'It's good of you to let me. Good luck! Come and see us after the war!'
Frederickson watched them go. He looked at one of his Sergeants. 'A thoroughly nice man, that.'
'So it seems, sir.'
'Sensible, too. Much prefers Salamanca's old Cathedral to the new.'
'Really, sir?' The Sergeant had not noticed one Cathedral in Salamanca, let alone two.
Frederickson turned to see Lieutenant Wise coming up through the thorns. 'Well done, Lieutenant! Any casualties?'
'Corporal Baker lost a finger, sir.'
'Left or right hand?'
'Left, sir.'
'Well, he can still fire a rifle. Splendid! And when we run out of ammunition we can throw snowballs!' He grinned at the Sergeant. 'Come the four corners of the world in arms, Sergeant, and we will shock them.'
'A chance would be a fine thing, sir.'
'It will come, Sergeant, it will come!'
To the north of the village, well away from the Rifle sharpshooters on the watchtower hill, two batteries of French guns unlimbered. The horses were taken away, the ready ammunition piled by the guns, and the snow settled on the bulbous roundshot piles and on the serge bags of powder. The artillerymen were strong and confident. The infantry had failed, and now the General was sensibly calling in the artillery. Not just the artillery, the French artillery, Napoleon's own weapon. Every gunner in France was proud that the Emperor was an artilleryman. A Sergeant swept the snow off the wreathed 'N' on a gun's breech and squinted along the barrel at the Convent. Soon, my lovely, he thought, soon. He patted the gun as though the brass, iron and timber monster were a favoured child.
Sharpe crossed to the Convent during the truce, his boots leaving fresh prints on the snow, and he stopped at the gates to look at the foreshortened barrels of the guns, guns that looked straight at him. He went inside, past the hornbeam which was decorated anew with a delicate tracery of snow, and it seemed impossible that only yesterday morning he had watched the German Riflemen decorate the bare branches.
He spoke to the officers, surprising them with his words, and he made them repeat his orders and then walk him through their positions so he knew they had understood. The Fusilier officers seemed relieved by his words. 'We will not defend the Convent, gentlemen.'
'Something up your sleeve, sir?' Harry Price grinned.
'No, Harry.'
Sharpe went downstairs and found Harper. 'Patrick?'
'Sir?'The big grin.
'All well?'
'Aye. So what's happening?' Sharpe told him and the broad Irish face nodded. 'The lads will be glad to be back with you, so they will, sir.'
'I'll be glad to have them back. Tell them.'
'They know that. How's my friend Private Hakeswill?'
'Rotting in the dungeon.'
'I heard so.' Harper grinned. 'That's good.'
'Did you spike the gun?'
'Aye, they'll not fire that in a hurry.' Harper had driven a nail into the touchhole, then filed the cut nail smooth with the breech. The whole touch-hole would have to be drilled out, then replaced with an iron wedge block, in which a new touch-hole was bored, that was inserted from the inside of the barrel and shaped so that each subsequent firing of the gun would drive it further home. Harper scratched his temple. 'You reckon it will be tonight, sir?'
'Dusk?'
'Aye.'
'Good luck.'
'The Irish don't need luck, sir.'
'Just the English off their backs, yes?' Sharpe laughed.
Harper grinned. 'You see how promotion brings sense to you, sir?'
Sharpe walked back across the valley, the snow falling thicker now, only a few tussocks of grass visible above the clean whiteness. He thought it would be the Convent that the French would attack, though it was possible that the siting of the guns was an attempt to mislead him, but he did not think so. The French wanted the Convent so they could put their big guns behind the protection of its wall and hammer at the Castle's northern ramparts. Then they would try for the watchtower so their guns could plunge fire into the courtyard, and most of all he feared the howitzers that would lob their shells high in the clouds before they fell among the defenders. Tomorrow.
The snow crunched under his boots, settled on his face, touched the old ramparts with a white shading which was curiously beautiful. The snow had covered the dark stains on the grass. He wondered how long they could hold this position. The weather could only delay any relief, and now they were down to just four hundred rockets. Gilliland had not been able to bring more because of the necessity of bringing the Fusiliers' supplies, but somehow Sharpe did not think the rockets would be used much more in the Gateway of God. He had one idea for them, an idea of desperation, but they had served their purpose, as had the quick-fuses which he had taken from Gilliland for another purpose. The fuses were for firing batches of rockets, and Gilliland had been unhappy at losing them, but their time would come.
Upstairs in the Castle the Fusilier surgeon sawed at a leg. He had pushed back the flap of skin that would fold over the stump, sliced through the muscle, tying off the blood vessels, and he worked fast with his short saw. Orderlies held the Fusilier down on the table, the man was trying to hold back his scream, gagging down on the folded leather pad that had already subdued the pain of fifteen other men, and the surgeon grunted as the bone splintered and powdered beneath the saw's teeth. 'Almost there, son. Good lad! Good lad!'
In the trench where the rockets had been fired Cross's German Riflemen buried their two dead. They had deepened the trench, put the bodies in, and then covered them with rocks that would prevent the scavengers' paws from scrabbling up the dead meat. They had piled the earth on top, watched as Cross said sad, inadequate words, and then, as the snow mottled the mounded grave, they had sung the new song which the Germans of this war had taken to their hearts. 'Ick hatt' einen Kameraden, Einen bess'ren findst du nicht ... ' Their voices reached Sharpe in the Castle keep. 'I had a comrade once, you couldn't find a better.'
Captain Brooker stood opposite Sharpe. The Fusilier Captain was shaved, his uniform brushed, and he made Sharpe feel dirty and tattered. 'What's the bill, Captain?'
'Fifteen dead, sir. Thirty-eight badly wounded.'
'I'm sorry.' Sharpe took the paper from him, tucked it into his pouch. 'Ammunition?'
'Plenty, sir.'
'Rations?'
'Two days, sir.'
'Let's hope it won't be that long.' Sharpe rubbed his face. 'So we're down to a hundred and eighty Fusiliers in the Castle?'
'A hundred and eighty-two, sir. With officers, of course, there's more.'
'Yes.' Sharpe grinned, trying to break through Brooker's reserve. 'And we're holding off a whole army.'
'Yes, sir.' Brooker sounded gloomy.
'Don't worry, Captain. You'll get ninety Fusiliers from the Convent tonight.'
'You think so, sir?'
Sharpe almost snapped that he would not have said it if he did not think so, but he bit back the reproof. He needed Brooker's co-operation, not his enmity. 'And there's still nearly a hundred and fifty on the watchtower hill.'
'Yes, sir.' Brooker's face was lugubrious, like a Methodist preacher who revelled in hell-fire predictions.
'You checked the prisoners?'
Brooker had not, but he was frightened of Sharpe. 'Yes, sir.'
'Good. I don't need those bastards up my backside. Put fresh men on as guards tonight.'
'Do we feed them, sir?'
'No. Let the bastards starve. Do you have the time, Captain?'
Brooker pulled a heavy turnip watch from his pocket. 'A quarter to four, sir.'
Sharpe walked to a great hole in the wall where stones had fallen from an arrow slit. The snow was slanting down over the valley. It was dark outside, the sky almost black, the clouds bringing a premature dusk. Below him he saw Captain Cross by a new grave, a smaller grave, and he saw a Rifleman who had once been a bugler put the dead boy's instruments to his lips. First he played t
he Buglers' call, short and simple, the notes clear in the darkening valley. Then, a long call, requested by Sharpe for the dead lad, the call that was for setting the watch. It ended in long, slow notes, played sweetly. Ich hatt' einen Kameraden.
There was a scrape of feet at the door, a cough for attention, and Sharpe turned to see a Rifleman. 'Yes?'
'Compliments of Captain Frederickson, sir.' He held out a piece of paper.
'Thank you.' Sharpe unfolded it. 'Partisans to north, east and south. Password tonight? Do I get a fight or not?' This time it was signed 'Captain William Frederickson, 5th Batt', 60th, retired.' Sharpe smiled, borrowed a pencil from Brooker, and rested the paper on the broken ledge of the arrow slit. 'Password tonight; patience. Countersign; virtue. Expect your fight at dawn. During night no patrols of mine will go east of stream. Good hunting. Richard Sharpe.' He gave it to the Rifleman, watched him go, then gave the password to Brooker. 'And you'd better warn the sentries about Partisans. Some may want to come in in the night.'
'Yes, sir.'
And cheer up, you bastard, Sharpe wanted to add. 'Carry on, Captain Brooker.'
The minutes passed. Artillerymen brushed snow from the touch-holes of guns that would soon be too hot for the snow that lay an inch deep on the brass barrels, each barrel more than seven feet long between the five foot high wheels. Each gun caisson had dropped forty-eight roundshot, the trail boxes on the guns themselves contained another nine each, and the gunners would be happy to fire all those shots to bring the eastern face of the Convent crashing to the ground to let in the Battalion of attacking infantry. This Battalion had been at the rear of the Column, virtually untouched by the rockets, and they would attack in the very last light. Then the guns would move in under the cover of darkness, embrasures would be hacked in the south wall, and these twelve-pounder monsters would take on the Castle itself. Let the gunners show how it ought to be done.
By five minutes to four the valley seemed deserted. The Fusiliers were behind stone walls, the Riflemen on the hill were in the shallow scoops they had fashioned beneath the thorns, the French were masked by the village.
Sharpe climbed the gatehouse turret, stamped his feet on the cold snow, talked with the Riflemen whose post this was. 'Must be nearly time.'
Serge bags were thrust down barrels, then the roundshot that was strapped to the wooden shoe which would burn off in flight. Spikes were thrust into touch-holes to pierce the powder bags, then the priming tube thrust home, the slant of the touch-hole making the quills slant forward so that they would be expelled in that direction. The Colonel looked at his watch. Two minutes to four. 'A pox on those bastards. Fire!'
Eight guns slammed back, eight trails gouging the clean snow, and the crews were instantly to work, straightening the guns with handspikes and ropes, other men sponging out the hissing barrel, others ready with the next charge.
The first shots bounced a hundred yards short of the convent, rose, and slammed into the wall. As the barrels grew hotter that first bounce would creep towards the Convent till there was no bounce at all. 'Fire!'
The guns were hidden from the gatehouse, but the long muzzle flames spread red flashes on the snow and Sharpe watched each volley bloom rose-red on the whiteness. They were good. The shots came faster, the rhythm creeping up to the swinging team-work of well trained artillerymen where each man knew his job, and each man took pride in doing it well, and the rose-red flashed, the balls smashed at the Convent, and the wall, which had not been built for defence, cracked and crumbled.
'Fire!'
The smoke drifted towards the convent, drifted slowly with the falling snow, and now the flakes hissed as they hit the hot barrels, and again the guns bucked back, wheels bouncing, and again the teams dragged them round, rammed them, primed them, fired them, and the gates of the Convent had already gone.
'Fire!'
And each volley seemed to tinge the drifting cloud with red so that the sky was grey-black, the valley white, and the northern edge a place of redness. 'Fire!'
The noise echoed from the hills, jarred snow from the eaves of the village houses, tinkled the glasses in the inn's kitchen.
'Fire!'
A length of wall collapsed, dust looking like smoke, and the next roundshot smashed through an interior wall, breaking plaster and old stone, and the guns smashed back again, their crews hot and sweating despite the cold, and the gunner Colonel grinned in pleasure for his men.
'Fire!'
The upper cloister was open to the valley now, the closed Convent torn apart by the close range gunnery, and the first acrid smoke of the early volleys was drifting between broken pillars and fallen carvings.
'Fire!'
The hornbeam was struck on the trunk, it seemed to fly in the air, roots tearing up tiles and snow, and the buttons and ribbons that had decorated it were thrown to the ground with the falling tree.
'Fire!'
The cat that had walked so delicately on the Christmas morning tiles now hissed, claws outstretched, in the cellar. The fur on its back was upright. The building seemed to shake around it.
'Fire!'
A Rifleman on the gatehouse pointed. 'Sir?'
The French Battalion were moving along the northern fringe of the valley, their blue coats dark in the gloom where the smoke rolled over the snow.
'Fire!'
The last volley, crashing down a carved archway, bringing tiles slipping in an avalanche of clay and snow from the roof, and the Voltigeurs cheered, ran clumsily on the snow, and the first muskets fired at the Convent.
'Now.' Sharpe said. 'Now!'
'Sir?'
'Nothing.' It was nearly dark, so much so that his eyes played tricks in the gloom.
The Convent's defenders, sheltered in the inner cloister, ran as they had been ordered to run. Up the stairs, up the ramp of the cloister furthest from the guns, and then to their places. One volley, muskets and rifles pricking the dusk, and then they jumped. Some went down rubble into the upper cloister, clambered over the wreckage of the wall, and sprinted towards the Castle. Others jumped from the roof, falling clumsily on the snow covered slope, and they too ran for the safety of the ramparts. Sharpe looked up the valley. There was no cavalry, there was no need to send out the three Companies of Fusiliers to cover the retreat.
The French saw them go, cheered, fired a hasty farewell volley and then the Battalion scrambled over the wreckage made by the guns, and French cheers sounded in the valley for they had their first victory.
'Limber up!' The Colonel wanted the guns moved swiftly to the Convent. The howitzers, which had not fired, were already hitched to their horses.
The Battalion spread through the Convent, finding the barrels of liquor that Sharpe had left them, barrels he hoped would make them drunk and helpless. The officers saw them too, levelled pistols, and blew the strakes from the bottom so the liquor flowed into the snow. 'Move! Move! Move!' A passage had to be cleared for the guns.
The Convent's defenders came in through the archway of the Castle. One man limped, his ankle sprained by the fall, another cursed because a French musket bullet was lodged in his buttocks. Laughter greeted his pained announcement.
Sharpe leaned over the turret into the courtyard. 'Call the roll!'
The Fusiliers reported first. 'All present!'
Cross's Riflemen. 'Present!'
'Lieutenant Price?'
The Lieutenant's face was white as he looked up. 'Harps is missing, sir!' There was disbelief in his voice. Around him the men of Sharpe's Company stared up at the turret and on their faces was a hope that Sharpe could bring off a miracle.
Lieutenant Price's voice was anguished. 'Did you hear me, sir?'
'I heard you. Block the gate.'
There was a gasp from below. 'Sir?'
'I said block the gate!' Anger in Sharpe's voice.
He turned and the snow drifted gentle in the dusk, drifted past the ramparts to settle on the graves, drifted down the long pass where help must come, settled on
the shattered east wall of the Convent.
Harper had said that the Irish do not need luck. Sharpe flinched as musket shots sounded deep within the Convent from which only Sergeant Patrick Harper had not escaped.
Lieutenant Price was on the turret, panting from his swift climb up the winding stair. 'He was with us, sir! I didn't see anything happen to him!'
'Don't worry, Harry.'
'We can go back in the night, sir!' Price was eager.
'I said don't worry, Harry.' Sharpe stared northwards into the smoking twilight.
Ich hatt' einen Kameraden, Einen bess' renjindst du nicht.
Chapter 25
In war, as in love, few campaigns go exactly as planned, and the French General remade his plans before the fire at the inn. 'The object is still the same, gentlemen, to draw the British north. If we cannot make Vila Nova, then we can still make Barca de Alva. It will have the same effect.' He turned to the gunner Colonel. 'How long before your guns are in place?'
'Midnight, sir.' The guns had to be manhandled into the Convent, embrasures made in the southern wall, but the work was going fast. They had feared that the British might send Riflemen to harry the progress, but none had come.
'Good. Sunrise, someone?'
'Twenty-one minutes past seven.' Ducos was always exact about these things.
'These long nights! Still, we knew of them when we started.' The General sipped muddy coffee, looked back to the gunner. 'Howitzers, Louis. I don't want a man to be able to move in that courtyard tomorrow.'
The Colonel grinned. 'Sir. I can put two more in there.'
'Do it.' The General smiled at Dubreton. 'Merci, Alex-andre.' He took the offered cigar, rolled it between finger and thumb, and accepted a light. 'When can we open fire?'
The gunner shrugged. 'When you want, sir.'
'Seven? And we put two more batteries on the southern edge of the village to fire straight across the breach, yes?' The Colonel nodded. The General smiled. 'Canister, Louis. That will stop their damned rockets. I don't want a man living if they leave the shelter of the walls.'