Having reached the crest they lay side by side for some minutes, looking about them and listening intently, then Roger said, 'I think the coast is clear, so we'll go forward.' Not realizing that she would be exposing herself against the skyline, Zanthe incautiously stood up. Next minute a series of flashes stabbed the darkness, both in front of and behind them, and the stillness was shattred by the reports of half a dozen muskets. In an instant Roger pulled her down and the bullets whizzed and spattered harmlessly to either side of them, but it was a nasty moment.
Being shot at both from front and rear had made it obvious that they were now in no man's land. Roger drew Zanthe back a few yards down the city side of the slope, then they crawled along until they had put some distance between themselves and the place where she had been fired at. Still on their stomachs they wriggled over the ridge and down the far side. As they advanced, the stench of dead bodies increased to nausea-point, and near the bottom of the slope they suddenly slid into a deep ditch that was half full of corpses.
Giving a shudder, Zanthe gulped, ' Allah defend us; this is horrible! Help me out of here, dear one, or I'll be sick.'
Quickly, Roger gave her a hand to scramble up over the far side of the ditch. As he did so, he whispered, ' Crawl twenty yards, then wait for me. This is just what I was hoping to come upon. I may be quite a time, but don't worry.' Then he let himself slide back on to the pile of dead bodies.
The light was only just sufficient for him to make them out individually. They had evidently been killed in a recent assault, as none of them was in a state of actual decay. There were about thirty of them, mostly French, with a few turbaned Muslims among them. Mainly by feel, he formed an idea of their size and it did not take him long to find a body of roughly his own build; but it was no easy matter to get the dead man's uniform from his stiff corpse. To do so, Roger had to use his dagger and cut the cloth in several places. However, he felt that by now Bonaparte's troops had been reduced to such a ragged state that the hacked condition of the uniform would not cause comment. Taking off his own worn travelling coat, he struggled into the tail-coat and breeches of the soldier. He then cut off that part of the hem of the travelling coat in which Bonaparte's despatches had for many months lain rolled up and put the piece of cloth containing them in his pocket.
It was a more difficult matter to find a uniform suitable for Zanthe. Holding his nose now and then to prevent himself from vomiting, he continued to search until he came upon a shortish man who, although much broader than Zanthe, looked about her height. Having got the uniform off this second man, he hunted round till he found two muskets, two bandoliers and a grenadier's shako.
This repulsive labour took him the best part of an hour, but he found Zanthe waiting in patient confidence that he would rejoin her as soon as he could. Loath as she was to exchange her silken robe for the bloodstained uniform, she made no protest about so doing. He put one of the bandoliers over her shoulders and concealed her long hair by tucking it up under the shako, but he kept both muskets to carry himself.
Giving her a kiss, he told her that he now felt their chances of getting into the French lines without being fired upon were much better and, standing up, they walked forward. As they advanced, Roger began to curse loudly in French, using phrases which would give the impression to anyone who heard him that he had lost his way in the darkness.
When they had covered a few hundred yards a voice to their right and a little to their rear suddenly shouted, 'Who are you? And where the hell d'you think you're going? '
Halting, Roger gave one of the muskets to Zanthd and shouted back, ' We're lost. Can you tell us the way to Company Headquarters? '
A tall figure, wearing the same type of shako as Zanthe's, emerged out of the darkness. With the rasping scorn of a typical Sergeant-of-the-line, he bellowed at them, ' Company Headquarters, indeed! Why not ask the way to the " Little Corporal's " headquarters and tell me he's invited you to breakfast? ' Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, he added, ' 'Cos I'm new to the Company, don't think you can put it over on me. Get back to the rest and give a hand with them sandbags, or I'll have the hide off the two of you.'
In the face of this threat Roger swiftly decided that, should he declare himself to be one of Bonaparte's aides-de-camp, he would not be believed and would land himself in a packet of trouble. Adopting the only alternative he set off, with Zanthe beside him, in the direction of the Sergeant had indicated, hoping that they would soon be rid of him. But he turned and followed them until they came upon a platoon of troops, some of whom were filling sandbags and others carrying off the filled sacks through the semi-darkness.
Stacking their muskets with others, they picked up two spades, intending to fill some of the sacks; but the men who had this easier job cursed them and pushed them aside, so they were forced to join the chain of sack carriers. The stronger men were carrying a sack apiece, but a number had been so weakened by lack of nourishing rations that they could manage only a sack between two. This enabled Roger and Zanthe to work together but, even so, it was fortunate that she was a strong-limbed girl, as she had to support one end of the sack and each one seemed to weigh half a ton.
The task of the working party was to build, while darkness lasted, a series of small redoubts for the protection of gun teams, so that the artillery men could bring up their field-pieces closer to the city. But they were never completed. After Roger and Zanthe had been wearily carrying sandbags for over two hours, without any chance having arisen for them to get away undetected, several shots suddenly rang out. They were followed by shouting and a bugle call.
Dropping their burdens, the men ran back to the place where they had stacked their muskets, grabbed them, ran on another twenty yards and jumped down into a trench. Roger and Zanth<£ lost no time in following them. The shouting increased, there came the noise of hundreds of feet running down the outer slope of what had been the great wall and Roger guessed at once that this must be one of the sorties that the garrison had frequently made during the siege to prevent the French getting a firm hold on any of the breaches they had made in the walls.
Pushing Zanthe behind him, Roger took a firm grip of his musket. The thundering feet came nearer, the shouting of war-cries became deafening. The men on either side of Roger were up on the fire-step of the trench with their muskets levelled. Someone gave the order to fire. Seconds later there came the crash of the volley. It was succeeded by yells and screams, but the attackers still came on. A Muslim of no great size, but with huge, black moustaches and fiery eyes, suddenly appeared above the trench, then leapt down on Roger.
It was his last leap. Roger had never practised bayonet fighting; but he knew that if he failed to kill this kind of fanatic outright he was liable, however seriously wounded his enemy, to be killed himself. With the barrel of his musket he parried the Muslim's spear-thrust, then jabbed the bayonet in below the man's ribs. The Muslim's own weight forced the point up into his heart. He made another feeble stab with his spear, then his eyes rolled up and he was dead.
A second Muslim sprang over Roger's head across the trench, another and yet another followed. In the immediate vicinity, apart from hand-to-hand encounters that were going on to either side some way along the trench, there came a brief lull. But bugles were blaring in all directions and a battery of guns opened somewhere in the rear.
There came the sound of running feet again, this time from the opposite direction. The French infantry, in the reserve trenches had held the attack and were now driving the enemy back. A wounded Muslim tumbled into the trench behind Zanthe. Squirming round, he made a slash at her ankles with his scimitar. Just in time, Roger took the swipe on his bayonet, then jabbed it with all his force into the man's gullet. As he put his foot on the Muslim's chest to wrench the bayonet free from his contracted neck muscles, three or more other Muslims leapt the trench in flight back to the city. Hard on their heels came the French.