Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy (74 page)

‘Yes?’

‘Could be the deserters, sir. They’ve got Frenchie uniforms.’

‘Keep looking!’ The man was probably right. Three French cavalrymen from Pot-au-Feu’s band were merely scouting the valley to the east and south. Pot-au-Feu surely was leaving. Sharpe turned to Josefina. ‘Time to go. Work to do.’ He held out his hand and helped her up. She looked at him with a hint of worry.

‘Richard?’

‘Yes.’ He presumed she was worried about the possibility of French troops in the high valley.

‘Are you glad to see me?’

‘Josefina.’ He smiled. ‘Yes, of course.’

They walked along the flat space between the parapet and the tiles, Riflemen making way for them and giving Josefina admiring looks. Sharpe stopped beneath the spread flag and stared westward into the shadows of the pass where the mist was shredding itself into decaying wisps. There was a slight movement among the grey rocks far down, a movement scarcely visible, but enough to prompt a shout from another sentry.

‘Sir!’

‘I’ve seen them, thank you!’

The Fusiliers were in sight. Sharpe looked from them up to the beaded, frail flag and he wondered why the instinct persisted that he might yet have to fight for it. He pushed the thought away, handed Josefina to the head of the ramp, and raised his voice so that the Riflemen could hear him. ‘Your husband will be here within the hour, Milady.’

‘Thank you, Major Sharpe.’ She bowed slightly towards him then, in a superb gesture, waved an arm around the whole Convent, a gesture that embraced all the watching Riflemen. She raised her voice. ‘And thank you to all of you. Thank you!’

They all looked pleased, bashful and pleased, and Sharpe nudged a Sergeant beside him. ‘Three cheers for her Ladyship?’

‘Oh yes, sir, of course, sir.’ The Sergeant beamed at the men. ‘Three cheers for her Ladyship! Hip, hip, hip!’

‘Hooray!’ They bellowed it twice more, startling the cat on the roof tiles, and Josefina acknowledged it graciously. She nodded to them all, finishing with Sharpe and he could have sworn that she gave him a wink as her head inclined.

He went back to the flag, grinning. It was a morning of surprises. A Christmas tree for Christmas day, Josefina for Sir Augustus Farthingdale, and in the east three horsemen to trouble Christmas morning. The shadows in the pass resolved themselves into a skirmish line that climbed towards the Gateway of God, the Companies in column behind it. Sharpe looked up at the flag and his instinct still told him that trouble was in the windless air, that this Christmas held other surprises yet to come.

Lieutenant Colonel Kinney sent his Fusiliers in open order for the last few yards of the scramble uphill. There was still a possibility that Pot-au-Feu might open fire with his captured Spanish guns, though the prisoners taken in the night swore that two of the cannon were in the watchtower while the third remaining in the deserters’ hands was mounted on the east wall of the Castle and unable to bear on the pass. Kinney nevertheless took no chances.

Sharpe experienced a sudden regret because he was no longer the senior officer in the Gateway of God. Kinney now outranked him, Sir Augustus Farthingdale too, and Sharpe presumed that the single Major of the Fusiliers was also his superior. Kinney slid from his horse at the Convent gate and held a hand out to Sharpe, ignoring the salute. ‘Well done, Major, well done!’

Kinney was generous in his praise, embarrassingly so, effusive about the difficulties of a night march, a silent approach, and an assault on a building that incurred no serious casualties among the attackers. Sharpe introduced Frederickson, Cross and Price, and Kinney spread his praise liberally among them all. Sir Augustus Farthingdale was less forthcoming. He dismounted stiffly, helped by his servant, and twitched the silk scarf that was tucked into the high collar of his cavalry cloak. Beneath the cloak he slapped a riding crop against his boots. ‘Sharpe!’

‘Sir.’

‘So you were successful!’

‘Happily yes, sir.’

Farthingdale grunted, sounding far from happy. His aquiline nose was red from the cold, the mouth more peevish than usual. The crop still slapped against the leather. ‘Well done, Sharpe. Well done.’ He managed to make the praise sound grudging. ‘Lady Farthingdale well, is she?’

‘Perfectly, sir. I’m sure she’ll be relieved to see you.’

‘Yes.’ Farthingdale fidgeted, his eyes looking without interest at the Castle and the village. ‘So what are you waiting for, Sharpe? Take me to her.’

‘Of course, sir. I’m sorry, sir. Lieutenant Price?’ Sharpe nominated Price as Sir Augustus’ guide to his ‘bride’. Sir Augustus turned at the Convent steps, removed the bicorne hat from his sleek silver hair, and nodded at Kinney. ‘Carry on, Kinney!’

‘Does the man think I’m planning to go to sleep?’ The comment was made loud enough for Sharpe to hear. Kinney had obviously had a difficult time with Sir Augustus during the long night march and now the Welshman kicked at a stone, sending it skittering against the Convent wall. ‘God damn it, Sharpe, but she must be a remarkable woman to bring Sir Augustus all this way?’

Sharpe smiled. ‘She’s a beauty, sir.’

Kinney looked east where his Battalion were forming up well out of canister range from Castle or watchtower. ‘What do we do now, eh?’ The question was not aimed at Sharpe. ‘Let’s clear the beggars out of the village, then look at the Castle.’

‘The watchtower, sir?’

Kinney turned towards it. The two guns in the watchtower, if they existed, could fire into the flank of any attack made on the fallen east wall of the Castle. If there was to be a fight at the Castle, then the watchtower would have to be taken first. Kinney scratched his cheek. ‘You think the buggers will fight?’

‘They haven’t run away, sir.’

Pot-au-Feu must know that his escapades were over. His hostages were gone, the Convent was taken, and now a Battalion of British infantry was in his valley. The sensible thing, Sharpe thought, was for the deserters to run again, to flee eastwards or northwards, but they had stayed. Pot-au-Feu’s troops were visible on the Castle ramparts and in the earthworks at the foot of the watchtower. Kinney shook his head. ‘Why have they stayed, Sharpe?’

‘Must think he can beat us, sir.’

‘Then the man must be disabused.’ Kinney dwelt lovingly on the last word. ‘I don’t fancy any of my men dying today, Major. It would be a terrible tragedy on Christmas Day.’ He sniffed. ‘I’ll roust the village with bayonets, then I’ll have a chat with our man at the Castle to see if he wants to surrender. If he wants to do it the hard way ...’ He looked at the watchtower. ‘I’d be grateful, in that case, for the loan of a Rifle Company, Major.’

It was kind of Kinney to wrap an order in such politeness. ‘Of course, sir.’

‘Let’s hope it won’t come to that. By then young Gilliland should have arrived.’ The Rocket Troop was an hour behind the I 13th, delayed by a loosened wheel-rim. Kinney smiled. ‘Two of those fireworks up their backsides might persuade them to throw themselves on our tender mercies.’ Kinney called for his horse, grunted as he pulled his considerable weight into the saddle, then grinned down on Sharpe. ‘They probably haven’t run, Sharpe, because they’re all blind drunk. Well then! To work! To work!’ He gathered his reins, then stopped, staring over Sharpe’s head. ‘My word! My word!’

Josefina was in the Convent gateway, being handed down by a Sir Augustus Farthingdale who looked quite different. The peevishness was gone, replaced by a simpering attention to the gorgeous woman who dazzled Kinney with her smile. There was a wealth of pride in Farthingdale’s voice, the pride of possession. ‘Colonel Kinney? The honour of meeting my lady wife? My dear, this is Colonel Kinney.’

Kinney removed his hat. ‘Milady. We would have marched half way round the globe to rescue you.’

Josefina rewarded him with parted lips, dipped eyelashes, and a pretty speech that complimented both Kinney and his troops. Sir Augustus watched it with pleasure, enjoying the admiration in Kinney’s eyes, approving as his ‘wife’ walked with small steps to pet Kinney’s horse. When she was away from his side he plucked at Sharpe’s sleeve. ’A word with you.‘

Had she told him that Sharpe had known her? It seemed unbelievable, but Sharpe could think of no other explanation why Sir Augustus should draw him aside, out of Josefina’s earshot. The Colonel’s face was furious. ‘There are naked men in there, Sharpe!’

Sharpe almost smiled. ‘Prisoners, sir.’ He had ordered a work-party of deserters to continue the hard slog of boring loopholes in the huge walls.

‘Why the hell are they naked?’

‘They disgraced their uniforms, sir.’

‘Good God, Sharpe! You let my wife see this?’

Sharpe bit back a retort that Josefina had probably seen more naked men than Sir Augustus ever had, instead he gave a mild answer. ‘I’ll see that they’re covered, sir.’

‘You do that, Sharpe. Another thing.’

‘Sir?’

‘You haven’t shaved. You’re hardly in a position to talk about disgracing uniforms!’ Farthingdale turned abruptly, and his face changed to an indulgent smile as Josefina approached. ‘My dear. Do you really want to stay out in this cold?’

‘Of course, Augustus. I wish to see Colonel Kinney’s men punish my oppressors.’ Sharpe almost smiled again at the last word, but she had chosen it well for Sir Augustus. He straightened up, looking fierce, and nodded.

‘Of course, my dear, of course.’ He looked at Sharpe. ‘A chair for her Ladyship and some refreshment, Sharpe.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Not that there’ll be much of a fight.’ Sir Augustus was talking to Josefina again. ‘They won’t have the stomach for a fight.’

An hour later it seemed as if Sir Augustus was right. The deserters who had stayed in the village fled with their women and children as Kinney’s Light Company went in from the north. They fled, unmolested, across the valley floor and threaded the thorn bushes towards the watchtower. Two dozen were on horseback, muskets slung on their shoulders and sabres visible at their sides. Madame Dubreton and the other two hostages from the French army came out for a while, took tea with Josefina, but the cold drove them back into the Convent that had been their prison. Sharpe had asked Madame Dubreton what she had thought when she saw her husband in the upper gallery of the inner cloister.

‘I thought I would never see him again.’

‘You showed no recognition. That must have been hard.’

‘For him as well, Major, but I would not give them that satisfaction.’

He had talked to her, while Price had tried to charm Josefina, of the difficulties of living as an Englishwoman in France, but she had shrugged the difficulties away. ‘I am married to a Frenchman, Major, so my loyalty is obvious. Not that he requires me to feel enmity for my own country.’ She smiled. ‘In truth, Major, the war affects us little. I imagine it must be like living in Hampshire. The cows get milked, we go to balls, and once a year we hear of a victory and remember that there’s a war.’ She had looked down at her lap, then up again. ‘It’s difficult with my husband away, but the war will end, Major.’

Pot-au-Feu’s war was ending now. With the village cleared of the enemy, Kinney lined his Battalion in the crisp wintry sunlight, and then he rode forward, two officers at his side, walking the horses slowly towards the Castle. Sharpe walked up the valley so he could see the broken east wall, and Frederickson came with him. The Captain nodded towards the three horsemen. ‘Calling for a surrender?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t think why the bastards haven’t run for it. They must know what’s waiting for them.’

Sharpe did not reply. The thought worried him too, but perhaps Kinney was right. Perhaps they were too drunk to know what was happening, or perhaps the survivors of Pot-au-Feu’s band preferred to throw themselves on the mercy of the British army rather than face a cold winter in these hills that would be infested with vengeful Partisans. Or perhaps Pot-au-Feu simply did not want to leave. The prisoners, questioned in the night, had said that the fat Frenchman had set himself up in mock state in the Castle, lording it like a mediaeval baron, imparting justice and reward on his followers. Perhaps Marshal Pot-au-Feu’s fantasy was strong enough to persuade him, and his followers, that the Castle could resist assault. Whatever the reason, he had stayed, and his men had stayed, and now Kinney with his two officers reined in eighty yards from the fallen east wall, the rubble of which made a chest high barrier that guarded the great courtyard.

Kinney was standing in his stirrups, his hands cupped in front of his face. A group of men stood on the rubble and Sharpe saw one of them beckon the horsemen closer. ‘They can’t hear.’

‘Jesus!’ Frederickson was frustrated. He did not approve of this parley with a dishonourable enemy. He fidgeted with the frayed edge of his eye-patch and obviously wanted to lead his Riflemen against the enemy who still beckoned Kinney closer.

Kinney, in exasperation, kicked back with his heels and his horse trotted forward. He stopped fifty yards from the enemy, within musket range, and shouted again. Then he seemed to wrench at his reins, lean to his right to help the horse turn, for he had seen the movement to his left, the uncovering of the gun embrasured at the broken end of the eastern wall, but he was too late.

Sharpe saw the smoke first, growing from the stub of wall, and then the bang came, a flat sound, echoing round the valley like dying thunder, and the sound had the distinctive crack of a splitting canister fired from a cannon. The tin can had burst in the muzzle-flame of the gun, spreading its musket-ballsin a widening cone that centred on LieutenantColon el Kinney. Horse and man went down, knocked sideways, and while the horse vainly thrashed and tried to regain its feet, the man lay still in the torn spray of his blood. Sharpe whirled on Frederickson. ‘Get your Company over to the Fusilier Light Company! You’ll be attacking the watchtower!’

‘Sir!’

Sharpe looked at his own men, lazing by the Convent wall. ‘Sergeant!’

Farthingdale was out of his chair, calling for his horse, then for Sharpe. ‘Major!’

‘Sir?’

‘I want your men in front of the Castle! Skirmish order!’