Sharpe's Sword Part 20

He followed, obedient, in the dark Salamantine night.

PART TWO.

Wednesday, June 24th to Wednesday, July 8th, 1812

CHAPTER 10.

Sharpe found himself resenting the progress of the trench that was being dug in the ravine. He knew that once the excavation reached the midpoint between the San Vincente and San Cayetano forts then the second a.s.sault was imminent. The second a.s.sault could hardly fail. The ammunition supply to the heavy guns had been restored, cart after cart came across the San Marta ford and screeched into the city and each cart was loaded with the huge roundshot. The guns fired incessantly, grinding at the defences, and to make it worse for the French the gunners heated the shot to a red heat so that the b.a.l.l.s lodged in the old timbers of the convents and started fires that the French tried desperately to control.

For four nights Sharpe watched the bombardment, each night from the mirador, and the red-hot shot seared in the darkness and crashed into the crumbling forts. The fires blazed, were damped down, then blazed again and only the small hours of the morning brought a respite for the defenders. Some nights it seemed to Sharpe as if no one could live through the battering of the forts. The shot streaked over the wasteland while, high overhead, the fuses of the howitzer sh.e.l.ls spun and smoked then plunged down to explode in flowering dark flame and thunder. The crackle of the flames rivalled the cracks of the Riflemen, creeping nearer, and each morning showed more damage; more embrasures opened wide, their guns unseated, smashed, useless. Wellington was in a hurry. He wanted the forts taken so that he could march north in pursuit of Marmont.

When the forts fell Sharpe knew he would go north. The Light Company would rejoin the regiment and he would leave Salamanca, leave La Marquesa, leave El Mirador, and each moment, marked by the slow extension of the attacker's trench, was precious to him. He left the Palacio each morning, going out by the secret staircase that led into an alleyway beside the stables, and he went back each afternoon when the only disturbance of Salamanca's siesta was the sound of the gunners crumbling at the forts.

The Light Company were puzzled, Patrick Harper most of all, but Sharpe said nothing and they could only speculate where their Captain disappeared each day and night. On the first morning he came back to them he had bathed, his uniform had been cleaned, mended and pressed, but he offered no explanation. Each morning he exercised the Company, marching them into the countryside and going through the evolutions of skirmis.h.i.+ng. He drove them hard, not wanting them to become soft because of their stay in this soft city. Each afternoon he released them to their freedom while he went, secretly and cautiously, to the small door in the stable alley. Behind the door the stairs led to the private, top floor where only La Marquesa's most trusted servants were allowed and where, almost to Sharpe's disbelief, he found himself deep in a pa.s.sionate affair.

He had lost his fear of her. She was no longer La Marquesa, now she was El Mirador, and though she was still a flawless woman she was also a person to whom he listened avidly. She spoke of her life, talking bitterly of the death of her parents. "They were not even French, but they took them. They killed them. The sc.u.m." Her hatred of the revolution was total. Sharpe had worked out her age from the tales she told him. She had been ten when the mob came to take her parents, so now she was twenty eight, and in the years between she had studied the forces of a world that had taken her parents' lives. She spoke to him of politics, of ambitions, and she showed him letters from Germany that spoke of Napoleon gathering a vast army that she said was destined for Russia. She had news too from across the Atlantic, news that spoke of an imminent American invasion of Canada, and Sharpe, sitting in the mirador, had the sense of watching a whole world drawn into a maelstrom of flame and shot like that which hammered, unceasing, below.

Above all Helena spoke of Leroux, of his famed savagery, and of the fear she had that he would escape. Sharpe smiled. "He can't escape."

"Why not?"

He had gestured at the wasteland. "It's ringed, totally. No one can get through, not even a rat!"

That was his one certainty, that the Light troops which surrounded the beleaguered forts were too vigilant, too thick on the ground, for Leroux to slip past. Leroux, as Hogan had said, would try to escape in the chaos of the successful a.s.sault. Sharpe's problem would be to make sense of that chaos and to recognise the tall Frenchman.

Helena had shrugged. "He'll disguise himself."

"I know. But he can't hide his height, and he has a weakness."

"A weakness?" She had been surprised.

"The sword." Sharpe smiled, knowing he was right. "He won't lose that sword, it's part of him. If I see a tall man with that sword then I won't care if he's dressed as a British General of Division. That's him."

"You sound very sure."

"I am." He sipped at the cool, white wine and thought of the joy of owning that sword. The Kligenthal would be his, within a week, but with it would come the loss of this woman.

The loss would be secret, as it had to be, yet there were times when he wanted to shout his present joy from the rooftops, and times when it was hard to disguise. He walked towards the Company billets one dawn, crossing the great Plaza, and there was a shout from one of the upper balconies. "Sharpe! You rogue! Stay there!"

Lord Spears waved at him, turned into the building and reappeared a moment later in one of the doorways of the arcade. He walked, yawning, into the dawn light and then stopped. "By G.o.d, Richard! You look almost human! What have you done to yourself?"

"Just cleaned the uniform."

"Just cleaned the uniform!" Lord Spears mimicked him, then prowled round the Rifleman, peering at him. "You've been putting your boots under someone's bed, haven't you? Sweet Christ, Richard, you think I can't spot a sin at a thousand paces? Who is she?"

"No one." Sharpe grinned in embarra.s.sment.

"And you're d.a.m.ned cheerful for the early morning. Who is it?"

"I told you, no one. You're up early."

"Up early? I haven't been to b.l.o.o.d.y bed. I've been at the b.l.o.o.d.y cards again. I've just lost the Irish lands to some boring man."

"Truly?"

Spears laughed. "Truly. It's not b.l.o.o.d.y funny, I know, but Christ!" He shrugged. "Mother's going to be upset. Sorry, Mother."

"Have you got anything left?"

"The dower house. Few acres in Hertfords.h.i.+re. A horse. Sabre. The family name." He laughed again, then linked his good arm into Sharpe's and led him across the Plaza. His voice was serious, pleading. "Who have you been with? Someone. You weren't home last night and that frighten-ingly enormous Sergeant of yours didn't know where you were. Where were you?"

"Just out."

"You think we Spears are foolish? That we don't know? That we can't be sympathetic to a fellow sinner?" He stop-ped, pulled his arm free, and clicked his fingers. "Helena! You b.a.s.t.a.r.d! You've been with Helena!"

"Don't be so ridiculous!"

"Ridiculous? Nonsense. She never appeared at that party of hers, she was said to be ill, and she hasn't been seen since. Nor have you. Good G.o.d! You lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Admit it!"

"It is not true." Even to Sharpe it sounded lame.

"It is true." Spears was grinning with delight. "All right, if it ain't true, who were you with?"

"I've told you, no one."

Spears took a deep breath and bellowed at the shuttered windows of the Plaza. "Good morning Salamanca! I have an announcement to make!" He grinned at Sharpe. ,I'll tell them, Richard, unless you admit the truth to me." He took another deep breath.

Sharpe interrupted him. "Dolores."

"Dolores?" Spears' grin grew wider.

"She's a cobbler's daughter. She likes Riflemen."

Spears laughed. "You don't say! Dolores, the cobbler's daughter? Are you going to introduce me?"

"She's shy."

"Oh! Shy. How the h.e.l.l did you meet her, then?"

"I helped her in the street."

"Of course!" Spears pretended total belief. "You were on your way to feed the stray dogs or help the orphans, right? And you just helped her. Dropped her cobbles, had she?"

"Don't mock. She's only got one leg. Some b.a.s.t.a.r.d sawed off the bottom two inches of her peg."

"A one-legged cobbler's daughter? Saves her father a decent bit of money, no doubt. You're a liar, Richard Sharpe."