The bugle was sounding its message to the Rocket Troop again and again, but Sharpe did not hear it. He heard only the scraping and clicking as the seventeen-inch blades were slotted onto muskets and he drew his own sword, the metal bright in the archway’s gloom, and he waited until he was sure no more rockets were being thrown. ‘We go to the rubble! No further!’ He would clear the yard, kill the enemy, for in this hour of defeat he could still claw and maim this French force and hope to weaken it so that it could not perform whatever duty it had been sent to do.
‘Charge!’
This was the way to end it! Sword in hand and charging, and even though the battle was lost he could still make these French regret the day they had come to the Gateway of God. He could put fear in them for their next battle, he would make them remember this place with sourness. ‘Get them!’ The sword twisted in his hand as it glanced off bone, but the man was down, and then he heard the bellow of the seven-barrelled gun, and Sharpe had a glimpse of the Fusiliers, teeth bared over white crossbelts on red uniforms, blades reaching ahead, and the yard was full of smoke and stinking rocket carcasses and the French were running from the line of men who had erupted into the gloom and Sharpe saw an officer trying to rally them and he lunged at the man, felt the Frenchman’s sword scrape the length of his blade, and then he was onto the man, beating down with the blade, and he could see the rubble ahead. ‘On!’
He tugged the sword free, looked for another enemy, but the French had gone back, the courtyard was his, and he screamed at Brooker to line the Fusiliers on the rubble. He saw the two Colours, ragged and blackened, proud over the line and he stood in front of them, sword red in his hand, and there was a mad impulse to charge on into the valley as if his two hundred Fusiliers could sweep the French clear out of the hills.
That was the last card, the last surprise, the final twisting of the French tail. There was nothing left now but muskets, rifles, and bayonets. He would have to retreat before the next attack, and a small part of him said it would be sensible to go now, go while the French were not pressing behind, while he could still extricate Frederickson from the hill, but Sharpe would not retreat until he could see the enemy’s face. He would not.
He could hear firing to his left and he wondered if the French were attacking through the gate. `Watch the gate, Mr Brooker!’
‘Sir!’
Where were the bastards? Why did they not come? This was the moment of their victory, the moment when Sharpe could not fight them, and then he wondered whether the guns would start again and the canister would spray the Fusiliers red and ragged off the stones, but still he stared into the smoke of the rockets and wondered why the enemy did not come.
The smoke drifted slowly, cleared thin, and he saw why the guns did not fire.
The Battalion that had attacked the watchtower hill was in full retreat, streaming across the valley. Sharpe grinned. Sweet William had blooded them.
Sweet William was mad with anger. ‘You bastards! You bastards!’ He shook his fist at men in sky-blue uniforms, men who had swept from behind the Castle and charged with bayonets at the Battalion which had been coming for Frederickson. ‘You bastards!’ The Spaniards had cheated him of a fight.
‘Sir!’ Harper was pointing left. ‘Sir!’ His voice was triumphant.
Riflemen. Scores of Riflemen! Greenjackets! How the hell had they got here, Sharpe wondered? And he felt the weight of defeat lift from him and he stared, almost unbelieving, at the French running from the Convent, at the skirmish line that was on his flank, and then he looked right and saw the Spanish uniforms on the hill. They had won!
‘Fusiliers! Forward!’
And Hakeswill struck.
CHAPTER29
Only a fraction of the gold that Sharpe and Dubreton had fetched so laboriously to the Gateway of God had been found. Handfuls had been taken off the prisoners, lost forever into the pouches of French and British soldiers, but the bulk of it still lay in the Castle. It was hidden for gold was a useful thing to hide, a cache that could be retrieved at leisure when the enemy had gone, and Hakeswill had hidden it well. It was in the dungeon, behind the gore-splashed wall where he had tortured and murdered the men and women who had displeased him. Now he needed the gold.