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Sharpe began sliding back down the slope。 'e on。'
The French were shouting； making enough noise to cover their movements。 There was little time。 Sharpe thought what he would do if he was the French officer and imagined fetching water that could be thrown down on to the kegs and whatever fuse remained。 He needed to see what was left。 He slammed to a stop and looked upstream。 The new carcasses brilliantly lit the foot of the dam； the kegs were clearly visible and so was the fuse。 One end had fallen from a bung…hole in the lowest row of powder barrels； the other had dropped into the stream which had extinguished the fire。 Even without the water； the fuse would have been useless。 Harper crouched beside him。 'What do we do？'
'I need ten men。'
'Leave it to me； what then？'
Sharpe jerked his head towards the rampart。 'Six to take care of them and three to push those carcasses into the water。'
'And you？'
'Leave me one carcass。' He began to load the rifle； hurrying in the darkness； not bothering with the leather patch that surrounded the bullet and gripped the seven grooves of the Baker's barrel。 He spat on the bullet and rammed it down。 'Are we ready？'
'Yes； sir。' Harper was grinning。 'I think this is a job for the Rifles。'
'Why not； Sergeant？' Sharpe grinned back。 Damn Rymer； damn Hakeswill； Windham； Collett； all the new people who had disturbed the Battalion。 Sharpe and his Riflemen had fought from the northern coast of Spain down through Portugal； then out again； to the Douro； to Talavera； to Almeida and Fuentes de Onoro。 They understood each other； trusted each other； and Sharpe nodded to Harper。
The Sergeant； as Sharpe thought of him； cupped his hands。 'Rifles！ To me！ Rifles！'
There were shouts from the ramparts； faces leaned over。
Sharpe cupped his own hands。 'pany！ Skirmish order！' That should spread them out； but would they obey the old voices？ Muskets fired from the fort； the bullets tearing the thorns； and Harper shouted again。
'Rifles！'
Feet trampled up the ravine。 An officer shouted from the rampart and Sharpe heard the sound of steel ramrods in French barrels。
'They're ing； sir。'
Of course they were ing！ They were his men。 The first shapes came into sight； dark uniformed without the cross belt of the red coats。 'Tell them what to do； Sergeant。' He thrust his loaded rifle at Harper； grinned at him。 It was like the old times； the good times。 I'm going。'
He could trust Harper to do the rest。 He broke from the cover of the trees and ran upstream； into the light。 The French saw him and he heard the shouted orders。 The ground was wet and slippery； dotted with smooth rocks； and once he skidded wildly； flailed his arms for balance； and sensed the musket balls banging down at him。 It was a difficult shot for the French； almost straight downwards； and they were hurrying too much。 He heard Harper behind him； shouting the orders； and then the distinctive sound of Baker rifles。 He followed the white fuse； and the great； sloping earth dam was above him； holding the tons of water； and bullets flecked the slope as Sharpe threw himself at the base of the barrels。 The fuse had fallen free and he pushed it into the bung hole； feeling the gritty resistance of the powder。 The bung had gone！ He looked round； trying not to hurry。 The damn thing had disappeared。 He tried to pull one loose from another keg； but it had been hammered tight。 Then he thought of a stone and scrabbling with his hand； found one； and rammed it into the hole。 A musket ball tore at his sleeve； burning the skin； but behind him the light was disappearing as his Riflemen kicked carcasses into the water。 They were still firing； and he was aware of voices shouting； and then he was finished； the fuse tight； and he backed away； pushing the white line up the bank； away from the water。 He needed fire！ He turned and saw one carcass burning； on the far bank。 He leaped over to it and the bullets hammered down from above； one hitting the carcass so that it seemed to jump like a live thing。 His Riflemen must be reloading。
'Give him fire！' Harper's voice rang clear。 There were redcoats in the ravine； running and kneeling； aiming upwards； and Sharpe saw the new Ensign dancing in excitement； his sword drawn。 Then the muskets fired and the balls scoured the ramparts and Sharpe had a glimpse of his Riflemen ing forward again； their guns reloaded。
He would burn himself； there was no choice。 The carcass flamed and he bent down； picked it up by its base； feeling the heat。 A rock thrown from the fort； smashed into the straw and it flared on his face； burning； burning； and he turned with it； scorched by the terrible heat and in the corner of his eye； as he turned； he saw a yellow flame； huge and foreshortened； stab from the ravine towards him。 Bullets plucked at him； hit him； and he knew he had been shot； but did not believe it； and hurled the carcass at the white fuse。
He tried to run。 Pain lanced his leg； his side； and he stumbled。 He had thrown the carcass too far。 He was falling。 He remembered the flaming mass landing too close to the powder； and he remembered the yellow flame that seemed to e from the ravine side。 Nothing made sense and then night turned to day。
Flame and light； noise and heat； the deafening； rolling blast thundered up and out so that the men in the British trenches； digging the new batteries； saw the face of the San Pedro bastion lit with flame。 The whole face of Badajoz； from castle to the Trinidad； was seared with the light and the dam's fort was outlined black against the sheet of red that slammed up and belched smoke and fragments into the night。 The blast was just a fragment of the explosion that had destroyed Almeida； but few men had seen that and lived； while this one was witnessed by thousands who watched the dark night split by fire； and felt the hot wind buffet the sky。
Sharpe was thrown forward； snatched and hurled into the stream； bruised and deafened by the blast； blinded by the flame…sheet。 The stream saved his life and he regretted it； knowing that in a second he would be crushed by the water； flattened by the falling tons of earth； rock and lake。 He had not meant to throw the carcass as far as he did； but he had been scorched by flame； hit by bullets； and it hurt； it hurt。 He would not see his child。 He thought death came slowly and he tried to move as if he could out crawl the weight of falling water。
Heat slammed back and forth in the ravine。 Burning fragments hissed in the water。 No muskets fired from the rampart。 The blast had pushed the French away from the parapet； dazed by the noise that echoed off the vast city walk； thundered over the plain； and died in the night。
Harper pulled Sharpe upright。 'e on； sir。'
Sharpe could not hear。 'What？' He was dazed； senseless。
'e on！' Harper pulled him downstream； away from the fort； away from the dam that sail stood。 'Are you hit？'
Sharpe moved automatically； stumbling on rocks； going away。 He tried to turn； to look at the dam。 'It's still there。'
'Yes。 It held。 e on！'
Sharpe shook himself free。 'It held。'
'I know！ e on！'
The dam still stood！ Burning fragments lit the huge wall； scorched and gouged by the explosion； but intact。 'It held！'
Harper pulled at Sharpe。 'e on！ For God's sake； move！'
A body was at Sharpe's feet and he looked down。 The new Ensign。 What was his name？ He could not remember； and the boy was dead； and for nothing！
Harper pulled him downstream into the cover of the trees； dragging Matthews' body in his other hand。 Sharpe staggered； the pain shooting up his leg； and he felt tears in his eyes。 It was failure； miserable and plete； and the boy was dead who should not have died； and all because Sharpe had tried to prove he was more than a messenger boy or baggage minder。 Sharpe felt as if there was some malevolent fate that had decided to destroy him； his pride； his life； all his hopes； and； in mockery； to make the failure more plete； the fates had shown him something worth living for。 Teresa would have heard the explosion； would even now be rocking his child into a restless