Sharpe's Enemy (17 page)

The Sergeants repeated the call about the rooftop and Sharpe turned towards the ramp Cross had built and thought of breakfast and a shave.

‘Sir!’ A Rifleman called to him from twenty paces away. ‘Sir!’ He was pointing east, direct into the brilliance of the new sun. ‘Horsemen, sir!’

God damn it, but the sun made it impossible. Sharpe made a slit with his fingers and peered through and he thought he saw the shapes riding on the valley’s side, but he could not be certain. ‘How many?’

One of Cross’s Sergeants guessed three, another man four, but when Sharpe looked again the shapes had gone. They had been there, but not now. Pot-au-Feu’s men? Scouting an eastward retreat? It was possible. Some of the prisoners had spoken of raiding Partisans, seeking vengeance for Adrados, and that was possible too.

Sharpe stayed on the roof because of the horsemen, but the dawn showed no more movement, in the east. Behind him there were warning shouts as men carried bowls of hot water from the makeshift kitchens. The men not on guard started shaving, wishing each other a Happy Christmas, teasing the women who had elected to join their conquerors and who now mixed with the Riflemen as if they had always belonged. This morning was a fine morning for a soldier. Only the detail who had to climb the hill to fetch the packs from the gully were grumbling about work.

Sharpe turned to see them leave and was intrigued by a strange sight in the courtyard of the upper cloister. A group of Riflemen were tying strips of white cloth to the bare hornbeam that had broken through the tiles. They were in fine spirits, laughing and playful, and one man was hoisted piggy-back onto a comrade’s shoulders so he could put an especially large ribbon on the topmost twig. Metal glinted on the bare twigs, buttons perhaps, cut from captured uniforms, and Sharpe did not understand it. He went down the narrow ramp and beckoned Cross to him. ‘What are they doing?’

‘They’re Germans, sir.’ Cross gave the explanation as if it answered all Sharpe’s puzzlement.

‘So? What are they doing?’

Cross was no Frederickson. He was slower, less intelligent, and far more fearful of responsibility. Yet he was fiercely protective towards his men and now he seemed to think that Sharpe disapproved of the oddly decorated tree. ‘It’s a German custom, sir. It’s harmless.’

‘I’m sure it’s harmless! But what the devil are they doing?’

Cross frowned. ‘Well it’s Christmas, sir! They always do it at Christmas.’

‘They tie white ribbons on trees every Christmas?’

‘Not just that, sir. Anything. They usually like an evergreen, sir, and they put it in their billet and decorate it. Small presents, carved angels, all kinds of things.’

‘Why?’ Sharpe still watched them, as did men of his own Company, who had not seen anything like it.

It seemed that Cross had never thought to ask why, but Frederickson had come into the upper cloister and heard Sharpe’s question. ‘Pagan, sir. It’s because the old German Gods were all forest Gods. This is part of the winter solstice.’

‘You mean they’re worshipping the old Gods?’

Frederickson nodded. ‘You never know who’s in charge up there, do you?’ He grinned. ‘The priests say that the tree represents the one on which Christ will be crucified, but that’s bloody nonsense. This is just a good old-fashioned offering to the old Gods. They’ve been doing it since before the Romans.’

Sharpe looked at the tree. ‘I like it. It looks good. What happens next? Do we sacrifice a virgin?’

He had spoken loud enough for the men to hear him, to laugh, and they were pathetically pleased because Major Sharpe had liked their tree and had made a joke. Frederickson watched Sharpe go into the inner cloister and the one-eyed Captain knew what Sharpe did not know; he knew why these men had fought last night instead of deserting to their comfortable, lascivious enemy. They were proud to fight for Sharpe. It made a man good to match up to high standards, and when those standards led to victory and approval then the men would follow always. God help the British army, Frederickson thought, if the officers ever despised the men.

Sharpe was tired, cold, and he had not shaved. He walked slowly around the upper cloister, down the stairs, and found the large, chill room where Frederickson had put the naked prisoners. Three Riflemen guarded them and Sharpe nodded to a Corporal. ‘Any trouble?’

‘No, sir.’ The Corporal spat tobacco juice through the doorway. The door had gone and the three rifles looked over a crude barrier of charred timbers. ‘One of’em got all upset, sir, ‘bout an ’our ago.‘

‘Upset?’

‘Yessir. ’E was‘ollering an’ shoutin’, sir, makin’ aggravation. Wanted clothes ‘e said. Said they wasn’t animals an’ all that kind of rubbish, sir.’

‘What happened?’

‘Cap’n Frederickson shot ’im, sir.‘

Sharpe looked at the Corporal curiously. ‘Just like that?’

‘Yessir.’ The man smiled happily. “E don’t take no nonsense, the Cap‘n, sir.’

Sharpe smiled back. ‘Nor should you. If anyone else gives you trouble, just do the same thing.’

‘Yessir.’

Frederickson had been busy, and evidently still was for a cheer came from his Company that manned the roof about the inner cloister. Sharpe climbed the stairs again, then the ramp that went from the upper gallery. There he saw why the men had cheered.

A flag had been raised. It was a makeshift flagpole, nailed together, and because there was not a breath of wind on this cold, Christmas morning, Frederickson had ordered a crosspiece hammered into the staff on which the flag had been hung. It was the signal which would tell the Fusiliers that the rescuers had succeeded, that they could climb the pass, and Sharpe had assumed that he would simply hang the flag over the edge of the building. The flagpole was a much better idea.

Frederickson had come to this part of the roof and looked up at the flag. ‘Doesn’t look the same, sir.’

‘The same?’

‘The Irish bit.’

When the Act of Union had been passed, indissolubly joining Ireland to England as one nation, a diagonal red cross had been added to the Union flag. For some people, even after eleven years, it still looked strange. For others, like Patrick Harper, it was still offensive. Sharpe looked at the Captain. ‘I hear you shot a prisoner.’

‘Was I wrong?’

‘No. You just saved a Court-Martial ordering the same thing.’

‘It seemed to pacify them, sir.’ Frederickson said it mildly, implying he had done the prisoners a service.

‘Have you slept?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Get some. That’s an order. We might need you later on.’

Sharpe wondered why he had said that. If all went to plan the Fusiliers would relieve him within hours and the Rifles’ job would be done. Yet an instinct needled him. Perhaps it was those strange horsemen in the dawn, or perhaps it was nothing more than the unaccustomed responsibility of leading nearly two hundred men. He yawned, rubbed the bristles on his chin, and hunched himself closer inside the greatcoat.

A cat walked on the tiles of the shallow-pitched roof, disdaining the Riflemen who crouched beneath the low stone parapet. It walked to the ridge of the tiles, sat, and began to wash its face with cuffing paws. Its shadow was long on the pink tiles.

Across the valley the shadow of the watchtower stretched towards the Castle. The two buildings were five hundred yards apart, the watchtower a good hundred and fifty feet higher, and between the two was a small, steep, thorn-covered valley. The mist was clearing from the smaller valley, showing the bare thorns touched with frost, revealing a small sparkling stream. Men still guarded the Castle and watchtower, and that was strange. Did Pot-au-Feu think that once the hostages were rescued his enemies would simply march away?

To the west the hills of Portugal were touched by the flame gold of the sun, their valleys black and grey, streaked with white mist, while the horizon was still smoky with night. The landscape looked crumpled, as if it needed to stretch and waken up. In the far valleys it would still be night.

Sharpe walked along the rooftop until he was at the northern parapet, lightly guarded, and he sat on the tiles and looked left towards the pass. No sign of the Fusiliers, but it was early yet.

‘Sir?’ A German voice behind him. ‘Sir?’ ,

He turned. The man was offering him a cup of tea. The Germans had taken the habit from the British and, like them, carried the leaves loose in their pockets. One good rainstorm could ruin a week’s supply. ‘Yours?’

‘I have more, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

Sharpe took it, cradled it in his gloved hands, and watched the German go back towards the flag. The cloth was beaded with moisture. The sun shone through the thin material. Something to fight for.

The mist still flowed soft down the pass, spilling like water, and Sharpe sipped the hot tea and was grateful to be alone. He wanted to stare at the great unfolding beauty of the dawn, the light spreading across Portugal beneath a sky that was vast and streaked with the cloud remnants of the night. More cloud threatened in the north, dark cloud, but this day would be fine.

He heard the footsteps on the roof and he did not turn round for he did not wish to be disturbed. He looked to his right, pointedly away from the footsteps, and watched the work-party coming down the steep path between the thorns with the packs tied to their rifles.

‘Richard?’

He turned back, scrambling to his feet. ‘Josefina.’

She smiled at him, a little nervous, and her face was swathed by the silver-fur of her dark green cloak hood. ‘Can I join you?’

‘Yes, do. Aren’t you cold?’

‘A bit.’ She smiled at him. ‘Happy Christmas, Richard.’

‘And to you.’ He knew the Riflemen on the huge, wide roof would be looking at them. ‘Why don’t you sit.’

They sat two feet apart and Josefina drew the thick, furred cloak about her. ‘Is that tea?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I have some?’

‘And live, you mean?’

‘I’ll live.’ She held a hand out of her cloak and took the tin mug from him. She sipped, made a face. ‘I thought you might come back last night.’

He laughed. ‘I was busy.’ He had been to see the hostages to find three Lieutenants paying court to them. Sharpe had not stayed long, only long enough to hear assurances that they had not been harmed, and to assure them that they would be returned to their husbands. All of them, curiously, had been concerned about the fate of the men who had held them hostage, and Sharpe had taken a list of names of those men who had been kind to the women. He had promised he would try and save them from execution. He grinned at Josefina and took the tea back. ‘Would I have been welcome?’

‘Richard!’ She laughed, her nervousness gone because Sharpe’s voice indicated approval of her. ‘Do you remember when we met?’

‘Your horse had lost a shoe.’

‘And you were all grumpy and disagreeable.’ She held a hand out for the tea. ‘You were very earnest, Richard.’

‘I’m sure I still am.’

She made a face at him, blew on the tea, and sipped at the cup. ‘I remember telling you that you’d become a Colonel and be horrid to your men. It’s coming true.’

‘Am I horrid to them?’

‘The Lieutenants are frightened of you. Except for Mr Price, but then he knows you.’

‘And no doubt wanted to know you?’

She smiled happily. ‘He tried. He’s like a puppy. Who’s the frightening Captain with one eye?’

‘He’s an English Lord, he’s terribly rich, and he’s very very generous.’

‘Is he?’ She looked at him, interest quickening in her voice, and then she saw he was teasing. She laughed.

‘And you’re Lady Farthingdale.’

She made a shrugging motion beneath her cloak as if to indicate that it was a strange world. She sipped the tea, then offered it to Sharpe. ‘Was he worried about me?’

‘Very.’

‘Truly?’

‘Truly.’

She stared at him with interest. ‘Was he truly very worried?’

‘He was truly very worried.’

She smiled happily. ‘How nice.’

‘He thought you were being raped daily.’

‘Not once! That strange “Colonel” Hakeswill made sure of that.’

‘He did?’

She nodded. ‘I told him that I’d come here to pray for my mother, which was sort of true.’ She laughed. ‘Not really, but it worked for Hakeswill. No one could touch me. He used to come and talk to me about his mother. Endless talks! So I kept telling him that mothers were the most wonderful things in the world, and how lucky his mother was to have a good son like him, and he couldn’t hear enough!’ Sharpe smiled. He knew of Hakeswill’s devotion to his mother, and he knew that Josefina could not have stumbled on a better protection than to appeal to that devotion.

‘Why did you come here?’

‘Well, my mother is ill.’

‘I didn’t think you liked her.’

‘I don’t. She doesn’t approve of me, but she is ill.’ She took the tea from Sharpe, finished it, and put the tin mug on the parapet. She looked at the Rifleman and grinned. ‘The truth is I wanted to go away for a day.’

‘By yourself?’

‘No.’ She drew the word out reprovingly, suggesting he knew her better than that. ‘With a delicious Captain. But Augustus insisted another one came along as well, so it would all have been very difficult.’

Sharpe grinned. Her eyelashes were impossibly long, her mouth indecently full. It was a face that promised every comfort. ‘I can understand why he worries about you.’

She laughed at that, then shrugged. ‘He’s in love with me.’ She made the word ‘love’ ironic.

‘And you with him?’

‘Richard!’ She reproved him again. ‘He’s very kind, and he’s very, very rich.’

‘Very, very, very rich.’

‘Even richer.’ She smiled. ‘Anything I want! Anything! He tries to be strict with me, but I won’t let him. I locked the door on him for two nights and I haven’t had any trouble since.’