Dubreton saluted Nairn, spoke softly with him, and then turned to Sharpe who had stepped protectively towards Teresa’s body. ‘Major Sharpe?’
‘Sir?’
‘He did it. We saw it. I give him to you.’ He spoke very simply.
‘He did it?’
‘Yes.’
Sharpe looked at the twitching, yellow-faced man who cringed in fear because Bigeard was holding him towards Sharpe. Sharpe felt the uselessness of the hatred he had for Hakeswill when measured against the pain of this loss. His sword was lying a few feet’away, dropped there when he had run to the body, but there was no desire to pick it up, to bury it in this lumpen man whose curse had killed the mother of Sharpe’s child. Sharpe wanted this place of her death to be peaceful. ‘Sergeant Harper?’
‘Sir?’
‘Take the prisoner. He’s to live for a firing squad.’
‘Sir.’
The wind stirred the snow in powdery ripples that banked against Teresa’s boots. Sharpe hated this place.
Dubreton spoke again. ‘Major?’
`Sir?’
‘It’s all over now.’
‘Over, sir?’
Dubreton shrugged. ‘We’re going. You won, Major. You won.’
Sharpe looked uncomprehending at the French Colonel. ‘Won, sir?’
‘You won.’
Won so that a child’s present could be strewn in the snow. Won so that he could feel this pain that was bigger than anything he had ever felt.
By the village Major Ducos watched through his telescope as Sharpe lifted the body from the snow and walked with it towards the Castle. He watched the big Sergeant pick the sword out of the snow and then Ducos snapped the glass shut. He had sworn his revenge on Sharpe, on the Rifleman who had thwarted this winter victory, but revenge, Ducos believed with the Spanish proverb, was a dish best eaten cold. He would wait.
Snow drifted over the broken doll in the Gateway of God.
Christmas was finished.
EPILOGUE
Sharpe was in the room where it had all started last year. Last year. That seemed strange, but 1813 was already ten days old, Teresa’s death two weeks in the past, the spring would come and with it would come a new campaign.
The fire burned in the same hearth by which Sharpe had learned with such joy of his promotion. There was no joy now.
Wellington looked at Hogan as if for help, but the Major shrugged. The General put levity into his voice. ‘I’ll have to keep those damned rockets, Sharpe. You saw to that.’
Sharpe looked up from the fire. ‘Yes, my Lord.’ He supposed he had seen to that. After their success at Adrados they could hardly be sent back to England. ‘I’m sorry, my Lord.’
‘We’ll fit them in somewhere.’ Wellington paused. ‘As we’ll fit you in somewhere, Major.’ He gave one of his rare smiles. ‘You took a lot on yourself, Sharpe. A whole Battalion under your command!’
Sharpe nodded. ‘Sir Augustus complained I took too much on myself, my Lord.’
Wellington grunted. ‘Good thing you did. What was the matter with the man? Lily-livered?’ His voice was suddenly harsh.
Sharpe shrugged, then decided the truth was better than politeness. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘How did it feel to fight a Battalion? Good?’
‘At times, sir.’
‘Like being a General, eh? Perhaps you’ll find that out, Sharpe.’
‘I doubt it, sir.’
Wellington’s piercing blue eyes watched him. The General stood in muddied boots in front of the fire, the skirts of his riding coat lifted by clasped hands. ‘The glory gets tarnished, yes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Some people never learn that. They think I enjoy this, but its a job, Sharpe, that’s all, a job. Like being a street-sweeper or a slaughterman. Someone has to do it or the filth will overwhelm us.’ He seemed embarrassed to have said so much.
‘Yes, my Lord.’
Wellington waved a hand towards the door. ‘I’ll send for you, Major Sharpe. We must find you employment. A Major who fights my battles must be given employment!’
Sharpe moved to the door, Hogan with him, shepherding him protectively, but the General stopped them. ‘Sharpe?’
‘My Lord?’
This time Wellington really did seem embarrassed. He glanced at the armchair, then back to Sharpe. ‘Would it seem amiss, Sharpe, if I say that all things pass?’