‘No, sir.’ The Corporal spat tobacco juice through the doorway. The door had gone and the three rifles looked over a crude barrier of charred timbers. ‘One of’em got all upset, sir, ’bout an ‘our ago.’
‘Upset?’
‘Yessir. ‘E was ‘ollering an’ shoutin’, sir, makin’ aggravation. Wanted clothes ‘e said. Said they wasn’t animals an’ all that kind of rubbish, sir.’What happened?’Cap’n Frederickson shot ‘im, sir.’ Sharpe looked at the Corporal curiously. ‘Just like that?’
‘Yessir.’ The man smiled happily. `E don’t take no nonsense, the Cap’n, sir.’
Sharpe smiled back. ‘Nor should you. If anyone else gives you trouble, just do the same thing.’
‘Yessir.’
Frederickson had been busy, and evidently still was for a cheer came from his Company that manned the roof about the inner cloister. Sharpe climbed the stairs again, then the ramp that went from the upper gallery. There he saw why the men had cheered.
A flag had been raised. It was a makeshift flagpole, nailed together, and because there was not a breath of wind on this cold, Christmas morning, Frederickson had ordered a cross-piece hammered into the staff on which the flag had been hung. It was the signal which would tell the Fusiliers that the rescuers had succeeded, that they could climb the pass, and Sharpe had assumed that he would simply hang the flag over the edge of the building. The flagpole was a much better idea.
Frederickson had come to this part of the roof and looked up at the flag. ‘Doesn’t look the same, sir.’
‘The same?’
‘The Irish bit.’
When the Act of Union had been passed, indissolubly joining Ireland to England as one nation, a diagonal red cross had been added to the Union flag. For some people, even after eleven years, it still looked strange. For others, like Patrick Harper, it was still offensive. Sharpe looked at the Captain. ‘I hear you shot a prisoner.’
‘Was I wrong?’
‘No. You just saved a Court-Martial ordering the same thing.’
‘It seemed to pacify them, sir.’ Frederickson said it mildly, implying he had done the prisoners a service.
‘Have you slept?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Get some. That’s an order. We might need you later on.’
Sharpe wondered why he had said that. If all went to plan the Fusiliers would relieve him within hours and the Rifles’ job would be done. Yet an instinct needled him. Perhaps it was those strange horsemen in the dawn, or perhaps it was nothing more than the unaccustomed responsibility of leading nearly two hundred men. He yawned, rubbed the bristles on his chin, and hunched himself closer inside the greatcoat.
A cat walked on the tiles of the shallow-pitched roof, disdaining the Riflemen who crouched beneath the low stone parapet. It walked to the ridge of the tiles, sat, and began to wash its face with cuffing paws. Its shadow was long on the pink tiles.
Across the valley the shadow of the watchtower stretched towards the Castle. The two buildings were five hundred yards apart, the watchtower a good hundred and fifty feet higher, and between the two was a small, steep, thorn-covered valley. The mist was clearing from the smaller valley, showing the bare thorns touched with frost, revealing a small sparkling stream. Men still guarded the Castle and watchtower, and that was strange. Did Pot-au-Feu think that once the hostages were rescued his enemies would simply march away?
To the west the hills of Portugal were touched by the flame gold of the sun, their valleys black and grey, streaked with white mist, while the horizon was still smoky with night. The landscape looked crumpled, as if it needed to stretch and waken up. In the far valleys it would still be night.
Sharpe walked along the rooftop until he was at the northern parapet, lightly guarded, and he sat on the tiles and looked left towards the pass. No sign of the Fusiliers, but it was early yet.
‘Sir?’ A German voice behind him. ‘Sir?’ He turned. The man was offering him a cup of tea. The Germans had taken the habit from the British and, like them, carried the leaves loose in their pockets. One good rainstorm could ruin a week’s supply. ‘Yours?’
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