path. He took the curved stairway three steps at a time and he jumped Harper’s body from which blood trickled to puddle on the next step down. The Sergeant was silent and still.
Sharpe reached the head of the stairs as Leroux came back past the place where he had lunged at Harper. Sharpe felt an immense anger. He did not know if Harper was alive or dead, but he knew he was hurt, and Harper was a man who would have given his life for Sharpe, a friend, and Sharpe now faced the man who had wounded Harper. The Rifle Captain came up the last curved steps, his face terrifying in its rage, and his long sword sounded in the air as he swept it backhanded at the Frenchman and Leroux parried. Leroux’s left hand was grasping his right wrist and all his own strength was in the Kligenthal, and the blades clashed.
Sharpe felt the blow of steel on steel like a sledgehammer strike numbing his right arm. He was rigid with the effort of the blow and the recoil of the blades checked his rush, threatened to topple him backwards, but Leroux too had been stopped, jarred by the two swords meeting, and the French Colonel was astonished at the force of the attack, by the strength that had come at him and still threatened him.
The Kligenthal lunged while the echo of the first clangorous strike still came back from the far side of the courtyard. Sharpe parried the lunge, point downwards, and then turned his own heavy blade with such speed that Leroux jumped back and the tip of Sharpe’s blade missed the Frenchman’s face by less than a half inch. Again, and again, and Sharpe felt the surge of joy because he had the speed of this man, and the strength, and Leroux was parrying desperately, going backwards, and the Kligenthal could only block the attacks of the old cavalry sword. Then Leroux’s back heel touched stone, he was against the wall, and there was no escape from Sharpe. The Frenchman glanced to his right, saw the way he had to go, and then he saw Sharpe’s face screwed up with the effort of one last hacking swing that would cut him in half. He brought up the Kligenthal, swinging too, a cut that owed nothing to the science of fencing, just a killing swing in his last defence, and the blades sang in the air, the Kligenthal went past Sharpe and the Rifleman’s swing was parried.
The blades met, edge to edge, and again the shock jarred into their arms, shook their bodies, and the sound of it was not a clang, no harsh music, and Sharpe was falling because the sound was dull and his blade, that had been on every battlefield for four years, broke on the impact of the beautiful, silken, grey steel of the Kligenthal. Sharpe felt it go, felt the jarring shock turn into a lurching fall, and he saw the top half of his blade break and tumble as if the steel was no more than baked sugar. It broke, grey and splintered, and the tip fell, harsh onto the flagstones, and Sharpe was left with a handle and a jagged vicious stump. He hit the stones, rolled towards Leroux and stabbed upwards with the stump at the Frenchman’s groin, but Leroux laughed in his relief, stepped away, and brought up his sword, point downwards, for the stabbing, killing blow.
The sentry who had not fired his gun pounded around the corner of the cloister, elbowed aside two wounded French officers, and shouted at the blood-stained man whose sword was poised. The sentry jerked up his musket, Leroux saw it, and the Frenchman abandoned Sharpe and ran. The Rifleman hurled the useless sword fragment, missed, and rolled to his feet with his rifle coming off his shoulder.
“Hey!” The sentry’s protest was lost as his musket fired. He jerked the barrel up as the flint sparked and he just managed to avoid Sharpe who had erupted into his line of fire. The ball thumped past Sharpe, the pressure of it on his cheek, past Leroux, and flattened itself against the far wall. Leroux was running, no enemies before him, and the Kligenthal was long in his hand.
Sharpe’s arm was slow, numbed by the blade-shock, and he fumbled with the rifle flint. Leroux had reached a door at the far end and he tugged at the handle, then beat at the door with his fist. It stayed shut. He was trapped again.
Sharpe stood up. The flint came back and the feeling of the heavy spring compressing was satisfying. It clicked into place, the rifle was ready, and he walked towards Leroux who still hammered at the door just twenty paces from Sharpe. Sharpe jerked with the barrel. “Still!”
The Frenchman reached down to his boot and as he did the door opened. Sharpe saw the hand come up and in it was a pistol, the barrel octagonal, and he knew Leroux had a duelling pistol. He shouted, began running, and then the Irish priest, Curtis, was standing in the doorway and Leroux pushed the old man aside, went through, and Sharpe shouted at the old man to get out of the way and the door was closing and Sharpe had no time to aim, but just pulled the trigger and the Rifle bullet drove a long splinter from the door’s edge. He had missed.
Leroux pulled the door open again and his right hand I, came up slowly, the pistol barrel foreshortened, and then he I smiled, lowered the hand so that the pistol was aimed low at Sharpe and the Rifleman saw the flame in the pan, threw himself sideways, saw the smoke blossom in front of Leroux, and he felt a great blow shudder on his body. Then it seemed as if everything was happening at only half the speed of ordained time. The door closed on his enemy. Sharpe was still running, the rifle falling, clattering, bouncing, and the pain was filling all the world, yet still he tried to run. There was a scream of pure agony, a scream that slashed round the I courtyard, and Sharpe did not know it was his own scream, but he was still trying to run and then a knee struck the flagstones, and still he tried, and his hands clutched at warm fresh blood, bright red, and he was screaming, falling, and he slid on the stones, scrabbling still, and the blood spurted behind him, was fanned and smeared by his flailing legs, and the scream still went on.
He slid to a stop at the foot of the door, curled up, clenched against a world of pain that he could never have imagined, and he pumped the scream futilely, and the blood welled between his fingers that clutched into his stomach as if they could reach inside him and pluck the horror that tore at him. Then, blessedly, he stopped screaming and was still.
The Cathedral clock struck three.
CHAPTER 13
Private Batten was annoyed, and let the rest of the Company know it. “Doesn’t give a bugger, does he? Know what I mean?” No one answered. They waited on the glacis of the San Vincente fort and Lieutenant Price looked at his watch and kept glancing at the empty San Cayetano fort. Batten waited for a response. He scratched his armpit. “Used to be a bleedin‘ private, he did, and that’s what he bloody should be now. Keeping us waiting.” Still no one answered and Batten was encouraged by their silence. “Always buggering off, have you noticed? Our company’s not good enough for him, no, not Mr. Bloody Sharpe. Know what I mean?” He looked round for support.
Sergeant Huckfield had gone to look for Sharpe. The men could see his red coat climbing up the ravine’s side towards the San Cayetano. One or two of the men slept. Price sat down on a huge masonry block and folded Sharpe’s coat beside him. He was worried.
Private Batten picked his nose and licked the result off his fingernail. “We could sit here all bleedin‘ night for all he bleedin’ cares.”
Daniel Hagman opened one eye. “He kept you from swinging by your bloody neck two years ago. He shouldn’t have bothered.”
Batten laughed. “They couldn’t have hung me. I was innocent. He don’t care, Sharpe. He’s forgotten us, till he bleedin‘ needs us again. He’s probably sitting with Harps getting drunk. T’ain’t fair.”
Sergeant McGovern, slow and Scottish, stood up and stretched his arms. He marched formally to Private Batten and kicked his ankles. “On your feet.”
“What for?” Batten dropped into the aggrieved tone of surprise that was his main defence against an aggravating world.
“Because I’m going to smash your bloody face in.”
Batten edged away from the Scotsman and looked at Lieutenant Price’s back. “Hey! Lieutenant, sir!”
Price did not look round. “Carry on, Sergeant.”
The men laughed. Batten looked up at McGovern. “Sarge?”
“Shut your bloody face.”
“But, Sarge?”
“Shut it, or get up.”
Batten subsided into what he considered injured but righteous dignity. He busied himself with his right nostril, keeping his remarks just out of the Company’s hearing. Sergeant McGovern crossed to the Lieutenant and stood formally at attention. Price looked up. “Sergeant?”
