‘Good God. ‘ Major Forrest’s eyes widened as he stared at the rioting troops. ‘They’re animals! Just animals!’
Sharpe said nothing. There were few rewards for a soldier. The pay would make no man rich, and the battlefields that yielded booty were few and far between. A siege was the hardest fighting and soldiers had always regarded victory in a breach as reason for losing all discipline and taking their reward from the conquered fortress. And if the fortress was a city, so much the more loot, and if the inhabitants of the city were your allies, then that was bad luck; they were in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Life had always been like that, and always would, because this was ancient custom, soldiers’ custom. In truth Ciudad Rodrigo was not suffering much. There were, to Sharpe’s eyes, plenty of sober, disciplined troops who had not joined the riot and who would, by morning, have swept up the drunks, disposed of the corpses, and the city’s ordeal would soon end in alcoholic exhaustion. He looked round, trying to identify a hospital.
‘Sir! Sir!” Sharpe turned. It was Robert Knowles, who had been his Lieutenant till the previous year, but was now a Captain himself. The ‘sir’ was pure habit. ‘How are you?’
Knowles smiled in delight. He wore the uniform of his new Regiment. Sharpe gestured at Lawford’s body and the young Captain’s face fell. ‘How?’
‘A mine. ‘
‘Christ! Will he live?’
‘God knows. We need a hospital. ‘
‘This way. ‘ Knowles had entered the town through the smaller breach, attacked by the Light Division, and he led the party north, through the crowds, and into a narrow street. ‘I passed it on the way here. A convent. Crauford’s there. ‘
‘Wounded?’ Sharpe had thought Black Bob Crauford to be indestructible. The General of the Light Division was the toughest man in the army.
Knowles nodded. ‘Shot. It’s bad. They don’t think he’ll live. There. ‘ He pointed to a big, stone building which was topped by a cross and fronted by an arched cloister lit by bracketed torches. Wounded men were lying outside, tended by friends, while screams came from the upper windows behind which the surgeons were already at work with their serrated blades.
‘Inside!’ Sharpe pushed through the men in the doorway, ignored a nun who tried to stop him, and forced a path for the Colonel’s stretcher. The tiled floor was gleaming with fresh blood that looked black in the candlelight. A second nun pushed Sharpe aside and looked down at Lawford. Her eyes saw the gold lace, the torn elegance of the blood-stained uniform, and she rapped orders at her sisters. The Colonel was carried through an arched doorway to whatever horrors the surgeons would inflict.
The small group of men looked at each other, saying nothing, but on each face there were deep lines of tiredness and sorrow. The South Essex, that had achieved so much under Lawford’s leadership, was about to change. Soldiers might belong to an army, wear the uniform of a Regiment, but they lived inside a battalion and the commander of the Battalion made or broke their happiness. Their thoughts were all the same.
‘What now?’ Forrest was weary.
‘You get some sleep, sir.’ Leroy spoke brutally. ‘Parade in the morning, sir?’ Sharpe suddenly realized that Forrest was in command until the new man was appointed. ‘The Brigade Major will have orders.’
Forrest nodded. He waved a hand towards the doorway where Lawford had disappeared. ‘I must report this.’
Knowles put a hand on Forrest’s elbow. ‘I know where the Headquarters will be, sir. I’ll take you.’
‘Yes.’ Forrest hesitated. He saw a severed hand lying on the checkered tiles and he nearly gagged. Sharpe kicked the hand out of sight beneath a dark wooden chest. ‘Go on, sir.’
Forrest, Leroy, and Knowles left. Sharpe turned to Lieutenant Price and Sergeant Harper. ‘Find the Company. Make sure they have billets.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Price seemed shocked. Sharpe tapped him on the chest.
‘Stay sober.’
The Lieutenant nodded, then pleaded. ‘Half sober?’ ‘Sober.’
‘Come on, sir.’ Harper led Price away. There was no doubt about which man was in command.