Upstairs in the Castle the Fusilier surgeon sawed at a leg. He had pushed back the flap of skin that would fold over the stump, sliced through the muscle, tying off the blood vessels, and he worked fast with his short saw. Orderlies held the Fusilier down on the table, the man was trying to hold back his scream, gagging down on the folded leather pad that had already subdued the pain of fifteen other men, and the surgeon grunted as the bone splintered and powdered beneath the saw’s teeth. ‘Almost there, son. Good lad! Good lad!’
In the trench where the rockets had been fired Cross’s German Riflemen buried their two dead. They had deepened the trench, put the bodies in, and then covered them with rocks that would prevent the scavengers’ paws from scrabbling up the dead meat. They had piled the earth on top, watched as Cross said sad, inadequate words, and then, as the snow mottled the mounded grave, they had sung the new song which the Germans of this war had taken to their hearts. ‘Ick hatt’ einen Kameraden, Einen bess’ren findst du nicht… ‘ Their voices reached Sharpe in the Castle keep. ‘I had a comrade once, you couldn’t find a better.’
Captain Brooker stood opposite Sharpe. The Fusilier Captain was shaved, his uniform brushed, and he made Sharpe feel dirty and tattered. ‘What’s the bill, Captain?’
‘Fifteen dead, sir. Thirty-eight badly wounded.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Sharpe took the paper from him, tucked it into his pouch. ‘Ammunition?’
‘Plenty, sir.’
‘Rations?’
‘Two days, sir.’
‘Let’s hope it won’t be that long.’ Sharpe rubbed his face. ‘So we’re down to a hundred and eighty Fusiliers in the Castle?’
‘A hundred and eighty-two, sir. With officers, of course, there’s more.’
‘Yes.’ Sharpe grinned, trying to break through Brooker’s reserve. ‘And we’re holding off a whole army.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Brooker sounded gloomy.
‘Don’t worry, Captain. You’ll get ninety Fusiliers from the Convent tonight.’
‘You think so, sir?’
Sharpe almost snapped that he would not have said it if he did not think so, but he bit back the reproof. He needed Brooker’s co-operation, not his enmity. ‘And there’s still nearly a hundred and fifty on the watchtower hill.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Brooker’s face was lugubrious, like a Methodist preacher who revelled in hell-fire predictions.
‘You checked the prisoners?’
Brooker had not, but he was frightened of Sharpe. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. I don’t need those bastards up my backside. Put fresh men on as guards tonight.’
‘Do we feed them, sir?’
‘No. Let the bastards starve. Do you have the time, Captain?’
Brooker pulled a heavy turnip watch from his pocket. ‘A quarter to four, sir.’
Sharpe walked to a great hole in the wall where stones had fallen from an arrow slit. The snow was slanting down over the valley. It was dark outside, the sky almost black, the clouds bringing a premature dusk. Below him he saw Captain Cross by a new grave, a smaller grave, and he saw a Rifleman who had once been a bugler put the dead boy’s instruments to his lips. First he played the Buglers’ call, short and simple, the notes clear in the darkening valley. Then, a long call, requested by Sharpe for the dead lad, the call that was for setting the watch. It ended in long, slow notes, played sweetly. Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden.
There was a scrape of feet at the door, a cough for attention, and Sharpe turned to see a Rifleman. ‘Yes?’
‘Compliments of Captain Frederickson, sir.’ He held out a piece of paper.
‘Thank you.’ Sharpe unfolded it. ‘Partisans to north, east and south. Password tonight? Do I get a fight or not?’ This time it was signed ‘Captain William Frederickson, 5th Batt’, 60th, retired.’ Sharpe smiled, borrowed a pencil from Brooker, and rested the paper on the broken ledge of the arrow slit. ‘Password tonight; patience. Countersign; virtue. Expect your fight at dawn. During night no patrols of mine will go east of stream. Good hunting. Richard Sharpe.’ He gave it to the Rifleman, watched him go, then gave the password to Brooker. ‘And you’d better warn the sentries about Partisans. Some may want to come in in the night.’