It had been a night of frantic business, a load falling from Sharpe’s shoulders when, at five o’clock, Sir Augustus Farthingdale and Josefina had ridden westward down the pass with four lightly wounded Fusiliers mounted on Gilliland’s troop horses as escort. An hour later Sharpe had sent the women and children westward, herded on their way by Cross’s Riflemen who had pushed them a mile down the pass and then left them to their own devices. Nearly four hundred prisoners remained in the Castle dungeons, guarded by the other lightly wounded Fusiliers. The wounded had been brought by wagon from the Convent to the Castle, carried up to the big room that looked westward and would be furthest from the French cannon-fire. The surgeon, a tall, grim man, had laid his probes, saws and knives on a table carried up from the kitchens.
Three Companies of Fusiliers were now at the watch-tower, reinforcing Frederickson’s seventy-nine Riflemen.
Sharpe had ensured that the best Captains were at the tower, men who could fight on the isolated hill and not look for orders that might never arrive. The weakest Captains, two of them, he had put in the Convent, and with them was Harry. Price with Sharpe’s old Company and eight of Cross’s Riflemen. A hundred and seven men held the Convent, not counting officers, exactly half the number of Riflemen and Fusiliers who now crouched on the reverse slope of the watchtower hill. Sharpe had given the Convent one advantage. Patrick Harper was there, and Sharpe had put weak Captains into the building to make it easier for the Irish Sergeant to run the defence. Frederickson held Sharpe’s right, Harper his left, and in the centre, the Castle. Sharpe had forty of Cross’s Riflemen with two hundred and thirty-five Fusiliers. The Rocket Troop had gone south, hidden over the crest, the men nervous on their saddles with the strange lances in their hands.
‘Sir?’ An Ensign in the stairway that went up towards the gate-tower top called down to Sharpe.
‘Yes?’
‘One man riding to the watchtower, sir.’
Sharpe swore quietly. He had tried so hard to convince the enemy that the positions were deserted. Harper had led a group of Riflemen away from the watchtower, waited by the gatehouse as one Company of Fusiliers had conspicuously lowered the Colours and formed up outside the Castle, and then all of them had dropped beneath the lip of the pass before turning right and entering the Convent through the hole hacked for Pot-au-Feu’s gun. The officer, one of the Fusilier’s brighter men, had ridden south and scrambled his horse up steep slopes to join Gilliland’s nervous men.
‘And sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘One Battalion coming towards us. On the road, sir.’
That was better. It was all Sharpe could hope for, one single Battalion to check that the buildings were clear, one single Battalion that he could chop into pieces before breakfast. He climbed the stairs and the Ensign made way for him. He kept well back from the arrow slit and watched the Frenchmen come west on the road. They marched casually, muskets slung, and some still held bread in their hands from their breakfasts.
A French Captain, released by his Colonel’s orders, rode ahead of the Battalion. He stared up at the Castle keep and saw a bird fly from one of the gaping holes in its stonework. A second bird appeared, big and black, and perched on the ramparts to preen itself. He grinned because the buildings were empty.
Sharpe was back in the chamber that had held the winding gear for the portcullis. He saw the Captain come easily up the road, saw the man’s face look up at the arrow slit and it seemed certain that the man must see him, but the Captain’s eyes went on up to the rampart. ‘Now.’
The Fusilier, crouched beneath the left hand arrow slit, opened the second basket and the jackdaw cawed in anger, flapped furiously towards the light and squeezed itself through the stones and up into the air. The horse, only feet beneath, shied, and Sharpe heard the Captain soothe it.
The Captain stroked the horse’s neck, patted it. ‘You’re frightened of a bird, eh?’ He chuckled, went on patting it, and then the horse-shoes echoed loud on the stones of the tunnel that sloped up into the courtyard. He chuckled again because someone had chalked big letters on the stone of the tunnel. ‘Bonjour.’