Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy

by Bernard Cornwell

  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!’

  Frederickson, already running, heard Farthingdale and stopped, looking back at Sharpe. Sharpe looked at the Colonel who was swinging himself into his saddle. ‘Not the watchtower, sir?’

  ‘You heard me, Major! Now move!’ Sir Augustus touched spurs to his horse and it took off towards the silent, stunned Battalion that was lined across the road leading from the village. Sharpe pointed towards the Castle. ‘Skirmish order! My Company left of the line, Captain Cross in the centre, Captain Frederickson to the right! Move!’

  Now why in the name of all that was holy had Pot-au-Feu prompted this fight? Did he really think he could win? As Sharpe ran across the hard pasture land of the valley he saw the two officers who had ridden behind Kinney lift the Colonel from the ground. One of them despatched the Colonel’s horse with a pistol shot. The enemy ignored the two officers, content, perhaps, with a Colonel’s death, but why had they done this? They must think they could beat a Battalion in a straight fight, and then Sharpe forgot about Pot-au-Feu’s motives because the first musket balls were twitching at the grass and soil about his feet. Smoke was lingering in tiny clouds above the
thorn bushes that grew between the Castle and watchtower, and Sharpe shouted for Lieutenant Price. ‘Keep those bastards busy, Harry. Use the muskets and four rifles.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ Price spread his arms wide. ‘Spread out! Spread out!’ He took the small whistle from his cross-belt and blew the signal.

  Frederickson and Cross both used buglers to relay orders on the battlefield. Their lads, neither more than fifteen, were blowing as they ran, the notes ragged and broken, but the calls unmistakable ordering the Companies to form the skirmish chain. Sharpe anchored them a hundred yards from the broken wall, out of effective musket range, and he ordered Cross’s bugler to play the single note, the sustained G, that told the Riflemen to lie down. ‘Now the “open fire”, lad.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He took a breath, then the glorious run of three notes climbing a full octave, repeated till the Rifles were cracking down the line and the bullets were forcing Pot-au-Feu’s defenders into hasty cover.

  Sharpe looked to his left. Price was keeping the scattered enemy in the thorn bushes busy, the Lieutenant walking up and down behind his men, looking for targets. To Sharpe’s front the Castle seemed suddenly bare of defenders, driven behind the castellations or the rubble by the Rifles’ accuracy. Behind him he could hear orders being bellowed at the Fusiliers. God damn it, but Farthingdale was proposing an immediate assault. The cannon, hidden in the short length of standing east wall, would only be vulnerable to fire from the right of Sharpe’s line and he called Cross’s bugler to him again. ‘My compliments to Mr Frederickson, and ask him to keep an eye on the cannon.’ ‘Keeping an eye’ was an unfortunate way to phrase it, but that did not matter, nordid it matter that Frederickson would doubtless not need to be reminded.

  The Rifle fire had slackened to an occasional burst whenever a defender showed his head, and Sharpe listened to the Lieutenants shouting at their men to call out their targets and not to waste shots. Behind them, way back at the village, Sir Augustus was forming the Fusiliers into two columns, four files wide, that were aimed like human battering rams at the broken wall. Sergeant Harper, exercising the privilege of his rank, stood up and joined Sharpe. Only sporadic musket shots came from the hillside, and the range was too great to concern either man. The big Irishman grinned sheepishly at Sharpe. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind me asking, sir, but would that have been Miss Josefina in the Convent?’

  ‘You recognized her?’

  ‘Hard to forget, sir. She’s growing into a rare looking woman.’ Harper liked his women plumper than Sharpe. ‘Is she the Lady Farthingdale?’

  Sharpe was tempted to tell Harper the truth, but resisted the temptation. ‘She’s doing well for herself.’

  ‘She is that. I’ll say hello to her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do it while Sir Augustus is about.’

  The big face smiled. ‘Like that, is it? Would she mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Sharpe looked towards the Convent. He could see a few Riflemen on the roof, left there as guards for the women and on the prisoners, and he could see the dark green of Josefina’s cloak a few yards from the gate. Was she the reason for this precipitate attack? Was Sir Augustus so eager to prove his virility to his young ‘bride’ that he would throw the Fusiliers into the Castle before the watchtower guns were silenced? Perhaps he was right. There had been no shots from any gun on the hill.

  The Fusilier Colours were taken from their leather cases, unfurled, and the flags were carried between the polished halberds of the Sergeants whose job was to protect them. Each halberd was a giant axe, the steel burnished to shine like silver, and the sight of the standards amidst the glittering blades would move any soldier. The panoply of war. Sir Augustus, in front of the Colours, removed his hat, waved it, and the two half Battalion columns broke into the quick march.

  Sharpe cupped his hands. ‘Fire! Fire!’ It did not matter that there were few targets. What mattered now was to send the Rifle bullets singing about the defenders’ ears, discouraging them, making them fearful even before the two columns burst over the rubble of the shattered wall. Cross’s bugler came stumbling and panting back from his errand and Sharpe made him sound the advance and took the line forward twenty yards before he sounded the halt. ‘Fire! Let them know we’re here!’

  The rubble of the eastern wall beckoned the two columns forward. It could be easily climbed, its breast-high stones were fallen into a gentle ramp on which Sharpe could see his mens’ rifle bullets kicking up spurts of whitish dust. He imagined the two columns of the Fusiliers flowing over the wall into the courtyard, their anger fired by Kinney’s death, so why, why in God’s name, had Pot-au-Feu invited this attack?

  The rifles were drowned by a double explosion from the watchtower hill and Sharpe turned to see the jets of burgeoning smoke mark the position of the two guns in the earthworks beneath the tower. The roundshot rumbled, struck the ground short of the columns and bounced over their heads. The Fusiliers jeered and their officers shouted for silence. Bayonets were bright in the ranks.

  Sergeants shouted dressing at the men, ordered their marching, and some of the red jackets with white facings were clean and bright, showing that new recruits were fighting on this Christmas morning. The guns fired again.

  The barrels were hotter, or else the elevating screws had been touched a fraction, and this time the first bounce of the balls was in the nearer column and Sharpe saw the files swiped sideways, blood splashing behind, and one man pitched forward, musket dropping, and then crawled from the column and collapsed.

  ‘Close up! Close up!’

  ‘Faster!’ Farthingdale waved the hat.

  Perhaps he was still right, Sharpe thought. The guns could do little damage in the time it would take for the columns to reach the Castle. They might kill a dozen men, wound as many again, but that would not stop the attack. He looked at the Castle. Musket smoke spouted from almost every embrasure, his Riflemen had targets now, and no bullets struck the slope of the broken wall. He ordered the skirmish line another ten paces forward.

  No bullets striking the rubble. He looked again. Nor was there musket smoke above the wall. His men had switched their fire to the men who fired at the attack, and no men fired from the wall which meant it was undefended. Undefended! No men were there, and then Sharpe cursed and began a stumbling run over the uneven ground towards the columns that were close to his skirmish line.

  A cannon fired from the watchtower, high this time, so the ball struck between the columns and bounced up and over. The Sergeants called the marching time, their mouths huge, and the officers rode or walked beside their companies with swords drawn. The second gun fired, smashing the nearer column again, plucking men out of the ranks so that the men behind stepped over the carnage and closed files, and still the columns came on. The gun echo died in the valley. The Rifles cracked ahead, muskets spattered from the ramparts, and the leading men of the columns were in the lingering smoke of the skirmish lines first position.

  Sharpe pushed unceremoniously through the ranks of the nearer column. He waved at Sir Augustus, proud on his nervous horse. ‘Sir! Sir!’

  Farthingdale’s sabre was drawn. His cloak was peeled back to show the red, black and gold of his uniform. He had purchased his way to a Colonelcy, never having fought, always being the political soldier in the palaces and parliaments of power. ‘Sir!’

  ‘Major Sharpe!’ He sounded cheerful. He was leading an attack before the eyes of his lover.

  ‘The wall’s mined, sir!’

  The peevishness was back in his face. He looked at Sharpe in annoyance, thinking, reining in his restless horse. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘No one’s defending it, sir.’

  ‘They’re deserters, Sharpe, not a damned army!’

  Sharpe was walking alongside the prancing horse. ‘For God’s sake, sir! It’s mined!’

  ‘God damn you, Sharpe! Out of my way!’ Farthingdale let his horse have its head and it leaped ahead, and Sh
arpe stood there, impotent, while the two columns marched stolidly past. Two hundred and seventy men in each column, bayonets glittering by their faces, marching for the easy-looking wall that Sharpe knew had been left as a temptation for just such an attack as this. God damn it! He looked behind him. The grass had been trampled flat and pale by the two columns, littered by the small knots of bleeding and dead men where the cannon fire had struck. The guns fired again and Sharpe pushed through the column and headed back for his men. Pray God he was wrong.

  Cross had pulled his Company aside to let the columns through and Sharpe could see the Colours held high and he knew that the Ensigns, not yet out of boyhood, would be proud of this moment. Kinney had not brought the band’s instruments with him, or else the musicians would be playing the attack forward until the fighting made them take up their secondary job, that of caring for the wounded. Farthingdale waved them on, cheered them on, and at last the Fusiliers were allowed to cheer themselves as they broke into a run for the last few yards.

  The cannon on the eastern wall was unmasked, fired, and the head of the further column was torn ragged by the flailing canister. One man crawled on the grass, his white trousers soaking red, his head shaking because he did not know what had happened.

  ‘On! On! On!’ Sir Augustus Farthingdale had stopped his horse, let the Colours go past him, and now he urged the columns onto the eastern wall. Smoke from the cannon drifted over the rubble.

  Let me be wrong, Sharpe prayed. Let me be wrong.

  The first men onto the rubble broke ranks. They spread out as each chose a path on the uneven stones. Their muskets were held ready for the killing thrust of the bayonet.