SEVEN
"Ah, finally!" Colonel Adams shouted, spying Sharpe managing slowly down the stone steps. "What the devil are you playing at, Sharpe? We've been looking for you for two days, man, needed you… at… the… Good Lord!" he cried, aghast, taking in Sharpe's appearance.
His green tunic was ripped at each shoulder, his bloodied shirt showing through very clearly underneath. The white cloth strip holding the two fingers of his right hand together matched the one staunching the blood flow from the back of his left thigh. His neck was scratched and bloodied, welts clearly beginning to form, and his face was bruised and dark with malevolence.
"Sir," he said clearly, stopping in front of him smartly. "I regret I have been unavailable for the past two days. However, I was following Lord Wellington's orders to find and make safe two French spies within our own ranks, sir," he said, keeping his chin up. Adams' mouth worked but nothing came out for a long moment. He looked around him, uncertain.
"Hardwick! Hardwick!" Adams shouted, his voice betraying his fright. He looked back at Sharpe. "Well, did you get them, man?" he demanded loudly.
"Most definitely, sir," he nodded confidently. Adams swallowed.
"Right, well then… We are broken, Sharpe," he said. "If you'd been here, fighting like a real man, you might have helped stay the ranks," he snapped. "As it is we're preparing for the French to start over that wall. They've already got in and to our magazine," he said.
"The magazine, sir?" Sharpe demanded angrily. "How the bloody hell could they get men in there so fast?"
"They're soldiers, man!" Adams shouted. "They do this for a living! How dare you question me!" he roared. "Luckily for us I'm not as cowardly as yourself, sir!" he spat. "We stood our ground, by God we did! We drove them back – for now," he allowed. Sharpe pushed all the blood he could taste to the front of his mouth, turned to one side, and spat loudly and accurately. It just missed Adams' boot. Adams recoiled instantly. "Why, you –"
"Colonel Adams, sir," Hardwick said from his right. Both men turned and looked at him. "Sir, we're preparing the defence, we've got the four guns into position, sir. But we've lost all our tapers!" he reported. "They were in the magazine. And we're down to four barrels of gunpowder, sir," he added. Adams whimpered, wiping his forehead with a damp handkerchief.
"Oh my," he moaned to himself. "What is a Colonel to do?" He thought for a long second, then turned to Sharpe. "Right, sir, you will try and regain what modicum of respect you could ever hope to have by leading the men in the first bayonet charge," he said imperiously. Sharpe looked at him – just looked. "And then, Hardwick, you shall –"
"No," Sharpe said suddenly. Adams stopped, dumbfounded.
"What did you say?" he gasped, unable to comprehend.
"No, sir," Sharpe said. "We'll find tapers. Get them guns going to cut 'em down. Then we'll face 'em inside the wall. Pull the men off the top, get 'em lined up, about thirty feet from the breach, and –"
"How dare you impugn my command!" Adams shouted. Sharpe swallowed and took one step toward him. Adams took an involuntary step back, then looked at Hardwick. He cleared his throat. "I've had a better idea, Colonel Hardwick," he said loudly, with as much dignity as he could muster. "We're going to put Sharpe in charge of the guns. He'll stay up there with them, and his riflemen, to cut down as many French as he can. We'll regroup the men in this courtyard, and in three neat lines, if you will. I want them a good thirty feet back from the breach in the wall, is that understood?" he asked haughtily.
"Yes sir, of course, sir," Hardwick said immediately.
"Good man. Then when any lucky French get over that wall, we lay down suppressing fire by ranks until they turn tail and run. Understood?"
"Yes sir!" Hardwick said smartly. He saluted and ran off. Adams turned and looked at Sharpe.
"Well? See to your guns and men, Sharpe," he said dismissively. Sharpe shot him a look that would have shattered glass. He held his gaze until Adams swallowed and looked away. Then he turned and shuffled his way back toward the stone steps. He made his way up slowly, finding Harper there. He put a hand under Sharpe's elbow and half-pulled, half-guided him up the final few steps.
"What is he saying to now, sir?" Harper asked scathingly. Sharpe looked over his shoulder at the Colonel, strutting round the courtyard spewing orders. His eyes narrowed.
"We're to find tapers and get 'em to the guns, along with the Chosen Men," he said. Harper regarded him as he shook him off his elbow.
"Oh, right then," he said sarcastically. "Look at him, marching around like a cock of the barnyard," he tutted.
"Oh he's a cock alright," Sharpe said to himself.
"And just where are we supposed to find tapers, sir?"
"We have a book to burn, don't we?" Sharpe asked. Harper looked surprised.
"But isn't that Nosy's book, sir?" he asked innocently.
"It's my bloody book now, I'll do what I like wi' it," he grumped, turning and walking for the ramparts. Harper grinned and followed.
"Get them round to the ramparts, make it fast!" Sharpe shouted. The Chosen Men grabbed up as many books as they could carry, running down the corridor. "Wait!" he called suddenly. He ducked into the room next to the library and opened the window, looking out. He grinned, flinging all the windows open and turning back to the door. "You lot! Chuck them books out of this window, then climb out and take 'em round. It'll be quicker!" he called.
The Men did as told, and the left wall of the library soon lost all of its inhabitants. The Men threw themselves through the windows, finding themselves on the path to the ramparts nicely. They picked up books and ran on toward the guns, standing ready. Eight men from the 42nd Regiment of Foot were standing by, ready to load and set off the guns at Sharpe's command. The Men dropped the books in a pile by the guns, kneeling and ripping out pages as fast as they could. They grabbed up two or three pages together and twisted them into taper shapes, throwing them on the pile of growing tapers.
Sharpe came round the corner, carrying books. He looked at the Men.
"Alright, on yer feet. Rifles at fifteen paces, spread out and go fer officers!" he called. "You know Adams couldn't defend a bible in a nunnery, we'll just have to make sure we get as many of 'em as we can before they reach the steps," he spat as he dropped his books.
The men from the 42nd looked at him, some smiling, and then looked ahead. The Chosen Men leapt up and grabbed rifles from their shoulders, running to the rampart wall and spacing out quickly and efficiently.
"42nd!" Sharpe called, and they straightened smartly. "I know you lot are good gunners, Colonel Hardwick told me as much," he said, lying generously. It didn't matter; it had accomplished what he'd hoped, the men smiling and puffing out their chests. "All you have to do now is rake as many lines as you can. We can get clear shots from up here, and I expect you lot to do just that."
"Sir!" the men chorused, and he smiled to himself, turning and looking over the rampart wall. He unslung his own rifle slowly, reaching round to his cartridge box and loading it slowly without looking. The men from the 42nd watched him, curious. Sharpe watched Colonel Adams and Hardwick. They'd brought the men back from the walls, and were lining them up in three neat ranks. He nodded to himself, then looked down at his hands. The strip of cloth round his fingers had jammed in the frizzen. He cursed and snapped it open, pulling out the cloth and shaking his hand round in a circle, prompting the cloth to fall away. He bent his fingers experimentally, but they still hurt like blazes. He hissed and then swore; that's me trigger finger an' all.
"Sir," Harper said, appearing from his side.
"Well?" he asked.
"Looks like we have enough taper-fodder, sir," he grinned. "And Mister James says don't die, sir," he added impishly. Sharpe grinned.
"When this is over, I'll go and thank him," he said. "Get over there, make sure the Men get every one o' them Frog officers down," he added, clapping a hand to his arm. "And keep yer head down, Pat."
"Oh I will sir, don't you worry," he said, turning and walking off, swinging his volley gun up onto his shoulder. "Right then boys, it's a hunting day in the woods, so it is!" he called cheerfully. "A whole pint of rum to the man that caps the most Frogs!" He stopped, looked at Sharpe, then back to the gunners. "And a pint of rum to the gun that fires faster than the rest of them!" he added, grinning. The gunners of the 42nd grinned and nodded eagerly.
Sharpe nodded to him gratefully, then turned and looked back over the wall. He heard a familiar, unwanted noise and froze, as did the rest of the men.
French drums.