The Battalion’s orders, given to Girdwood, but taken by Sharpe, instructed the Prince of Wales’ Own Volunteers to attack behind two other Battalions. The first two Battalions would take the outworks, clear the first trenches, and let the Prince of Wales’ Own Volunteers go through them for the task of finishing the job. Sharpe’s men were to scour the last defences and take the pinnacle, the last fortress. To the right and left of the enemy hill were others, crowned by similar works, to be screened or attacked by other Battalions. By nightfall, if all went well, the road out of the mountains would be cleared and France, with its full barns and winter pastures, would be at Wellington’s disposal.
Sharpe scraped the razor over his skin without benefit of hot water. He flinched, then stolidly scraped on. ‘I’m giving you a special squad, Patrick.’
‘Special, sir?’
Sharpe dipped the blade into the icy, dirty water that had already been used by nine other officers. ‘We can’t make a formal bloody assault on that place. Too many god-damn rocks.’ It would be like threading through a maze of ditches and walls that would tear a tight formation into ruin. ‘We’re going in two columns, Light and Grenadier Companies leading, but I’m giving you your own squad. Go in the centre, and if you see either column in trouble, go in on their flank. Don’t wait for my orders, just keep going.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Harper grinned happily. He liked such independence. ‘Can I pick my men, sir?’
‘I’ve already done it.’ Sharpe wiped his face on his officer’s sash. ‘O’Grady, Kelleher, Rourke, Callaghan, Joyce, Donnell, the Pearce brothers, O’Toole, Fitzpatrick, and Halloran.’ He looked at Harper’s wide grin. ‘And I thought perhaps you ought to take an extra sergeant. Just to help you.’
‘And who might that be, sir?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sharpe pulled on his old jacket and began to button it. ‘Lynch, perhaps?’
‘I think the boys would be happy with that, sir.’
Sharpe gave an atrocious imitation of Harper’s Donegal accent. ‘Grand, Patrick, just grand. And would you be minding if I finished your tea?’
‘Whatever you want, sir.’ Harper laughed. ‘Christ, but it’s good to be back.’
At eight o’clock the Battalion was ordered down to the valley. They left the thin sunshine, going into shadow. The tracks, made by goats, forced the Companies to go in single file. Servants led their officers’ horses. Sharpe, like most of the veteran officers, had left his horse with the baggage.
He had bought himself a fine seven year old mare in England, replacing the cheap saddle horse he had bought on his second journey to Foulness. Jane Gibbons had named the mare Sycorax.
‘I can’t even spell it!” Sharpe had growled,
‘I suppose you’d call her Florence, or Peggotty.’ Jane stroked the mare’s nose. ‘Sycorax she is.’
‘Why Sycorax?’
‘She was a nasty witch with a pretty name. She was Caliban’s mother, and this is your horse.’ She laughed at him. ‘And it is a pretty name, Richard.’
So Sycorax she stayed, a sturdy, dependable beast with a witch’s name, bought with the proceeds of the diamonds.
Maggie Joyce was pouring the money from the diamonds into St Alban’s Street where it was converted into four per cent stock. Sharpe had taken some of the jewels back. Jane had necklaces, ear-rings, and bracelets that had once been worn by a Spanish Queen. Sharpe had also taken a second necklace, the fragile, beautiful piece of filigreed gold hung with pearls and diamonds, which he had wrapped, cased, and sent by special messenger to a London address.
The reply reached him the day before the Battalion sailed from Portsmouth. “Dear Major Sharpe, How can I possibly accept such a splendid Gift? With Gratitude and astonishment, of course. You are too Generous a man. Be lucky. Anne, Countess Camoynes.” There was a post-script. “You may see from the Public Papers that Lord Fenner has resigned. He no Longer has the Wealth to Sustain his position. For all Your Services, I will Remember you fondly, as I trust you will me for mine.”
The Battalion formed up in the valley. From above them, dulled by distance and the convex hill slope that hid the events from the waiting men, came the sound of muskets. Sharpe ordered the Colours uncased, the Colours of the First Battalion that were stained and shredded by war. He had been commanded to add the insignia of the three white feathers onto the Battalion’s badge, but there had not yet been time to put them on the flags. A wind, that carried the musket smoke into the upper air, rippled the heavy silks and stirred the yellow tassels. Cannon sounded, not British, but French mountain guns that guarded the rock fortresses. The new men looked nervously upwards, the veterans waited, and to Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood, who had dreamed so often of this moment when he would go into proper battle, the sounds seemed like a cacophony of hell and glory and trembling and death. He waited.