Sharpe's Enemy

  ’Yes!' Frederickson's sabre was bloodied. He flexed it, wanting to use it again, and watched as his men burst open doors and shouted at men and women to surrender. One man hopped down the cloister, his right leg in his trousers, his left leg caught at the ankle, and he turned ludicrously as Riflemen blocked his way only to find Riflemen behind him. He rolled over the balustrade, dropped into the courtyard, and hobbled away towards an archway on the far side.

  One of Frederickson's Lieutenants blew long blasts on his whistle, then shouted over the cloister. 'All secure, sir!'

  Frederickson looked at Sharpe. 'Which way down?'

  'In there.' Sharpe pointed at the gallery. There had to be another way down, but he had not seen it. 'One section to guard the gallery.'

  'Sir.' Frederickson was already moving, his mutilated face eager for more fighting. Sharpe followed him and slapped Harper on the shoulder. 'Come on!'

  Now it was a romp, a riot, a headlong charge down the stairs, a yelling pursuit of the enemy who had crowded through the archway across the cloister, a sabre-hacking, sword-swinging fight at the arch itself, a crash as the seven-barrelled gun cleared the few defenders from the room within, and the cloister echoed to the cries of children, the shouting of their mothers, and Riflemen rounded them up, herded them, and dragged men from hiding places.

  Sharpe went through the arch, through the room, and he seemed to be in some kind of dark crypt, damp and freezing, and he shouted for light. A Rifleman brought one of the straw and resin torches that burned in the outer room and it showed a huge, empty cave, another entrance opposite. 'Come on!'

  There was a current of air blowing towards them, shivering the torch flame, and Sharpe knew these rooms must lead to the blanket covered hole that looked out onto the lip of the pass. If there was a gun there, and he knew the Spanish garrison had possessed four guns, then there would be powder there, and a defender could just be lighting a fuse that would bring flame and destruction billowing into this crypt. 'On! On! On!' He led the way, sword out, boots pounding on the cold stones, and the flame-light showed that he had charged into a strange passageway and that his shoulders were brushing against curiously rounded yellow-white stones that reached from floor to ceiling.

  The gun was there, abandoned by Pot-au-Feu's men, pointing at the gaping hole that had been prised out of the Convent's thick wall. The rammer leaned against the dirty barrel, next to it a powder scoop and a ripper or 'wormhead', the giant corkscrew used to pull out a damp charge. Sharpe could see roundshot, canister, both piled up against the curious white walls that opened up into the space where the gun had been put.

  A priming tube was in the gun's vent, suggesting that the cannon was loaded, but Sharpe ignored it, went to the opening from which the blanket had been torn aside, and listened. Boots scrambling on the turf and rocks outside, the gasping and crying of women and children, the shouts of men. Those who had escaped from the Convent were going for the Castle. Torches flared on the battlement.

  'Can we fire it?' Frederickson was fingering the priming, tube, a quill filled with fine powder that flashed the fire down to the charge in its canvas bag. 'No, there are children out there.’

  ’God save Ireland!' Harper had picked up one of the whitish rounded stones that had fallen behind the gun. He held it as if it would kill him, his face screwed in distaste. 'Would you look at this? Good God!'

  It was a skull. All the 'stones' were skulls. The man with the torch pressed closer until Frederickson barked him back because of the powder barrels, but in the smoky light Sharpe could see that the piled skulls walled in a great pile of other human bones. Thigh bones, ribs, pelvises, arms, small curled hands and long feet bones, all piled in this cellar. Frederickson, his face more ghastly than any skull, shook his head in wonderment. 'An ossuary.'

  'A what?'

  'Ossuary, sir, a bone house. The nuns. They bury them here.'

  'Jesus!’

  'They strip the flesh off first, sir. God knows how. I've seen it before.'

  There were hundreds of the bones, perhaps thousands. To make a space for the trail of the gun Pot-au-Feu's men had broken into the neat pile and the skeletons had tumbled down onto the floor, the bones had been shovelled to one side, and Sharpe could see a fine white powder littered with shards where men had stepped on the human remains. 'Why do they do it?'

  Frederickson shrugged. 'So they're all together at the resurrection, I think.'

  Sharpe had a sudden image of the mass graves at Talavera and Salamanca heaving on the last day, the dead soldiers coming to life, their eye sockets rotten like Frederickson's, the earth shedding off the dead ranks coming from the grave. 'Good God!' There was a pail of dirty water under the gun, ready for the sponge, and a rag beside it. He stooped and cleaned off his sword before pushing it home in the scabbard. 'We'll need six men here. No one's to fire the gun without my order.'

  'Yes, sir.' Frederickson was cleaning the sabre, pulling the curved blade slowly through the wet rag.

  Sharpe went back through the pathway of skulls, following Harper's broad back. He remembered walking across Salamanca's battlefield in the autumn, before the retreat to Portugal, and there had been so many dead that not all had been buried. He could remember the hollow sound as a horse's hooves had clipped a skull which had rolled like a misshapen football. That had been in November, not even four months after the battle, yet already the enemy dead had been flensed white.

  He walked into the cloister, a place of the living, and the fire showed disconsolate prisoners hedged by sword-bayonets. A child cried for its mother, a Rifleman carried a tiny baby deserted by its parents, and the women screamed at Sharpe as he appeared. They wanted to leave, it was not their doing, they were not soldiers, but he bellowed at them to be quiet. He looked at Frederickson. 'How's your Spanish?'

  'Good enough.'

  'Find whatever women were captured up here. Give them decent quarters.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'The hostages can stay where they are. They're comfortable enough, but make sure you've half a dozen reliable men to protect them.'

  'Yes, sir.' They were walking across the courtyard, stepping over the small canals. 'What about this scum, sir?'

  Frederickson stopped beside the deserters who had been captured. No Hakeswill there, just three dozen sullen frightened men. Sharpe looked at them. Two-thirds were in British uniform. He raised his voice so that all the Riflemen in the courtyard and on the upper gallery could hear him. 'These bastards are a disgrace to their uniforms. All of them. Strip them!'

  A Rifle Sergeant grinned at Sharpe. 'Naked, sir?'

  'Naked.'

  Sharpe turned round and cupped his hands. 'Captain Cross! Captain Cross!' Cross had been detailed to capture the outer cloister, the chapel, and the storerooms.

  'He's coming, sir!' A shout from above.

  'Sir?' Cross leaned over the balustrade.

  'Wounded? Killed?'

  'None, sir!'

  'Give the signal for Lieutenant Price to come up! Make sure your picquets know.'

  'Yes, sir.' The signal was a bugle call from Cross's bugler.

  'And I want men on the roof! Two hour duty only.'

  ‘Yes, sir.'

  'That's all, and thank you, Captain!'

  Cross's face smiled at the unexpected compliment. 'Thank you, sir!'

  Sharpe turned to Frederickson. 'I need your men on the roof, too. Say twenty?'

  Frederickson nodded. There were no windows m the Convent so any defence would have to be made over the parapet of the roof. 'Loopholes in the walls, sir?'

  'They're bloody thick. Try if you like.'

  A Lieutenant came up, grinning broadly, and handed Frederickson a slip of paper. The Rifleman twisted it towards the firelight and then looked at the Lieutenant. 'How bad?'

  'Not bad at all, sir. They'll live.'

  'Where are they?' The missing teeth made Frederickson's voice sibilant.

  'Store-room upstairs, sir.'

  'Make sure they
're warm.' Frederickson grinned at Sharpe. 'The butcher's bill, sir. Bloody light. Three wounded, no dead.' The grin became wider. 'Well done, sir! By God, I didn't know if we could do it!'

  'Well done, yourself. I always knew we could.' Sharpe laughed at the lie, then asked the question he had been wanting to ask ever since Frederickson had appeared in the Convent. 'Where's your patch?'

  'Here.' Frederickson opened his leather pouch and took out the teeth and the eye-patch. He put them back in place, looking human again, and laughed at Sharpe. 'I always take them off for a fight, sir. Scares the other side witless, sir. My lads reckon my face is worth a dozen Riflemen.'

  'Sweet William at war, eh?'

  Frederickson laughed at the use of his nickname. 'We do our best, sir.'

  'Your best is bloody good.' The compliment felt forced and awkward, but Fredrickson beamed at it, had needed Sharpe's praise, and Sharpe was glad he had said it. Sharpe turned away to look at the prisoners who were being forcibly stripped. Some were already naked. It would be hard to escape on a night like this without clothes. 'Find somewhere for them, Captain.'

  'Yes, sir. What about them?' Frederickson nodded towards the women.

  'Put them in the chapel.' Whores and soldiers were an explosive mix. Sharpe grinned. 'Find some volunteers and they can have a storeroom apiece. That's the lads' reward.’

  ’Yes, sir.' Frederickson would make sure some of the women volunteered. 'That all, sir?'

  My God, no! He had forgotten the most important thing! 'Your four best men, Captain. Find their liquor store. Any man who gets drunk tonight sees me in the morning.’

  ’Yes, sir.'

  Frederickson left and Sharpe stood close to the fire, enjoying its warmth, and wondered what else had to be done. The Convent could be defended from the roof, its door well guarded, and the prisoners had been taken care of. A dozen of the deserters were wounded, three would never recover, and he must find a place for them. The women were disposed of, the children too, and the upper cloister would be like a brothel all night, but that was only fair to his men. A Christmas present from Major Sharpe. The liquor would be locked up. He must find food for his men.

  The hostages. He must reassure them, make certain of their comfort, and he stared up at the hall gallery and laughed out loud. Josefina! Good God alive! Lady Farthingdale.

  The last time he had seen Josefina she was living in comfort in Lisbon, her house terraced above the Tagus and filled with sunlight reflected from the river and framed by orange trees. Josefina Lacosta! She had jilted Sharpe after Talavera and run off with a Cavalry Captain, Hardie, but he had died. Josefina had run for Hardie's money, abandoning Sharpe's poverty, and she had always wanted to be rich. She had succeeded, too, buying the house with its terrace and orange trees in the rich Lisbon suburb of Buenos Ayres. He shook his head, remembering her two winters ago, when her house had been a languorous place where rich officers congregated and the richest vied for Josefina. He had seen her at a party, a small orchestra sawing away at violins in the corner, Josefina gracious as a queen among the dazzling uniforms that fawned on her, wanted her, and would pay the highest price for one night of La Lacosta. She had put on weight since Talavera and the weight had only made her more beautiful, though less to Sharpe's taste, and she had been choosy; he remembered that. She had turned down a Guards Colonel who had offered her five hundred guineas for a single night, and had rubbed salt in that wound by accepting a handsome young Midshipman who only offered twenty. Sharpe laughed again, attracting a curious glance from a Rifleman who herded the deserters to their naked, cold prison. Five hundred guineas! The price Farthingdale had paid for her ransom! The most expensive whore in Spain or Portugal. And married to Sir Augustus Farthingdale? Who called her delicate! God in his heaven! Delicate! And with the highest connections? That was true, though not in the way Farthingdale had meant it, but then perhaps he was right. Josefina had been married and her husband, Duarte, had gone to South America at the beginning of the war. He had been of good family, Sharpe knew, and he had some sinecure with the Royal Portuguese family; Third Gentleman of the Chamberpot or some such nonsense. And how had Josefina snared Sir Augustus? Did he know of her past? He must. Sharpe laughed again out loud and turned towards the staircase they had discovered in the cloister's south-west corner. He would pay his respects to La Lacosta.

  'Sir?' It was Frederickson, emerging from a doorway. He held a hand up, motioning Sharpe to wait, while in his other he held his watch to the light of a torch.

  'Captain.-’

  Frederickson said nothing, just kept his hand up, stared at his watch, then, a moment later, he snapped the cover shut and smiled at Sharpe. 'A happy Christmas to you, sir.'

  'Midnight?'

  'The very hour.'

  'And to you, Captain. And your men. A tot of brandy all round.'

  Midnight. Thank God he had come early, or else Madame Dubreton would have been the butt of Hakeswill’s cruel game. Hakeswill. He had escaped, over to the Castle, and Sharpe wondered whether the deserters would still be there in the morning, or would they, knowing the game was up, flee in the dawn? Or perhaps they would try to retake the Convent while Sharpe's men were still unfamiliar with the battleground.

  It was Christmas Day. He stared up into the total darkness beyond the sparks that were whirled upwards by the fire. Christmas. The celebration of a Virgin giving birth, yet it was more than that, much more. Long before Christ was born, long before there was a church militant on earth, there had been a feast at midwinter. It celebrated the winter solstice, December 21st, and it was the lowest point of the year when even nature seemed dead and so mankind, with glorious perversity, celebrated life. The feast promised spring, and with spring would come new crops, new life, new births, and the feast held out the hope of surviving the barrenness of winter. This was the time of year when the flame of life burned lowest, when the dark nights were longest, and on this night Sharpe might be attacked in the Convent by Pot-au-Feu's desperate men. At this time of the winter solstice the dawn could be a long, long time coming. He watched a Rifleman scramble onto the roof and, as he leaned down to take his gun from a colleague, the man laughed at some joke. Sharpe smiled. They would endure.

  Chapter 10

  Christmas morning. In England people would be walking frost-bright roads to church. In the night Sharpe had heard a sentry softly singing to himself 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing'. It was the Methodist Wesley's hymn, but the Church of England had nevertheless printed it in their Prayer Book. The tune had made Sharpe think of England.

  The dawn promised a fine day. Light flared in the east, seeped into the valley and showed a landscape mysterious with ground fog. The Castle and Convent stood like towers at the entrance to a harbour containing white, soft water that flowed gently over the lip of the pass and spilt slowly towards the great mist-filled valley to the west. The Gateway of God was white, weird, and silent.

  There had been no attack from Pot-au-Feu. Twice the picquets had fired in the night, but both were false alarms and there had been no rush of feet in the darkness, no makeshift ladders against the convent walls. Frederickson, bored with the enemy's quiescence, had begged to be allowed to take a patrol across the valley and Sharpe had let them go. The Riflemen had sniped at the Castle and watch-tower, causing anger and panic in the defenders, and Frederickson had come back happy.

  After the patrol's return Sharpe had slept for two hours, but now the whole garrison stood to its arms as the dawn turned from grey danger into proper light. Sharpe's breath misted before his face. It was cold, but the night was over, the hostages were rescued, and the Fusiliers would be climbing the long pass. Success was a sweet thing. On the ramparts of the Castle he could see Pot-au-Feu's sentries, still at their post, and he wondered why they had not fled against the wrath they knew must be coming. The sun touched the horizon, red-gold and glorious, smearing the white mist pink, daylight in Adrados. 'Stand down! Stand down!'

  The Sergeants repeated the call about the rooft
op and Sharpe turned towards the ramp Cross had built and thought of breakfast and a shave.

  'Sir!' A Rifleman called to him from twenty paces away. 'Sir!' He was pointing east, direct into the brilliance of the new sun. 'Horsemen, sir!'

  God damn it, but the sun made it impossible. Sharpe made a slit with his fingers and peered through and he thought he saw the shapes riding on the valley's side, but he could not be certain. 'How many?'

  One of Cross's Sergeants guessed three, another man four, but when Sharpe looked again the shapes had gone. They had been there, but not now. Pot-au-Feu's men? Scouting an eastward retreat? It was possible. Some of the prisoners had spoken of raiding Partisans, seeking vengeance for Adrados, and that was possible too.

  Sharpe stayed on the roof because of the horsemen, but the dawn showed no more movement in the east. Behind him there were warning shouts as men carried bowls of hot water from the makeshift kitchens. The men not on guard started shaving, wishing each other a Happy Christmas, teasing the women who had elected to join their conquerors and who now mixed with the Riflemen as if they had always belonged. This morning was a fine morning for a soldier. Only the detail who had to climb the hill to fetch the packs from the gully were grumbling about work.

  Sharpe turned to see them leave and was intrigued by a strange sight in the courtyard of the upper cloister. A group of Riflemen were tying strips of white cloth to the bare hornbeam that had broken through the tiles. They were in fine spirits, laughing and playful, and one man was hoisted piggy-back onto a comrade's shoulders so he could put an especially large ribbon on the topmost twig. Metal glinted on the bare twigs, buttons perhaps, cut from captured uniforms, and Sharpe did not understand it. He went down the narrow ramp and beckoned Cross to him. 'What are they doing?'

  'They're Germans, sir.' Cross gave the explanation as if it answered all Sharpe's puzzlement.

  'So? What are they doing?'

  Cross was no Frederickson. He was slower, less intelligent, and far more fearful of responsibility. Yet he was fiercely protective towards his men and now he seemed to think that Sharpe disapproved of the oddly decorated tree. 'It's a German custom, sir. It's harmless.'