Then Sharpe remembered. Ford had been the only Major with the Fusiliers, the second Major being on leave, and that meant Sharpe was senior officer. Except for Farthingdale. ‘Have you seen Sir Augustus?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Are you senior Captain?’
Brooker nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then I want one Company back in the Convent, and I want another sent to the watchtower, understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’ll find Riflemen there as well. And send someone to get those damned fools over here.’ Sharpe pointed to the Rocket Troop who were wandering curiously towards the village.
‘The prisoners, sir?’
‘In the dungeons, once they’re cleared up. Bring the ones from the Convent here, too. Strip them all.’
‘Sir?’
‘Strip them. Take their bloody uniforms off. They’ve disgraced them. And naked men find it hard to escape in this weather.’
Brooker nodded unhappily. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And get these men buried! You can use prisoners. They can stay dressed if they’re working outside. Do you have a surgeon with the Battalion?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Put him to work in the Convent. Move the wounded there.’ Sharpe turned to look at the first two squads of Frederickson’s Company going over the stones towards the watchtower five hundred yards away. Thank God for Riflemen. ‘Carry on, Captain. Then come and find me. We’re bound to have forgotten something.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Farthingdale. Where the hell was Farthingdale? Sharpe walked through the scattered stones towards the spot where he had seen the Colonel fall, but there was no red, gold and black uniform among the dead. Nor was Sir Augustus’ big bay horse lying in its own blood. Perhaps the Colonel still lived, in which case he was in command here, but where the hell was he?
A Lieutenant led another dozen Riflemen over the stones, but there were still some Greenjackets on the ramparts of the keep for a bugle suddenly startled the valley, a bugle blown from the topmost stone of the Castle, a bugle that sounded two quick calls. The first was nine notes long, the second just eight. ‘We have discovered the enemy.’
‘The enemy is cavalry’.
Sharpe stared at the ramparts. A face leaned out of an embrasure and Sharpe cupped his hands. ‘Where?’
A hand pointed eastwards.
‘What are they?’
‘Lancers! French!’
Another enemy had come to the Gateway of God.
CHAPTER 14
There was one priority in Sharpe’s head, just one, and he ran towards the Convent, arms waving, voice bellowing. ‘Captain Gilliland! Captain Gilliland!’
He pounded over the road and saw with relief that the horses were still in the traces of the carts. ‘Get them moving! Hurry!’
‘Sir?’ Gilliland was running from the Convent’s door. ‘Get this troop moving! Hurry! Into the Castle. Push that bloody cart aside, but hurry!’ Sharpe pointed to the ox cart that blocked the main gate of the Castle. Gilliland was still gaping at him. ‘For Christ’s sake, move!’
Sharpe looked at the artillerymen spread up the valley towards the village. He cupped his hands. ‘Gunners!’
He chivvied them, snapped at them, turned horses himself, and gradually the sense of urgency communicated itself to the men who had thought Christmas Day a day of rest. ‘Move, you bastards! It’s not a bloody funeral! Whip it up, man! Move!’
He was not fearing an attack by French cavalry. He guessed that the men on the keep had seen the advance scouts of a French force that had been sent to do what he had done last night; rescue the hostages. Now the three horsemen seen in the dawn made sense; they had been a patrol who had discovered that the work had been done for them, and doubtless the French now hoped to recover their own hostages under a flag of truce, but Sharpe still did not want them to see the strange carts and portable forge of the Rocket Troop. Perhaps he was right, and there would be no fight, or perhaps he was wrong. In which case the rockets, bundled inside their special cases on the long carts, would be the one surprise he could spring in this high valley. ‘Move it!’ Even if the French did see the carts they would have no idea of their purpose, but Sharpe wanted to take no chances. They would know there was something odd at the western end of the valley, and that something would give them caution. Surprise would be diluted.