again. He knew what she was thinking.
“Now you’re worried. No Madrid and you’re with someone who has no money and you’re thinking of all those nights in the fields or flea-ridden cottages?”
She smiled up at him and Sharpe felt the pang of her beauty. “One day, Richard, you’ll be a Colonel with a big horse, and lots of money, and you’ll be horrible to all the Captains and Lieutenants.”
He laughed. “But not quickly enough for you?” He had spoken the truth, he knew, but it did not help her. There were other girls, girls of good family like Josefina, who had risked everything to run to the soldiers. But they had been unmarried and had found refuge in a fast wedding, and their families had been forced to make the best of it. But Josefina? Sharpe knew she would find a man richer than he, a cavalry officer with money to spare and an eye for a woman, and her affection for Sharpe would be overridden by the need for comfort and security. He pulled her very tight to his chest, feeling the night air chill on his skin. “I’ll look after you.”
“Promise?” Her voice was muffled.
“I promise.”
“Then I won’t be frightened.” She pulled slightly away. “You’re cold?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Come on.” She led him back into the dark room. He knew that she was his for a short time, and only a short time, and he was saddened by it. Outside the dog barked on at the empty sky.
CHAPTER 14
The Battalion paraded in companies forming three sides of a hollow square. The fourth side, instead of the accustomed flogging triangle, was made up of two leaning poplar trees that grew beside a shallow pool. The fringes of the pond had been trampled by cavalry, and the mud had dried ochre lumps streaked with green scum. Between the trees lay the Battalion’s bass drum, and on its grey stretched skin there rested an open Bible and prayer book. There was no wind to stir the pages, just the sun continuing its relentless assault on the plain and on the men who sweated at attention in full uniform.
Sharpe stood before the Light Company at the left of the line and stared over the heads of the Grenadier Company opposite at the castle of Oropesa. It dominated the plain for miles, its curtain walls rising like stone slabs above the roofs of the town and Sharpe wondered idly what it must have been like to ride in full knightly armour in the days when the castle was a real obstacle. Today’s modern siege artillery would punch through the seemingly solid walls and bring the stones tumbling into the steep streets in devastating avalanches. Sweat stung his eyes, dripped onto his green jacket, trickled down his spine. He felt curiously light-hearted, not at all a fit state to watch deserters blown into eternity, and as he stared at the castle he thought of Josefina and somehow, in the morning light, the bargain did not seem such a bad one. She was his for as long as she needed him but, in return, she offered him her happiness and vivacity. And when the arrangement ends? A good soldier, he knew, always planned for the battle after the one ahead, but he could make no plans for the moment when Josefina would take herself away.
He looked at Gibbons, who paraded on his horse with the Light Company. Simmerson was mounted in the centre of the square next to General ‘Daddy’ Hill who, with his staff, had come to fulfill his duty of watching execution done. Gibbons sat, stony faced, and stared straight ahead. As soon as this parade was done Sharpe knew he would return to the safety of his uncle’s side, and the Lieutenant had spoken no word to Sharpe, just ridden his horse over to the company, turned it, and sat still. There was no need for words. Sharpe could feel the hatred almost radiating from the man, the determination for revenge, for Sharpe had not only gained the promotion Gibbons wanted but worse than that the Rifleman had the girl too. Sharpe knew the matter was unresolved.
Fourteen men, all guilty of minor crimes, marched into the square and were stood facing the trees. Their punishment was to act as the firing squad, and as the men stood there, their muskets grounded, they stared with fascination at the two newly dug graves and the crude wooden coffins that waited for Ibbotson and Moss. The other two prisoners had died in the night. Sharpe half wondered whether Parton, the Battalion’s doctor, had helped them on their way rather than force the Battalion to watch two desperately sick men lashed to the trees and shot to pieces. Sharpe had seen many executions. As a child he had watched a public hanging and listened to the excitement of the crowd as the victims jerked and twitched on the gallows. He had seen men blown from the muzzles of decorated brass cannon, their bodies shredded into the Indian landscape, he had watched comrades tortured by the Tippoo’s women, fed to wild beasts, he had hung men by a casual roadside himself, yet most often he had seen men shot in the full panoply of ritual execution. He had never enjoyed the spectacle; he supposed no sensible man did, but he knew it was necessary. Somehow this execution was subtly different. It was not that Moss and Ibbotson did not deserve to die, they had deserted, planned to join the enemy, and there could be no end for them other than the firing squad. Yet coming on top of the fight at the bridge, coming on top of Simmerson’s floggings, his repeated condemnation of his men for losing the colour, the execution was seen by the Battalion as summing up Simmerson’s contempt and hatred for them. Sharpe had rarely felt such sullen resentment from any troops.
In the distance, threading its way through the crowds of British and Spanish spectators, the Provost- Marshal’s party appeared, prisoners and guard. Forrest walked his horse forward of Simmerson.
“Talion! Fix Bayonets!”
Blades scraped out of scabbards and steel rippled round the ranks of the companies. The men must die with due ceremony. Sharpe watched Gibbons bend down to talk to the sixteen-year-old Ensign Denny.
“Your first execution, Mr Denny?”
The youngster nodded. He was pale and apprehensive, like the younger soldiers in the ranks. Gibbons chuckled. “Best target practice the men can have!”
“Quiet!” Sharpe glared at his officers. Gibbons smiled secretly.
“Talion!” Forrest’s horse edged sideways. The Major calmed it. “Shoulder arms!”
The lines of men became tipped with bayonets. There was silence. The prisoners wore trousers and shirts, no jackets, and Sharpe supposed them to be half full of rough brandy or rum. A Chaplain walked with them, the mumble of his words just carrying to Sharpe, but the prisoners seemed to take no notice of him as they were marched to the trees. The drama moved inexorably forward. Moss and Ibbotson were tied to the trunks, blindfolded, and Forrest stood the firing squad to attention. Ibbotson, the son of the vicarage, was nearest to Sharpe, and he could see the man’s lips moving frenetically. Was he praying? Sharpe could not hear the words.
Forrest gave no commands. The firing party had been rehearsed to obey signals rather than orders, and they presented and aimed to jerks of the Major’s sword. Suddenly Ibbotson’s voice came clear and loud, the educated tones filled with desperation, and Sharpe recognised the words. “We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep… „Forrest dropped the sword, the muskets banged, the bodies jerked maniacally, and a flock of birds burst screeching from the branches. Two Lieutenants ran forward with drawn pistols, but the musket balls had done their work and the bodies hung with crushed and bloodied chests in front of the lingering white musket smoke.
A murmur, barely audible, went through the ranks of the Battalion. Sharpe turned on his men.
“Quiet!”
The Light Company stood silent. The smoke from the firing party smelt pungent in the air. The murmur became louder. Officers and Sergeants screamed orders, but the men of the South Essex had found their protest and the humming became more insistent. Sharpe kept his own company quiet by sheer force, by standing glaring at them with drawn sword, but he could do nothing about the contempt that they showed on their faces. It was not aimed at him, it was for Simmerson, and the Colonel twitched his reins in the center of the square and bellowed for silence. The noise increased. Sergeants ran into the ranks and struck at men they suspected of making any sound, officers screamed at companies, adding to the din, and from beyond the Battalion came the jeers of the British soldiers from other units who had drifted out of the town to watch the execution.
Gradually the moaning and humming died away, as slowly as the executioners’ smoke thinned into the air, and the Battalion stood silent and motionless. ’Daddy‘ Hill had not moved or spoken but now he motioned to his
