Sharpe ran with the leading cart and bellowed at Fusiliers. ‘Clear that gate! Hurry!’
Frederickson, reliable Frederickson, pushed past the men struggling with the cart. ‘Lancers, sir. Green uniforms, red facings. There’s only a dozen.’Green and red?’
‘Imperial Guard, I think. Germans.’ Sharpe looked towards the village, but could see nothing. The valley floor fell beyond Adrados before turning right, turning south, and if he could not see them then they could not see the odd carts that were at last moving behind him into the Castle courtyard. German lancers. Men recruited from the duchies and small kingdoms that had allied themselves to Napoleon. There were far more Germans fighting against the Emperor than for him, but they were alike in one thing; they fought as well as any man on a battlefield. Sharpe looked for Gilliland. ‘Hide your men in the stable, d’you hear me? Hide them!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Gilliland was appalled by the sudden urgency. His war, till now, had been a patient matter of angles and theories; suddenly death was just beyond the horizon.
‘Where’s your Company?’ Sharpe turned back to the Rifle Captain.
‘On their way, sir.’ Frederickson nodded towards the Riflemen threading the thorn bushes. ‘Ten minutes and they’ll all be there.’
‘I’ve ordered a Company of Fusiliers up there as well. I’ll send another. Just make sure of one thing.’
`Sir?’
‘Your Commission dates before theirs.’
Frederickson grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’ Whichever Captain had been promoted to the rank first would be in charge of the watchtower garrison, and Sharpe had no wish for this one-eyed fighter to be under anyone’s command but his own. Frederickson would lie for him.
‘And William?’ It was the first time he had used his Christian name.
‘Try Bill, sir.’
‘Assume we’ll have to fight eventually. That means you’ll be holding that hill.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sweet William went happily away with the promise not just of a fight, but his very dwn personal fight. Some officers hated responsibility, but the best welcomed it, wanted it, and would take it whether it was offered or not.
Now there were a dozen things for Sharpe to do. A second Company had to be despatched to the watchtower, Riflemen must be sent to the Convent, ammunition must be taken from Gilliland’s carts and distributed as ready magazines about all the positions. He found Cross’s bugler, then two Ensigns of the Fusiliers, and made them into his own messengers, and all the while fools came to him with problems they could have solved without his help. How was food to be taken to the watchtower? What about the packs left in the Convent? The rope that took water from the well in the keep was broken, and Sharpe snapped, cajoled, decided, and all the time watched the village for the first sight of the enemy horsemen.
Sergeant Harper, stolid and calm, walked to where Sharpe stood on the rubble of the mined wall and in one hand he carried a hunk of bread topped with meat and in the other a skin of wine. ‘Lunch, sir. Bit late.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Yes, sir.’
God, he was hungry! It was cold lamb and the butter on the bread was fresh and he bit into it and it tasted like heaven. A Fusilier Sergeant approached and wanted to know if the Castle gate should be blocked again, and Sharpe said no, but to keep the cart close, and then another man asked if they could bury Kinney in the very mouth of the pass where the grave would look for ever out to the green and brown hills of Portugal, and Sharpe said yes, and still the French cavalry loitered out of sight. Frederickson’s men were at the tower, thank God, and Brooker had two Fusilier Companies following him, and Sharpe watched as a third Company set out for the Convent and he began to relax. A start had been made. The wine was cold and harsh.
He walked into the Castle courtyard and ordered the low wall pulled down and the stones used to block the stairway beside the stables that led to the western ramparts. He finished the lamb, licking the crumbs and grease from his hand, and then there was an imperious shout from the Castle gateway.