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
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'il 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.
CHAPTER 22
'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 Plateresque 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 watch-tower, 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
