‘He’s babbling of green fields,’ d’Alembord said. ‘Or rather of white skins, which is not nearly so poetic. He’s gone mad.’
‘He can’t have!’
‘Lost his topsails completely.’ d’Alembord was wiping his sword blade. ‘He’s weeping, reciting poetry that I daren’t repeat to you, and gibbering like an idiot. If he was in Bedlam you’d pay tuppence to see him. Sergeant Major Harper is keeping the curious at bay, but I think he needs your attention, sir.’
‘What the hell am I supposed to do with him?’
‘If I were you, sir, I’d tie him up, turn him round, and send him to brigade. They’re used to mad colonels.’
Sharpe smiled. ‘Find out the bill for me, Dally, I’ll look at Girdwood.’
Bartholomew Girdwood was just as d’Alembord had described. He was piling shards of rock onto his thigh, sitting with tears running down his face, sometimes laughing, sometimes singing sad snatches of heroic poetry into the cold air.
‘Lieutenant Mattingley!’
‘Sir?’
‘You’ll need two men. Take him to brigade.’
‘Me, sir?’
‘You.’ Sharpe looked again at the Lieutenant Colonel who had persecuted the recruits at Foulness, who had believed himself a soldier among soldiers, a warrior who had craved the chance of one fight against the French. ‘You don’t need to tie him up. Treat him gently.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sharpe walked back towards the pinnacle, crowned now by his own Colours in the afternoon sun. The air still smelt of powder smoke and blood, the sobs of the wounded still sounded. He thanked Smith, Carline, and other officers. He stopped by wounded men and told them they would recover. He shouted for the bandsmen to hurry with their stretchers. d’Alembord, by the time Sharpe reached the pinnacle again, had come back with the butcher’s bill. Sharpe saw that the tall Captain looked unhappy. Tell me, Dally.’
‘Eleven dead, sir, forty-three wounded.’
‘Badly wounded?’
‘Twenty or so, sir.’
‘Officers?’
‘Captain Thomas is dead, sir,’ d’Alembord shrugged, ‘which means Harry gets his Company, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Price would be pleased, even though the promotion was because of a death. Sharpe was thinking that the bill was light. ‘Did we lose any sergeants?’
‘Just Lynch, sir.’ d’Alembord’s voice was disapproving.
‘Lynch?’
‘Torn apart, sir.’ d’Alembord’s eyes seemed to accuse Sharpe.
‘He must have been trapped by a dozen of the bastards, sir. He’s not a very fetching sight.’
‘He did deserve it, Dally.’
‘I was under the misapprehension that there were military courts, sir.’
Sharpe looked at the tall Captain, knowing he had deserved d’Alembord’s reproof. ‘Yes, you’re right.”
d’Alembord was embarrassed by Sharpe’s contrition. ‘But the Battalion fought well, sir, they fought damned well.’
‘Didn’t they?’ Sharpe was pleased at the compliment. ‘How did Weller do?’
d’Alembord smiled, relieved that the moment had passed. ‘Damned well, sir. He’ll make a fine soldier. And well done, sir.’
‘Thank you, Dally.’
Sharpe stood under the pinnacle, staring at the groups of men who moved about the scarred rock landscape and who cleared the dead and wounded before the carrion eaters flew from the winter skies. ‘Regimental Sergeant Major!’
‘Sir?’ Harper scrambled towards him.
‘Thank you for your efforts.’
‘It was nothing, sir.’
Sharpe had found an abandoned French canteen, filled with wine, and he took a mouthful. ‘The Colonel’s gone mad.’ He handed the canteen to Harper. ‘And I hear you lost Lynch?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Harper did not smile. ‘So it’s all over?’
‘And forgotten, Patrick. Tell your men they fought well.’
‘I will, sir.’
The army was already moving along the road that flanked the side of the hill. Sharpe could hear the thunder of the gun wheels going into France. He stared the other way, towards the distant peaks of Spain which, now that the sun had been shrouded by clouds, were darkly shadowed. He had a daughter there. He had fought more than five years in that country, in mountains and river valleys, in fortresses and city streets. Now he was leaving.
‘Sir!’
He looked left. Captain Smith was smiling idiotically, looking pleased with himself. Sharpe ran his cleaned sword into its scabbard.
He could see, where the road skirted the hillside, a group of four women whose horses’ bridles were held by Spanish servants.