in exasperation. 'She doesn't know. We'll go back. He started forward, but Harper put out a hand.
'No, look! There were steps leading to a side-door and the Irishman pushed Sharpe towards it. 'She means through the cathedral. It's a short cut!
The girl stumbled on her dress, but Harper caught her and she clung to his hand as he pushed open the huge, studded door. Sharpe heard the Irishman draw in a breath.
The cathedral had been a refuge, a sanctuary, but no longer. Troops had invaded it, had chased the women, caught them, and now, under the myriad votive candles, the women were being raped. A nun, her habit ripped apart, was spread-eagled on the high altar while an Irishman of the 88th, down from the casde assault, tried vainly to climb up to her. He was too drunk. The girl gasped, began to scream, but Harper held her firm. 'Casa Moreno? Si?
She nodded, too appalled to speak, and led them across the great floor of the transept, between the altar and the transcoro, and round the huge chandelier that had been cut from its moorings and had crashed down on to the flagstones, crushing a Corporal from the 7th who still twitched under its weight. Dead lay on the floor while the wounded, sobbing in their misery, crawled towards the obscuring shadows of the nave. Be with us now and in the hour of our need.
A priest, who had tried to stop the soldiers, lay by the north door and Sharpe and Harper stepped over the body, into the great plaza, and the girl pointed again, to her right, and they ran until she pulled Harper right again, into a dark alleyway seething with troops who beat at shut doors and, in their frustration, fired shots at upper, barred windows. Harper protected the girl, held her close, as they pushed through the men, Sharpe's sword their passport, and then the girl shouted at them, pointed, and Sharpe saw the dark shapes of two trees and knew he had arrived.
There were cheers from the doorway, a creaking, a great crash, and a mass of men in front of them melted away as they streamed into Moreno's courtyard. Barrels waited for them, thick barrels, full barrels, and the men fell on the wine, forgetting everything else, and in his counting house, praying next to his wife who had returned home at midnight, Rafael Moreno prayed and hoped he had provided enough wine for the soldiers and thick enough bolts for his counting house door.
Hakeswill cursed. He heard the commotion below, the crashing of the great doors, and he spat at Teresa. 'Hurry!
A bullet splintered the shutter and buried itself in the ceiling and he turned, fearing Sharpe, but it was only a stray shot from the street. The baby was awkward in his arm, but it was his best threat and he did not want to kill it yet. The bayonet was still at Antonia's throat, her crying reduced to heaving, breathless sobs, and Hakeswill twitched the blade, ground his teeth as the twitching caught him, and bellowed again. 'Hurry!
She was still dressed, damn her, and he wanted this business done! Two shoes off, that was all, and he twitched the bayonet again, drawing a trickle of blood, and he saw her arms go up to the fastening of her dress. 'That's right, missy, don't want baby to die, do we? He cackled, and the cackling became a racking cough, and Teresa watched the blade at her child's throat. She dared not attack him, dared not, and then the coughing stopped and the eyes opened again. 'Get on with it, missy. We've got time to make up, remember?
Teresa slowly undid the knot at her throat, pretending to fumble with the material, and she saw the excitement in his face and then he began to swallow rapidly so that his Adam's apple pulled at the scar. 'Hurry, missy, hurry! Hakeswill could feel the excitement. She had humiliated him, this bitch, and now it was her turn. She would die, and so would her bastard, but he would have his enjoyment first and he began to work out in his head the problem of holding the baby while he took her, and then he knew she was taking her time. 'I'll slit its throat, missy, then yours. But if you want this little bastard to live, you'd better take them clothes off, and fast!