Sharpe’s head and he knew he was in this place to die. He remembered Leroux, La Marquesa, and he knew he had been so confident and now it was all over. He had come so far, from the foundling home to being a Captain in Britain’s army, yet now he was as helpless as that small child strapped to the bench while the birch thrashed at it. He was going to die, and he was helpless, childlike, and he sobbed to himself and the pain was like flesh-hooks ripping him apart, and he dreamed again.
The Irish priest was mocking him, was stabbing him in the side with a long spear, and Sharpe knew he was being sent to hell. He dreamed he was in a vast building, so high that the roof was misty, and he was pinned by the long spear to the very centre of the floor, and he was tiny, and the great space echoed with laughter, insane laughter that boomed and banged its way in the huge building, and he knew that in a second the floor would open and he would fall endlessly, fall, down to the pits of hell, and he struggled out of that dream back to the pain. He would not go to hell, he would not, and he would not die, but the pain made him want to sleep or to scream.
The bricks glistened above his face. Cold water dripped slowly onto the palliasse. He knew it was the night’s middle, death’s kingdom, and the rats scuttled against the wall. He tried to talk, forcing words from the pain’s grip, and his voice was like wind stirring thistles. “Where am I?”
Connelley was drunk, asleep, and there was no answer.
There was no Harper. Sharpe remembered the body on the stairs, his friend, and the blood that puddled on the step, and Sharpe cried because he was alone, and was dying, and no one was there. There was no one. No Harper, no Teresa, no mother, no family, just a damp cellar of rats, cold in death’s kingdom, and all the glory of Colours carried into battle-smoke, of a soldier’s pride, of the bayonets rippling in sun and the boots going forward across the sparks towards victory ended here. In a death room. No Harper. No slow grin, no shared thoughts without words, no more laughter.
He sobbed, and in his sobs he swore he would not die.
The pain was all over so he forced his right hand down and found his naked legs, and then he moved his left hand and found the bandage and he felt round the bandage, round to his lower stomach, and the pain screamed up inside him in a vast red swell of breaking agony that drove him into unconsciousness again.
He dreamed his sword was broken, splintered grey shards, useless. He dreamed.
A man screamed in the room, a high-pitched quavering scream that startled the rats and woke Connelley. “Whoa there, lad! It’s all right, so it is, and sure I’m here. Hey lad, lad! Gentle now. Die well!”
“Where am I?” Sharpe’s voice was unheard in the noise. He knew, though. He had seen death rooms before.
The man who had screamed was crying now, small yelps that peaked in pathetic gulps, and Sergeant Connelley swiftly swallowed some rum, thrust the bottle in a gaping pocket, and lumbered down the room with his bucket of water. Other men were stirring, crying for water, for their mothers, for light, for help, and Connelley called out to them all. “I’m here, lads, I’m here, and you’re brave boys, are you not? Now be brave! We have the French, so we do, and would you want them to think that we’re weak?”
Sharpe breathed in short, shallow gasps, and he swore he would not die. He tried to blank the pain out, but he could not, and he tried to remember men who had come out of the death room alive. He could not. He could only think of his enemy, Sergeant Hakeswill, who had lived through a hanging, and Sharpe swore he would not die.
Connelley shushed the men with his rough tenderness. He walked down the room, pausing by some, finding some dead, comforting others. Sharpe drifted in the pain; it was like a live thing, trapping him, and he struggled with it. Connelley knelt by him, talked to him, and Sharpe heard the Irish voice.
“Patrick?”
“Are you called Patrick now? And us thinking you was a Frenchie.” Connelley stroked the dark hair.
“Patrick?”
“And a good name it is, lad. Connelley’s my name, and Kilkieran Bay’s my country, and you and I will walk on the cliffs there.”
“Dying.” Sharpe had meant it as a question, but the word came as a statement.
“And sure you’re not! You’ll be chasing the women yet, Paddy, so you will.” Connelley took his rum bottle, lifted Sharpe’s head gently, and poured the smallest amount between the lips. “You sleep now, Paddy, you hear me?”
“I’m not going to die.” Each word was soft, each almost edged with a sob.
“Sure you’re not!” Connelley lowered the head. “They can’t kill us Irish.” He backed into the aisle and stood up. The room was quieter now, but Connelley knew that the noise could break cut-again. They were like puppies the dying. Once one was excited, the whole litter began yelping, and a man deserved some quiet to drink and die in. He sang to them, walking up and down the aisle, and he sang the Corporal’s Song that told of the soldier’s life and he repeated the refrain over and over again as if he wanted to sing them softly into a soldier’s death. “It’s a very merry, hey down deny, sort of life enough. A very merry, hey down deny, sort of life enough.”
CHAPTER 15
The next morning Lieutenant Price marched the Company to the field, west of the city, where a common grave had been dug for the French. The Company were shocked, unbelieving. They stopped by the pit. Price stared into the hole. It looked as if dogs had been clawing at the part where the shrouded bodies had been already covered with earth. A sentry shrugged. “We caught some bloody madman here this morning, sir. He was trying to dig up the bodies.”
They were in two ranks. Price nodded at McGovern. “Carry on, Sergeant.”
It seemed terribly inadequate. The commands were given, the muskets and rifles went into the shoulders, the volley echoed back from the houses. It all seemed so flat, so wrong, so inadequate.
As the volley and its echo died away there came a sudden burst of bells from the city, pealing bells, victorious and joyful, and the Company marched away from them, going north, leaving a small cloud of smoke that hung over the grave.
Hogan heard the volley, very distantly, and then came the bells clamouring and he straightened his uniform, took off his bicorne hat, and went into the Cathedral. It was Sunday. A Te Deum was to be sung for the liberation of Salamanca, for the destruction of the forts, yet it was a half-hearted celebration. The Cathedral was full, packed with gaudy uniforms, sombre citizens, and robed priests, and the organ thundered in the great space, yet Hogan knew nothing but an immense sadness. The congregation sang and responded, went through the motions, yet they knew that Salamanca was only temporarily freed, that the army of Marmont still had to be destroyed, and some of them, the better informed, knew that four other French armies were in Spain and that no city would be free till all had been defeated. And the price would be high. Already a great part of Salamanca had been destroyed to clear a space around the fortresses. The city had lost cloisters, courts, colleges, and houses; all ground to rubble.
After the service, Wellington stood beneath the fantastic carvings of the great western doors, opposite the Bishop’s palace, and acknowledged the applause of the crowd. He pushed through them, nodding and smiling, sometimes waving with his plain hat, but his eyes flicked over the faces looking for someone. He saw Hogan, and the hat gestured at the Irishman.
“My lord?”
“Is it done?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Wellington nodded. “We march tonight.”
Hogan was left behind by the General’s progress. What had been done was to put a discreet guard on El Mirador. It had not been an easy decision. To guard El Mirador meant telling the chosen guard who their ward was and why he was important, yet with Leroux at liberty it was the only course left. Lord Spears, his arm mending, but not yet fully fit for normal duties, had been given the task. At first he had been reluctant, but when told that El Mirador was not to be close-guarded at home, only out in public places, he relented. He would still have time, it seemed, for his relentless gambling. Then he was told El Mirador’s identity and he shook his head, disbelieving. “Bless my soul, sir! One would never have guessed!” No one at Headquarters, apart from Wellington himself and Hogan, knew what Lord Spears’ new duties were. Hogan was mindful that Leroux had a source within the British
