Bernard Cornwell – 1812 10 Sharpe’s Enemy

‘Not yet, sir.’

Someone was shouting in the courtyard, bellowing for order, someone who had, perhaps, realized that the attackers were few in number and that a concentrated counter-attack could overwhelm them. Sharpe stared at the far side of the upper cloister. He could see no men there in the firelight, the rifles had made it an unhealthy place, but then it was suddenly filled with running figures, shouting for aid, and Sharpe pushed down a rifle that was brought up to fire. ‘Hold it!’

Women and children were fleeing, which meant Frederickson’s men must be in the outer cloister, and Sharpe bellowed at the men who guarded the windows. ‘Watch out for Captain Frederickson!’

Then there were dark figures in the entrance way of the upper cloister, figures that took immediate cover as they emerged into the wide-open space of the cloister, and Sharpe shouted again. ‘Rifles! Rifles! Rifles!’ He stepped through the window, out onto the cloister where the firelight illuminated his uniform. ‘Rifles! Rifles!’ A musket flamed below, the ball ricocheting off the balustrade into the night. ‘Rifles! Rifles!’

‘See you, sir!’ A man with a curved sabre standing across the cloister. Riflemen were going left and right, clearing the upper gallery, and Frederickson came with them towards Sharpe.

Sweet William looked dreadful. He had taken the patch from his eye, and the false teeth from his mouth. It was a face from a nightmare, a face that would terrify any child, but it was a face that was smiling as he approached Sharpe. ‘Do we have them, sir?’

‘Yes!’ Frederickson’s sabre was bloodied. He flexed it, wanting to use it again, and watched as his men burst open doors and shouted at men and women to surrender. One man hopped down the cloister, his right leg in his trousers, his left leg caught at the ankle, and he turned ludicrously as Riflemen blocked his way only to find Riflemen behind him. He rolled over the balustrade, dropped into the courtyard, and hobbled away towards an archway on the far side.

One of Frederickson’s Lieutenants blew long blasts on his whistle, then shouted over the cloister. ‘All secure, sir!’

Frederickson looked at Sharpe. ‘Which way down?’

‘In there.’ Sharpe pointed at the gallery. There had to be another way down, but he had not seen it. ‘One section to guard the gallery.’

‘Sir.’ Frederickson was already moving, his mutilated face eager for more fighting. Sharpe followed him and slapped Harper on the shoulder. ‘Come on!’

Now it was a romp, a riot, a headlong charge down the stairs, a yelling pursuit of the enemy who had crowded through the archway across the cloister, a sabre-hacking, sword-swinging fight at the arch itself, a crash as the seven-barrelled gun cleared the few defenders from the room within, and the cloister echoed to the cries of children, the shouting of their mothers, and Riflemen rounded them up, herded them, and dragged men from hiding places.

Sharpe went through the arch, through the room, and he seemed to be in some kind of dark crypt, damp and freezing, and he shouted for light. A Rifleman brought one of the straw and resin torches that burned in the outer room and it showed a huge, empty cave, another entrance opposite. ‘Come on!’

There was a current of air blowing towards them, shivering the torch flame, and Sharpe knew these rooms must lead to the blanket covered hole that looked out onto the lip of the pass. If there was a gun there, and he knew the Spanish garrison had possessed four guns, then there would be powder there, and a defender could just be lighting a fuse that would bring flame and destruction billowing into this crypt. ‘On! On! On!’ He led the way, sword out, boots pounding on the cold stones, and the flame-light showed that he had charged into a strange passageway and that his shoulders were brushing against curiously rounded yellow-white stones that reached from floor to ceiling.

The gun was there, abandoned by Pot-au-Feu’s men, pointing at the gaping hole that had been prised out of the Convent’s thick wall. The rammer leaned against the dirty barrel, next to it a powder scoop and a ripper or ‘wormhead’, the giant corkscrew used to pull out a damp charge. Sharpe could see roundshot, canister, both piled up against the curious white walls that opened up into the space where the gun had been put.

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