still be there in the morning, or would they, knowing the game was up, flee in the dawn? Or perhaps they would try to retake the Convent while Sharpe's men were still unfamiliar with the battleground.
It was Christmas Day. He stared up into the total darkness beyond the sparks that were whirled upwards by the fire. Christmas. The celebration of a Virgin giving birth, yet it was more than that, much more. Long before Christ was born, long before there was a church militant on earth, there had been a feast at midwinter. It celebrated the winter solstice, December 21st, and it was the lowest point of the year when even nature seemed dead and so mankind, with glorious perversity, celebrated life. The feast promised spring, and with spring would come new crops, new life, new births, and the feast held out the hope of surviving the barrenness of winter. This was the time of year when the flame of life burned lowest, when the dark nights were longest, and on this night Sharpe might be attacked in the Convent by Pot-au-Feu's desperate men. At this time of the winter solstice the dawn could be a long, long time coming. He watched a Rifleman scramble onto the roof and, as he leaned down to take his gun from a colleague, the man laughed at some joke. Sharpe smiled. They would endure.
CHAPTER 10
Christmas morning. In England people would be walking frost-bright roads to church. In the night Sharpe had heard a sentry softly singing to himself 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing'. It was the Methodist Wesley's hymn, but the Church of England had nevertheless printed it in their Prayer Book. The tune had made Sharpe think of England.
The dawn promised a fine day. Light flared in the east, seeped into the valley and showed a landscape mysterious with ground fog. The Castle and Convent stood like towers at the entrance to a harbour containing white, soft water that flowed gently over the lip of the pass and spilt slowly towards the great mist-filled valley to the west. The Gateway of God was white, weird, and silent.
There had been no attack from Pot-au-Feu. Twice the picquets had fired in the night, but both were false alarms and there had been no rush of feet in the darkness, no makeshift ladders against the convent walls. Frederickson, bored with the enemy's quiescence, had begged to be allowed to take a patrol across the valley and Sharpe had let them go. The Riflemen had sniped at the Castle and watch-tower, causing anger and panic in the defenders, and Frederickson had come back happy.
After the patrol's return Sharpe had slept for two hours, but now the whole garrison stood to its arms as the dawn turned from grey danger into proper light. Sharpe's breath misted before his face. It was cold, but the night was over, the hostages were rescued, and the Fusiliers would be climbing the long pass. Success was a sweet thing. On the ramparts of the Castle he could see Pot-au-Feu's sentries, still at their post, and he wondered why they had not fled against the wrath they knew must be coming. The sun touched the horizon, red-gold and glorious, smearing the white mist pink, daylight in Adrados. 'Stand down! Stand down!
The Sergeants repeated the call about the rooftop and Sharpe turned towards the ramp Cross had built and thought of breakfast and a shave.
'Sir! A Rifleman called to him from twenty paces away. 'Sir! He was pointing east, direct into the brilliance of the new sun. 'Horsemen, sir!
God damn it, but the sun made it impossible. Sharpe made a slit with his fingers and peered through and he thought he saw the shapes riding on the valley's side, but he could not be certain. 'How many?
One of Cross's Sergeants guessed three, another man four, but when Sharpe looked again the shapes had gone. They had been there, but not now. Pot-au-Feu's men? Scouting an eastward retreat? It was possible. Some of the prisoners had spoken of raiding Partisans, seeking vengeance for Adrados, and that was possible too.
Sharpe stayed on the roof because of the horsemen, but the dawn showed no more movement in the east. Behind him there were warning shouts as men carried bowls of hot water from the makeshift kitchens. The men not on guard started shaving, wishing each other a Happy Christmas, teasing the women who had elected to join their conquerors and who now mixed with the Riflemen as if they had always belonged. This morning was a fine morning for a soldier. Only the detail who had to climb the hill to fetch the packs from the gully were grumbling about work.
Sharpe turned to see them leave and was intrigued by a strange sight in the courtyard of the upper cloister. A group of Riflemen were tying strips of white cloth to the bare hornbeam that had broken through the tiles. They were in fine spirits, laughing and playful, and one man was hoisted piggy-back onto a comrade's shoulders so he could put an especially large ribbon on the topmost twig. Metal glinted on the bare twigs, buttons perhaps, cut from captured uniforms, and Sharpe did not understand it. He went down the narrow ramp and beckoned Cross to him. 'What are they doing?
'They're Germans, sir. Cross gave the explanation as if it answered all Sharpe's puzzlement.
'So? What are they doing?
Cross was no Frederickson. He was slower, less intelligent, and far more fearful of responsibility. Yet he was fiercely protective towards his men and now he seemed to think that Sharpe disapproved of the oddly decorated tree. 'It's a German custom, sir. It's harmless.
'I'm sure it's harmless! But what the devil are they doing?
Cross frowned. 'Well it's Christmas, sir! They always do it at Christmas.
'They tie white ribbons on trees every Christmas?
'Not just that, sir. Anything. They usually like an evergreen, sir, and they put it in their billet and decorate it. Small presents, carved angels, all kinds of things.
'Why? Sharpe still watched them, as did men of his own Company, who had not seen anything like it.
It seemed that Cross had never thought to ask why, but Frederickson had come into the upper cloister and heard Sharpe's question. 'Pagan, sir. It's because the old German Gods were all forest Gods. This is part of the winter solstice.
'You mean they're worshipping the old Gods?
Frederickson nodded. 'You never know who's in charge up there, do you? He grinned. 'The priests say that the tree represents the one on which Christ will be crucified, but that's bloody nonsense. This is just a good old- fashioned offering to the old Gods. They've been doing it since before the Romans.
Sharpe looked at the tree. 'I like it. It looks good. What happens next? Do we sacrifice a virgin?
He had spoken loud enough for the men to hear him, to laugh, and they were pathetically pleased because Major Sharpe had liked their tree and had made a joke. Frederickson watched Sharpe go into the inner cloister and the one-eyed Captain knew what Sharpe did not know; he knew why these men had fought last night instead of deserting to their comfortable, lascivious enemy. They were proud to fight for Sharpe. It made a man good to match up to high standards, and when those standards led to victory and approval then the men would follow always. God help the British army, Frederickson thought, if the officers ever despised the men.
Sharpe was tired, cold, and he had not shaved. He walked slowly around the upper cloister, down the stairs, and found the large, chill room where Frederickson had put the naked prisoners. Three Riflemen guarded them and Sharpe nodded to a Corporal. 'Any trouble?
'No, sir. The Corporal spat tobacco juice through the doorway. The door had gone and the three rifles looked over a crude barrier of charred timbers. 'One of'em got all upset, sir, 'bout an 'our ago.’
’Upset?
'Yessir. 'E was 'ollering an' shoutin', sir, makin' aggravation. Wanted clothes 'e said. Said they wasn't animals an' all that kind of rubbish, sir.’What happened?’Cap'n Frederickson shot 'im, sir. Sharpe looked at the Corporal curiously. 'Just like that?’
’Yessir. The man smiled happily. ‘E don't take no nonsense, the Cap'n, sir.
Sharpe smiled back. 'Nor should you. If anyone else gives you trouble, just do the same thing.’
’Yessir.
Frederickson had been busy, and evidently still was for a cheer came from his Company that manned the roof about the inner cloister. Sharpe climbed the stairs again, then the ramp that went from the upper gallery. There he saw why the men had cheered.
A flag had been raised. It was a makeshift flagpole, nailed together, and because there was not a breath of wind on this cold, Christmas morning, Frederickson had ordered a cross-piece hammered into the staff on which
