He still could not sleep. He wished Clare had not gone to Eli Lockhart, although he was glad for the cavalryman that she had, but her absence made Sharpe feel lonely. He walked to the cliff's edge and he stood staring across the great gulf towards the fortress. A few lights showed in Gawilghur, and every twenty minutes or so the rocky isthmus would be lit by the monstrous flame of the eighteen-pounder gun. The balls would rattle against stone, then there would be silence except for the distant sound of singing, the crackle of insects and the soft sigh of the wind against the cliffs. Once, when the great gun fired, Sharpe distinctly saw the three ragged holes in the two walls. And why, he wondered, was he so intent on going into those deathtraps? Was it revenge? Just to find Hakeswill and Dodd? He could wait for the attackers to do their work, then stroll into the fort unopposed, but he knew he would not choose that easy path. He would go with Kenny's men and he would fight his way into Gawilghur for no other reason than pride. He was failing as an officer. The 74th had rejected him,
the Rifles did not yet know him, so Sharpe must take a reputation back to England if he was to stand any chance of success.
So tomorrow he must fight. Or else he must sell his commission and leave the army. He had thought about that, but he wanted to stay in uniform. He enjoyed the army, he even suspected he was good at the army's business of fighting the King's enemies. So tomorrow he would do it again, and thus demonstrate that he deserved the red sash and the sword.
So in the morning, when the drums beat and the enemy guns beat even harder, Sharpe would go into Gawilghur.
CHAPTER 9
At dawn there was a mist in Deogaum, a mist that sifted through the rain trees and pooled in the valleys and beaded on the tents.
"A touch of winter, don't you think?" Sir Arthur Wellesley commented to his aide, Campbell.
"The thermometer's showing seventy-eight degrees, sir, " the young Scotsman answered drily.
"Only a touch of winter, Campbell, only a touch, " the General said.
He was standing outside his tent, a cup and saucer in one hand, staring up through the wisps of mist to where the rising sun threw a brilliant light on Gawilghur's soaring cliffs. A servant stood behind with Wellesley's coat, hat and sword, a second servant held his horse, while a third waited to take the cup and saucer.
"How's Harness?" the General asked Campbell.
"I believe he now sleeps most of the time, sir, " Campbell replied.
Colonel Harness had been relieved of the command of his brigade.
He had been found ranting in the camp, demanding that his Highlanders form fours and follow him southwards to fight against dragons, papists and Whigs.
"Sleeps?" the General asked.
"What are the doctors doing? Pouring rum down his gullet?"
"I believe it is tincture of opium, sir, but most likely flavoured with rum."
"Poor Harness, " Wellesley grunted, then sipped his tea. From high above him there came the sound of a pair of twelve-pounder guns that had been hauled to the summit of the conical hill that reared just south of the fortress. Wellesley knew those guns were doing no good, but he had stubbornly insisted that they fire at the fortress gate that looked out across the vast plain. The gunners had warned the General that the weapons would be ineffective, that they would be firing too far and too high above them, but Wellesley had wanted the fortress to know that an assault might come from the south as well as across the rocky isthmus to the north, and so he had ordered the sappers to drag the two weapons up through the entangling jungle and to make a battery on the hill top. The guns, firing at their maximum elevation, were just able to throw their missiles to Gawilghur's southern entrance, but by the time the round shot reached the gate it was spent of all force and simply bounced back down the steep slope. But that was not the point. The point was to keep some of the garrison looking southwards, so that not every man could be thrown against the assault on the breaches.
That assault would not start for five hours yet, for before Lieutenant Colonel Kenny led his men against the breaches, Wellesley wanted his other attackers to be in place. Those were two columns of redcoats that were even now climbing the two steep roads that twisted up the great cliffs. Colonel Wallace, with his own 74th and a battalion of sepoys, would approach the Southern Gate, while the 78th and another native battalion would climb the road which led to the ravine between the forts. Both columns could expect to come under heavy artillery fire, and neither could hope to break into the fortress, but their job was only to distract the defenders while Kenny's men made for the breaches.
Wellesley drained the tea, made a wry face at its bitter taste and held out the cup and saucer for the servant.
"Time to go, Campbell."
"Yes, sir."
Wellesley had thought about riding to the plateau and entering the fortress behind Kenny, but he guessed his presence would merely distract men who had enough problems to face without worrying about their commander's approval. Instead he would ride the steep southern road and join Wallace and the 74th. All those men could hope for was that the other attackers got inside the Inner Fort and opened the Southern Gate, or else they would have to march ignominiously back down the hill to their encampment. It was all or nothing, Wellesley thought. Victory or disgrace.
He mounted, waited for his aides to assemble, then touched his horse's flank with his spurs. God help us now, he prayed, God help us now.
Lieutenant Colonel Kenny examined the breaches through a telescope that he had propped on a rock close to one of the breaching batteries.
The guns were firing, but he ignored the vast noise as he gazed at the stone ramps which his men must climb.
"They're steep, man, " he grumbled, 'damned steep."
"The walls are built on a slope, " Major Stokes pointed out, 'so the breaches are steep of necessity."
"Damned hard to climb though, " Kenny said.
"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.