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, nor did 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 womeh 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 wiped 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 Sharpe 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.
