Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy (91 page)

Ducos bent low over the rocket in the inn, peering at its construction, prising the metal tube away from the head so he could see where the fuse had somehow worked itself free. He straightened up, his eyes losing their focus, and wondered how much of the stick had been burned away. It should be possible, he thought, to cram more powder into the cylinder, put a new stick onto it, and test fire the weapon. He began taking measurements of the rocket head, jotting the figures on paper in his cramped handwriting, while above him the wounded screamed as doctors peeled charred cloth from burned skin.

In the Castle courtyard the Fusiliers boiled water, then poured the water into their musket barrels to clear the fouled deposits of powder. They filled their ammunition pouches, watched the snow settle, and hoped the French had had enough.

In the Castle dungeons Obadiah Hakeswill rubbed his wrists where the ropes had been, grinned at the other prisoners, and promised them escape. In the dim light, far from the straw torches that lit the steps where the guards were, he pulled himself along the back wall, through the ordure and the cold puddles, till he was in the darkest corner. There he stood up, his nakedness pale against the dark stones, and his head twitched as he pulled at a stone high on the wall. He moved slowly, quietly, not wanting to attract attention. He had remembered the one thing that everyone else seemed to have forgotten.

On the watchtower hill Frederickson wrote on a piece of the sketching paper, then gave it to the French officer. ‘My father’s address, though God knows if I’ll be living near him.’

Pierre had a formal calling card, on the back of which he put his own address. ‘After the war, perhaps?’

‘You think it will end?’

Pierre shrugged. ‘Aren’t we all tired of it?’

Frederickson was not, but it seemed hardly polite to say so. ‘After the war, then?’ He looked at the captured German Lancer whose spear had been decorated with a dirty white cloth. The Lancer was not happy, hating to carry the makeshift flag, and Frederickson switched to German. ‘If you don’t carry it your own people will shoot you.’He looked back to Pierre, changed back into the French language. ‘You’ll observe all the usual nonsense? Wait to be exchanged, no fighting against us until then?’

‘I will observe all the usual nonsense.’ Pierre smiled.

‘And no telling what you’ve seen up here?’

‘Of course not. Though I can’t speak for him.’ Pierre glanced at the Lancer.

‘He hasn’t seen the rockets in the tower. He can’t tell anything.’ Frederickson grinned cheerfully through the lie, knowing that Sergeant Rossner had described in graphic detail the non-existent rockets stacked on the hilltop to the young Lancer. ‘I’m sorry to see you go, Pierre.’

‘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. ‘
Ich 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 the 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’, 6oth, 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.