Bernard Cornwell – 1812 10 Sharpe’s Enemy

Thomas Taylor, the American, jerked his rifle safely upwards. He grinned, knowing he had frightened Sharpe, then called over his shoulder. Frederickson appeared, sabre in hand, and his face showed astonishment and then pleasure. He ran down the rampart. ‘Was that you on the top?’

‘Yes.’

‘Christ! We thought it was enemy. Jesus! I thought you were dead, sir!’

Sharpe looked at the courtyard where Pot-au-Feu’s men made a desperate defence at the gateway to the keep. Otherwise it was chaos as Fusiliers took prisoners, searched them, and shouted triumphantly over their booty. ‘Who’s in charge?’

‘Damned if I know, sir.’

‘Farthingdale?’

‘Haven’t seen him.’

Sharpe could imagine what would happen if the Fusiliers reached the liquor that Pot-au-Feu undoubtedly had within the keep. He gave orders to Frederickson, shouted more to Captain Cross whose Riflemen now lined the eastern wall, and turned to Harper. ‘Let’s see if we can find that bloody gold we delivered.’

‘God! I’d forgotten it!’ The Sergeant grinned. ‘After you, sir.’

There was no resistance at the doorway that led from the ramparts into the keep. The Riflemen were already through, spreading out into the floors built about the keep’s central courtyard. Prisoners were dragged from hiding places, booted down steep winding stairs, and Sharpe could hear the screams of women and the cries of frightened children. Then, looking through a crumbled and widened arrow slit at the southern side of the keep, he swore.

‘Sir?’

‘Look.’

It was his fault. One patrol of Rifles in the early morning would have discovered that there was an escape into the hills direct from the keep. Sharpe could not see it, but he guessed that the stones had fallen from part of the lower wall, and he could see the remnants of Pot-au-Feu’s band scrambling through the thorns to the clearer turf of the hilltop. Scores of them; men, women and children, all escaping. He swore again. This was his fault. He should have scouted to the south.

Harper swore too, then pointed through the arrow-slit. ‘More lives than a basketful of bleeding cats.’

Hakeswill, mounted on a horse, the long neck easily visible as he spurred the horse onto the hilltop. Harper climbed out of the embrasure. ‘Won’t get far, sir.’

Most would not get far. The winter and the Partisans would see to that, but Hakeswill had gone, slipped out into the world where he would plan more evil. Harper still tried to gloss over the failure. ‘We must have got half of them, sir. More!’

‘Yes.’ It was a success, no doubt of that. Adrados would be seen to be avenged, the hostages had been rescued, the women captured on the Day of the Miracle had been saved, the priests who had preached Britain’s calumny from their pulpits would have to eat humble pie. It was a success. Yet Sharpe could see his enemy on the hilltop, an enemy who paused, turned in his saddle, then rode over the crest. ‘They’ll have taken the bloody gold with them.’Like as not.’

Shouts, musket shots, the noises of hunters and hunted still came from the castle rooms. Redcoats were running through the floors now, looking for loot or women, and Sharpe and Harper elbowed them aside as they went downstairs into the courtyard. A bellow attracted them and they saw Frederickson, sabre still drawn, threatening Fusiliers. He saw Sharpe and grinned. ‘Liquor’s in there, sir.’ He jerked his ghastly face at a door behind him. ‘Enough to get London drunk.’

Prisoners were herded into the corners of the yard, a repetition of the scene last night in the Convent, and Sharpe watched as Fusilier officers took control of their men. It was over, all done, a Christmas Day’s work. He looked at Frederickson who was marking the fight’s end by donning his eye-patch. ‘Anything else interesting?’

‘You should look in the cellars, sir. Something nasty in the dark.’

The darkness was lifted by straw torches carried by curious men into the dungeons of the Castle. It was a miserable place. One vast room, low vaulted, wet and freezing, and Sharpe pushed through the crowd of Fusiliers and stopped at the edge of the horror. He saw a Sergeant. ‘Don’t just stand there! Get a detail of prisoners. Get rid of this!’

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