‘Stay here.’ Helmut nodded. ‘Hagman, Roach. Stay with them. Come on, Sergeant.’
He stared over the Plaza before opening the small door that pierced the huge wooden gate into the cathedral. Was there a dark shape on the far side? Hovering by a corner of an alleyway? He suspected the Partisans were scouting the town, looking for him, but nothing would happen till they reached the dark warren of streets down the hill. He went inside.
The candles had come into their own, throwing small, wavering pools of yellow light on patches of the great stone vault. The tiny red glow of the eternal presence flickered at the far end, and Sharpe waited while Harper dipped a casual finger and crossed himself.
The Irishman stepped alongside Sharpe. ‘What are we doing, sir?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sharpe chewed his bottom lip, stared at the small lights, then walked towards the cluster of lanterns that marked the steps to the vault. More sentries stiffened as they approached and Sharpe waved them down. ‘Slippers, Sergeant.’
There was a small pile of ammunition by the head of the steps, put there for the soldiers who came to fetch it for the ramparts to save them the bother of pulling on the felt slippers. Sharpe guessed that about twenty men would work the magazine, bringing up the barrels, living their days in the damp, cold air of the cathedral’s underworld. Harper saw Sharpe staring at an opened bale of cartridges.
‘There’s more by that door, sir.’
‘More?’
Harper nodded, pointed at a door that flanked the great processional gates. ‘There, sir. Bloody great pile of cartridges. Did you want some?’
Sharpe shook his head, peered into the gloom, and saw that against the door there were a dozen bales of the paper cartridges. He guessed they were placed so that infantry battalions could replenish swiftly without getting in the way of the men who brought up the huge powder kegs. He turned back to the crypt. Planks had been laid down the stairs, two feet apart, so that the barrels could be rolled up easily.
‘Come on.’
They went down the stairs, into the intermittent light of the horn lanterns, and Sharpe saw that the rest of the garrison’s supply of small arms ammunition was now stacked either side of the vault, forming a corridor to the leather-curtained steps of the deep crypt. He padded down the corridor and knelt by the curtain. Two thicknesses of stiff leather, weighted at the bottom, a precaution in case there was a small explosion in the first vault. The stiff leather could soak up a minor blast, protect the massive dump of gunpowder beneath, and Harper watched, astonished, as Sharpe drew his sword and cut off the weights, clenching his teeth as he sawed through the leather.
‘What the hell, sir?’
Sharpe looked up at him. ‘Don’t ask. Where are the sentries?’
‘Upstairs.’ The Sergeant knelt beside him. ‘Sir?’
Sharpe stopped the desperate cutting, looked at the broad, friendly face. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
Harper was offended, even hurt, and he bent past Sharpe, took hold of the torn part of the curtain in one hand, the upper leather in the other, and pulled. As a demonstration of strength it was remarkable, the veins standing out in his neck, his whole body rigid with effort as the double-thick leather peeled apart, silently and slowly, and Sharpe helped it with the sword blade until, after thirty seconds, Harper leaned back with a grunt and in his hand was the separated bottom two inches of the curtain with its heavy lead weights sewn into the hem.
‘Of course I bloody trust you. Just tell me.’ The Irishman’s anger was real.
Sharpe shook his head. ‘I will. Later. Come on.’
Upstairs, taking off the slippers, Sharpe nodded at the candles.
‘Funny keeping them alight.’
Harper shook his head. ‘They’re a hell of a way from the vault, sir.’ His voice showed that he was slightly mollified, still insulted, but ready to be friendly. ‘Anyway. It’s what they call insurance, isn’t it?’
‘Insurance?’
‘Sure.’ The huge head nodded. ‘A few prayers never did any army any harm.’ He stood up. ‘Where now, sir?’