‘Thank you!’ Sharpe was tugging at the slings of his sword. He was not elegant on horseback, not like Sir Augustus, but at least the huge cavalry sword could hang properly at his side instead of being hitched half way up his ribs by shortened slings. He rebuckled the leather straps and looked about the courtyard. ‘Lieutenant Price!’
‘Sir?’ Harry Price was tired.
‘Look after Lady Farthingdale till we return!’
‘Yes, sir!’ Price seemed suddenly awake.
If Sir Augustus was peeved at this usurpation of his authority then Sharpe gave him no time to protest, nor did Sir Augustus choose to countermand the order. He followed Sharpe’s horse through the shadowed sloping cobbles of the gateway, out onto the track and then right onto the grass where Sharpe let his horse have its head.
The trumpet was still calling, demanding a response from the British positions, but at the appearance of the three horsemen the notes died to an echo. In front of the French officers was a Lancer, a white strip of cloth tied beneath his lance-head, and Sharpe remembered the white ribbons that decorated the hornbeam in the Convent and he wondered if the German Lancers who fought for Napoleon also worshipped their old forest Gods at Yuletide; the old pre-Christian name for the winter feast.
‘Sir!’ Sergeant Harper spurred up on Sharpe’s left. ‘Do you see, sir? The Colonel!’
It was, too, and at the same moment Dubreton recognized Sharpe and waved. The French Colonel touched spurs to his horse, went past the Lancer, splashed through the small stream and cantered towards them. ‘Major!’
‘Sharpe! Hold back!’ Farthingdale’s protest was lost as Sharpe also put his heels back and the two horsemen raced together, circled, then reined in so that the horses were alongside each other and facing different directions. ‘Is she safe?’
Dubreton’s eager request was in stark contrast to his studied calm when they had met before in the Convent. Then the Frenchman had been able to do nothing for his wife, now it was different.
‘She’s safe. Quite safe. Not even touched, sir. Can I say how glad I am?’
‘God!’ Dubreton shut his eyes. The bad dreams, the imaginings of all those drear nights seemed to flow out of him. He shook his head. ‘God!’ The eyes opened. ‘Your doing, Major?’
‘The Rifles, sir.’
‘But you led them?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Farthingdale reined in a few paces behind Sharpe and on his face was a look of fury because the Rifleman had offended decorum by racing ahead. ‘Major Sharpe!’
‘Sir.’ Sharpe twisted in his saddle. ‘I have the honour to name Chef du Battalion Dubreton. This is Colonel Sir Augustus Farthingdale.’
Farthingdale ignored Sharpe. He spoke in what, to Sharpe’s ears, sounded like fluent French, and then the other two French officers arrived and Dubreton made the introductions in his equally flawless English. One was a German Colonel of Lancers, a huge man with a red moustache and curiously gentle eyes, while the other was a French Colonel of Dragoons. The Dragoon Colonel wore a green cloak over his green uniform, and on his head was a tall metal helmet that had a cloth cover to stop the sun reflecting from the polished metal. He had a long straight sword and, unusual for a Colonel, a cavalry carbine rested in his saddle’s bucket holster. A fighting Regiment, the Dragoons, hardened by chasing elusive Partisans through a hostile countryside, and Sharpe saw the Frenchman’s disdain when he looked at the fastidious Sir Augustus. Behind the officers the Lancer picked at the knot of the white cloth.
Dubreton smiled at Sharpe. ‘I owe you thanks.’
‘No, sir.’
‘But I do.’ He looked at Harper, modestly holding back, and raised his voice. ‘I’m glad to see you well, Sergeant!’
‘Thank you, sir. Kind of you. And your Sergeant?’
‘Bigeard’s in the village. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.’
Farthingdale interrupted in French, his voice implying annoyance at the civilities. Dubreton’s replies were in English. ‘We came, Sir Augustus, on the same mission as yourselves. May I express our pleasure at your success, my personal thanks, and my regrets that you have suffered casualties?’ The stripped bodies of the dead waited white and cold beside the deepening graves.
Sir Augustus stayed talking in French, Sharpe suspected to exclude him from the discussion, while Dubreton, perhaps wishing the opposite, obstinately made his replies in English. The patrol Sharpe had half glimpsed in the dawn had been Dubreton’s scouts, brave men who had volunteered to ride into the valley pretending to be deserters and who would have somehow escaped back before nightfall to guide the rescue party into the valley. They had seen the Riflemen, seen the flag hoisted, and had prudently withdrawn. ‘They were disappointed, Sir Augustus!’
The Frenchwomen were to be handed over immediately, that Sharpe gathered from Dubreton’s words, and then the conversation grew sticky and awkward because Sir Augustus was not able to answer the Frenchman’s questions about the whereabouts of the French deserters. Farthingdale was forced to turn to Sharpe for help. Sharpe smiled ruefully. ‘I’m afraid many escaped.’
‘I’m sure you did everything possible, Major.’ Dubreton said it tactfully.
Sharpe glanced at the two other Colonels. Two Regiments of Cavalry? It seemed a lot for this rescue attempt, but their presence had given him another idea. The Dragoon Colonel was looking at Sharpe’s great sword that hung beside the cavalry sabre that was attached to his borrowed saddle. Sharpe grinned. ‘Our weakness, Colonel, was in cavalry. We chased them out of the Castle, but we can’t do much about rounding them up in the hills.’ He looked southwards. ‘Not, I think, that they’ll have got very far.’
Dubreton understood. ‘They went south?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long ago?’ Sharpe told him and Dubreton’s face was mischievous. ‘We have cavalry.’
‘I’d noticed, sir.’
‘I think we could help.’
Sir Augustus, seeing things run away from his careful control, pushed his horse forward. ‘Are you suggesting the French chase our fugitives, Sharpe?’
Sharpe turned an innocent face onto the Colonel. ‘That seems to be why they’re here, sir. I can’t really see how we can stop them.’
Dubreton cut in smoothly. ‘I would suggest, Sir Augustus, that we fight together under a truce. We will not attempt to disturb your occupation of the Castle, the Convent or the watchtower. You, in turn, will allow us to bivouac in the village. In the meantime our cavalry will drive the fugitives back to this valley where the infantry can wait for them.’
‘His Majesty’s Army is quite capable of managing its own affairs, Colonel.’ Farthingdale was appalled at the suggestion.
‘Of course it is.’ Dubreton glanced once at the bodies, back to Sir Augustus. ‘The truth is, Sir Augustus, that our Dragoons started their sweep an hour ago.’ He smiled depre catingly. ‘If you prefer that we should fight for the honour of capturing them then I assure you that the Emperor’s army is also quite capable of managing its own affairs.’ That was a couple of fine aces to lay on the table. Sir Augustus took refuge in questions.
‘You’ve begun? A truce, do you say?’
Dubreton smiled patiently. ‘We have begun, Sir Augustus. Shall we say we anticipated your generous help? And why not a truce? It’s Christmas Day, there always used to be a Truce of God on such a day, so why not for us? Can I suggest till midnight tonight? Perhaps we can discuss what happens after that at dinner tonight. You will do us the honour of being our guests?’
‘Till midnight?’ Sir Augustus made it another question, buying more time for his thoughts to probe every suspicion that he had of this proposal, but Dubreton pretended to mistake the inflection.
‘Splendid! We are agreed! Till midnight, then, and you will be our guests?’
Sharpe smiled at the deftness of Dubreton’s handling of Sir Augustus. ‘I’m sure we can accept with pleasure, sir, on one condition.’
‘A condition? For dinner?’
‘That we supply the cook, sir.’
Dubreton laughed. ‘You supply the cook? You offer that to a Frenchman! You Riflemen are braver than I thought.’
Sharpe enjoyed his next words. ‘Pot-au-Feu, with our compliments.’
‘You have him?’
‘In our kitchens. If I’m eating with you tonight, then I’d rather he was in yours.’
‘Splendid, splendid!’ Dubreton looked at Sir Augustus. ‘We are agreed then, Sir Augustus?’
Farthingdale was still suspicious, far from happy, but he was being forced to take guidance from the one man who did understand the enemy and how to fight them. Sharpe. More important, Sharpe understood when not to fight. Sir Augustus inclined his handsome, thin head. ‘We are agreed, Colonel.’
‘Do I have your permission to ride to the Convent?’
Farthingdale nodded.
Dubreton spoke briefly to the cavalrymen, watched them spur towards the village, then walked his horse between Sharpe’s and Sir Augustus’ and once again the conversation dropped into French. It sounded polite, the small talk of enemies on a sunlit Christmas Day and Sharpe dropped back so that he was alongside Harper. He grinned at the big Irishman. ‘We’ve got new allies, Patrick. The French.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Harper took pride in showing no surprise. ‘Whatever you say, sir.’
Chapter 15
Christmas afternoon was as festive as any man could have wished. At first the Fusiliers were disbelieving, then delighted, then they had mixed happily with Dubreton’s Battalion as they formed a rough cordon that waited for the fugitives to be chased from the hills. Within an hour no Frenchman was wearing a French shako, all wore British, and men exchanged uniform buttons, liquor, food, tobacco, and sought out translators so they could exchange memories of shared battles.
A half hour after that, the first fugitives appeared. It was mostly women and children who came first, those who had little to fear from capture, and the women sought out troops of their own side and begged them for protection. Behind them there was an occasional faraway sound of a Dragoon’s carbine chivvying a laggard.
Sharpe missed it all. For the first forty-five minutes he was with Harper in the Convent. It was impossible to move the gun without the French seeing their efforts, so Sharpe abandoned his hopes of mounting it in the Convent gateway. Instead he explored the cellars, climbing into a dirty, damp space beneath the floors of the chapel and store-rooms, and then he left Harper and a work party busy with materials captured from Pot-au-Feu. Sharpe would prepare a surprise or two in case they were needed.
Then he cut over the field, between the fraternising troops, and guided the horse slowly along one of the twisting paths that climbed to the watchtower. The thorns were thick, good protection, but the hill was far from the support of any troops in the Castle. Frederickson waved to him from the tower’s summit as Sharpe dismounted, gave the reins to a Rifleman, then stood for a few seconds and looked at the position. It was good. The Spaniards had built earthern ramparts that faced the valley, and behind the ramparts were two of the four-pounder guns that dominated the steep slope of the hill to the north. To the west and to the east the slope was just as severe, just as thickly tangled with thorns, only to the south was the slope more gentle. Cursing Riflemen were hacking out another pit, readying it for one of the guns, and Sharpe saw with approval how Frederickson had ordered thorn bushes cut and placed on the southern slope as a barrier. One company of Fusiliers was still hacking at bushes, while the other formed a cordon to ward ofl Pot-au-Feu’s returning men.
Sharpe climbed the steps inside the tower, emerged onto the turret, and greeted Frederickson. The Rifle Captain was cheerful. ‘I hope the bastards make a fight of it, sir!’
‘You do?’
‘I could hold this place through Armageddon.’
‘You may have to.’ Sharpe grinned and rested his telescope on one of the crumbling ramparts. He stared long and hard at the village, seeing little, then panned it right where the valley wound about the hill before turning east again and disappearing. ‘How many have you seen?’
Frederickson fished a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it wordlessly to Sharpe. ‘Lancers, 120. Dragoons, 150. Infantry, 450.’ Sharpe grunted and gave it back. ‘Bit unbalanced, isn’t it.’ He stared eastward, the view magnificent, and he remembered now how the guns had ceased firing from the watchtower during the battle. The men up here must have seen the approaching French and taken fright, and doubtless the keep’s defenders had seen them, too, and spread panic amongst Pot-au-Feu’s men. The victory this morning, ragged as it already was, was diminished because the arrival of the French had dispirited the enemy. He looked where the turn of the valley carried the road out of sight. ‘I wonder what’s round the corner.’
‘I wondered about that, too. I sent a patrol up there, but we were turned back. It was very polite, but it was very firm. Vamos.’
‘So they must be hiding something.’
Frederickson scratched beneath the eye-patch. ‘I don’t trust the bastards one inch.’ He sounded cheerful.
‘Nor me. Have you seen any supplies?’
Frederickson shook his head. ‘Not a thing.’
‘There’s more of them round the bloody corner.’ The French infantry had to eat, the horses of the cavalry would need forage, and so far Sharpe had seen no sign of the French supplies. To the south east, where the road turned away, he could see a group of Lancers trotting on the grass. ‘Did they turn you away?’
‘That’s them. Crawling all over that area.’ Frederickson shrugged. ‘Nothing I can do it about it, sir. No patrol of mine can outrun those bastards.’
‘Send two men out tonight.’
‘Yes, sir. I hear we’re invited to dinner.’
Sharpe grinned. ‘You’re too ill to go. I’ll make your excuses for you.’ He talked for ten minutes, feeling the bitter cold seep back as the sun sank, and then he turned to go. He paused on the top step of the turret. ‘You don’t mind missing dinner?’
‘You’ll make it up to me.’ Frederickson sounded happy, the more Sharpe had talked the more imminent a fight seemed for the morrow, and tonight, while Sharpe dined, Frederickson had preparations to make, surprises to prepare.
Farthingdale had approved of all Sharpe’s efforts to prepare a defence of the Gateway of God, but his motive, Sharpe knew, was not because he feared an attack. Sir Augustus had sententiously quoted from his own book. ‘Busy troops, Sharpe, are troops not liable to make mischief.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Now, riding back to the Castle, Sharpe wondered if again he was letting his imagination run wild. He was convinced that tomorrow he might have to fight, yet there were no real reasons for thinking that. The French had reason to be in the valley, just as the British did, and within minutes the job both sides had come to do would be finished and there would seem no reason why either side should stay in the Gateway of God. Except. Except instinct. Farthingdale had mocked that instinct, accusing Sharpe of wanting a fight, and refusing to allow a Fusilier Lieutenant to be sent with a message across the border. ‘Making an alarm over a handful of cavalry and a small battalion! Don’t be ridiculous, Sharpe!’ Farthingdale had withdrawn to his rooms, the same ones that Pot-au-Feu had inhabited, and Sharpe had seen Josefina appear on a balcony that some late owner of the Castle had built high on the keep and facing west. The room and balcony would have a magnificent view.
Back in the Castle yard Sharpe relinquished the horse and asked a Rifleman to fetch him hot water. He stripped off his uniform jacket, peeled the overalls to his waist, then pulled off the dirty shirt. Daniel Hagman gave Sharpe a toothless smile and picked up the jacket. ‘Want me to brush it, sir?’
‘I’ll do it, Dan.’
‘God help us, but you’re a bloody awful Major, sir.’ Hagman was the oldest man in Sharpe’s Company, nearing fifty, and his age and loyalty gave him a freedom with Sharpe. ‘You have to learn to have things done for you, sir, like the nobs.’
Hagman began scraping at a bloodstain. ‘You’re eating with the quality, sir, and you can’t go looking like a tinker.’
Sharpe laughed. He took his razor from the pocket in his overalls, unfolded it, and looked with displeasure at its thin blade. He must get a new one. He stropped it half-heartedly on his boot, splashed water on his face, then, not bothering to find any soap, began shaving. ‘You still got my rifle, Dan?’
‘I have, sir. Do you want it?’
‘Not if I’m eating with the quality.’
‘You’ll probably get a knife and fork, sir.’
‘Probably, Dan.’
‘Squire used to eat with a fork.’ Hagman was from Cheshire, only in the army because he had finally lost his lifelong battle with the Squire’s gamekeepers. He spat on Sharpe’s jacket and rubbed vigorously. ‘Can’t see the call for a fork, sir, I can’t. Not after the good Lord gave us fingers.’
The Fusiliers lit a fire in the courtyard, the flame catching on straw fetched from the stable, the sudden flames accentuating the dusk. Sharpe wiped his face on his shirt, pulled it back on, and slowly did up the straps of his captured French overalls. Hagman beat the jacket on the ground to rid it of the last scraps of dust and held it out. ‘Smart as a whip, sir.’
‘That’ll be the day, Dan.’ Belt, crossbelt, ammunition pouch, sash, and sword completed Major Sharpe. He bashed out a dent in his shako as Hagman nodded towards the keep. ‘Here comes his Lordship, sir. Had us running up and down the bleeding stairs all afternoon with timber for his bleeding fire, food for his lady. She the lady you knew at Talavera, sir?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Does he know he’s not the first one to fire that musket?’
Sharpe smiled. ‘No.’
‘What you don’t know, don’t fret you.’ Hagman hurried away as Sir Augustus headed for Sharpe.
‘Sharpe!’ That indignantly voiced syllable was becoming the bane of Sharpe’s life.
‘Sir?’
‘I expect our party to be ready to leave in one hour. Do you understand?’
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy Page 75