Sharpe missed it all. For the first forty-five minutes he was with Harper in the Convent. It was impossible to move the gun without the French seeing their efforts, so Sharpe abandoned his hopes of mounting it in the Convent gateway. Instead he explored the cellars, climbing into a dirty, damp space beneath the floors of the chapel and store-rooms, and then he left Harper and a work party busy with materials captured from Pot-au-Feu. Sharpe would prepare a surprise or two in case they were needed.
Then he cut over the field, between the fraternising troops, and guided the horse slowly along one of the twisting paths that climbed to the watchtower. The thorns were thick, good protection, but the hill was far from the support of any troops in the Castle. Frederickson waved to him from the tower’s summit as Sharpe dismounted, gave the reins to a Rifleman, I then stood for a few seconds and looked at the position. It was good. The Spaniards had built earthern ramparts that faced the valley, and behind the ramparts were two of the four-pounder guns that dominated the steep slope of the hill to the north. To the west and to the east the slope was just as severe, just as thickly tangled with thorns, only to the south was the slope more gentle. Cursing Riflemen were hacking out another pit, readying it for one of the guns, and Sharpe saw with approval how Frederickson had ordered thorn bushes cut and placed on the southern slope as a barrier. One company of Fusiliers was still hacking at bushes, while the other formed a cordon to ward off Pot-au-Feu’s returning men.
Sharpe climbed the steps inside the tower, emerged onto the turret, and greeted Frederickson. The Rifle Captain was cheerful. ‘I hope the bastards make a fight of it, sir!’
‘You do?’
‘I could hold this place through Armageddon.’
‘You may have to.’ Sharpe grinned and rested his telescope on one of the crumbling ramparts. He stared long and hard at the village, seeing little, then panned it right where the valley wound about the hill before turning east again and disappearing. ‘How many have you seen?’
Frederickson fished a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it wordlessly to Sharpe. ‘Lancers, 120. Dragoons, 150. Infantry, 450.’ Sharpe grunted and gave it back. ‘Bit unbalanced, isn’t it.’ He stared eastward, the view magnificent, and he remembered now how the guns had ceased firing from the watchtower during the battle. The men up here must have seen the approaching French and taken fright, and doubtless the keep’s defenders had seen them, too, and spread panic amongst Pot-au-Feu’s men. The victory this morning, ragged as it already was, was diminished because the arrival of the French had dispirited the enemy. He looked where the turn of the valley carried the road out of sight. ‘I wonder what’s round the corner.’
‘I wondered about that, too. I sent a patrol up there, but we were turned back. It was very polite, but it was very firm`Vamos.’
‘So they must be hiding something.’ Frederickson scratched beneath the eye-patch. ‘I don’t trust the bastards one inch.’ He sounded cheerful.
‘Nor me. Have you seen any supplies?’
Frederickson shook his head. ‘Not a thing.’There’s more of them round the bloody corner.’ The French infantry had to eat, the horses of the cavalry would need forage, and so far Sharpe had seen no sign of the French supplies. To the south east, where the road turned away, he could see a group of Lancers trotting on the grass. ‘Did they turn you away?’
‘That’s them. Crawling all over that area.’ Frederickson shrugged. ‘Nothing I can do it about it, sir. No patrol of mine can outrun those bastards.
‘Send two men out tonight.’
‘Yes, sir. I hear we’re invited to dinner.’ Sharpe grinned. ‘You’re too ill to go. I’ll make your excuses for you.’ He talked for ten minutes, feeling the bitter cold seep back as the sun sank, and then he turned to go. He paused on the top step of the turret. ‘You don’t mind missing dinner?’
‘You’ll make it up to me.’ Frederickson sounded happy, the more Sharpe had talked the more imminent a fight seemed for the morrow, and tonight, while Sharpe dined, Frederickson had preparations to make, surprises to prepare.