‘Merchantman, sir. Ran in Lisbon.’
‘He killed the Captain, sir.’ The other man volunteered with an admiring smile.
Sharpe looked at Taylor. The American shrugged. ‘Where are you from in America, Taylor?’
The cold eyes looked at Sharpe as if the mind behind them was thinking whether or not to answer. Then the shrug again. ‘Tennessee, sir.’
‘Never heard of it. Does it worry you we’re at war with the United States?’
‘No, sir.’ Taylor’s answer seemed to suggest that his country would manage quite well without his assistance. ‘I hear you’ve a man in your Company, sir, who thinks he can shoot?’
Sharpe knew he meant Daniel Hagman, the marksman of the South Essex. ‘That’s right.’
‘You tell him, sir, that Thomas Taylor is better.’
‘What’s your range?’
The eyes looked dispassionately at Sharpe. Again he seemed to think about his answer. ‘At two hundred yards I’m certain.’
‘So’s Hagman.’
The grin again. ‘I mean certain of putting a ball in one of his eyes, sir.’
It was an impossible boast, of course, but Sharpe liked the spirit in which it was made. Taylor, he guessed, would be an awkward man to lead, but so were many of the Riflemen. They were encouraged to be independent, to think for themselves on a battlefield, and the Rifle Regiments had thrown away much old fashioned blind discipline and relied more on morale as a motivating force. A new officer to the 95th or the 60th was expected to drill and train in the ranks, to learn the merits of the men he would command in battle, and that was a hard apprenticeship for some yet it forged trust and respect on both sides. Sharpe was sure of these men. They would fight, but what of Pot-au-Feu’s men in the Convent? All were trained soldiers and his one hope, that appeared more slender as the cold day wore on into night, was that soon the deserters would be hopeless with drink.
Evening, Christmas Eve, and clouds covered the sky so there was no star to guide them. The Christmas hymns were being sung in the parish churches at home. ‘High let us swell our tuneful notes, and join the angelic throng’. Sharpe remembered the words from the Foundling Home. ‘Good will to sinful men is shewn, and peace on earth is given’. There would be no good will for sinful men this night. Out of the darkness would come swords, bayonets and death. Christmas Eve, 1812, in the Gateway of God would be screams and pain, blood and anger, and Sharpe thought of the innocent women in the Convent and he let the anger begin. Let the waiting be done, he prayed, let the night arrive, and he wanted the flare of battle within him, he wanted Hakeswill dead, he wanted the night to come.
Christmas Eve turned to darkness. Wolves prowled in the saw-toothed peaks, a wind drove cold from the west, and the men in green jackets waited, shivering, and in their hearts was revenge and death.
CHAPTER 8
A night so dark it was like the Eve of Creation. A blackness complete, a darkness that did not even betray an horizon, a night of clouds and no moon. Christmas Eve.
The men made small noises as they waited in the gully. They were like animals crouching against a bitter cold. The small drizzle compounded the misery.
Sharpe would go first with his small group, then Frederickson, as Senior Captain, would bring on the main group of Riflemen. Harry Price would wait outside the Convent until the fight was over, or until, unthinkably, he must cover a wild retreat in the darkness.
It was a night when failure insisted on rehearsing itself in Sharpe’s head. He had peered over the gully’s rim in the dusk and he had stared long at the route he must take in the darkness, but suppose he got lost? Or suppose that some fool disobeyed orders and went forward with a loaded rifle, tripped, and blasted the night apart with an accidental shot? Suppose there was no track down the northern side of the valley? Sharpe knew there were thorn bushes on the valley’s flanks and he imagined leading his troops into the snagging spines and then he forced the pessimism away. It insisted on coming back. Suppose the hostages had been moved? Suppose he could not find them in the Convent? Perhaps they were dead. He wondered what kind of young, rich woman would marry Sir Augustus Farthingdale. She would probably think of Sharpe as some kind of horrid savage.