Farthingdale was out of his chair, calling for his horse, then for Sharpe. 'Major!
‘Sir?
'I want your men in front of the Castle! Skirmish order!
Frederickson, already running, heard Farthingdale and stopped, looking back at Sharpe. Sharpe looked at the Colonel who was swinging himself into his saddle. 'Not the watchtower, sir?
'You heard me, Major! Now move! Sir Augustus touched spurs to his horse and it took off towards the silent, stunned Battalion that was lined across the road leading from the village. Sharpe pointed towards the Castle. 'Skirmish order! My Company left of the line, Captain Cross in the centre, Captain Frederickson to the right! Move!
Now why in the name of all that was holy had Pot-au-Feu prompted this fight? Did he really think he could win? As Sharpe ran across the hard pasture land of the valley he saw the two officers who had ridden behind Kinney lift the Colonel from the ground. One of them despatched the Colonel's horse with a pistol shot. The enemy ignored the two officers, content, perhaps, with a Colonel's death, but why had they done this? They must think they could beat a Battalion in a straight fight, and then Sharpe forgot about Pot-au-Feu's motives because the first musket balls were twitching at the grass and soil about his feet. Smoke was lingering in tiny clouds above the thorn bushes that grew between the Castle and watchtower, and Sharpe shouted for Lieutenant Price. 'Keep those bastards busy, Harry. Use the muskets and four rifles.
'Aye aye, sir. Price spread his arms wide. 'Spread out! Spread out! He took the small whistle from his cross-belt and blew the signal.
Frederickson and Cross both used buglers to relay orders on the battlefield. Their lads, neither more than fifteen, were blowing as they ran, the notes ragged and broken, but the calls unmistakable ordering the Companies to form the skirmish chain. Sharpe anchored them a hundred yards from the broken wall, out of effective musket range, and he ordered Cross's bugler to play the single note, the sustained G, that told the Riflemen to lie down. 'Now the ‘open fire’, lad.’Yes, sir. He took a breath, then the glorious run of three notes climbing a full octave, repeated till the Rifles were cracking down the line and the bullets were forcing Pot-au-Feu's defenders into hasty cover.
Sharpe looked to his left. Price was keeping the scattered enemy in the thorn bushes busy, the Lieutenant walking up and down behind his men, looking for targets. To Sharpe's front the Castle seemed suddenly bare of defenders, driven behind the castellations or the rubble by the Rifles' accuracy. Behind him he could hear orders being bellowed at the Fusiliers. God damn it, but Farthingdale was proposing an immediate assault. The cannon, hidden in the short length of standing east wall, would only be vulnerable to fire from the right of Sharpe's line and he called Cross's bugler to him again. 'My compliments to Mr Frederickson, and ask him to keep an eye on the cannon.’Keeping an eye' was an unfortunate way to phrase it, but that did not matter, nor did it matter that Frederickson would doubtless not need to be reminded. The Rifle fire had slackened to an occasional burst whenever a defender showed his head, and Sharpe listened to the Lieutenants shouting at their men to call out their targets and not to waste shots. Behind them, way back at the village, Sir Augustus was forming the Fusiliers into two columns, four files wide, that were aimed like human battering rams at the broken wall. Sergeant Harper, exercising the privilege of his rank, stood up and joined Sharpe. Only sporadic musket shots came from the hillside, and the range was too great to concern either man. The big Irishman grinned sheepishly at Sharpe. 'Sir?’
’Sergeant?
'You wouldn't mind me asking, sir, but would that have been Miss Josefina in the Convent?’
’You recognized her?
'Hard to forget, sir. She's growing into a rare looking woman. Harper liked his women plumper than Sharpe. 'Is she the Lady Farthingdale?
Sharpe was tempted to tell Harper the truth, but resisted the temptation. 'She's doing well for herself.’
’She is that. I'll say hello to her.’
’I wouldn't do it while Sir Augustus is about.
‘The big face smiled. 'Like that, is it? Would she mind?’
’Not at all. Sharpe looked towards the Convent. He could see a few Riflemen on the roof, left there as guards for the womeh and on the prisoners, and he could see the dark green of Josefina's cloak a few yards from the gate. Was she the reason for this precipitate attack? Was Sir Augustus so eager to prove his virility to his young 'bride' that he would throw the Fusiliers into the Castle before the watchtower guns were silenced? Perhaps he was right. There had been no shots from any gun on the hill.
The Fusilier Colours were taken from their leather cases, unfurled, and the flags were carried between the polished halberds of the Sergeants whose job was to protect them. Each halberd was a giant axe, the steel burnished to shine like silver, and the sight of the standards amidst the glittering blades would move any soldier. The panoply of war. Sir Augustus, in front of the Colours, removed his hat, waved it, and the two half-Battalion columns broke into the quick march.
Sharpe cupped his hands. 'Fire! Fire! It did not matter that there were few targets. What mattered now was to send the Rifle bullets singing about the defenders' ears, discouraging them, making them fearful even before the two columns burst over the rubble of the shattered wall. Cross's bugler came stumbling and panting back from his errand and Sharpe made him sound the advance and took the line forward twenty yards before he sounded the halt. 'Fire! Let them know we're here!
The rubble of the eastern wall beckoned the two columns forward. It could be easily climbed, its breast-high stones were fallen into a gentle ramp on which Sharpe could see his mens' rifle bullets kicking up spurts of whitish dust. He imagined the two columns of the Fusiliers flowing over the wall into the courtyard, their anger fired by Kinney's death, so why, why in God's name, had Pot-au-Feu invited this attack?
The rifles were drowned by a double explosion from the watchtower hill and Sharpe turned to see the jets of burgeoning smoke mark the position of the two guns in the earthworks beneath the tower. The roundshot rumbled, struck the ground short of the columns and bounced over their heads. The Fusiliers jeered and their officers shouted for silence. Bayonets were bright in the ranks.
Sergeants shouted dressing at the men, ordered their marching, and some of the red jackets with white facings were clean and bright, showing that new recruits were fighting on this Christmas morning. The guns fired again.
The barrels were hotter, or else the elevating screws had been touched a fraction, and this time the first bounce of the balls was in the nearer column and Sharpe saw the files wiped sideways, blood splashing behind, and one man pitched forward, musket dropping, and then crawled from the column and collapsed.
'Close up! Close up!
'Faster! Farthingdale waved the hat.
Perhaps he was still right, Sharpe thought. The guns could do little damage in the time it would take for the columns to reach the Castle. They might kill a dozen men, wound as many again, but that would not stop the attack. He looked at the Castle. Musket smoke spouted from almost every embrasure, his Riflemen had targets now, and no bullets struck the slope of the broken wall. He ordered the skirmish line another ten paces forward.
No bullets striking the rubble. He looked again. Nor was there musket smoke above the wall. His men had switched their fire to the men who fired at the attack, and no men fired from the wall which meant it was undefended. Undefended! No men were there, and then Sharpe cursed and began a stumbling run over the uneven ground towards the columns that were close to his skirmish line.