sight beyond the hill, and soon Frederick-son would have his hands full. He grinned at Brooker. 'Go! Good hunting!
Brooker and Cross would leave the Castle by the great hole knocked in the southern side of the keep, the hole through which so many of Pot-au-Feu's followers had temporarily escaped. Sharpe thought with satisfaction of the presence of Hakeswill, bound in the dungeons, and then wondered what would happen to those prisoners if the French over-ran the Castle. If. It occurred to him that he had wanted to hold out two days, and very nearly a quarter of that time had passed already, yet he also knew that he had yet to be tested by the veterans who massed behind the village.
'Sir? The bugler, still lugging Sharpe's rifle, pointed at the watchtower.
'What?
'Can't see him now, sir, but there's a man running toward us, sir. Running like hell. A Rifleman, sir.
What could have gone wrong? There was no firing from the hill yet, no smoke drifting on the breeze that was suddenly freezing. He had put his gloves down somewhere in the night and had forgotten where, so he blew on his hands and looked up at the clouds. They bellied low and dark, reaching down again for the summit of the watchtower, bringing a promise of snow that would make the pass treacherous and the journey of a relief force long and slow.
'There he is, sir! The bugler pointed.
A Rifleman had burst out of the thorns where the stream ran into the valley. He glanced right at the French, saw he was in no danger, and sprinted towards the Castle. He was fit, whoever he was, running with Rifle and pouches, jumping the trench and coming to Sharpe. The man was breathing too hard to speak, but just held out a folded piece of paper. His breath made thick clouds in front of his face and he just managed to pant out the one word. 'Sir!
There was a strange drawing of a wild boar on the paper that Sharpe did not understand, a drawing over which a message had been scrawled in dark pencil. 'You remember the F. Counter-attack at Salamanca? I can see it. Behind village. Ten Guineas says it's Coming Your Way. Skirmishers All to the West. 8 Batt's. Thought you promised
Eight Battalions? Dear God! And Sharpe had just sent half his Riflemen and a fifth of his muskets off into the thorns. Suppose the French attacked both positions? Suppose they cut Frederickson off from the Castle? He turned. 'Ensign!
'Sir?
'My compliments to Mr Brooker, and he's to come back as fast as he can! Captain Cross as well.
The Ensign ran.
'Gawd, sir! The bugler was staring at the village.
And so he should, by God. The Battalion that had moved south had done so to make way for the troops that were to assault the Castle, troops who spilled out into the valley, shepherded by mounted officers, troops who blackened the eastern end of the pasture land.
'Oh God!
'Sir? The bugler was worried.
Sharpe was smiling, his head shaking in disbelief. 'Lambs to the bloody slaughter, lad. Oh God, oh God, oh God! He turned. 'Captain Gilliland!
'Sir? Gilliland came out from the shadow of the Gate-tower, out into the chill breeze.
'Do you see that, Captain?
Gilliland looked at the village, his face registeringdisbelief and shock. 'Sir?
'Here beginneth the first lesson, Captain. Gilliland did not understand Sharpe's sudden pleasure. 'You're going to see a French column, Captain. It's the biggest bloody target in the world, and you're going to tear it into shreds. Do you hear me, man? Sharpe was grinning with delight, the cold forgotten. 'We're going to murder them! Get your troughs out!
Thank God for the Prince of Wales. Thank God for fat Prinny and his mad father, and thank God for Colonel Congreve, and thank God for a French General who was doing what any other soldier would do in his place. Sharpe grinned at the bugler. 'You're lucky to be here, lad! You're lucky to see this!
'I am, sir?
Sharpe stood on the rubble, the wind stirring his black hair, and a thought crossed his mind that perhaps the French planned to punch through the gap between Castle and Convent, but he could cope with that. The rockets could be swung round to face north as easily as they faced east, and he watched the cumbersome dressing of the French ranks in front of the village and he noticed how the centre line of the first rank was well to the road's right, and he knew they were coming for him. He glanced at the watchtower. That growing mass would be a tempting target for Frederickson's gun, but Sharpe had given orders that the gun was only to be used for the hill's defence. Frederickson would have to bide his time.
He looked for the other Ensign who carried his messages, and he ordered three Companies of Fusiliers into the courtyard with all the remaining Rifles. The only problem now was the French skirmishers, a veritable cloud of them, and they must be kept decently back from the trench. He walked forward to the puny excavation.
Thirty yards were usable, and in those thirty yards Gilliland's men were carving fifteen troughs in the parapet, troughs that aimed straight ahead, and Sharpe changed the angle so they covered the centre of the valley. He crouched behind the troughs, seeing where the rockets would go if they went in a straight line, and he saw where they would bisect the line of the attack just fifty yards ahead. He nodded. 'Perfect!
The gunners put their metal troughs into the earth beds. They were nervous, terrified, but Sharpe grinned at them, joked with them, told them of the victory they would win, and his mood spread to them. He clapped Gilliland on the shoulder. 'Bring them out. Do it casually, a few at a time! He had dressed the rocket troop in infantry overcoats, hiding the weapon till the very last moment.
The Riflemen were in the courtyard, staring at the solid mass of enemy, and Sharpe called them forward. He ordered them to lie down in front of the trench, their job to keep the Voltigeurs away from the rockets, and he lined the three Companies of Fusiliers on the rubble. Some would die because of the French skirmishers, but their volleys would make a killing ground in front of the Riflemen.
Two artillerymen served each trough. Others waited in reserve. One man would put the weapons on the metal cradle, the other would light the fuse, and both would duck into the trench as the propellant flamed overhead. And they would fire as fast as they could, rocket after rocket, each trough capable of five shots a minute giving over seventy missiles in a minute, missiles tipped with shells, death flaming from the trench at a target that was still being assembled at the village.
Cross was back in the courtyard, breathing heavily and looking worried. Sharpe put five of his Riflemen on the gate-tower, the rest in front of the trench, and he added Brooker's company to the Fusiliers lined on the rubble. The men looked terrified, as well they might, a double rank of four Companies was facing a French column, the instrument that had brought down kingdoms, and their only help Was the spindly rockets lying in the trench, rockets that had been contemptuously dismissed as toys.
'Load! Sharpe watched them. 'On the order to fire you will commence platoon firing! Your job is to keep the skirmishers away from the trench! Captain Brooker!
'Sir? Brooker's company was closest to the gate-tower.
'Watch that open flank of the trench! If those skirmishers get into the trench we're all dead. So don't let them! And don't worry about the column. That's dead already! He grinned at them. 'You're doing this for Colonel Kinney! Let him see those bastards going to hell!
And then the first drums sounded, the drums that had driven columns to Madrid and Moscow, that had piled Paris with captured Colours, the drums that beat
And this time they were for Sharpe, just for Sharpe, a compliment from the Emperor to a man from a London Foundling Home, and he turned to face them, saw the French lurch into motion, and he laughed, mouth open to the wind, laughed because of the pride that suddenly took hold of him, swept him up, because the drums, at last, were for him.
