battle now, god-damned Wellington, and Jourdan was praying that his men would hold on long enough to let him dream up a response. Troops! He needed fresh troops. ‘Moreau! Moreau!’ He called for an aide. There must be reserves somewhere! There must be!
The afternoon had come, and it had brought an artillery duel on the plain. Jourdan shouted for more troops, but he knew his enemy, behind the curtain of smoke, was regrouping for a new attack. He demanded news, always news, and he asked for reassurance from staff officers who could not give it. Panic was beginning to infect the French command, while behind their guns the British prepared a new attack. The infantry were in their ranks, fresh cartridges issued, an army readying itself for victory.
On the walls of the city the ladies watched. They frowned when the carts brought the bloodied wounded back from the battle, but they believed the handsome cavalry officers who came to give them news. Jourdan, the cavalry officers said, had merely pulled his line back to give the guns more room. There was nothing to be worried about, nothing. One woman asked what happened to the north, and an officer reassured her that it was merely a few enemy who had come to the river and were learning the power of French guns. The officers caught the flowers tossed to them by the women, gallantly fixed the blooms to shining, plumed helmets, and trotted away through Vitoria’s suburbs leaving the womens’ hearts fluttering.
Captain Saumier knew that Marshals of France did not yield ground to give the guns space. ‘Are you packed, my Lady?’ His voice was low.
‘Packed?’
‘In case we have to retreat.’
La Marquesa stared at the ugly man. ‘You’re serious?’
‘I am, my Lady.’
She knew defeat. If Sharpe had still lived, she thought, she would have been tempted to stay in Vitoria in the sure knowledge that Sharpe would dare to do what General Verigny dared not; snatch her wagons back from the Inquisitor. But Sharpe was dead, and she dared not stay. She consoled herself that in her coach, prudently concealed beneath the driver’s bench, there were jewels enough to save her from utter poverty in France. She shrugged. ‘There’s still time, surely?’
‘I hope so, my Lady.’
She smiled sadly. ‘You still think Wellington can’t attack, Captain?’
He frowned, not at her question, but at her face. She had turned from him and now stared in horror and puzzlement at the crowd who stood at the foot of the tiered seats. Saumier touched her arm. ‘My Lady?’
She took her arm away. ‘It’s nothing, Captain.’ Yet she could have sworn, for one instant, that she had seen a bearded face, a face so covered in beard as to resemble a beast, a face that had stared at her, turned away, and which she had seen on a cold morning in the mountains. The Slaughterman. She told herself she imagined it, for no Partisan would dare show himself in the heart of the French army, and she looked back to the plain where the battle still thundered and where that army fought for its existence.
Regimental Sergeant Major MacLaird reported that the burning thatch was now extinguished. ‘And we’ve got forty-one prisoners, sir. Half the buggers are wounded badly.’
‘Where’s the surgeon?’
‘Outside the village, sir.’
‘Lieutenant Andrews!’
‘Sir?’ The Lieutenant still did not seem to believe that Sharpe was alive.
‘My respects to Mr Ellis. Tell him there’s work in the village and I want him here now!’
‘Yes, sir.’
The South Essex had been ordered to rest while other Battalions streamed through the village to attack the bridge. Sharpe thought of the guns just up the slope. His hopes of reaching Vitoria seemed slim so long as the French battery was unmolested.
‘Mr Collip!’
‘Sir?’
‘I want an ammunition check on all companies.’
‘We’ve lost the limber, sir.’
‘Then god-damned find it! And if you see my horse, send it here!’
‘Horse, sir?’
‘Black, undocked tail.’ Sharpe had taken over a house in the village plaza. Its furniture had all gone to the barricades. He listened to the French guns open fire again, and knew that the attackers would be dying as they struggled to cross the bridge. ‘Paddock!’
The Battalion clerk grinned from the kitchen door. He had been speechless when he saw Sharpe and he still grinned like a madman. ‘Sir?’
‘Someone must have some bloody tea.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sharpe ducked out into the street. A dog ran past with a cut of meat in its mouth. He preferred not to wonder what kind of meat it was. The smoke of the French cannons drifted over the village roofs, low enough to touch the belfry. Once or twice the bell would clang as a fragment of canister bounced from the bridge to strike the instrument.
‘Sir! Sir!’ Sharpe looked left. Harry Price was running towards him. ‘Mr Sharpe!’ ‘Harry.’ Sharpe grinned.
Lieutenant Price, formality forgotten, thumped Sharpe on the back. He had been Sharpe’s Lieutenant in the Light Company. ‘Christ! I thought the buggers had hanged you!’
‘This army can’t do anything right, Harry.’ It was the twentieth time he had said it.
Price was beaming. ‘What in hell’s name happened?’
‘Long story.’
‘Here.’ Price thrust a bottle of brandy at Sharpe. ‘Found it in their headquarters.’
Sharpe smiled. ‘Later, Harry. There might be more to do.’
‘God, I hope not! I want to live to be thirty.’ Price tipped the bottle to his mouth. ‘I suppose you’re the commanding officer now?’
‘You suppose right.’ Leroy’s body had been brought into the village. His death had at least been quick. Leroy would have known nothing. The other consolation was that he had left no family, no letters that needed to be written or widow to console.
The guns still fired at the bridge. Sharpe frowned. ‘Why in hell haven’t we got guns?’
‘I heard they got lost,’ Price grinned. ‘This bloody army never does anything right. Jesus! It’s good to see you, sir!’
And, oddly to Sharpe, it seemed the whole Battalion thought the same. The officers wanted to shake his hand, the men wanted to look at him as if to prove to themselves that he still lived, and he grinned shyly at their pleasure. Angel, who had come into the village with Sharpe’s horse, basked in the reflected glory. Dozens of bottles were thrust at Sharpe, dozens of times he claimed that the army couldn’t hang a curtain if they tried. He knew he was smiling idiotically, but he could not help it. He shook Harry Price off by ordering him to set up picquets at the village’s northern edge and took refuge from embarrassment in his temporary headquarters.
Where someone else found him.
‘Sir?’
The doorway was shadowed by a huge man who was festooned with weapons. Sharpe felt the smile coming again. ‘Patrick?’
‘Christ!’ The Sergeant ducked under the lintel. There were tears in his eyes. ‘I knew you’d be back.’
‘Couldn’t let you bastards fight a war without me.’
‘No!’ Harper grinned.
There was an odd silence, which both men broke together. Sharpe waved at the Irishman. ‘Go on?’
‘No, sir. You?’
‘Just that it’s good to be back.’
‘Aye.’ Harper stared at him. ‘What happened?’
‘Long story, Patrick.’
‘It would be.’
