The Sergeant pointed to the head. ‘Rest of him’s over the wall, sir. Poor wee thing.’
Lossow swore in German, stood up, flinched as he put his weight on his left leg. Sharpe looked at him. ‘Are you – hurt?’
‘Just a bruise.’ Lossow saw the midshipman’s head. ‘Good God.’ He knelt by Charles, felt for a pulse, and opened one of the Captain’s eyelids. ‘Dead, poor fellow.’
Harper looked over the ramparts, at the drifting smoke. ‘Just four shots. That’s good shooting.’ There was a reluctant respect in his voice.
Lossow stood up, wiped blood from his hands. ‘We must get out of here!’
Sharpe turned to him. ‘We must persuade Cox to let us out.’
‘Ja. Not easy, my friend.’
Harper kicked the fallen beam. ‘Perhaps they can rig another telegraph, sir?’
Sharpe shrugged. ‘And who works it? Maybe, I don’t know.’ He glanced at the battery, its embrasure plugged, and he knew that the French gunners would be celebrating. They deserved it. He doubted if the gun would fire again, not today; the iron barrels had a limited life and the gun had achieved its purpose. ‘Come on. Let’s see Cox.’
‘You don’t sound hopeful, my friend?’
Sharpe turned round, blood flecking his uniform, and his face grim. ‘We’ll get out. With or without him, we’ll get out.’
CHAPTER 20
Light, like carved silver, slashed the cathedral’s gloom, slanted across the crouching grey pillars, splintered o(T brass and paint, drowned the votive candles that burned before the statues, inched its way over the broad, worn flagstones as the sun moved higher, and Sharpe waited. A priest, lost in the depths of the choir, mumbled beyond the window light, and Sharpe saw Harper cross himself.
‘What day is it?’
‘Sunday, sir.’
‘Is that Mass?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You want to go?’
‘It’ll wait.’
Lossow’s heels clicked in the side aisle; he came from behind a pillar, blinked in the sunlight. ‘Where is he?’ He disappeared again.
Christ, thought Sharpe, Christ and a thousand deaths. Damn the bloody French, damn the bloody gunner, and he might as well have stayed in the warm bed with his arms round the girl. Footsteps sounded in the doorway and he swivelled anxiously, but it was only a squad of bare-headed Portuguese soldiers, muskets slung, who dipped their fingers in the holy water and clattered up the aisle to the priest and his service.
Cox had not been at his headquarters; he was on the ramparts, they were told. So the three had hurried there and Cox had gone. Now he was said to be visiting the magazine, so they waited, and the light shaped the dust into silver bars and the muffled responses got lost somewhere in the high stone ceiling, and still Cox had not arrived. Sharpe slammed his scabbard on the floor, hurting his shoulder, so he cursed again.
‘Amen to that, sir.’ Harper had infinitely more patience.
Sharpe felt ashamed. This was Harper’s religion. ‘I’m sorry.’
The Irishman grinned. ‘Wouldn’t worry, sir. It doesn’t offend me and if it offends Him then He’s plenty of opportunity to punish you.’
I’m in love with her, Sharpe thought, God damn and blast it. And if they were delayed another night, that would mean another night, and if it were a week, another week, but they had to move, and soon, for within two days the French would tie Almeida in a ring of earthworks and infantry. But leaving Almeida meant leaving her, and he hacked down again with the scabbard so that Lossow reappeared.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing.’
Just one more night, he thought, and he lifted his eyes up to the huge rood that hung in the grey shadows. Is that so much to ask? Just one more night, and we can leave at dawn tomorrow. Dawn is the time to say goodbye, not dusk, and just one more night? There was the creak of the cathedral door, the rattle of heels, and Cox came in with a crowd of officers.
Sharpe stood up. ‘Sir!’
Cox appeared not to hear him and headed straight over the floor towards the crypt steps, the chatter of his officers smothering the muted drone of the Mass at the far end of the cathedral.