'Did you ever go back?'
Sharpe sat up. 'No.' He paused. 'I thought about it. Be nice to go back, dressed up in uniform, carrying this.' He hefted the sword again, then grinned. 'It's probably all changed. The bastards who ran it are probably dead and the children probably sleep in beds and get three meals a day and don't know how lucky they are.' He stood up so that he could slide the sword into its scabbard.
Frederickson shook his head. 'I don't think it's changed much.'
Sharpe shrugged. 'It doesn't matter, Captain. Children are tough little things. Leave them to life and they manage.' He made it sound brutal because he had managed, and he walked away from Frederickson and Harper because the conversation had made him think of his own daughter. Was she old enough to be excited by Christmas Eve? He did not know. He thought of her small round face, her dark hair that had looked so much like his when he had last seen her, and he wondered what kind of life she would have. A life without a father, a life that had come out of war, and he knew that he did not want to leave her alone to life.
He talked to the men, chatting easily, listening to their jokes and knowing their hidden fears. He had the Sergeants hand out another half dozen canteens of brandy and was touched because men offered him swigs of the precious liquid. He left his own advance party till last, the fifteen men sitting in their own group and putting the last touches to sword bayonets that were already sharp. Eight were Germans who spoke good English, good enough to understand urgent orders, and he waved them down as, with the formality of their race, they began getting to their feet. 'Warm enough?'
Nods and smiles. 'Yes, sir.' They looked freezing. One man, thin as a ramrod, licked his lips as he ran an oiled leather cloth over his sword bayonet. He held the blade up to the last light of the day and seemed satisfied. He put the bayonet down and, with meticulous care, folded the leather and put it into an oilskin packet. He looked up, saw Sharpe's interest, and wordlessly handed the blade up to the Major. Sharpe put a thumb on the fore-edge. Christ! It was like a razor. 'How do you get it that sharp?'
'Trouble, sir, trouble. Work it every day.' The man took the bayonet back and pushed it carefully into its scabbard.
Another man grinned at Sharpe. 'Taylor wears a spike out every year, sir. Sharpens 'em too much. You should see his rifle, sir.' Taylor was obviously the showpiece of his company, used to the attention, and he handed the weapon to Sharpe.
Like the bayonet, this, too, had been worked on. The wood was oiled to a deep polish. The stock had been reshaped with a knife, giving a narrower grip behind the trigger while, on top of the butt, a leather pad had been nailed with brass-headed nails. A cheek-piece. Sharpe pulled the cock back, checking first that the gun was unloaded, and the flint seemed to rest uneasily at the full position. Sharpe touched the trigger and the flint snapped forward, almost without any pressure from Sharpe's finger, and the thin man grinned. 'Filed down, sir.'
Sharpe gave the rifle back. Taylor's voice reminded him of Major Leroy's of the South Essex. 'Are you American, Taylor?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Loyalist?'
'No, sir. Fugitive.' Taylor seemed an unsmiling, laconic man.
'From what?'
'Merchantman, sir. Ran in Lisbon.'
'He killed the Captain, sir.' The other man volunteered with an admiring smile.
Sharpe looked at Taylor. The American shrugged. 'Where are you from in America, Taylor?'
The cold eyes looked at Sharpe as if the mind behind them was thinking whether or not to answer. Then the shrug again. 'Tennessee, sir.'
'Never heard of it. Does it worry you we're at war with the United States?'
'No, sir.' Taylor's answer seemed to suggest that his country would manage quite well without his assistance. 'I hear you've a man in your Company, sir, who thinks he can shoot?'
Sharpe knew he meant Daniel Hagman, the marksman of the South Essex. 'That's right.'
'You tell him, sir, that Thomas Taylor is better.'
'What's your range?'
The eyes looked dispassionately at Sharpe. Again he seemed to think about his answer. 'At two hundred yards I'm certain.'
'So's Hagman.'
The grin again. 'I mean certain of putting a ball in one of his eyes, sir.'
It was an impossible boast, of course, but Sharpe liked the spirit in which it was made. Taylor, he guessed, would be an awkward man to lead, but so were many of the Riflemen. They were encouraged to be independent, to think for themselves on a battlefield, and the Rifle Regiments had thrown away much old fashioned blind discipline and relied more on morale as a motivating force. A new officer to the 95th or the 60th was expected to drill and train in the ranks, to learn the merits of the men he would command in battle, and that was a hard apprenticeship for some yet it forged trust and respect on both sides. Sharpe was sure of these men. They would fight, but what of Pot-au-Feu's men in the Convent? All were trained soldiers and his one hope, that appeared more slender as the cold day wore on into night, was that soon the deserters would be hopeless with drink.
Evening, Christmas Eve, and clouds covered the sky so there was no star to guide them. The Christmas hymns were being sung in the parish churches at home. 'High let us swell our tuneful notes, and join the angelic throng'. Sharpe remembered the words from the Foundling Home. 'Good will to sinful men is shewn, and peace on earth is given'. There would be no good will for sinful men this night. Out of the darkness would come swords, bayonets and death. Christmas Eve, 1812, in the Gateway of God would be screams and pain, blood and anger, and Sharpe thought of the innocent women in the Convent and he let the anger begin. Let the waiting be done, he prayed, let the night arrive, and he wanted the flare of battle within him, he wanted Hakeswill dead, he wanted the night to come.
Christmas Eve turned to darkness. Wolves prowled in the saw-toothed peaks, a wind drove cold from the west, and the men in green jackets waited, shivering, and in their hearts was revenge and death.
Chapter 8
A night so dark it was like the Eve of Creation. A blackness complete, a darkness that did not even betray an horizon, a night of clouds and no moon. Christmas Eve.
The men made small noises as they waited in the gully. They were like animals crouching against a bitter cold. The small drizzle compounded the misery.
Sharpe would go first with his small group, then Frederickson, as Senior Captain, would bring on the main group of Riflemen. Harry Price would wait outside the Convent until the fight was over, or until, unthinkably, he must cover a wild retreat in the darkness.
It was a night when failure insisted on rehearsing itself in Sharpe's head. He had peered over the gully's rim in the dusk and he had stared long at the route he must take in the darkness, but suppose he got lost? Or suppose that some fool disobeyed orders and went forward with a loaded rifle, tripped, and blasted the night apart with an accidental shot? Suppose there was no track down the northern side of the valley? Sharpe knew there were thorn bushes on the valley's flanks and he imagined leading his troops into the snagging spines and then he forced the pessimism away. It insisted on coming back. Suppose the hostages had been moved? Suppose he could not find them in the Convent? Perhaps they were dead. He wondered what kind of young, rich woman would marry Sir Augustus Farthingdale. She would probably think of Sharpe as some kind of horrid savage.
The line of the Christmas hymn kept going through his head, another unwelcome visitor to his thoughts. 'Goodwill to sinful men is shewn'. Not tonight.
He had meant to go at midnight, but it was too dark for Frederickson or any of the other owners of watches to see their timepieces and it was too damned cold to wait in the interminable darkness. The men were numbed with the cold, somnolent with it, cut to the bone by the western wind and Sharpe decided to go early.
And there was light. It was a glow, hazed in the air, made by fires in the valley. The glow had been invisible from the gully, but as Sharpe led his force south, stumbling on the rough broken ground, the crest of the valley
's northern edge was limned by the flame-glow in the air. He could see the slight dip in that crest which he had marked as his target, and he sensed the path that led left and right and then on towards the flames of Adrados' valley.
They carried only their weapons and ammunition. Their packs, haversacks, blankets and canteens were left in the gully. That equipment could be fetched in the morning, but this night they would fight unladen. The Riflemen would discard their greatcoats before the attack, revealing their dark-green uniforms which would be their distinguishing mark this night. Goodwill to sinful men.
Sharpe stopped, hearing noise ahead, and for a fraction of a second he feared that the enemy had a picquet line at the valley's rim. He listened, relaxed. It was the sound of revelry, cheers and laughter, the roar of mens' voices. Christmas Eve.
A bloody night to be born, Sharpe thought. Midwinter, when food was scarce and wolves prowled close to the hill villages. Perhaps it was warmer in Palestine, and perhaps the shepherds who saw the angels did not have to worry about wolves, but winter was still winter everywhere. Sharpe had always thought Spain a hot country and so it was in the summer when the sun baked the plains into dust, but in winter it could still be freezing and he thought of being born in a stable where the wind sliced like a knife between the cracks of the timber. He led them on again towards the Gateway of God, a dark line of men bringing blades in the night.
He dropped flat at the valley's rim. Thorn trees were dark on the slope before him, the valley was lit by the fires in Castle, Convent, watchtower and village, and, glory to God in the highest, there was a path leading at an angle down through the thorns.
The sound of laughter came from the Convent. Sharpe could see other men silhouetted by the fires in the Castle's big yard. It was cold.
He turned his head round and hissed at his men. 'Count!’
'One.' Harper.
'Two.' A German Sergeant called Rossner.
'Three.' Thomas Taylor.
Frederickson dropped beside Sharpe, but stayed silent as the men counted themselves off in the darkness. All were present. Sharpe pointed to the foot of the slope where the dark path between the thorns debouched onto a rough pasture land that was stippled red and black by the firelight. 'Wait at the tree-line.'
'Yes, sir.'
Frederickson's men would have only fifty yards to cover from the edge of the bushes to the door of the Convent. They would come when they heard the boom of the seven-barrelled gun, or if they heard a volley of musketry, but they would ignore a single musket shot. On a night like this, a night of drinking and celebration, the odd single shot would be nothing unusual. If Frederickson heard nothing while he counted off fifteen minutes, then he was to come anyway. Sharpe looked at the Captain whose black patch gave his face a spectral look in the darkness. He was beginning to like this man. 'Your men are all right?'
'Anticipating the pleasure, sir.' Goodwill to sinful men.
Sharpe took his own group forward. He looked once to his right. Far off, in Portugal, a speck of light throbbed like a red star. A fire in the border hills.
The path was steep. The drizzle had made it slick and treacherous, causing one of Sharpe's men to slip and crash into a tangle of thorn branches. Everyone froze. Spines of thorn snappedand tore as the man pulled himself free.
Sharpe could see the great arched door of the Convent, a single slit of light showing where the doors were slightly ajar. Shouts and laughter came from the building, and once a crash of glass and loud jeers. There were womens' voices among the mens. He went slowly, testing each foothold, feeling the excitement because he was so close to revenging himself for the insults of his last visit.
The door opened. He stopped, the men behind him stopped without orders, and two figures were silhouetted in the archway of the Convent. One man, with a musket on his shoulder, clapped the shoulder of the second man and pushed him out into the roadway. Clear over the sounds of revelry was the noise of the second man retching. Christmas was working its magic in the Convent. The first man, presumably the sentry, laughed from the archway. He stamped his feet, blew on his hands, and Sharpe heard him shout for the sick man to come inside. The door closed on them.
The slope was gentler now and Sharpe risked a glance behind and was shocked by how naked and visible his men appeared to be. Surely they must be seen! Yet no one had shouted an alarm from the valley, no shot had stabbed the night, and then he was at the edge of the bushes and he brought his men to a halt. 'Taylor and Bell?'
'Sir?'
'Good luck to you.'
The two Riflemen, greatcoats hiding their uniforms, went forward towards the Convent. Sharpe would have liked to have done this piece of work, but there was a danger that the sentry might recognize him or Harper. He must wait.
He had chosen both men carefully, for to kill a man silently with a bare blade was no job for a keen beginner. Bell had learned his skills in the London streets, Taylor across the other side of the world, but both men were confident. Their job was simply to kill the sentry or sentries in the entrance-way.
They made no attempt to hide their approach. Their feet dragged on the roadway, their voices slurred as if with drink, and Sharpe heard foul oaths from Bell as the Rifleman stepped in the vomit at the foot of the steps. The door opened, and the sentry looked out. The door was pushed wider open and a second man stood there, musket slung. 'Come on! It's bloody cold!' A brazier flamed behind them.
Taylor sat down on the bottom step and began singing. He held a bottle up that had been provided by Sharpe. 'Got a present for you.' He sang the words over and over, laughing at the same time.
Bell bowed to them. 'A present!'
'Christ! Come on!'
Bell gestured at Taylor. 'He can't walk.'
The bottle was still held up. The two sentries came down the steps good-naturedly and one reached for the bottle and never saw the right hand pull the honed blade from inside the greatcoat, swing, and the sentry's right hand was touching the bottle as Taylor's blade went in under the armpit, travelling slightly upwards, straight to the tangle of heart and arteries. Taylor still held the bottle, but now he supported the dead weight of the man as well.
Bell grinned at the second sentry just as alarm touched his face and the Londoner was still grinning as his blade cut any shout from the man's throat. Sharpe saw the body lurch, saw it held, saw the two Riflemen taking the corpses into the shadows. 'Come!'
He took the rest of his men forward. Frederickson was at the foot of the slope now, beginning the slow count towards fifteen minutes or the sound of the shot that would signal vengeance for Adrados.
The Convent steps were messy with the blood of Bell's victim and Sharpe's boots made dark footprints in the entrance tunnel beside the brazier. He walked alone into the upper cloister, stepping into the shadows of the arched walkway, and the cloister seemed to be deserted. The shouts, the laughter, both came from the inner cloister, but as he waited, his eyes searching the courtyard, he heard moans and small voices from the'darkness. The tunnel ahead of him, the passage through which he and Dubreton had been escorted to see the woman branded with the word 'puta' was empty, the door and grille open. He held out his left hand and clicked his fingers and then led his men under the dark of the cloister's walkway, going slowly. Their boots seemed to be loud on the stones. The brazier touched light on the tiles about the raised pool.
The chapel door was open and, as Sharpe passed, a hand shot out and grasped his left shoulder. He swung on the hand, right fist already moving, then stopped. A woman stood there, swaying and blinking, and behind her there were candles beyond the open door in the grille. 'Coming in, darling?' She smiled at Sharpe, then staggered against the door.
'Go and sleep it off.'
A man's voice, speaking in French, called from inside the chapel. The woman shook her head. 'He's no bloody good, darling. Brandy, brandy, brandy.' A child, not three years old, came and stood beside her mother and peered up solemnly at Sharpe, sucking its thumb. The woman squinte
d at Sharpe. 'Who are you?'
'Lord Wellington.' The French voice shouted again and there was the sound of movement. Sharpe pushed the woman inside the door. 'Go on, love. He's feeling better now.
'A chance would be a fine thing. Come back, yes?'
'We'll be back.'
He led his men, grinning broadly, round the further corner and down to the passageway that led to the inner cloister. Footsteps echoed in it as he approached and then a child burst from the archway, pursued by another child, and they ran into the upper cloister and shrieked with laughter and excitement. A voice yelled at them from a storeroom. The drunks seemed to be sleeping it offin this upper level.
Sharpe motioned his men to wait in the passageway and walked out onto the upper cloister level where he had stood and talked with Madame Dubreton. He stayed in the shadows and he stared down into the eye of chaos. This was the anarchy that Wellington feared, the short step from order, the abandonment of hope and discipline.
Flames lit the deep cloister. A great fire burned on the broken stones, above the wreckage of the delicate canals, and the fire was fed by thorn trees and by planks that had been torn from the great windows of the hall on the northern side of the cloister. The windows ran from the ground level, past the upper walkway, to delicate arches beneath the gallery, and now that the protective planks had been prised from the stonework the window spaces gave free entrance between courtyard and hall. Their glass was long gone. Men and women came and went between the two areas and Sharpe watched from above.
He had run from the Foundling Home before his tenth birthday and he had gone into the dark close alleys of London's slums. There was work there for a nimble child. It was a world of thieves, body-snatchers, murderers; of drunkards, cripples, and of whores who had sold themselves into disease and ugliness. Hope meant nothing to the inhabitants of St Giles. For many their longest journey in this world was a mile and a half along the length of Oxford Street