A Rifle Sergeant grinned at Sharpe. ‘Naked, sir?’
‘Naked.’
Sharpe turned round and cupped his hands. ‘Captain Cross! Captain Cross!’ Cross had been detailed to capture the outer cloister, the chapel, and the storerooms.
‘He’s coming, sir!’ A shout from above.
‘Sir?’ Cross leaned over the balustrade.
‘Wounded? Killed?’
‘None, sir!’
‘Give the signal for Lieutenant Price to come up! Make sure your picquets know.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The signal was a bugle call from Cross’s bugler.
‘And I want men on the roof! Two hour duty only.’
`Yes, sir.’
‘That’s all, and thank you, Captain!’
Cross’s face smiled at the unexpected compliment. ‘Thank you, sir!’
Sharpe turned to Frederickson. ‘I need your men on the roof, too. Say twenty?’
Frederickson nodded. There were no windows m the Convent so any defence would have to be made over the parapet of the roof. ‘Loopholes in the walls, sir?’
‘They’re bloody thick. Try if you like.’
A Lieutenant came up, grinning broadly, and handed Frederickson a slip of paper. The Rifleman twisted it towards the firelight and then looked at the Lieutenant. ‘How bad?’
‘Not bad at all, sir. They’ll live.’
‘Where are they?’ The missing teeth made Frederickson’s voice sibilant.
‘Store-room upstairs, sir.’
‘Make sure they’re warm.’ Frederickson grinned at Sharpe. ‘The butcher’s bill, sir. Bloody light. Three wounded, no dead.’ The grin became wider. ‘Well done, sir! By God, I didn’t know if we could do it!’
‘Well done, yourself. I always knew we could.’ Sharpe laughed at the lie, then asked the question he had been wanting to ask ever since Frederickson had appeared in the Convent. ‘Where’s your patch?’
‘Here.’ Frederickson opened his leather pouch and took out the teeth and the eye-patch. He put them back in place, looking human again, and laughed at Sharpe. ‘I always take them off for a fight, sir. Scares the other side witless, sir. My lads reckon my face is worth a dozen Riflemen.’
‘Sweet William at war, eh?’
Frederickson laughed at the use of his nickname. ‘We do our best, sir.’
‘Your best is bloody good.’ The compliment felt forced and awkward, but Fredrickson beamed at it, had needed Sharpe’s praise, and Sharpe was glad he had said it. Sharpe turned away to look at the prisoners who were being forcibly stripped. Some were already naked. It would be hard to escape on a night like this without clothes. ‘Find somewhere for them, Captain.’
‘Yes, sir. What about them?’ Frederickson nodded towards the women.
‘Put them in the chapel.’ Whores and soldiers were an explosive mix. Sharpe grinned. ‘Find some volunteers and they can have a storeroom apiece. That’s the lads’ reward.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Frederickson would make sure some of the women volunteered. ‘That all, sir?’
My God, no! He had forgotten the most important thing! ‘Your four best men, Captain. Find their liquor store. Any man who gets drunk tonight sees me in the morning.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Frederickson left and Sharpe stood close to the fire, enjoying its warmth, and wondered what else had to be done. The Convent could be defended from the roof, its door well guarded, and the prisoners had been taken care of. A dozen of the deserters were wounded, three would never recover, and he must find a place for them. The women were disposed of, the children too, and the upper cloister would be like a brothel all night, but that was only fair to his men. A Christmas present from Major Sharpe. The liquor would be locked up. He must find food for his men.
The hostages. He must reassure them, make certain of their comfort, and he stared up at the hall gallery and laughed out loud. Josefina! Good God alive! Lady Farthingdale.
The last time he had seen Josefina she was living in comfort in Lisbon, her house terraced above the Tagus and filled with sunlight reflected from the river and framed by orange trees. Josefina Lacosta! She had jilted Sharpe after Talavera and run off with a Cavalry Captain, Hardie, but he had died. Josefina had run for Hardie’s money, abandoning Sharpe’s poverty, and she had always wanted to be rich. She had succeeded, too, buying the house with its terrace and orange trees in the rich Lisbon suburb of Buenos Ayres. He shook his head, remembering her two winters ago, when her house had been a languorous place where rich officers congregated and the richest vied for Josefina. He had seen her at a party, a small orchestra sawing away at violins in the corner, Josefina gracious as a queen among the dazzling uniforms that fawned on her, wanted her, and would pay the highest price for one night of La Lacosta. She had put on weight since Talavera and the weight had only made her more beautiful, though less to Sharpe’s taste, and she had been choosy; he remembered that. She had turned down a Guards Colonel who had offered her five hundred guineas for a single night, and had rubbed salt in that wound by accepting a handsome young Midshipman who only offered twenty. Sharpe laughed again, attracting a curious glance from a Rifleman who herded the deserters to their naked, cold prison. Five hundred guineas! The price Farthingdale had paid for her ransom! The most expensive whore in Spain or Portugal. And married to Sir Augustus Farthingdale? Who called her delicate! God in his heaven! Delicate! And with the highest connections? That was true, though not in the way Farthingdale had meant it, but then perhaps he was right. Josefina had been married and her husband, Duarte, had gone to South America at the beginning of the war. He had been of good family, Sharpe knew, and he had some sinecure with the Royal Portuguese family; Third Gentleman of the Chamberpot or some such nonsense. And how had Josefina snared Sir Augustus? Did he know of her past? He must. Sharpe laughed again out loud and turned towards the staircase they had discovered in the cloister’s south-west corner. He would pay his respects to La Lacosta.