nd there was no escaping it unless the enemy was simply starved into submission and there had been no time for that。 He had to have this city。
Sharpe！ For a second the General was tempted to damn Sharpe； who had assured him the breaches were practical。 But Wellington suppressed the thought。 The Rifleman had said what Wellington had wanted him to say and even if he had not； then Wellington would still have sent in the troops。 Sharpe！ If Wellington had one thousand Sharpes then the city might be his。 He listened gloomily to the sounds of battle。 The French cheers were loud and he knew they were beating him。 He could withdraw now and leave the dead and wounded to be recovered under a flag of truce； or he could send in more men and hope to turn the battle。 He had to have the city！ Otherwise there could be no march on Spain this summer； no advance to the Pyrenees； and Napoleon would be given another year of power。 'Send them in！〃
Feed the monster； he thought； that was grinding his army； his fine army； but the monster must be fed until it gave up。 He could make up the shattered battalions； the reinforcements would e； but without Badajoz there was no victory。 Damn the Engineers。 There were miners in Britain； hundreds in Cornwall alone； but none with the army； no Corps of Sappers who could have tunneled under the bastions； packed the cavern with powder； and blown the French to kingdom e。 He found himself wondering whether he should have slaughtered the garrison at Ciudad Rodrigo； whether he could have lined them up in tens and shot them； then left the bodies to rot in the town ditch so that any Frenchmen who chose to contest another breach could only expect the terrible vengeance of the English。 He could not have ordered it； any more than he would order it here if they won this night。 If。
He turned irritably towards his aides。 His face was long and harsh…shadowed in the torchlight cast from Lord March's hand。 'Any news of the Fifth？'
The answering voice was low； anxious not to add to the bad news。 'They should be attacking now； my Lord； General Leith sends his apologies。 '
'God damn his apologies。 Why can't he be on time？' His horse shied； struck by a spent musket bullet； and the General soothed it。 He could expect nothing of the escalades。 Leith was late and the garrison at San Vincente would be warned； while Picton was hoping for the moon if he thought he could lay his long ladders against the castle wall。 Victory； he knew； would have to be carved here； at the south…east corner； where flame and smoke churned over the ghastly ditch。 Distantly； like a reminder of another world echoing in the depths of hell； the Cathedral bell tolled eleven； and Wellington looked up into the blackness and then back at the flames。 'One more hour； gentlemen； one more hour。' And then what； he wondered？ Failure？ Hell was no place for miracles。
On the walls the French gunners slackened their fire。 They had drowned the ditch in death and now they listened to the screams and moans that came from below。 The attacks seemed to have stopped； so the gunners stretched； soaked their faces with water splashed from the buckets used to wet the sponges； and watched as fresh ammunition was brought up the ramp。 They did not expect much more effort from the British。 A few men had climbed the breaches； one was even impaled on the sabre blades； but it was a hopeless effort。 Poor bastards！ There was no joy any longer in shouting insults。 A sergeant； leather…skinned and hard； leaned on a gun wheel and flinched。 'Christ！ I wish they'd stop screaming。'
A few men had lit surreptitious cigars that they hid from their officers by leaning deep into the gun embrasures。 One man wriggled forward； past the acrid muzzle； until he could peer down into the ditch。 The Sergeant called wearily to him。 'e back！ Those Rifle bastards will get you。'
The man stayed。 He peered down； far down； at the writhing horror in the ditch。 He pulled himself back。 'If they get in they'll bloody slaughter us！'
The Sergeant laughed。 'They won't get in； lad； not a chance。 In two hours you'll be tucked in bed with that horrid thing you call a woman。'
'You're jealous； Sergeant。'
'Me？ I'd rather go to bed with this。' The Sergeant slapped the barrel of his gun。 The wreathed 'N'； Napoleon's symbol； was searing hot。 'Now get back here； lad； put that bloody cigar out； and look smart。 I might need you； God help me。 '
A call from the observation point。 'Make ready！'
The Sergeant sighed and stood up。 Another tiny group of idiot British were running towards the Santa Maria breach and his gun covered the approach。 He watched them down the length of his glistening gun； saw them slip on blood； stumble on stone； and then they were in his target zone。 He stood to one side； touched the match to the powder…filled reed； and the green…jacketed men were beaten into fragments。 It was so easy。 The Sergeant bellowed orders for the reloading； listened to the hiss as the sponge seared down the bore； and was glad that he was at Badajoz this night。 The French had begun to fear this Lord Wellington； to turn him into a bogey man to frighten their sleep； and it was pleasing to show that the English Lord could be beaten。 The Sergeant grinned as the bulbous lumps of canvas…wrapped grapeshot were rammed into the cannon。 This night Wellington would taste defeat； utter defeat； and the whole Empire would rejoice。 This night belonged to France； only to France； and Britain's hopes were being buried where they belonged； in a ditch for the dead。
CHAPTER 26
'This way！ This way！〃 They were going right； away from the San Pedro bastion； clawing a path on the hill's steep side until they had turned a corner and would receive some shelter from the grapeshot。 The first attack had been horribly repulsed； but the Third Division would try again。 They could hear the fury at the main breach； far away； and see on the sheeted floodwaters the dim reflections of the fires that were consuming the Light and Fourth Divisions。 Knowles could feel a madness in the air； beating its dark wings against a city； bringing a night of insane death and crazy effort。 'Light pany！ Light pany！'
'Here； sir。' An old Sergeant； steadying his Captain with a hand； and then a Lieutenant leading a dozen men。 My God； Knowles thought； is this all that is left？ But then he saw more men； tugging the cumbersome ladder。 Another Sergeant grinned at him。 'Do we go again； sir？'
'Wait for the bugle。' He knew there was no point in making a scattered attack that could be picked off piecemeal by the defenders。 The whole Division must go together。
Knowles suddenly felt good。 There was an impression in his head； one that had been nagging him； and now he pinned it down。 The musket fire had been light from the parapet。 The grapeshot had confused him； but now； thinking back to the chaos of the first attack； the shattering ladder； he remembered how few had been the musket flashes from the walls。 The French must have left a skeleton garrison in the castle； and a confidence surged through him！ They would do it。 He grinned at his men； slapped their backs； and they were glad that he was confident。 He was trying to think how Sharpe would do this。 The danger was not the muskets； the danger was from the defenders toppling the long； rickety ladders。 He oordered off a dozen men； under the Lieutenant； and told hem they were not to try and climb the ladder。 Instead they were to fire at the ladder's head； scour the parapet of its defenders； and only when the parapet was clear and he had led the men over the battlements were they to follow。 'Understand？'
They grinned and nodded； and he grinned back and drew the curved sabre from its scabbard。
The Sergeant laughed。 'I thought you were going to forget it again； sir。' The men laughed at him and he was glad of the darkness to cover his blush； but they were good men； his men； and he suddenly understood； as never before； the sense of loss that Sharpe had suffered。 Knowles wondered how he was to climb the ladder and hold the sword； and knew he would 。 have to put the blade between his teeth。 He would drop it！ He was nervous； but then； instead of bugles；