thorns behind the man, and he broke left again, into the open valley and led his ragged, dirty band into the clear, clean air of Adrados' fields. 'Run!
They were like rats that had run from a fire only to find themselves ringed by fire. To the left were Fusiliers and Riflemen, to the right the Spaniards who still came through the thorns, and ahead were the French. Already the Spanish were cutting off the deserters, shouting at them to surrender, and even though the Spaniards did not know this was an enemy, they knew that this filthy, villainous crew were not friends.
Hakeswill ran into the open valley, his breath harsh in his ears, his feet numbed by the snow, and he glanced left and saw he had far outrun the Fusiliers, and he thought he saw Sharpe, but that was no concern for this moment, and then he saw the Riflemen beyond Sharpe and he feared their weapons so he cut right, sprinting in desperation, the gold in his greatcoat pocket, the musket heavy in his hand. The French! There was nowhere else to go, nowhere! He would offer his services to the French, desert properly, and though it was not much of a choice it was better than being cut down like a dog in this snowfield. He ran for the nearest Battalion of French infantry, a Battalion that retreated towards the village, and then he heard the hooves behind him.
The hooves had been muffled by the snow and he realized, desperately, that the horseman was close. He turned, toothless mouth aghast with the horror, and he saw the lifted weapon that threatened to crush his skull with a heavy brass hilt and he fumbled with his musket, brought it round as he fell away from the downward stroke, and pulled the trigger.
He laughed maniacally. Death, his master, had not deserted him, and this he had prayed for too! Not this way, perhaps, but he laughed as he saw the bullet lift the rider from the horse, a bullet that went through the lower throat, travelling upwards, and death was as swift as death can be. The body was lifted upwards, the horse swerved away, and the body fell, spread-eagled, thumping onto the snow and the rifle, unloaded, that had threatened his life with its brass-bound butt, fell into the coldness.
Hakeswill paused. It was a moment of sweet victory, a moment to be remembered in the days to come, and he gibbered his victory call at the low clouds and his half-naked body jigged with the joy of it! He had lived! Death was still favouring him! And then he turned and ran for the French ranks. 'Don't shoot! Don't shoot!
Hakeswill would live yet! He staggered into the French Battalion, gasping with pained lungs, and he grinned as his head twitched. He had escaped.
CHAPTER 30
Sharpe had watched Hakeswill break into the open field, had sworn, but then a voice had hailed him from behind and he turned to see Major General Nairn beaming at him from a horse. 'Sharpe! My dear Sharpe!
'Sir!
Nairn groaned as he slid from the horse. 'Major Sharpe! You've had a full-scale war while my back is turned!
'Looks that way, sir. Sharpe grinned.
'You disturb my Christmas, force me to drag weary bones up into the snows of winter! He smiled a huge smile. 'I thought you'd all be gone by now!
'It crossed my mind, sir.
'Sir Augustus said you'd be dead.
'He did?
Nairn laughed at Sharpe's tone. 'I sent him packing with his lady wife. She's a rare looker, Sharpe!
'Yes, sir.
'Mind you, your lady wife told me she was too fat! Told me something else, too, which I'm sure can't be true. Something to do with the fact that the lady's not a lady at all! Can you believe that, Sharpe?
'I wouldn't know, sir.
Nairn grinned, but said nothing. He was looking at the French back at the village, and he glanced left and right where his first troops had secured the wreckage of the Convent and now reinforced the watchtower hill. Nairn stamped his feet on the ground. 'I think our froggie friends will call that a day! Don't you? He clapped his hands in delight. 'They won't attack again, and in a couple of hours I'll be in a position to attack them. He looked at Sharpe. 'Well done, Major! Well done!
'Thank you, sir. Sharpe was not looking at Nairn. He was looking up the valley at a loose horse, at a dark figure on the snow, and his voice was far away, distracted.
'Sharpe?
'Sir? But Sharpe was already walking away, and the walk broke into a run, and he still stared at the figure on the snow.
The hair was black against the pure whiteness, long and black. He had seen it like that on a white pillow when she had teasingly raised her head and splayed her hair in a great tempting fan. The blood at her throat was like a broken necklace of rubies, half spilt onto the snow, and her eyes stared unseeing at the clouds.
He knelt beside her, wordless, and he felt the thickness in his throat, the sting of tears in his eyes, and he put his arms about the slim body, raised her, and her head fell backwards so that the big ruby in the hollow of her neck leaked a slow trickle towards her chin. He put a hand under her head, feeling where the cold snow was on her hair, and he pressed her cheek against his and he wept for Teresa was dead.
Her hands were in the snow, cold hands frozen by the ride, yet there was still warmth in her. Warmth that would fade. He held her to him as though he could force life back into the body and he sobbed into the black hair. She had loved him with a pure, simple love that forgave, understood, and she had loved him.
He had no picture of her. She would be a memory that would fade as her warmth would fade, but would fade over the years, and he would forget the passion that gave life to this face. She had seethed with life. She had been restless and forceful, a killer of the border hills, yet she had a childlike faith in love. She had given herself to him and never doubted the wisdom of the gift as he had sometimes doubted it. She had kept the faith, and she was dead.
He cried, not caring who watched, and he rocked her in his arms and held her tight because he had not held her enough when she lived. They had met through war, war had held them apart, and now war had done this. It should have been himself who died, he thought, not this, and his grief was formless, incoherent, a pain that was betrayed love and filled the universe.
'Sharpe? Nairn touched his shoulder, but Sharpe did not hear, did not see, he only rocked the body in his arms. His left arm was entwined in her hair, gripping it because he did not want to lose her, he did not want to be alone, and she was the mother of his child, his motherless child, and Nairn heard the moan, half howl, that came from Sharpe's throat. Nairn saw the face of the body and straightened up. 'Oh God.
Patrick Harper crouched opposite Sharpe. 'There'll be a priest with the Spanish, sir. He had to repeat it, and then Sharpe looked up, eyes strange to Harper. 'What?
'A priest, sir. She must be shriven. Sharpe appeared not to understand. He was holding Teresa as though Harper would take her away, but then he frowned. 'After death?
Harper was not embarrassed by the tears. 'Aye, sir. It can be done. He put out a hand and, with extraordinary gentleness, closed the eyelids. 'We must send her to heaven, sir. She'd be best laying down, so she would. He spoke as if to a child and Sharpe obeyed.
He knelt by the body till the priest came and he was in the confused world of the grief and he babbled promises at her and inside was the insane hope that the eyes would open and she would smile at him, tease him as she used to tease him, but there was no movement in her. Teresa was dead.
Her cloak was open at the waist and he pulled it over her and felt the lump tucked into the sash she wore. He pulled out the cloth bundle, unwrapped it, and he looked at the Rifleman which was his daughter's present and he did not think it worthy of her so he broke it, tore it, scattered the small shreds on the snow.
He stood unseeing as the priest knelt by the body, as the Latin words whirled over the snow like meaningless, dead things. The wafer was put to dead lips, the sign of the cross made, and Sharpe stared at the face that was so calm and still and utterly without life.
'Sharpe? Nairn touched his elbow. Pointed eastwards.
Dubreton was riding slowly towards them and behind the French Colonel was Sergeant Bigeard, walking,
