Garrard peered up at the embrasures.
"There's no one there."
"There's a few there, " Sharpe said, 'but they ain't taking much notice.
Dozy, they are, " he added, and thank God for that, he thought, for a handful of defenders with loaded muskets could stop him dead. And dead is what he had better be after striking Morris, unless he could cross the ramparts and open the gates. He peered up at the battlements as more men hauled themselves over the edge of the cliff. He guessed the wall was lightly manned by little more than a picquet line, for no one would have anticipated that the cliff could be climbed, but he also guessed that once the redcoats appeared the defenders would quickly reinforce the threatened spot.
Garrard grinned at Sharpe.
"Did you thump Morris?"
"What else could I do?"
"He'll have you court-martialed
"Not if we win here, " Sharpe said.
"If we get those gates open, Tom, we'll be bloody heroes."
"And if we don't?"
"We'll be dead, " Sharpe said curtly, then turned to see Eli Lockhart scrambling onto the grass.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Sharpe demanded.
"I got lost, " Lockhart said, and hefted a musket he had taken from a soldier below.
"Some of your boys ain't too keen on being heroes, so me and my boys are making up the numbers."
And it was not just Lockhart's cavalrymen who were climbing, but some kilted Highlanders and sepoys who had seen the Light Company scrambling up the cliff and decided to join in too. The more the merrier, Sharpe decided. He counted heads and saw he had thirty men, and more were coming. It was time to go, for the enemy would not stay asleep for long.
"We have to get over the wall fast, " he told them all, 'and once we're over, we form two ranks."
He stood and hefted the ladder high over his head, holding it with both hands, then ran up the steep grass. His boots, which were Syud Sevajee's cast-offs, had smooth soles and slipped on the grass, but he stumbled on, and went even faster when he heard an aggrieved shout from high above him. He knew what was coming next and he was still thirty feet from the walls, a sitting target, and then he heard the bang of the musket and saw the grass flatten ahead of him as the gases from the barrel lashed downwards. Smoke eddied around him, but the ball had thumped into one of the ladder's thick uprights, and then another musket fired and he saw a fleck of turf dance up.
"Give them fire! " Major Stokes roared from the bottom of the ravine.
"Give them fire!»
A hundred redcoats and sepoys blasted up at the walls. Sharpe heard the musket shots clatter on the stone, and then he was hard under the rampart and he dropped the leading end of the ladder and rammed it into the turf and swung the other end up and over. A bloody escalade,
he thought. A breach and an escalade, all in one day, and he pulled the claymore out from his belt and pushed Garrard away from the foot of the ladder.
"Me first, " he growled, and began to climb. The rungs were springy and he had the terrible thought that maybe they would break after the first few men had used the ladder, and then a handful of soldiers would be trapped inside the fortress where they would be cut down by the Mahrattas, but there was no time to dwell on that fear, just to keep climbing. The musket balls raided the stones to left and right in a torrent of fire that had driven the defenders back from the parapet, but at any second Sharpe would be alone up there. He roared a shout of defiance, reached the top of the ladder and extended his free hand to grip the stone. He hauled himself through the embrasure. He paused, trying to get a sense of what lay beyond, but Garrard shoved him and he had no option but to spring through the embrasure.
There was no fire step Jesus, he thought, and jumped. It was not a long jump down, maybe eight or ten feet, for the ground was higher on the inner side of the wall. He sprawled on the turf and a musket bullet whipped over his back. He rolled, got to his feet, and saw that the defenders had low wooden platforms that they had been using to peer over the top of the wall. Those defenders were running towards him now, but they were few, very few, and already Sharpe had five redcoats on his side of the wall, and more were coming. But so was the enemy, some from the west and more from the east.
"Tom! Look after those men." Sharpe pointed westwards, then he turned the other way and dragged three men into a crude rank.
«Present!» he called. The muskets went up into their shoulders.
"Aim low, boys, " he said.
"Fire!»
The muskets coughed out smoke. A Mahratta slid on the grass. The others turned and ran, appalled at the stream of men now crossing the wall. It was a curious mix of English skirmishers, Highland infantry, sepoys, cavalrymen and even some of Syud Sevajee's followers in their borrowed red jackets.
"Two ranks! " Sharpe shouted.
"Quick now! Two ranks! Tom! What's happening behind me?"
"Buggers have gone, sir."
"Two ranks! " Sharpe shouted again. He could not see the gatehouse from here because the hill inside the wall bulged outwards and hid the great ramparts from him, but the enemy was forming two hundred paces eastwards. The wall's defenders, in brown jackets, were joining a company of white-coated Cobras who must have been in reserve and those men would have to be defeated before Sharpe could hope to advance on the gatehouse. He glanced up the hill and saw nothing there except a building half hidden by trees in which monkeys gibbered. No defenders there, thank God, so he could ignore his right flank.
A Scottish sergeant had shoved and tugged the men into two ranks.
«Load!» Sharpe said, though most of the men were already loaded.
"Sergeant?"
"Sir?"
"Advance along the wall. No one's to fire till I give the word. Sergeant Green?" Sharpe called, waited.
"Sergeant Green! " Green had evidently not crossed the wall yet, or maybe he had not even climbed the cliff.
"Sergeant Green! " Sharpe bellowed again.
"Why do you need him?" a voice called.
It was a Scottish captain. Christ, Sharpe thought, but he was outranked.
"To bring the next group on!»
"I'll do it, " the Scotsman said, 'you go!»
«Advance!» Sharpe shouted.
"By the centre! " the Sergeant shouted.
"March!»
It was a ragged advance. The men had no file-closers and they spread out, but Sharpe did not much care. The thing was to close on the enemy. That had always been McCandless's advice. Get close and start killing, because there's bugger all you can do at long range, though the Scottish Colonel would never have used that word. This is for you, McCandless, Sharpe thought, this one's for you, and it struck him that this was the first time he had ever taken troops into formal battle, line against line, muskets against muskets. He was nervous, and made even more nervous by the fact that he was leading a makeshift company in full view of the thousands of redcoats on the ravine's northern slope. It was like being trapped on stage in a full theatre; lose here, he thought, and all the army would know. He watched the enemy officer, a tall man with a dark face and a large moustache. He looked calm and his men marched in three tight ranks. Well trained, Sharpe thought, but then no one had ever said William Dodd could not whip troops into shape.
The Cobras stopped when the two units were a hundred paces apart.
They levelled their muskets and Sharpe saw his men falter.
"Keep going! " he ordered.
"Keep going!»
"You heard the man! " the Scottish Sergeant bellowed.
"Keep going!»
Sharpe was at the right-hand flank of his line. He glanced behind to see more men running to catch up, their equipment flapping as they stumbled over the uneven ground. Christ, Sharpe thought, but I'm inside! We're in! And then the Cobras fired.