‘Sir?’ It was Frederickson, emerging from a doorway. He held a hand up, motioning Sharpe to wait, while in his other he held his watch to the light of a torch.
‘Captain.-‘
Frederickson said nothing, just kept his hand up, stared at his watch, then, a moment later, he snapped the cover shut and smiled at Sharpe. ‘A happy Christmas to you, sir.’
‘Midnight?’
‘The very hour.’
‘And to you, Captain. And your men. A tot of brandy all round.’
Midnight. Thank God he had come early, or else Madame Dubreton would have been the butt of Hakeswill’s cruel game. Hakeswill. He had escaped, over to the Castle, and Sharpe wondered whether the deserters would still be there in the morning, or would they, knowing the game was up, flee in the dawn? Or perhaps they would try to retake the Convent while Sharpe’s men were still unfamiliar with the battleground.
It was Christmas Day. He stared up into the total darkness beyond the sparks that were whirled upwards by the fire. Christmas. The celebration of a Virgin giving birth, yet it was more than that, much more. Long before Christ was born, long before there was a church militant on earth, there had been a feast at midwinter. It celebrated the winter solstice, December 21st, and it was the lowest point of the year when even nature seemed dead and so mankind, with glorious perversity, celebrated life. The feast promised spring, and with spring would come new crops, new life, new births, and the feast held out the hope of surviving the barrenness of winter. This was the time of year when the flame of life burned lowest, when the dark nights were longest, and on this night Sharpe might be attacked in the Convent by Pot-au-Feu’s desperate men. At this time of the winter solstice the dawn could be a long, long time coming. He watched a Rifleman scramble onto the roof and, as he leaned down to take his gun from a colleague, the man laughed at some joke. Sharpe smiled. They would endure.
CHAPTER 10
Christmas morning. In England people would be walking frost-bright roads to church. In the night Sharpe had heard a sentry softly singing to himself ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’. It was the Methodist Wesley’s hymn, but the Church of England had nevertheless printed it in their Prayer Book. The tune had made Sharpe think of England.
The dawn promised a fine day. Light flared in the east, seeped into the valley and showed a landscape mysterious with ground fog. The Castle and Convent stood like towers at the entrance to a harbour containing white, soft water that flowed gently over the lip of the pass and spilt slowly towards the great mist-filled valley to the west. The Gateway of God was white, weird, and silent.
There had been no attack from Pot-au-Feu. Twice the picquets had fired in the night, but both were false alarms and there had been no rush of feet in the darkness, no makeshift ladders against the convent walls. Frederickson, bored with the enemy’s quiescence, had begged to be allowed to take a patrol across the valley and Sharpe had let them go. The Riflemen had sniped at the Castle and watch-tower, causing anger and panic in the defenders, and Frederickson had come back happy.
After the patrol’s return Sharpe had slept for two hours, but now the whole garrison stood to its arms as the dawn turned from grey danger into proper light. Sharpe’s breath misted before his face. It was cold, but the night was over, the hostages were rescued, and the Fusiliers would be climbing the long pass. Success was a sweet thing. On the ramparts of the Castle he could see Pot-au-Feu’s sentries, still at their post, and he wondered why they had not fled against the wrath they knew must be coming. The sun touched the horizon, red-gold and glorious, smearing the white mist pink, daylight in Adrados. ‘Stand down! Stand down!’
The Sergeants repeated the call about the rooftop and Sharpe turned towards the ramp Cross had built and thought of breakfast and a shave.
‘Sir!’ A Rifleman called to him from twenty paces away. ‘Sir!’ He was pointing east, direct into the brilliance of the new sun. ‘Horsemen, sir!’