ove his legs towards the dark sky beyond the row of shining blades。
'Sharpe！ Sharpe！ Sharpe！'
Private Cresacre was dying； his guts strung blue on his lap； his tears for himself and for his wife； who he would suddenly miss though he had beat her cruelly。 And Sergeant Read； the Methodist； the quiet man who never swore； or drank； was blind； and could not cry because the guns had taken his eyes。 And past them； mad with lust； a battle madness； went the dark horde who followed Sharpe and tore their hands on the rough stone； going up the slope； up； where they had never dreamed to go； and some went back； torn by the guns； piling the new ditch as the other was piled； but the fine madness was on them。
'Sharpe！ Sharpe！ Sharpe！'
You save your breath for climbing； but shouting dulls the fear； and who needs breath when death waits at the summit？ A bullet clanged on Sharpe's sword； jerking it in his hand； but it was whole； and the blades were near。 He went to the right； his whole brain singing with the scream of death； and a stone moved beneath his left hand； throwing him； and a huge hand pushed at him； heaved him； and Sharpe grabbed at the thick chain that anchored the Chevatix de Frise。 The top； death's peak。
'Sharpe！ Sharpe！ Sharpe！'
The French fired once more； the guns slamming backwards； and the new breach was 'taken； two vast men standing at its crest； untouched by fire； and the French ran with nowhere to run； and Harper screamed at the sky because he had done a great thing。
Sharpe leaped； downhill； into the city； and the sword was a live thing in his hand。 A breach was taken； death cheated； and death wanted a payment。 The sword chopped down on the blue uniforms； and he did not see men； just enemy； and he ran； slipping； falling； down the breach until the ground was firm beneath him and he was inside。 Inside！ Badajoz。 And he snarled at the bastards； killed them； found a gun crew cowering by a wall and remembered the song of death； the leaping flames。 The sword hacked at them； cut them； chopped them； and an axe was whirled at them； and the French abandoned the new； low wall behind the breaches； because the night was lost。
A dark tide flowed over the breach； over the other breaches； a tide that made now no coherent sound。 It was terrifying in its incoherence； the sound of the banshee； the keening of too much sorrow； too much death； and the madness turned to insensate rage； and they killed。 They killed till their arms were tired； till they were soaked with blood； and there were not enough men to kill and they turned into the streets； a scrabbling； dark flood； up into Badajoz。
Harper leaped the wall built behind the breaches。 A man cowered there； pleading； but the axe dropped and Harper's lips were drawn back around his teeth and he was sobbing an anger at the city。 There were more men ahead； blue…uniformed； and he ran at them； the axe circling； and Sharpe was there； and they killed because so many were dead； so much blood； an army had nearly died； and these were the bastards who had jeered at it。 Blood and more blood。 An account to be balanced with a ditch full of blood。 Badajoz。
Sharpe was crying。 Venting an anger that had waited for this moment。 He stood； the sword dark red； and he wanted more Frenchmen to e to his。 sword； and he stalked them； teeth bared； screaming at the night； and a body moved； a blue arm lifted； and the blade whirled； bit； was lifted again； and bit down once more； clean to the pavement。
A Frenchman； a mathematician conscripted as an artillery officer； who had counted forty separate attacks on the Trinidad and had repulsed them all； stood quiet in the shadows。 He was still； quite still； waiting for this madness to pass； this blood lust； and he thought of his fiancée； far away； and prayed she would never see anything as horrid。 He watched the Rifle officer and prayed for himself that he would not be seen； but the face turned； the eyes hard…bright with tears； and the mathematician called out。 'No！ Monsieur； no！' The sword took him； disemboweled him as Cresacre had been disemboweled； and Sharpe sobbed in rage as he ripped again and again； thrusting down at the gunner； ripping him； mutilating the bastard； and then the giant hands gripped Mm。 'Sir！' Harper shook him。 'Sir！'
'Christ！'
'Sir！' The hands pulled on Sharpe's shoulders； turning him。
'Christ。'
'Sir！' Harper slapped him。 'Sir。'
Sharpe leaned back against the wall； his head back； touching the stone。 'Oh Jesus。 Oh God。' He was panting； the sword arm limp； and the pavement ahead was shredded with blood。 He looked down at the artillery officer； torn into a grotesque death。 'Oh God。 He was surrendering。'
'It doesn't matter。' Harper had recovered first； the axe shattered in a killing strike； and he had watched in awe as Sharpe had killed。 Now he quieted Sharpe； soothed him； and watched the sense e back even as the madness climbed up the city streets。
Sharpe looked up； calm now； his voice bereft of all feeling。 'We did it。'
'Yes。'
Sharpe leaned his head back again； on to the wall； and his eyes closed。 It was done； the breach。 And to do it he had discovered that a man must banish fear as never before； and with that fear must go all other emotion except rage and anger； humanity must go； feeling； all must go except rage。 Only that would conquer the unconquerable。
'Sir？' Harper plucked at Sharpe's elbow。 No one else could have done this； Harper thought； no one but Sharpe could have led men past death's peak。
'Sir？'
The eyes opened； the face came down； and Sharpe stared at the bodies。 He had slaked his pride； carried it through a breach； and it was done。 He looked at Patrick Harper。 'I wish I could play the flute。'
'Sir？'
'Patrick？'
'Teresa； sir。 Teresa。'
God in heaven。 Teresa。
CHAPTER 28
Hakeswill had not meant to go into the ditch； but； as soon as the South Essex made their attack and had left the Light pany to give covering fire from the glacis lip； he had seen that there was greater safety for him in the shadow of the ravelin。 No chance； there； of an axe…blow in the dark from Harper； and so he had swung himself down a ladder； snarling at the frightened men； and then； in the chaos； had burrowed deep into the bodies in the shadowed ditch。 He saw the attack go in； saw it fail； and he watched as Windham and Forrest tried to rouse other attacks； but Sergeant Hakeswill was snug and safe。 Three bodies covered him； still warm in death； and he felt them shudder from time to time as the grape fragments struck home； but he was safe。 At some time in the night a Lieutenant； a stranger to Hakeswill； tried to provoke him from his lair； screaming at the Sergeant to move and attack； but it was simple to grip the Lieutenant's ankle； trip him； and the bayonet slid so easily between the ribs and Hakeswill had a fourth body； surprise on its face； and he cackled as he slid expert hands over the pockets and pouches and counted his loot。 Four gold coins； a silver locket and； best of all； an inlaid pistol that Hakeswill tugged from the Lieutenant's belt。 The weapon was loaded； balanced to perfection； and he grinned as he thrust it into his jacket。 Every little helped。
He had tied his shako with strings beneath his chin。 He fumbled at the knot； tore it apart； and held the hat close before his face。 'We're safe now； safe。 ' His voice was ingratiating； plaintive。 'I promise you。 Obadiah won't let you down。' Near to him； just beyond his parapet of corpses； a man sobbed and screamed and called for his mother。 He was a long time dying。 Hakeswill listened； his head cocked like an animal； and then he looked again into the hat。 'He wants his mother； he does。' Tears came to his eyes。 'His mother。' He looked up into the darkness； over the flames； and he howled at the sky。
There were periods of quietness in the ditch； periods when the death did not plunge downwards and when the mass of men； living and dead； crouched motionless beneath the high muzzles； and then； just when it seemed that the fight might be over； there would be a stir in the ditch。 Men would try to rush the breaches； be restrained by othe