SEVEN
The crack of a rifle woke him smartly. He sat up, looking around, disorientated. Marjorie was still sleeping, the room was still mostly dark, but suddenly another rifle fired and he heard the unmistakable sound of Hagman sounding the alarm.
"Frogs! Frogs, sir! Marching this way!"
He sprang out of bed, grabbing up his farmer's trousers and pulling them on roughly.
"Bastards!" he hissed to himself, "They said tomorrow!" He yanked on his boots even as he hopped to the window. "Hagman! Dan! Dan!" he shouted into the dawn.
"Sir!" Hagman shouted, looking up.
"Wake the Colonel, tell him I want to hold the line inside the gate. Make sure he doesn't step out of the gate!" he bellowed.
"Sir!" he acknowledged, and ran off. Men started to wake and fuss, voices started to rise, and he turned back to find Marjorie waking, blissfully unaware of what was happening.
"Mar, get up!" he called, hurrying over. She snapped awake, looking round.
"What is it?" she demanded, looking for her silk slip. He grabbed it from the bedside chair and tossed it to her. He snatched up his shirt, pulling it on over his head quickly.
"Frogs. They even lied to the old man. They're coming," he said, running back to the window. "Sergeant Major!" he bellowed.
"Bastards!" Marjorie hissed, pulling on her slip and jumping out of bed. She managed to locate most of her clothes from around the room.
"Harper!" Sharpe roared from the window.
"Sir!" came an answering shout.
"Get the men up on them gun steps!" he shouted, "As close to the main gates as they can get. How close are the Frogs?" he demanded.
"Couple of hours, sir!"
"Then get the men back in uniform!"
"But it's –"
"They lied, Harper! Everyone bloody lied!" he shouted, turning and checking Marjorie was decent before running from the room and across the landing, down the stairs.
The breeze was slight, the sun strong, and two hundred and ten soldiers in the South Essex, back in fighting uniform, stood and sweated. The two blocks of men stood inside the gates, between the village walls and the barricade the riflemen and commandeered men had produced. The barricade blocked the main street that ran directly from the front gates, right through the entire village. It connected all side streets and walkways. If infantry got into that, they could go anywhere they chose.
The Chosen Men, green-jacketed and ready, were positioned in the gun steps, heads down below the line of sight from the other side. It was a superfluous precaution. Not even a mounted officer could have seen them from the other side at that height. The long barrels of the rifles were resting on the top of the wall, the men wiping their foreheads and waiting.
Colonel Parker sat on his horse, his reins held neatly in his right hand. Inside he was cursing the weather, the French, and the man who had designed army uniforms. Obviously he'd never left England.
Sharpe was walking from one rifleman to another, from one gun step to another, checking one last time. He stopped just past Taylor, leaning a hand on the wall and looking over.
And there they were. What looked like hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers, their blue jackets and bright white trousers shimmering in the heat as they marched. They were still far enough away that he needed his telescope to see them clearly.
He inspected the man in charge, on his horse. He seemed unlike other French Colonels he had had dealings with; this one was thin and tall. He watched them approach, thinking perhaps they had almost an hour before all hell would break loose.
He collapsed the telescope slowly, thinking. What was the Colonel going to do? A straight attack or some kind of clever feint? He huffed.
"How many, sir?" Taylor asked carefully. Sharpe looked at him.
"Not nearly enough," he lied. It must have been convincing, for Taylor relaxed slightly and turned to Moore, on his right, grinning. Sharpe turned away deliberately, finding the ladder and shinning down it quickly. He paused at the bottom, looking around. He walked over to Colonel Parker's horse, deftly parked behind two ranks of red-coats, half the total. "Sir," he said respectfully. Parker looked at him, his horse flicking its ears to ward off flies.
"Major," he said quietly. "Seems we were led up the garden path, what?" he said sourly. Sharpe pursed his lips.
"Not too far, sir," he allowed. Parker looked at him.
"Oh? You've noticed the eight or so ranks of Frenchmen, have you?" he asked loudly. Sharpe didn't look up at him.
"We have rifles."
"Damn it all, Sharpe! They outnumber us two to one, man! And you're banging on about some fancy muskets!" he spluttered. Sharpe kept his mouth judiciously shut. "What we're going to do when they get through those gates I don't know," he said, just as hotly.
"They'll have a job, sir. Those gates are pretty –"
"The army don't pay you to think, man!" he shouted suddenly. He paused, looking at the ranks of red-coats, standing ready and sweating in the heat. He sighed. "Look, sorry Major, nerves a little tested this morning. You'll forgive me, won't you?" he asked, and his voice sounded slightly tremulous. Sharpe hoped he wouldn't break before the French fired their first shot.
"Of course, sir," he said, then realized perhaps the Colonel didn't want to die having just taken his fear out on a subordinate. He looked at him. "They have to reach the gates first, sir," he added. Parker looked at him.
"Meaning?" he asked, his temper much controlled. Sharpe sniffed dismissively.
"We might have left some holes lying about, sir. After we filled them bags for the barricade," he said innocently. Parker looked up at the gates quickly, thought about it, then looked back down at Sharpe.
"But… I didn't see any holes!" he protested, as though he wished he were wrong.
"Well, couldn't have 'em left open, sir. Someone might have fallen in," he said innocently. "We covered 'em over, like. Made 'em safe. Well, if you know they're there, sir," he added.
Parker stared at him. "And… how many of these… holes might there be?" he asked, aghast.
"Just a few, sir."
"Damn it, Sharpe, I need to know so that our men don't fall in them themselves!" he cried. Sharpe looked at him, then transferred his rifle to his left hand, lifting his right to point out rough areas.
"About thirty feet from the gates, sir. Around ten on the right, covering the right hand gate and its approach, and about the same on the left. About fifteen foot wide, arranged in a slanted pattern, like window shutters, sir."
"You –"
"And five or six spreading round the sides sir, in case the buggers try and sneak round 'em," he added. Parker stared at him, speechless. "If the men stay close to the gates, they won't come anywhere near 'em, sir," he said confidently. He was greeted with silence and looked up at Parker. "Sir?"
"You – you devious, obfuscating little – officer!" he bit out, shocked. "Goddamn man, but I'm glad you're here!" He laughed suddenly, drawing looks from the other men, relieved their commanding officers didn't appear worried. Sharpe cleared his throat.
"I'm not," he said, and Parker looked at him.
"Oh. Yes, quite," he allowed, much more quietly. He looked ahead again. "You really think those fancy guns of yours will make the difference?" he asked.
"Oh be sure," Sharpe said menacingly, thinking of the battle ahead. "Sir," he added, remembering where he was.
"Well then. I shall lead our splendid South Essex, Major. I charge you with the task of leading your precious rifles to cut down as many French as possible. Amenable to you, sir?" he asked haughtily. Technically it was an insult; a Colonel sweeping the board and taking command of the entire day, leaving a full field Major in charge of seven men and fourteen rifles. But Sharpe smiled, relieved. He didn't want South Essex soldiers.
"Yes sir," he said smartly. Parker nodded. Sharpe turned to him and nodded respectfully, turning to walk over to the gates slowly. He paused at the bottom of the ladder, then thought of Marjorie. He huffed and looked over at Harper, leaning semi-alert on another ladder. He walked over slowly, stopping near him. "Pat," he said quietly. Harper looked at him, noticing the Major wasn't looking at him. He took the hint.
"Yes, sir?" he asked softly, looking away from him deliberately.
"You seen Nigel or Peter?" he asked gingerly.
"No, sir."
"You seen Mar?"
"Miss Marjorie, sir?" he asked pointedly. "Yes, sir. Kitchen, sir," he said, not looking at him. Sharpe huffed to himself. He thought about it.
"What's she doing there?" he asked.
"Preparing bandages and water, sir. Clever girl, that one," he said appreciatively.
"Aye."
"And not worried about rough hands, so I hear."
"Watch it."
"Yes sir," he grinned, scanning the wall. Sharpe looked around, then turned to him purposefully.
"Sergeant, eye on the men," he said formally, slinging the rifle over his shoulder.
"Yes sir," Harper said loudly, tossing off a jaunty salute. Sharpe turned and walked back toward the Colonel, nodding before turning slightly and heading for the barricade. He skirted the edge of the nine foot wall and squeezed between the barricade and the first town house. He found the open doorway and walked inside, finding Marjorie clapping her hands to chivvy the Spanish girls into sorting linen and clearing space for wounded men. She didn't make a sound, but it didn't matter; she spoke no Spanish and they spoke no English. She pointed and clapped her hands at them, waving and flapping at them. They busied around as if she were the loom master herself, and Sharpe grinned.
"Hey, slow down, you'll have someone's eye out," he said warmly.
She turned around and spotted him. She smiled, then walked over slowly. She raised an eyebrow at him, folding her arms. "I'm just here to check on you civvies, then I'm back in the front line," he said quietly. She let worry cross her face, and he gave her his best, most confident look. "'S nothing to fret over, we've done this before, you know. And I'm not dead yet."
She put her hand out to his left arm, her finger poking into the old musket ball-hole in his green tunic. She shook her finger in it, looking at him. He grinned, shaking his head.
"It were there when I got it," he lied cheekily, and she shook her head, pulling her finger away. He grabbed her hand before she could draw it away. "Just keep yer head down, alright lass?" he asked seriously. She watched him, then pulled her hand out of his grasp and turned it palm up, waving the fingers at him. "What?" he asked. She pointed at his rile, then beckoned with her fingers again. "You want a rifle?" he asked, astonished. She put her hands on her hips and he put his hands up in surrender. "Can you shoot a pistol?" he asked. She nodded immediately and he looked at her – just looked. She waggled her fingers again and he sighed. "Alright, wait here, I'll get you one," he said. "I don't know, bloody women," he muttered as he walked back toward the door. He heard a short, sharp trill of a whistle and turned to look at her. She poked her tongue out at him mischievously and he laughed, before turning and walking back toward the South Essex.
He rooted around the stacks of ammunition pouches and found a pistol, shaking it to make sure there was no powder in it already. He picked up a horn of powder and a handful of pistol shot, walking back round. He walked in to find Peter grabbing her by the wrist.
She wrenched herself from his grasp and stood, staring at him accusingly. Sharpe stood tall in the doorway.
"'Ey!" he called loudly. Peter turned to him.
"Oh, there you are, thank goodness," he said quickly. "Look, tell her to get back to the house with us," he said urgently. "She's not safe here, and you know it."
"I know she dunt want to leave," Sharpe said walking over slowly. Peter looked wild with fear, his hair mussed and his shirt carelessly buttoned. Sharpe swallowed, wondering how desperate he was. "Best to let her do as she pleases. You know women, stubborn as mules," he said dangerously. Peter stepped closer to her.
"You're not taking her anywhere, Sharpe!" he cried angrily. "She's my sister! I know she's nothing to you, nothing! You soldiers are all alike, wandering from camp to camp, taking whatever girl you fancy, casting them aside when you're bored! Well you're not doing it to my baby sister, sir! You might be a famous war-hero, but I'll see honour satisfied if you so much as –"
He was silenced as something brown crashed into the side of his head. He fell on the piles of linen safely, and Sharpe just looked at Marjorie.
"Steady on, love!" he breathed, stepping over him and crouching down to look at him. She dropped the wooden bucket hastily and took a step back. Then she took a deep breath and put her hand to Sharpe's ammunition belt over his back, pulling at it.
"Leave him, he'll be fine, the hypocrite," she said angrily. He stood, then handed over the pistol he still carried. "Is it primed or loaded?" she asked seriously. He just looked at her for a long moment. "Well?" she asked, shaking it as he had already done, listening for powder. She put her hand out for the powder horn and shot.
"No, neither," he said, his hand hesitating. "Can you load and prime the pan –"
"Richard, just go," she said dismissively. "That man of yours was right. Everyone lied and – and you got caught with yer trousers down," she grinned. He snorted in amusement. "You send yer wounded men in here. We'll hold the kitchen. You hold the fort," she said. She looked up at him, amused at her own words, then put her free hand to the whistle chain on his ammunition belt, pulling on it and forcing him to step closer. She kissed him suddenly, making it count. She pushed him away, her hand out for the horn and shot. He handed them over. "Go and kick seven shades o' shit out of the Frogs," she smiled grimly. He nodded; he would, too. Not because she had told him to, not because it was his commission to do so, but because he could. And he knew it was perhaps his only talent in this life. "And don't die."
He nodded, straightening unconsciously. He turned and walked out the door. She flicked up the pistol to arrange the horn in her hand to tip it toward the pan. She caught sight of a figure walking past the window and looked up, seeing him turn and walk backwards, his rifle in his hands, grinning at her as he left. She grinned, then turned her attention back to the pistol.