Dubreton understood. Sharpe, too, had been protecting his honour, disassociating himself from Farthingdale’s decision, and the Frenchman had caught the message Sharpe had wished to convey. He held up a hand. ‘We shall pray that Sir Augustus’ health lasts the night, and in the morning, Major, we will know he has happily lived if we see that you have withdrawn.’
‘Yes, sir.’
They stayed a half-hour more then made their farewells. Soldiers brought horses to the door, officers pulled on cloaks or greatcoats and stood to one side to allow Josefina to mount her horse. Sir Augustus mounted beside her, pulled his hat low over the bandage, and looked at the British officers at the inn door. ‘All Company officers to my quarters in a half hour. All! That includes you, Sharpe.’ He raised a gloved finger to the tassel of his hat and nodded at Dubreton.
The French Colonel held Sharpe aside. ‘I will remember my debt to you, Sharpe.’
‘There’s no debt in my mind, sir.’
‘I’m a better judge.’ He smiled. ‘Are you going to fight us tomorrow?’
‘I shall obey orders, sir.’
‘Yes.’ Dubreton watched the first horses leave. He brought a bottle of brandy from behind his back. ‘To keep you warm on your march tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And a happy New Year, Major.’
Sharpe mounted and walked his horse after the receding officers. Harry Price hung back for him, fell in alongside, and when they were well out of earshot the Lieutenant looked at his tall Major. ‘Are we really going tomorrow morning, sir?’
‘No, Harry.’ Sharpe grinned at him, but the grin hid his real feelings. Many Riflemen and many Fusiliers, Sharpe knew, would never leave the high place in the hills that was called the Gateway of God. They had had their last Christmas.
CHAPTER 18
Christmas midnight. The mist clinging to stone and grass where the breeze had not yet taken it away, and the boot-heels of sentries were loud on the Castle ramparts. Flame flared in the courtyard. From below, the greatcoat-skirts of the patrolling sentries could have been the surcoats of armoured knights; their bayonets, catching the gleam of fire, the spearpoints of men who waited for Islam to attack in the dawn.
Sharpe held Teresa close. Two of her men waited in the Castle gateway, her horse moved restlessly behind her. ‘You have the message.’
She nodded, pulled away from him. ‘I’ll be back in two days.’
‘I’ll still be here.’
She punched him softly. ‘Make sure you are.’ She turned, mounted the horse, and pulled it towards the gateway. ‘Take care!’
‘We ride more at night than at day! Two days!’ And she was gone through the arch, turning westward to take the news of the hidden French troops to Frenada. Another parting in a marriage that was made of too many partings, and he listened to the fading hooves and thought that at the end of two days’ fighting there would be a reward.
He was late for Sir Augustus’ meeting, and he hardly cared. The decision that Sharpe had made would render anything Sir Augustus had to say meaningless. Sharpe would take over. He climbed the stairway in the gate-tower, laboriously cleared of the windlass, and walked the circuit of the battlements towards the keep.
Sir Augustus had a huge fire in his room, the wood crackling fiercely as the thorns burned. The chimney, the only one in the Castle, opened up on the ramparts.
Farthingdale paused as Sharpe entered. A dozen officers sat or stood in the room, even Frederickson had been fetched from the watchtower, and the eyes looked at Sharpe. Farth-ingdale’s voice was hostile. ‘You’re late, Major.’
‘My apologies, sir.’
Pot-au-Feu had furnished the room in barbaric splendour, rugs on walls and floor, even serving as heavy curtains, and the curtains moved to reveal Josefina. She came from the balcony, smiled at Sharpe, then leaned against the wall as Sir Augustus lifted the piece of paper in his hand. ‘I will recapitulate for those who could not be here on time. We leave at first light. The prisoners will go first, suitably dressed, and guarded by four Companies of the Fusiliers.’
Brooker nodded, making notes on a folded square of paper.