“Yes.”
“Why don’t you ask Hogan?”
Spears yawned. “Maybe I will, maybe I will.”
At midday Sharpe went to the main battery and watched the gunners heating the solid shot in their portable furnaces. The assault, he knew, had to be close, even the next day, and it would mark the end of his visits to the Palacio Casares. He wished the gunners were not so industrious. He watched them slaving at the bellows fixed to one end of the forge while other men shovelled the coal from the bunker at the far end. In the centre was the cast iron furnace, roaring in the noon heat, the flames escaping at the bottom of the casing, and he marvelled that men could work with that heat, under the sun. It took fifteen minutes to heat each eighteen pounder shot until the red glow had gone deep into the iron and the ball could be dragged from the crucible with long tongs and rolled carefully onto the metal cradle, carried by two men, that took the shot to the gun. The barrel was loaded with powder, then with a thick wad of soaking cloth that stopped the heated shot from igniting the charge. It was rammed home swiftly, the men eager to preserve the red-heat, and then the gun bellowed and the shot left the smallest, finest trace of smoke in its flat trajectory into the demolished French defences. Hardly an enemy gun replied now. The next assault, Sharpe knew, would meet small resistance. He wondered if Leroux was already dead, the body laid out with the others killed in the siege, and that thus these gunners would already have done Sharpe’s work.
He found La Marquesa writing at a small desk in her dressing room. She smiled at him. “How is it progressing?”
“Tomorrow.”
“For certain?”
“No.” He could hardly hide the regret in his voice, but he sensed that she shared it, and he wondered at that. “The Peer will make the decision tomorrow, but he won’t need to wait. It’ll be tomorrow.”
She laid the pen down, stood up, and kissed him swiftly on the cheek. “So tomorrow you’ll take him?”
“Unless he’s dead already.”
She walked onto the mirador and pushed open one of the lattice doors. The San Vincente showed two fires, pale in the strong sun, and the San Cayetano smoked where a fire had been extinguished by the defenders. She turned back to him. “What will you do with him?”
“If he doesn’t resist, then he’s a prisoner.”
“Will you parole him?”
“No, not again. He’ll be shackled. He broke parole. He won’t be exchanged, he won’t be treated well, he’ll just be sent to England, to a prison, and he’ll be held there until the war ends.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he can be tried for murder because he killed men when he was on parole.”.
“So tomorrow I’m safe?”
“Until they send another one to find you.”
She nodded. He was used to her now, to her gestures, to her sudden dazzling smiles, and he had forgotten the coquettish, teasing woman he had met at San Christobal. That was the public face, she told him, while he saw the private and he wondered if he would see her again, in the future, and he would see the public face surrounded by fawning officers and he would feel a terrible, keen jealousy. She smiled at him. “What happens to you when it’s done?”
“We’ll join the army.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No. Sunday perhaps.” The day after tomorrow. “We’ll march north and bring Marmont to battle.”
“And then?”
“Who knows? Madrid perhaps.”
She smiled again. “We have a house in Madrid.”
“A house?”
“It’s very small. No more than sixty rooms.” She laughed at him. “You’ll be very welcome though, alas, it has no secret entrance.” It was unreal, Sharpe knew. They never talked of her husband, or of Teresa. They were secret lovers, Sharpe and a lady, and they would have to stay secret. They had been given these few days, these nights, but fate was going to take them apart; he to a battle, she to the secret war of letters and codes. They had this night, tomorrow’s battle, and then, if they were lucky, just one more night, the last night, and then they were in fate’s hands. She turned to look once more at the fortresses. “Will you fight tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“I can watch you.” She gestured at the telescope on its heavy tripod. “I will watch you.”
“I’ll try not to be tempted into anything rash because of that.”
She smiled. “Don’t be rash. I want you tomorrow.”
“I can bring you Leroux in chains.”
She laughed, a touch of sadness in the sound. “Don’t do that. Remember he may not know who El Mirador is, yet. He might guess, and then he might escape.”
“He won’t escape.”
“No.” She reached out for his hand and led him into the shade of the Palacio. He lowered a wooden-slatted blind against the sunlight and turned to see her on the black-curtained bed. She looked beautiful, pale against the darkness, as fragile as alabaster. She smiled. “You can take your boots off, Captain Sharpe. Siesta time.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Later that afternoon he held her as she slept and she seemed to jump each time the big guns sounded. He kissed her forehead, pushing back the golden hair from her skin, and she opened her eyes sleepily, pushed her body closer to his, and murmured to him. She was only half awake. „I’ll miss you, Richard, I’ll miss you.“
He soothed her, as he would a child, and knew that he would miss her too, but fate was inexorable. Outside, beyond the blind, beyond the lattice, the guns hastened their fate, and they clung to each other as if the press of their bodies might be imprinted on their memories for ever.
CHAPTER 11
“Where the hell have you been?” Hogan was truculent, sweating in the heat.
“Here, sir.”
“I looked for you last night. Damn it, Richard! You could at least let people know where you are! Suppose it was important!”
“Was it, sir?”
“As it happens, no.” Hogan conceded it grudgingly. “Patrick Harper said he’d heard you were with some cobbler’s daughter. Doris or something, and that she didn’t have any legs.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hogan opened his snuff box. “Damn it, Richard, your marriage is your affair, but you’re damned lucky to have Teresa.” He sniffed violently, to cover his feelings. Sharpe waited for the sneeze, it came, and Hogan shook his head. “God’s Blood! I won’t say anything.”
“Nothing to say, sir.”
“I hope not, Richard, I hope not.” Hogan paused, listening to the sizzling sound as a red hot shot was rammed onto the soaked wadding. The gun fired, bellowing noise at the houses, drifting the bitter smoke back where the two officers talked. “Have you heard from Teresa, Richard?”
“Not for a month, sir.”
“She’s chasing Caffarelli’s men. Ramon wrote me.” Ramon was her brother. “Your child’s fine and bonny, in Casate-jada.”
“That’s good, sir.” Sharpe was not certain whether Hogan was trying to make him feel guilty. Perhaps he should feel guilty, yet he did not. He and La Marquesa were so temporary, their loving doomed to be of such a short time, that somehow it did not affect his long term plans. And he could not feel guilty about protecting El Mirador. It was his job.
Hogan glanced at Sharpe’s Company, paraded in the street, and grunted that they looked good. Sharpe
