Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy (88 page)

The General looked to his other side. ‘Ducos?’

‘It makes sense.’ The voice was grudging.

‘So we add fifty Partisans to the garrison. Now tell me how many British troops there are, and where?’

The Captain did not like the responsibility. His voice was unhappy. ‘Sixty Rifles and a hundred redcoats on the hill, sir. Thirty and three hundred in the Castle, and thirty and one hundred in the Convent?’

The General grunted. ‘Dubreton?’

‘I’d agree, sir. Perhaps a few less in the Convent.’

‘Guns?’

Dubreton answered. ‘Our prisoners are certain of that, sir. One in the Convent which can’t bear. One over the broken wall which isn’t a danger till we reach the courtyard, and two on the hill.’

‘And they brought gunners with them?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The General sat silent. Time, time, time. He wanted to be at the river this afternoon, across by evening, and at Vila Nova by nightfall tomorrow. That was optimistic, he knew, and he had allowed himself one more day to achieve his object, but if this damned Sharpe held him up all day today, then the operation would be jeopardized. He played with an idea.‘What if we ignore them? Ring that damned Castle with Voltigeurs and march straight past them? Eh?’

It was a tempting thought. If the three Battalions that were to garrison the Gateway of God remained to continue the siege, then the rest of the force could go on into Portugal, but all of the officers knew what might happen. If the Castle was not taken by the three Battalions, then the General’s retreat was blocked. There was another reason too. Dubreton voiced it. ‘The pass is too narrow, sir. Those damned Rifles will kill every horse that goes
through.’
He imagined the light guns that were to go with the General smashed on the lip of the pass, their horses shot, the weight of barrel and carriage running the wheels over wounded animals, turning over, blocking the road beneath the pitiless aim of the Greenjackets.

The General looked left, at the high tower. ‘How long to take that?’

‘How many Battalions, sir?’ Dubreton asked.

‘Two.’

Dubreton looked at the thorns, at the steepness of the hill, and he imagined the soldiers climbing into the Rifle fire. ‘Two hours, sir.’

‘As little as that?’

‘We’ll offer them medals.’

The General gave a humourless laugh. ‘So we could have the tower by one o’clock. Another hour to put guns there.‘ He shrugged. ’We might as well put our guns here! They can pound those bastards into mincemeat.‘

Ducos’ voice was a sneer. ‘Why take the tower at all? Why not just take the Castle?’ No one answered him, so he went on. ‘We lose time with every minute! Colonel Dubreton has already given them till eleven o’clock! How many men would you lose attacking the tower, Colonel?‘

‘Fifty.’

‘And still the Castle will have to be taken. So lose the men there instead.’ The Castle was a mere blur to Ducos, but he waved at it dismissively. ‘The attack
en masse
! Give medals to the first five ranks and go!’

En masse.
It was the French way, the method that had brought victory to the armies of the Empire throughout Europe, the way of the Emperor, the irresistible mass. Throw the mass like a human missile at the Castle’s defenders, overwhelm them with targets, terrify them with the massed drummers in the columns’ centre, and push over the dead to victory. The Castle could be theirs by mid-day, and the General knew that the Convent was not the same threat, that it was less heavily garrisoned and more vulnerable to the twelve pounder shots that would crumble its walls about the British. Take the Castle, unseat the gun in the Convent, and then his troops could be marching into the pass by two o‘clock, the garrison on the watchtower forgotten, ignored, treated with the contempt that it deserved.
En masse.

He tried to work out casualties. They would be heavy in the first few ranks, perhaps a hundred dead, but that was a small price to pay for the time he needed. He could afford to lose twice that number and still not notice. The Emperor’s way, and this wretched Ducos would write his report and it would be a good thing if it was said that victory was won in the Emperor’s way!

‘All the Battalions in the village.’ He was thinking out loud. ‘Fifty men in each rank, how many ranks?’

‘Eighty.’ The aide-de-camp said. A great rectangle of eight thousand men, drums in the centre, eighty ranks pushing irresistibly home.

Dubreton had lit a cheroot. ‘I don’t like it.’

The General wavered. He liked the idea, he did not want to be dissuaded, but he reluctantly looked at Dubreton. ‘Tell me?’

‘Two things, sir. First he’s dug a trench in front of the wall. That could be an obstacle. Secondly I’m worried about that courtyard. We’ll get in there and find every exit blocked. We’ll be marching into a cul de sac, with Rifles on three sides.’

Ducos had a small spyglass to his right eye, the barrel slightly contracted to compensate for his missing spectacles. ‘The trench does not extend the full width.’

‘True.’

‘How wide is it?’

Dubreton shrugged. ‘It’s narrow. A man could jump it without effort, but...’

‘But?’ The General asked.

‘In the column a man does not see the obstacles ahead. The first ranks will clear it, but the ranks behind will stumble.’

‘Then warn them! And go in from the right! Most of the column will pass the trench!’

‘Yes, sir.’

The General blew on his hands, grinned. ‘And the courtyard ? We’ll fill it with muskets! Any damned Rifleman who shows his head will be dead! How many men do we think are there?’

‘Three hundred and thirty, sir.’The aide-de-camp said.

‘We’re frightened of three hundred and thirty? Against eight thousand?’ The General gave his horse-like laugh. ‘A Legion d’Honneur to the first man into the keep. Will that do you, Dubreton?‘

‘I already have one, sir.’

‘You’re not going, Alexandre. I need you.’ The General grinned at him. ‘Good! We ignore the watchtower. Let them think they are important, and learn differently! We will attack en masse, gentlemen, and we will put every Voltigeur in front to keep the grasshoppers busy!’ His good spirits were back. ‘We’ll paralyze them, gentlemen! We will do it in the way of Bonaparte!’

The wind from the east was getting colder by the minute, blowing into the faces of the Castle’s defenders. The small patches of floodwater by the stream were turning gelid, the beginnings of ice, and behind the village the French Battalions took their orders that would take them in the way of the Emperor into the Gateway of God.

‘In Brittany, yes?’

The captured aide-de-camp nodded. Really this villainous Rifle Captain was not at all a bad chap, and certainly much improved by the addition of eye-patch and false teeth. He took the pencil and sketched a wild boar. ‘The statues are all in the west. And you say they have the same things in Portugal?’

Frederickson nodded. ‘In Braganza, exactly the same. And in Ireland.’

,‘So the Celts could have come here?’

Frederickson shrugged. ‘Or come from here.’ He tapped the sketch of the wild boar statue. ‘I’ve heard it said they’re a symbol of kingship.’

Pierre shrugged. ‘In Brittany they’re said to be altars. One even has a niche where a cup of blood could be put.’

‘Ah!’ Frederickson peered as the Frenchman shaded in the carved ledge. It had been an interesting morning. The Frenchman had agreed with Frederickson that the Plateres que architecture of Salamanca was incredible but over-elaborate. The line was lost in the detail, Frederickson said, and the Frenchman had been delighted to meet another heretic who shared that view. In truth both men hated such modern work, preferring the staunch plainness of the tenth and eleventh centuries, and Frederickson had drawn from memory the Portuguese Castle of Montemoro Velho and Pierre had questioned him closely. Now they had stretched further into history, to the strange people who had carved the stone boars, when a Rifle Sergeant stopped in front of them. ‘Sir?’

Frederickson looked up from the sketch. ‘Tom?’

‘Two Froggie officers to the south, sir. Poking about. Taylor says they’re in range.’

Frederickson looked at Pierre. ‘The time?’

‘Ah.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘A minute to eleven.’

‘Tell Taylor to fire in one minute. And tell him to kill one of the bastards.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Frederickson turned back to the Frenchman. ‘You’ve seen the stone bull on the bridge at Salamanca?’

‘Ah, that’s fascinating.’

The Sergeant grinned and left them. In one minute Sweet William would be himself again, talking English instead of heathen French, and killing the bastards. He went back into the thorns, trying to work out which other Rifleman should shoot with Taylor and have the best chance of killing the second French officer. Sweet William always gave an extra ration of rum to any man who was proved to have killed an enemy officer.

Sharpe was standing on the rubble of the eastern wall, rubble that ended now by the shallow trench. It was less than three feet deep, too narrow, but the shovelled parapet added a foot to its effective depth. It would do. ‘What’s the time?’

‘Eleven o’clock, sir.‘ Captain Brooker was nervous.

Sharpe looked at the men hidden behind the gate-house. The artillerymen were as nervous as Brooker, their bundled rockets looking like quarterstaffs at a country fair. He had made them disguise their blue uniforms with Fusilier greatcoats, and they looked a motley bunch. He grinned at Gilliland and raised his voice. ‘Don’t be too eager! I think they’ll be going for the watchtower before us!’

Two Rifles sounded in the distance, the reports muffled, and Sharpe looked in vain for the tell-tale smoke.

‘That must be on the southern slope.’

‘Looks as if you’re right, sir.’

‘Yes.’ Sharpe sounded distracted.

‘Shall I go?’ Brooker was eager to be away from the exposed rubble. He would take a Company of Fusiliers to the valley that separated Castle from watchtower, a Company reinforced by Captain Cross with twenty Riflemen. They would cover Frederickson’s retreat if the hill was swamped by French infantry.

‘Wait a minute.’ There had been no more firing from the watchtower, no rush of men from the northern to the southern slope. Sharpe looked back to the village. ‘Ah!’

His exclamation came because the single French Battalion in front of the village was moving south, towards the watchtower, and Sharpe saw the men in the rear Companies splashing through the stream by the road. So it was to be the watchtower! He had toyed with the idea that the French might be in a hurry, and might come straight for Castle and Convent, but time, it seemed, was not their prime concern. They would do this thing properly. He could see the one Battalion moving south, he guessed from the rifle shots that another was out of sight beyond the hill, and soon Frederickson would have his hands full. He grinned at Brooker. ‘Go! Good hunting!’

Brooker and Cross would leave the Castle by the great hole knocked in the southern side of the keep, the hole through which so many of Pot-au-Feu’s followers had temporarily escaped. Sharpe thought with satisfaction of the presence of Hakeswill, bound in the dungeons, and then wondered what would happen to those prisoners if the French over-ran the Castle. If. It occurred to him that he had wanted to hold out two days, and very nearly a quarter of that time had passed already, yet he also knew that he had yet to be tested by the veterans who massed behind the village.

‘Sir?’ The bugler, still lugging Sharpe’s rifle, pointed at the watchtower.

‘What?’

‘Can’t see him now, sir, but there’s a man running toward us, sir. Running like hell. A Rifleman, sir.’

What could have gone wrong? There was no firing from the hill yet, no smoke drifting on the breeze that was suddenly freezing. He had put his gloves down somewhere in the night and had forgotten where, so he blew on his hands and looked up at the clouds. They bellied low and dark, reaching down again for the summit of the watchtower, bringing a promise of snow that would make the pass treacherous and the journey of a relief force long and slow.

‘There he is, sir!’ The bugler pointed.

A Rifleman had burst out of the thorns where the stream ran into the valley. He glanced right at the French, saw he was in no danger, and sprinted towards the Castle. He was fit, whoever he was, running with Rifle and pouches, jumping the trench and coming to Sharpe. The man was breathing too hard to speak, but just held out a folded piece of paper. His breath made thick clouds in front of his face and he just managed to pant out the one word. ‘Sir!’

There was a strange drawing of a wild boar on the paper that Sharpe did not understand, a drawing over which a message had been scrawled in dark pencil. ‘You remember the F. Counter-attack at Salamanca? I can see it. Behind village. Ten Guineas says it’s Coming Your Way. Skirmishers All to the West. 8 Batt’s. Thought you promised me a fight! 2 F. Officers came too close. Bang bang. S.W.’ Sharpe laughed. Sweet William.

Eight Battalions? Dear God! And Sharpe had just sent half his Riflemen and a fifth of his muskets off into the thorns. Suppose the French attacked both positions? Suppose they cut Frederickson off from the Castle? He turned. ‘Ensign!’

‘Sir?’

‘My compliments to Mr Brooker, and he’s to come back as fast as he can! Captain Cross as well.’

The Ensign ran.

‘Gawd, sir!’ The bugler was staring at the village.

And so he should, by God. The Battalion that had moved south had done so to make way for the troops that were to assault the Castle, troops who spilled out into the valley, shepherded by mounted officers, troops who blackened the eastern end of the pasture land.

‘Oh God!’

‘Sir?’ The bugler was worried.

Sharpe was smiling, his head shaking in disbelief. ‘Lambs to the bloody slaughter, lad. Oh God, oh God, oh God!’ He turned. ‘Captain Gilliland!’

‘Sir?’ Gilliland came out from the shadow of the Gate tower, out into the chill breeze.

‘Do you see that, Captain?’

Gilliland looked at the village, his face registering disbelief and shock. ‘Sir?’