'How did you do it?
'Never mind. You just hold that tower for me.
'Consider it done. Frederickson grinned and went.
The tower. The key to the whole valley, the key to living through the next two days or else perpetual darkness. Sharpe looked at the paper ashes on the fire. He would hold the Gateway of God.
CHAPTER 19
The dawn of Saturday, December 26th 1812, was muddy, slow and inglorious.
The temperature rose in the night, the warmer air bringing rain that lashed on the cobbles of the yard, hissed in the fire and bracketed torches, and soaked the thorn bushes so that, as the light struggled through the clouds, they appeared black and shiny on the hillsides.
At first light the valley seemed empty. The rain had exhausted itself into a fine drizzle that hid the far hills of Portugal. Clouds touched the rocky peaks north and south, shrouded even the topmost stones of the watchtower. The Union flag on the Convent had been taken down in the night, and the two Colours on the gate-tower hung heavy and wet above the rain-darkened stone.
At half past seven, a few minutes after sunrise, a group of French officers appeared to the west of the village. One was a full General. He dismounted, then propped his telescope on the saddle of his horse, peered at the men on the Castle ramparts, then pushed his horse round so he could stare at the figures beneath the watchtower. He grunted. ‘How long?’
'An hour and a half, sir.
The rain had fed the small stream so that the water bubbled vigorously from the spring, fell white over stones and earth, and flooded small patches in the valley. Two curlews, their beaks long and curved like sabres, strutted by the stream and pecked in the cold water. They seemed to find nothing, for they flew eastwards in search of better feeding.
At eight o'clock the drizzle had stopped and a wind was pushing at the stiff folds of the Colours.
At eight fifteen the General reappeared, a roll of bread in one hand, and he was rewarded by movement at last, Riflemen were stamping the life from the remains of a fire beneath the watchtower, then they picked up their packs, their weapons, and filed westward into the thorns. The black, spiny bushes seemed to swallow them up, hiding them from sight, but then, ten minutes later, they appeared in front of the Castle. The General stamped his feet. 'Thank God those bastards are going. No Frenchman liked the Riflemen, the 'grasshoppers', who killed at a distance and seemed invulnerable to the musket fire of French skirmishers.
At half past eight the Colours were lowered from the gate-tower and the sentries disappeared from the Castle ramparts. They came out of the Castle gate, misshapen by their greatcoats, haversacks, packs, and canteens, and a mounted officer paraded them in ranks, the Riflemen who had come from the watchtower fell in beside them, and the whole group was marched to the road, turned westwards, and over the lip of the pass. Before the mounted officer dropped out of sight he turned, faced the French, and saluted with his sword.
The General grinned. 'So that's that. How many were there?
An aide-de-camp snapped a telescope shut. 'Fifty redcoats, sir, twenty grasshoppers.
Dubreton sipped his coffee. 'So Major Sharpe lost.
'Let's be grateful for that. The General cupped his hands about his own coffee. 'They must have gone in the night, leaving that rearguard.
Another aide-de-camp was staring at the deserted watch-tower hill. 'Sir?
'Pierre?
'They left the guns.
The General yawned. 'They didn't have time to get them out. Those artillerymen marched all the way here for nothing. He laughed. It had been Dubreton's guess that the artillerymen he had seen in the Castle had been brought to fetch the guns back from the high valley. He had further guessed that Sharpe had arranged for him to see the men so that the French might think the British had properly served artillery batteries. Dubreton felt a moment of idle regret. It would have been interesting to fight against Richard Sharpe.
The General flung the dregs of his coffee onto the roadway and looked at Dubreton. 'He broke Ducos' glasses?
'Yes, sir.
The General laughed, the sound uncannily like the whinnying of a horse, so much so that the horse's ears flicked back in interest at the sound. The General shook his head. 'We'll catch them up before mid-day. Make sure this Sharpe doesn't fall into friend Ducos' hands. Alexandre.
‘Yes, sir.
'What's the time, Pierre?
'Twenty to nine, sir.
'What's twenty minutes in a war? Let's begin, gentlemen! The General, a small man, clapped Dubreton's back. 'Well done, Alexandre! It would have taken us all of a day to force this pass if they'd stayed.
'Thank you, sir. Again Dubreton felt a moment's regret that the enemy had folded so easily, yet he knew the regret was misplaced. This operation in midwinter was horribly dependent on timing. The French would take the Gateway of God, garrison it, then send most of their force down towards Vila Nova on the north bank of the Douro. Their presence would reinforce the careful rumours that Ducos had spread, rumours that talked of an invasion of North Portugal, the Tras os Montes, the Land beyond the Mountains, and when the British reacted, as they must, by bringing their forces north, then the real operation would unwind from Salamanca. Divisions of the Army of Portugal, reinforced by men from the Army of the Centre and even one division from the Army of the South would cross the Coa, stripped of its defenders from the British Light Division, and they would capture Frenada, possibly Almeida, and hoped even to surprise the Spanish garrison of Ciudad Rodrigo. Within a week the northern road from Portugal would again be in French hands, the war of the British set back at least a year, and Dubreton had lain awake in the night, his wife sleeping peacefully, and feared that Sharpe would stay in the Gateway of God. In the small hours he had got up, dressed silently, and joined the picquet line west of Adrados. A Sergeant had greeted him then nodded towards the Castle. 'Hear that, sir? Carts rumbling in the night. 'Bastards are going, sir.’
’Let's hope so, Sergeant.
Now, as daylight filled the valley, a grey light, damp and depressing, Dubreton felt a moment's regret for Sharpe. He had liked the Rifleman, recognizing in him a fellow soldier, and he knew that Sharpe wanted to make his stand in the high valley. It would have been a hopeless fight, but worthy of a soldier, and as he thought so the suspicion formed in his brain. Dubreton smiled. Of course! Suppose Sharpe wanted them to think that the British had left? He took out his own glass, borrowed the shoulder of a soldier, and searched the dark arrow slits of the Castle.
Nothing. He shifted the lens to the right, his hand slipping so that for a second he could only see the freshly turned earth of the graves in front of the east wall, and then the glass was under control and he looked at the gate-tower. Still nothing. The gate seemed unblocked. He tilted the telescope up and looked at the long dark slits above the arch and there was movement! He grinned, the sentry could sense the Colonel's excitement, and then the moment had passed. A jackdaw only, flying from the empty building, the birds taking over what was normally their own domain. He closed the glass. The sentry looked at him. 'Anyone there, sir?
'No. It's empty.
In the rectangular room above the gateway Sharpe cursed. The Fusilier shook his head. 'I'm sorry, sir. Bloody thing got out.
'Well don't play with the bloody baskets!
'No, sir.
It had taken Harper and Daniel Hagman over two hours to snare the five birds from the rocks above the Convent. Sharpe had wanted to keep them until the French were much closer, when the enemy could clearly see the birds leaving the arrow slits and draw the obvious conclusion that the building was once again deserted. Now this fool of a Fusilier had prised apart the lips of the rush basket to look at the bird, and it had exploded up at him,
