“For some reason, my lord, I’m a loyal bastard. God knows why. But Sergeant Harper is Irish. He’s got plenty of cause to hate us English. One shot from that volley gun and you and I are dead meat. Fifteen hundred guineas, Pat. You could do a lot with that.”
“I could, sir.”
“But what we have to do now,” Sharpe said, “is go to our left. We climb to that window.” He pointed. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom and he could see a slight sheen betraying the window beneath the dome. “We break through. There’s scaffolding on the outer wall. We go down that and we’re off into the city like rats into a hole.”
To get there they would have to climb the scaffold above the tambour, then cross a narrow plank and climb another ladder, which led to a rickety platform just beneath the window. The ladders, like the scaffolding poles, were tied in place with rope. It was not a long journey, no more than thirty feet upward, the same across, and half as much up again, but to make it they must expose themselves to the men below. Sharpe guessed there were eight or nine men there, all with muskets, and even a musket could hit at that distance. Once they left the shelter of the wide stone ledge, then one of them would surely be struck by a bullet. “What we have to do,” he said, “is distract the bastards. Pity we don’t have those other smoke balls.”
“They worked fine, didn’t they?” Harper said happily. Smoke was leaking out of the crypt stairways and spreading on the crossing floor, but there was not enough to obscure the high dome.
Sharpe crouched on the tambour, staring at the scaffolding all about the crossing. Montseny and his men were just out of sight in the nave. They were doubtless waiting for Sharpe to move off the safety of the stone ledge. Then they would fire a volley. So distract them, he thought, confuse them, but how? “You got any more stone, Pat?”
“There’s a dozen blocks here, sir.”
“Throw them down. Just to keep them happy.”
“Can I use the volley gun, sir?”
“Only if you see two or three of them.” The volley gun was a vicious thing, but took so long to reload that it was useless once it was fired.
“What about you, sir?”
“I’ve got an idea,” Sharpe said. It was a desperate idea, but Sharpe had seen the long rope that was tied to the base of the scaffold opposite. It climbed into the gloom, vanishing somewhere in the dome, then reappeared closer to him. There was a great iron hook on its end and that hook was tied to the scaffold to his right and on the next platform down. The rope was used to hoist the masonry blocks to the dome. “Give me back the knife,” he said to Pumphrey. “Now, Pat!” he said, and Harper heaved a block of limestone into the transept. When it crashed onto the floor, Sharpe dropped down the ladder. He did not use the rungs, but went down it like a seaman using a companionway, hands and feet on the outer edge, and he swore as a splinter drove into his right hand. He hit the plank platform hard and felt it shake. A second stone banged onto the cathedral floor, and Montseny must have thought they were hurling the masonry because they had run out of ammunition, for he and three other men stepped out with muskets.
“God bless you,” Harper said, and fired the volley gun. The sound was deafening, a massive explosion that reverberated around the cathedral as the seven bullets flayed the space between the choir stalls. A man cursed below as Sharpe reached the hook. A musket fired at him, but the shot came from the far transept and the ball missed by a yard. He seized the heavy hook and sawed through the rope lashing it in place, then carried the hook and its heavy line back along the plank, up the ladder, and onto the tambour just as another two shots cracked bright in the gloom below. He gave the hook to Harper. “Pull on it,” he said. “Don’t jerk it, just pull as hard as you can.” He did not want the men below to understand what was happening, so the tension on the rope had to be gradual.
A faint squeal from the upper darkness betrayed that the rope went through a sheave up there. Sharpe saw the line tighten and heard Harper grunt. A shadow moved below and Sharpe snatched up his rifle, aimed too quickly, and fired. The shadow vanished. Harper was pulling with all his huge strength as Sharpe took out another cartridge.
“It’s not moving,” Harper said.
Sharpe finished reloading, then gave the rifle and his pistol to Lord Pumphrey. “Keep them amused, my lord,” he said. Then he crouched by Harper and both of them heaved on the rope. It did not budge an inch. The bitter end was tied to a scaffold pole and the pole seemed immovable. The knot had slid up to where a second pole was tied crosswise and it would move no farther. The angle was all wrong, too acute, but if Sharpe could just move that pole he might have his distraction.
Lord Pumphrey fired one of his dueling pistols, then the second one, and Sharpe heard a yelp from the nave. “Well done, my lord,” he said. He decided to abandon caution now. “Jerk it,” Sharpe told Harper, and they gave the rope a series of hard pulls. Sharpe thought the pole moved slightly, just a shudder, and the men below must have realized what they were doing for one of them ran out of the nave with a knife in his hand. Lord Pumphrey fired a sea-service pistol and the ball struck the flagstone floor and whipped away down the nave. The man had reached the scaffold and was climbing to cut the rope. “Pull!” Sharpe said, and he and Harper gave a huge heave. The scaffold pole bent outward. The scaffolding was old. It had been in place for almost twenty years and the lashings were frayed. Masonry blocks were piled on its platforms and some of them shifted. Once they began to move, they would not stop. “Pull!” Sharpe said again, and they tugged on the rope once more. This time the far scaffold pole snapped clean away from the rest of the structure. Stones began to crash through the planking. The man with the knife jumped for his life, and just then the rest of the scaffolding on the crossing’s far side collapsed in a welter of noise and dust.
“Now,” Sharpe said.
The noise was monstrous. The falling poles, planks, and stones crashed and tore, splintered and banged as almost a hundred feet of scaffolding cascaded into the crossing. Blocks of stone ripped through the poles and planks, but what was most useful was the dust. It was thicker than smoke, and amid the tumbling stones and timber it blossomed like a dark gray cloud to dim the small candlelight coming from the cathedral’s chapels. The scaffolding that Sharpe was crossing began to shake as the destruction spread around the crossing. Then he pushed Pumphrey up the ladder. Harper was already at the top, using his volley gun’s butt to smash open the window. “Use your cloak!” Sharpe shouted. He could hear someone screaming below.
Harper laid his cloak over the broken shards of glass in the bottom of the shattered window and then unceremoniously hauled Pumphrey up beside him. “Come on, sir!” He reached for Sharpe’s hand and grabbed it just as the planks slid out from under Sharpe’s feet. The last of the scaffolding tumbled, filling the cathedral with more noise and dust.
They were now balanced precariously on the window’s edge. The crossing behind them was boiling with dust through which the candlelight died, plunging the cathedral into utter darkness. “There’s a drop, sir,” Harper warned. Sharpe jumped, thought the drop would never end, and suddenly sprawled on a flat roof. Pumphrey came next, hissing with pain as he landed, and Harper followed. “God save Ireland, sir,” the sergeant said fervently, “but that was desperate!”
“Have you got the money?”
“Yes,” Pumphrey said.
“I enjoyed that,” Sharpe said. His head hurt like the devil and his hand was bleeding, but there was nothing he could do about either. “I really enjoyed that,” he said. The wind plucked at him. He could hear waves breaking nearby. When he went to the edge of the roof he saw the pale white fret of breakers beyond the seawall. It had begun to rain again, or perhaps it was sea spray driven on the wind. “Scaffolding’s on the other side,” he said.
“I think my ankle’s broken,” Lord Pumphrey said.
“No it’s bloody not,” Sharpe said, who did not know one way or the other, but this was no time for His Lordship to become feeble. “Walk and it’ll get better.”
The monstrous sails beat against the unfinished crown of the dome and above the unbuilt sanctuary. Sharpe blundered into one of the ropes securing them, then felt his way to the roof’s edge. Just enough light came from a lantern in a courtyard below for him to see where the scaffolding was built. He could see other lanterns, bobbing as they were carried through the streets. Someone must have heard the shots in the cathedral despite the noise of the storm, but whoever went to investigate was going to the eastern facade with its three doors. No one
