‘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 in 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 stoo
d 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 watchtower, 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 rooftop 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.’
‘I’m sure it’s harmless! But what the devil are they doing?’
Cross frowned. ‘Well it’s Christmas, sir! They always do it at Christmas.’
‘They tie white ribbons on trees every Christmas?’
‘Not just that, sir. Anything. They usually like an evergreen, sir, and they put it in their billet and decorate it. Small presents, carved angels, all kinds of things.’
‘Why?’ Sharpe still watched them, as did men of his own Company, who had not seen anything like it.
It seemed that Cross had never thought to ask why, but Frederickson had come into the upper cloister and heard Sharpe’s question. ‘Pagan, sir. It’s because the old German Gods were all forest Gods. This is part of the winter solstice.’
‘You mean they’re worshipping the old Gods?’
Frederickson nodded. ‘You never know who’s in charge up there, do you?’ He grinned. ‘The priests say that the tree represents the one on which Christ will be crucified, but that’s bloody nonsense. This is just a good old-fashioned offering to the old Gods. They’ve been doing it since before the Romans.’
Sharpe looked at the tree. ‘I like it. It looks good. What happens next? Do we sacrifice a virgin?’
He had spoken loud enough for the men to hear him, to laugh, and they were pathetically pleased because Major Sharpe had liked their tree and had made a joke. Frederickson watched Sharpe go into the inner cloister and the one-eyed Captain knew what Sharpe did not know; he knew why these men had fought last night instead of deserting to their comfortable, lascivious enemy. They were proud to fight for Sharpe. It made a man good to match up to high standards, and when those standards led to victory and approval then the men would follow always. God help the British army, Frederickson thought, if the officers ever despised the men.
Sharpe was tired, cold, and he had not shaved. He walked slowly around the upper cloister, down the stairs, and found the large, chill room where Frederickson had put the naked prisoners. Three Riflemen guarded them and Sharpe nodded to a Corporal. ‘Any trouble?’
‘No, sir.’ The Corporal spat tobacco juice through the doorway. The door had gone and the three rifles looked over a crude barrier of charred timbers. ‘One of’em got all upset, sir, ‘bout an ’our ago.‘
‘Upset?’
‘Yessir. ’E was‘ollering an’ shoutin’, sir, makin’ aggravation. Wanted clothes ‘e said. Said they wasn’t animals an’ all that kind of rubbish, sir.’
‘What happened?’
‘Cap’n Frederickson shot ’im, sir.‘
Sharpe looked at the Corporal curiously. ‘Just like that?’
‘Yessir.’ The man smiled happily. “E don’t take no nonsense, the Cap‘n, sir.’
Sharpe smiled back. ‘Nor should you. If anyone else gives you trouble, just do the same thing.’
‘Yessir.’
Frederickson had been busy, and evidently still was for a cheer came from his Company that manned the roof about the inner cloister. Sharpe climbed the stairs again, then the ramp that went from the upper gallery. There he saw why the men had cheered.
A flag had been raised. It was a makeshift flagpole, nailed together, and because there was not a breath of wind on this cold, Christmas morning, Frederickson had ordered a crosspiece hammered into the staff on which the flag had been hung. It was the signal which would tell the Fusiliers that the rescuers had succeeded, that they could climb the pass, and Sharpe had assumed that he would simply hang the flag over the edge of the building. The flagpole was a much better idea.
Frederickson had come to this part of the roof and looked up at the flag. ‘Doesn’t look the same, sir.’
‘The same?’
‘The Irish bit.’
When the Act of Union had been passed, indissolubly joining Ireland to England as one nation, a diagonal red cross had been added to the Union flag. For some people, even after eleven years, it still looked strange. For others, like Patrick Harper, it was still offensive. Sharpe looked at the Captain. ‘I hear you shot a prisoner.’
‘Was I wrong?’
‘No. You just saved a Court-Martial ordering the same thing.’
‘It seemed to pacify them, sir.’ Frederickson said it mildly, implying he had done the prisoners a service.
‘Have you slept?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Get some. That’s an order. We might need you later on.’
Sharpe wondered why he had said that. If all went to plan the F
usiliers would relieve him within hours and the Rifles’ job would be done. Yet an instinct needled him. Perhaps it was those strange horsemen in the dawn, or perhaps it was nothing more than the unaccustomed responsibility of leading nearly two hundred men. He yawned, rubbed the bristles on his chin, and hunched himself closer inside the greatcoat.
A cat walked on the tiles of the shallow-pitched roof, disdaining the Riflemen who crouched beneath the low stone parapet. It walked to the ridge of the tiles, sat, and began to wash its face with cuffing paws. Its shadow was long on the pink tiles.
Across the valley the shadow of the watchtower stretched towards the Castle. The two buildings were five hundred yards apart, the watchtower a good hundred and fifty feet higher, and between the two was a small, steep, thorn-covered valley. The mist was clearing from the smaller valley, showing the bare thorns touched with frost, revealing a small sparkling stream. Men still guarded the Castle and watchtower, and that was strange. Did Pot-au-Feu think that once the hostages were rescued his enemies would simply march away?
To the west the hills of Portugal were touched by the flame gold of the sun, their valleys black and grey, streaked with white mist, while the horizon was still smoky with night. The landscape looked crumpled, as if it needed to stretch and waken up. In the far valleys it would still be night.
Sharpe walked along the rooftop until he was at the northern parapet, lightly guarded, and he sat on the tiles and looked left towards the pass. No sign of the Fusiliers, but it was early yet.
‘Sir?’ A German voice behind him. ‘Sir?’ ,
He turned. The man was offering him a cup of tea. The Germans had taken the habit from the British and, like them, carried the leaves loose in their pockets. One good rainstorm could ruin a week’s supply. ‘Yours?’
‘I have more, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
Sharpe took it, cradled it in his gloved hands, and watched the German go back towards the flag. The cloth was beaded with moisture. The sun shone through the thin material. Something to fight for.
The mist still flowed soft down the pass, spilling like water, and Sharpe sipped the hot tea and was grateful to be alone. He wanted to stare at the great unfolding beauty of the dawn, the light spreading across Portugal beneath a sky that was vast and streaked with the cloud remnants of the night. More cloud threatened in the north, dark cloud, but this day would be fine.
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy Page 69
