Chapter 8
Sharpe clattered down the spiral staircase, his sword scraping the rough-hewn walls as he skidded around the tight bend. He raced along the passageway fastening his jacket hurriedly in an effort to present an orderly face to the world, should he encounter Colonel Blake, or anyone else who might wonder at his being so far from his own quarters.
Captain Whiting emerged from a room at the end of the corridor, rubbing his face and peering blearily at Sharpe. "You're up with the lark, Major," he said, groping for the doorframe to keep his balance. "Damn me, but I don't think I can manage these late nights any more. Dining with the Colonel is a young man's game."
Sharpe heard Estella's voice, muffled with sleep, calling for Whiting to come back inside. "And a young woman's," the Captain added with a grin. Sharpe merely gazed at him blankly and strode on.
A further three flights of stairs brought him down to the infirmary where a handful of wounded lay in a row before the wide hearth at the end of the room. Sharpe regarded the huddled forms beneath their blankets outlined in the glow of a dying fire, and was reminded of his own good fortune in escaping both the surgeon's saw and an early grave. He stiffened as an icy blast of wind swept through the room. One of the wounded men groaned and shuddered. Somewhere a door slammed shut.
Sharpe experienced a sudden flash of memory; could picture himself lying wrapped in a blanket, there by the window, gritting his teeth against the pain that radiated from his heavily bandaged shoulder. Someone had been talking in his sleep. No, not so much talking as arguing. There had been an urgency to the man's muttering, as if pressing the case for… what exactly? Sharpe stared hard at the flagstones, willing himself to recall the jumble of words that had invaded his fevered brain.
His head jerked up. "Bastard!" He bolted from the room, almost flattening an orderly when they collided in the doorway. Hurtling through the narrow passageways, Sharpe cursed himself for not seeing what had been staring him in the face.
Once outside, it seemed that everyone was bent on obstructing his path. Sharpe shoved men roughly aside without apology. One or two Redcoats turned to remonstrate, but perceiving the Rifleman's rank and implacable expression, they shrugged and rolled their eyes. Just another officer in a hurry.
Moments later, Sharpe found himself in an unfamiliar alleyway beneath the massive walls of the Castillo's inner ward. He swore roundly and then raced back the way he had just come. Unnoticed by Sharpe, a figure hurriedly withdrew into the shadow of a gateway and watched the Rifleman out of sight. As Sharpe raced past them a second time, the Redcoats sensibly pressed themselves against the wall to allow the grim-faced Major clear passage.
"Harper! Where's Harris?"
Sergeant Harper regarded Sharpe over the rim of a steaming mug of tea. The Major was abrupt at the best of times, but this morning he seemed capable of biting the head off Lord Wellington himself. Harper gestured with the mug toward a low building at the far side of the courtyard, which the Quartermaster had taken as his storeroom.
"Gone to see O'Dwyer for powder and shot."
Sharpe glanced down at Harper's outstretched arm and plucked the mug from his hand, then with muttered thanks he strode off, tossing back the scalding liquid as he scanned the crowd outside O'Dwyer's door.
"Harris, what does couloir mean?"
Harris, startled at being dragged unceremoniously from his place in line, blinked at Sharpe's urgent tone.
"What? I mean, sorry, sir?"
"Couloir. It's a French word. Dammit man, you speak French. What's it mean?" Sharpe snapped.
"Um… it means 'passageway' …or 'corridor,' sir."
Sharpe grunted and pulled Harris toward a quieter corner. "And 'soldats' would be 'soldiers', right?"
Harris nodded slowly. "Yes. What's this about, sir?"
With a sigh Sharpe gestured for him to sit. "Bloody hell, Harris. I don't know if I heard this or if I just think I did."
"So you're saying there are secret passageways somewhere around here?" Dipping his head, Sergeant Harper blew on a second mug of tea and eyed Harris dubiously.
"Well, if I've translated what Major Sharpe overheard correctly, there would appear to be a network of tunnels beneath the Castillo itself where the French intend to gather and then launch an attack."
Sergeant Harper turned his sceptical gaze on Sharpe who shrugged, embarrassed. It had all made perfect sense when he'd been standing in the infirmary, recalling the sound of that insistent voice in the dark, but in the cold light of day, the very notion of secret passages seemed ludicrous. "He said it would be easy. Facile?" Sharpe offered, turning to Harris for confirmation.
"Très facile," Harris amended.
"Who's 'he'?" Harper asked.
"Hewlin," Sharpe snarled. "Major bloody Hewlin."
Private Poulter breathed deeply in an effort to persuade the tea that he had recently drunk to remain in his stomach and not come hurtling back up his throat, but in vain. He doubled over and retched miserably onto a clump of weeds at the base of the parapet. The tea reappeared, along with the hunks of twice-baked bread that had constituted breakfast. Poulter consoled himself with the thought that he had at least found a quiet corner so there were no witnesses to this embarrassing episode.
He straightened and drew a hand across his mouth, concentrating on the preparations being made in the courtyard. One or two officers had moved away from the men to walk the battlements alone, presumably to mull over some point of military strategy.
He thought it unlikely that anyone would think that he, Poulter, required solitude to consider such weighty matters. In both the encounter with the French on the banks of the Esla and more recently in the village, he had had little time to consider anything other than obeying the orders bawled at him by his commanding officer which were to keep firing his musket until told to do otherwise and try not to get himself killed.
Poulter recognised the officer, who strode the ramparts just below him, as Major Sharpe. He watched as the tall Rifleman put away his telescope and turned from his survey of the surrounding countryside to confer with his sergeant.
The Major now stood, arms folded, scanning the courtyard, his expression dark. Suddenly, he glanced upward, eyes narrowed. Poulter automatically followed the look and turned to study the soaring battlements of the Castillo's topmost reaches. He shaded his eyes against the sun, which rose behind the sand coloured walls, but could see nothing that might have attracted Major Sharpe's attention.
Poulter suddenly felt something thud into his stomach; a sharp, unexpected sensation. He looked down and discovered a face inches from his and a bayonet protruding from his uniform cross-belt. For a moment, both men stared at one another, then, grunting with the effort, the Frenchman tried to jerk the bayonet free, but found it stuck fast.
Stupefied, Poulter gaped at him. The French weren't supposed to be here in the Castillo. They had disappeared in a puff of smoke. He was sure of it.
Growling, the Frenchman twisted the bayonet and finally wrenched it free. Poulter gasped, staring as his blood spattered the flagstones. His attacker shoved him aside and walked on. Clutching his stomach, Poulter staggered backward and toppled over the parapet.
"Did your man say when the French would attack?"
Sharpe regarded Sergeant Harper narrowly. Had he been persuaded of the idea of subterranean passageways, or was the big Irishman merely humouring him? "I couldn't make it out," he said with a shrug. "It sounded as if he was trying to convince someone else to use the tunnels. He was excited, like he'd discovered something no one else knew about, the cunning bastard. But he was arguing with whoever it was. Maybe they thought it was too difficult. Or they didn't believe him."
Harper's eyebrow crept upward. Sharpe glared at it.
Something flickered at the edge of Sharpe's vision. He swung round.
"What was that?"
A Redcoat lay in a crumpled heap on the ground a few yards distant, the facings on his uniform dark with blood. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Harper exclaimed behind him. Sharpe looked back to find the Sergeant staring up at the battlements.
French troops were swarming along the ramparts above, swiftly taking up firing positions. Sharpe swore. It was obvious to him now that it must have been Hewlin who suggested to Colonel Blake that they occupy the Castillo and had fed ghost stories to the Quartermaster, whose embellishments had made the superstitious among them jumpy and disinclined to explore their temporary home.
"Rifles! To me!" Sharpe yelled as the first volley ripped from the battlements wreathing the wall in gunsmoke and shattering the peace. All around him, officers were barking orders, rallying their men, and casting about in desperation for some cover.
"Tirez!" The hoarse shout echoed around the battlements. There was a second spark of flame along the rampart and smoke blossomed from scores of muskets to rain fire on the men below.
Sharpe raced for the shelter of O'Dwyer's storeroom; saw Harper pounding across the courtyard ahead of him. He unslung his rifle as he ran and slammed into the doorway beside the Sergeant. Sharpe raised the weapon to his shoulder, his gaze raking the battlements in search of the French officer who must be directing the attack.
The French were all on foot. That was something to be thankful for. His Riflemen wouldn't be trampled and cut down by the slashing blades of dragoons, though Sharpe missed having an officer on horseback to aim at. Harper, tracking his own target voiced Sharpe's thought. "Even these cunning bastards couldn't make a horse go down into the cellars. Poor beasts have got more sense."
Sharpe edged cautiously away from the doorframe. Off to his right, Daniel Hagman calmly reloaded his weapon and took aim at a French soldier whose sword glinted in the morning sun. The rifle spat and jerked backward; a wisp of smoke hung in the air, and fifty yards away, the Frenchman gasped as the bullet caught him in the throat. The sword clattered to the ground.
"Nice one, Dan," Sharpe said, though the old poacher was too far away to hear.
The French soldiers now pounded down the stone steps to the courtyard.
"Vite! Vite!" A second Captain, his black moustache curled and waxed, bustled down the stairway, harrying his men to engage the enemy with all speed. The element of surprise had bought them some time, but the English were now forming up and returning fire.
Sharpe sighted his rifle on the French officer, irrationally offended by the man's jet mustachios, and squeezed off a shot. The bullet spun the man around and he staggered, lost his footing and pitched forward. Sharpe gave a satisfied grunt as the Frenchman's body crashed into a knot of infantrymen and sent them hurtling to the bottom of the steps like skittles, a tangle of limbs and muskets.
"Major Sharpe, sir!" Harper hissed urgently, close to his ear. "Over there. More of the buggers!"
The Sergeant jerked his head toward the massive stone gateway at their back. Dozens of the familiar pale blue uniforms were emerging from its dark recesses. Swiftly, Sharpe weighed his options. Keeping low, he ran toward one of the makeshift storerooms that dotted the courtyard. Harper joined him a few moments later. Looking about him, Sharpe could see that the Chosen Men had tucked themselves safely into whatever corners they could find and were patiently picking off Frenchmen, as only a phlegmatic Rifleman knew how.
"Popping up like blessed rabbits!" Harper exclaimed gleefully, as an enemy soldier poked his head above a weathered parapet, only to find himself face to face with the grinning Irishman. "Reminds me of the shooting gallery at the Lammas Fair, so it does!"
Sharpe offered the ghost of a smile as he reloaded. "Sorry to spoil your fun, Harps, but we can't stay here."
They couldn't hold the Castillo; that was certain. The building's rambling architecture made it impossible to keep the rest of the garrison in sight. Sharpe backed up to a low wall and glanced over his shoulder. A stairway led down into a narrow passageway. He slung his rifle and hooked a leg over the wall, gesturing for the others to follow.
The sound of their boots thudding on stone echoed in the confined space as Sharpe and his men hurried down the steps, the clash of steel and the crack of muskets becoming louder as they neared the gateway that led to the outer ward.
In open ground once more, Sharpe and Hewlin caught sight of each other almost immediately. A flicker of irritation crossed Hewlin's face as he glimpsed the familiar green-jacketed figure from across the courtyard. Sharpe watched as the Major turned to slash at an attacker, his sword blade whistling through the air to bite deep into the neck of a Frenchman who buckled and slid to the ground, blood pumping from an artery. Hewlin stepped over the twitching body and came toward Sharpe through the thick smoke smiling grimly.
"Ah, reinforcements, and not a minute too soon. Major Sharpe! Fighting fit once more I see."
No thanks to you, Sharpe thought. If Harper hadn't been at his side while he lay sick in the infirmary, no doubt Hewlin would have tried to finish what he had begun in Benavento. A knife wound in the back would have gone unnoticed and Sharpe's death attributed to the fever that claimed almost half of those brought back from the field of battle.
Sharpe eyed the Major levelly. "We should head for the East gate. It's furthest from the keep. If we can reach it before the French we can get out and make for the forest."
Hewlin stared at Sharpe in amazement. "I don't believe it! You're running away? So much for the Rifles being the first on the field and the last off it."
"We're not stupid, Major. If we can't hold the Castillo, then it's best to retreat while we can."
Hewlin shook his head sorrowfully. "Never thought I'd hear such thing from you, Major Sharpe. Well, there's nothing else for it, we'll just have to show the greenjackets how it's done, won't we lads?" Hewlin gestured toward the battlements with his sword. "Forward!"
At his command, Hewlin's men rallied and began to move toward the gate through which Sharpe and the Chosen Men had just come.
"Don't be a fool!" Sharpe grabbed Hewlin's arm but the Major shook him off impatiently. "Turned into a daffodil, have we, Sharpe? Bit yellow after your run-in with grim reaper?" he sneered, a glimmer of amusement sparking in his dark eyes. Sharpe drew back his fist and was about to plant it squarely on the Major's chin when Harper dragged him back. Aware of the scuffle, Hewlin's men were hesitating, eyes darting between the officers.
"Come on, Sharpe! I'll be right behind you!" Hewlin said, smiling.
"That's what worries me."
Hewlin held Sharpe's gaze for a moment then took a step backward. His sword dropped to his side. Sharpe looked around for Harper.
"Get the men to the gate, Sergeant. I'll be along in a bit." Harper nodded and moved off; Hewlin's men, sensing some shift in command obediently following.
Sharpe watched them go, satisfied that Sergeant Harper would lead them to safety, but found that during the few seconds his back was turned, Major Hewlin had disappeared.
The herb garden behind the infirmary looked much as it had done a few days previously. Breathing hard, Sharpe leant on the half-rotted timber frame of the gateway, which gave onto a gravel path, convinced that Hewlin had come this way. He had managed to keep the Major in sight while sidestepping the dead and dying in the castle's courtyards and passageways, his eyes stung by drifting smoke, his throat parched by gunpowder.
He eyed the narrow path that wound between the tangle of bushes and then crept forward silently, passing the stone bench where he and Helen had sat. Was it only two days ago? It seemed a lifetime. He glanced to left and right. The garden was deserted; the scrape of his boots on gravel the only sound. Perhaps he was mistaken, and Hewlin had evaded him and doubled back.
Ahead of him, a narrow branch, which overhung the path, bounced and swung, its leaves fluttering in the breeze. Sharpe put out his hand to still the movement, looking around at the other trees and shrubs. Realisation dawned. There was no breeze. The garden was sheltered on all sides. Smiling grimly, Sharpe strode toward the door to the infirmary and wrenched it open.
He found the makeshift sickroom similarly deserted. A table had been overturned and Doctor Baxter's surgical instruments lay scattered across the floor, evidence of the remaining patients' hurried exit. A tattered blanket smouldered on the hearth. Sharpe crossed the room and pulled it clear of the glowing embers. As he stood holding the scrap of woollen cloth, he saw that the door at the far end of the room stood ajar. He recalled that the room beyond, hardly more than a cupboard really, was where Helen kept spare blankets and their few medical supplies.
The storeroom was exactly as he'd thought it would be; blankets, poor though they were, folded and piled neatly in a corner; bundles of herbs tied with string and hung from hooks in the ceiling. A mortar and pestle lay on a slatted wooden shelf. Helen's mark was on everything.
Helen. Where was she now? Still in the turret room, or had she been in the infirmary when the French troops burst in? Sharpe forced his mind away from such thoughts, and turned his attention to a second door, which stood wide. Stone steps led down into darkness. Sharpe drew his sword and, pressing close to the doorframe, slowly descended the stairs. The rough stone wall snagged at his jacket while the chill of the grave and the scent of old wine rose up around him.
The cloying odour of fermented grapes grew stronger as he reached the bottom step and found himself in an enormous vault. An arched ceiling stretched away into deep shadow, supported by massive pillars that seemed rooted in the rock on which the Castillo stood. A dozen gigantic barrels stood testament to the cellar's original purpose, though the wine itself had almost certainly been consumed long ago.
A huge lantern hung from the ceiling, casting a soft yellow glow on the uneven flags beneath, the tiny candle flame dwarfed by the panes of glass that contained it.
Hewlin was standing within the cordon of light, sword in hand. He drew back as Sharpe approached. They circled each other slowly. Sharpe hefted his sword, feeling the muscles in his shoulder protest. Hewlin watched closely. He could afford to bide his time, but Sharpe would want to move in hard and fast, before his strength gave out.
Sharpe was the first to break, the heavy cavalry sword scything the air. Hewlin parried the blow easily and struck back. He was light on his feet and a practiced swordsman. Sharpe could picture him in one of the fencing clubs in London, honing his skills against others of his ilk; gentlemen for whom fighting was merely a diversion, sport, with drinks all round afterward and no hard feelings.
Sharpe had never fought for sport, only ever for his life, and always to kill.
Sharpe withdrew, cuffing sweat from his forehead with his left hand. The air in the cellar was heavy, stifling. His arm ached like the devil and was already seizing up. By contrast, Hewlin seemed fresh as a daisy, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to counter Sharpe's next move.
The blades clashed again and again, each blow jarring Sharpe's shoulder until his damaged muscles burned with the exertion. He struck again, a hay-raking slice that connected with a pillar, striking sparks from the ancient stone. Hewlin saw his chance to disarm Sharpe, chopping down decisively, aiming for the Rifleman's forearm, but Sharpe recovered, slashing upward to rip Hewlin's sword from his hand. The blade spun away into the darkness and clattered unseen to the floor. Swiftly, Hewlin ducked behind a pillar.
Sharpe lowered his weapon momentarily, wincing in pain. He breathed slowly, carefully, listening for any sound from the other man, and then raised his sword again and moved around behind the pillar.
In an instant, a circle of cold steel was pressed to his neck. He heard the unmistakable click of a pistol's hammer being drawn back, and felt Hewlin's breath close to his ear.
"You mistook me for a gentleman, Major Sharpe."
"I knew you for a bastard," Sharpe hissed through gritted teeth.
He looked back over his shoulder. The stairway was hidden from view by the forest of pillars, but doubtless he could find his way back, eventually. Hewlin guessed his thoughts. "The Castillo is overrun, Major. Unless you intend surrendering your sword and sitting out the rest of the war in Paris, you'd do better to throw in your lot with me."
Sharpe eyed Hewlin balefully. "It'd come to the same thing, wouldn't it?"
"Good Lord, no. Show your face upstairs and you run the risk of being shot on sight, officer or no. I, on the other hand, will take the utmost care of you."
"Take care of me?" Sharpe said. "You tried to kill me in the village, remember?"
"On the contrary, Sharpe, I was ordered to save you, once my superiors realised that Wellington had set you to catch me. Apparently they regard you as much too valuable to end your days bleeding in a Spanish gutter."
"Why the pistol, then? Thought you said you weren't to kill me."
"Nothing was said about inflicting injury," Hewlin replied, grinning.
He lowered the pistol. "In any case, you could never hope to evade capture among hundreds of Frenchmen. However, I am just one man, and I believe you to be very resourceful," Hewlin went on, the apparent compliment revoked by a mocking smile.
"So we're to stay down here with the rats?"
Hewlin gave an exasperated sigh. "Of course not. We shall leave in the same way that the French came in." He reached behind one of the larger barrels to retrieve a coil of rope without hesitation, as if he expected it to be there, Sharpe noted.
"We're about to embark on a perilous journey, Major. It wouldn't do to become separated," Hewlin continued, flicking Sharpe an amused glance. "You must see the sense of it, Major. I know of a way out for us. You, on the other hand, do not." He paid out the rope to a serviceable length and tied it around his waist, offering the other end to Sharpe, who, after a moment's hesitation, snatched it up and followed suit.
Jerking the knot tight, Sharpe considered the degree of planning required to reach this moment. He fumed silently, angry with himself for being so easily duped. Hewlin had played him like a fish on a line from the first.
Hewlin tucked the pistol out of sight once more, apparently confident that the Rifleman had resigned himself to capture, and no longer needed to be watched. Sharpe watched as Hewlin produced a candle from his coat pocket and lit it from the rush torch on the wall behind his head. "Shall we?" He gestured toward an opening in the rock wall, low to the ground.
Sharpe eyed Hewlin and the tunnel entrance with equal suspicion, thinking that he would sooner throw himself down a well as scramble through this hole in the wall. Without waiting for a reply, Hewlin flashed a smile and ducked into the narrow opening, to disappear immediately, swallowed up by the blackness within.
Sharpe watched as the rope that joined them together straightened and pulled taut in response to Hewlin's moving further away. Briefly he entertained the idea of untying the rope to allow Hewlin to scuttle off by himself. He went so far as to look for a suitably heavy object around which to secure the rope. If Hewlin could be fooled into thinking that he was belatedly resisting arrest, it might buy him a few moments, but where would he go?
As Hewlin had correctly pointed out, he possessed the details of the tunnel system safely locked in his head. In these circumstances, like it or not, Sharpe's fate was bound to that of the English turncoat.
The rope twitched impatiently. Sharpe eyed it with distaste, then strode toward the opening and lunged through it, burned by the ignominy of being called to heel like a dog.