Cornelius Killick’s qualms about honour had evidently been settled, and the American had opened fire.
The American grapeshot whistled over Sharpe’s head. A few balls struck the flag of St George, but the rest went high above the fortress. Sharpe sat beneath the wet flag, his back against the ramparts. He was weary to the very heart of his bones. He had returned to the fort a half hour before sunrise, narrowly evading French cavalry, and now, after yet another night’s lack of sleep, he faced a French attack.
‘Are the Frogs moving?’ he shouted to Frederickson who waited beside the breach.
‘No, sir.’
Sharpe’s wounded men, bloodied bandages soaking in the rain, lay on the western rampart. Marines, faces pale in the wan, wet light, crouched behind granite as a second American broadside spat overhead. Sharpe, huddling low, nodded to Harper. ‘Now.’
The huge Irishman used his sword bayonet to cut the wet ropes which bound the flagpole to the merlon. He sawed, cursing the tough sisal, but one by one the strands parted and, just after Killick’s third broadside, the pole toppled. The flag of St George, its white tablecloth stained red by dye from the sleeves which had formed the cross, fell.
‘Cease firing!’ Sharpe heard Killick’s voice distinct over the water. ‘Stop muzzles!’
Sharpe stood. The American captain, wearing a blue jacket in honour of this day, was already climbing down to one of the Thuella’s two longboats. The American crew, grinning by their guns, stared at the fortress.
Which Richard Sharpe had just surrendered.
General Calvet also stared at the fort. The smoke from the American broadsides drifted in the small wind, obscuring the view, but Calvet was sure the British had struck their colours.
‘Do I keep firing, sir?’ The artillery colonel, uniform soaked by rain, splashed through puddles towards the general’s horse.
‘They’re not showing a white flag,’ Pierre Ducos said, ‘so keep firing.’
‘Wait!’ Calvet snapped open his glass. He saw figures on the ramparts, but could not tell what happened. ‘Colonel Favier!’
‘Sir?’
‘Go forward with a flag of truce,’ Calvet ordered, ‘and find out what the bastards are doing. No, wait!’ At last Calvet could see something that made sense. Men had come to the southern wall which faced the French and there they shook out a great cloth to hang down the wet, battered ramparts. The cloth signified that the fortress of Teste de Buch was no longer held by the British, but had been surrendered to the United States of America. ‘God damn,’ Calvet said as he stared at the Stars and Stripes, ‘God bloody hell and damn.’
Cornelius Killick, standing beside Sharpe on the southern ramparts, stared at the great French column that waited beside the village. ‘If they choose to fight, Major, you know I can’t fire on them.’
‘I agree it would be difficult for you.’ Sharpe opened his glass and stared at the French until the rain bleared the outer lens. He snapped the tubes shut. ‘Do I have your permission, Captain Killick, to put my wounded on board?’
‘You have my permission,’ Killick spoke solemnly, as if to invest this agreed charade with dignity. ‘You also have my permission to keep your sword that you failed to offer me.’
‘Thank you.’ Sharpe grinned, then turned to the western ramparts. ‘Captain Palmer! You may begin the evacuation! Wounded and baggage first!’ All the packs of Sharpe’s small garrison were heaped next to the wounded men, for he was determined to leave the French nothing.
Sharpe’s men, sensing that their ordeal was over, relaxed. They knew that Major Sharpe had gone into the night, and the rumour had spread that he had talked to the Americans and the Americans had agreed to take them away. The American Colours, bright on the fort’s outer face, testified to that deliverance. ‘It’s all because we didn’t hang the buggers,’ a Marine sergeant opined. ‘We scratched their backsides, now they scratch ours.’
Rifleman Hernandez, watching the French column, wondered aloud whether he would now be going to America and, if so, whether there were Frenchmen there waiting to be killed. William Frederickson assured him they were not bound for the United States. Frederickson was staring at the French and saw three horsemen suddenly spur forward. He cupped his hands towards Sharpe. ‘Sir! Crapauds coming!’
Sharpe did not want the three enemy officers to come too close to the fort, so he ran, jumped from the broken ramparts, and sprawled in an ungainly, bruising fall on the jagged summit of the breach. He clambered down the outer stones, then leaped the gap on to the roadway. Frederickson and Killick followed more slowly.
Sharpe waited in the narrow cutting that led through the glacis. The road was thick with musket balls that had already half settled into the wet, sandy surface. He held up a hand as the horsemen came close.
Favier was the leading horseman. Behind Favier was a general, cloak open to show the braid on his jacket, and behind the general was Ducos. Sharpe, warned by Killick that he might see his old enemy, stared with loathing, but he had nothing to say to Ducos. He spoke instead to Colonel Favier. ‘Good morning, Colonel.’
‘What’s the meaning of that?’ Favier pointed to the American flag.
‘It means,’ Sharpe spoke loud enough for Ducos to hear, ‘that we have surrendered ourselves to the armed forces of the United States and put ourselves under the protection of her President and Congress.’ Killick had given him the words last night, and Sharpe saw the flicker of anger that they provoked in Pierre Ducos.
There was silence. Frederickson and Killick joined Sharpe, then the general demanded a translation that Favier provided. Rain dripped from bridles and sword scabbards.
Favier looked back at Sharpe. ‘As allies of America we will take responsibility for Captain Killick’s prisoners.’ He doffed his hat to Killick. ‘We congratulate you, Captain.’
‘My pleasure,’ Killick said. ‘And my prisoners. I’m taking them aboard.’
Again there was a pause for the exchange to be translated and, when Favier looked back, his face was angry. ‘This is the soil of France. If British troops surrender on this soil then those troops become prisoners of the French government.’
Sharpe dug his heel into the wet, sandy road. ‘This is British soil, Favier, captured by my men, held by my men against your best efforts, and now surrendered to the United States. Doubtless you can negotiate with those States for its return.’
‘I think the United States would agree to return it.’ Killick, amused by the pomposities of the moment, smiled.
There was a fall of dislodged stone from the breach and all six men, their attention drawn by the noise, saw the huge figure of Patrick Harper, head bare, standing on the breach’s summit. Over his right shoulder, like a dreadful threat, lay the French engineer’s axe that Sharpe had used the day before. Favier looked back to Killick. ‘It seems you do not disarm your prisoners, Mr Killick?’
‘Captain Killick,’ Killick corrected Favier. ‘You have to understand, Colonel, that Major Sharpe has sworn a solemn oath not to take up arms against the United States of America. Therefore I had no need to remove his weapons, nor those of his men.’
‘And France?’ Ducos spoke for the first time.
‘France?’ Killick inquired innocently.
‘It would be normal, Captain Killick, to demand that a captured prisoner should not take up arms against the allies of your country. Or had you forgotten that your country and mine are bound by solemn treaty?’
Killick shrugged. ‘I suppose that in the flush of my victory, Major, I forgot that clause.’
‘Then impose it now.’
Killick looked at Sharpe, the movement of his head spilling water from the peaks of his bicorne hat. ‘Well, Major?’
‘The terms of the surrender,’ Sharpe said, ‘cannot be changed.’
Calvet was demanding a translation. Favier and Ducos jostled each other’s words in their eagerness to reveal the perfidy of this surrender.
‘They’re all Anglo-Saxons,’ Ducos s
aid bitterly.
Calvet asked a question in French, was answered by Killick in that language, and Frederickson smiled. ‘He asked,’ he said to Sharpe, ‘whether Killick’s taking us to America. Killick said that was where the Thuella was sailing.’
‘And doubtless,’ Ducos had edged his horse closer so he could stare down at Sharpe, ‘you have relieved Captain Killick of his sworn oath not to fight against the British?’
‘Yes,’ Sharpe said, ‘I have.’ That was the devil’s pact, made in the seething rainstorm of last night. Sharpe had promised that neither he nor his garrison would fight against the United States, and in return Sharpe had relieved Killick of his own irksome oath. The price was this surrender that would make the escape of Sharpe’s men possible.
Ducos sneered at Sharpe. ‘And you think a privateer captain honours his promises?’
‘I honoured the promise I made you,’ Killick said. ‘I fired till the enemy surrendered.’
‘You have no standing in this matter!’ Ducos snapped the words. ‘You are not a military officer, Mr Killick; you are a pirate.’
Killick opened his mouth to reply, but Ducos scornfully wheeled his horse away. He spoke to the general, chopping the air with his thin, gloved hand to accentuate his words.
‘I don’t think they’re impressed,’ Frederickson said softly.
‘I don’t give a damn,’ Sharpe growled. The boats must already be taking the wounded to the Thuella, and the Marines would be following. The longer the French argued, the more men would be saved.
Favier looked down sadly at Sharpe. ‘This is unworthy, Major.’
‘No more so, Colonel, than your own feeble effort to make me march to Bordeaux as a Major General.’
Favier shrugged. ‘That was a ruse de guerre, a legitimate manouevre.’
‘Just as it is legitimate for me to surrender to whom I wish.’
‘To fight again?’ Favier smiled. ‘I think not. This is cynical expediency, Major, not honour.’
General Calvet was feeling cheated. His men had died in the struggle for this effort and no cheap surrender would deny them their victory. He looked at Sharpe and asked a question.
‘He wants to know,’ Frederickson said, ‘whether you truly rose from the ranks.’
‘Yes,’ Sharpe said.
Calvet smiled and spoke again. ‘He says it will be a pity to kill you,’ Frederickson said.
Sharpe shrugged as reply, and Calvet spoke harsh, curt words to Favier, who, in turn, interpreted for Sharpe. ‘The general informs you, Major Sharpe, that we do not accept your arrangements. You have one minute to surrender to us.’ Favier looked to Killick. ‘And we advise you to remove your ship from the vicinity of this fortress. If you interfere now, Mr Killick, you may be sure that the strongest representations will be made to your government. Good day to you.’ He wheeled his horse to follow Calvet and Ducos back across the esplanade.
‘Bugger me,’ Killick said. ‘Are they going to fight?’
‘Yes,’ Sharpe said, ‘they are.’
The Marines were clambering up the side of the Thuella, leaving the Riflemen alone in the fortress. It would be close, damned close. ‘Take your flag, Captain,’ Sharpe said to Killick.
The American was watching the French column reform. ‘There’s hundreds of the bastards.’
‘Only two thousand.’ Sharpe was scraping with a stone at a nick on the fore-edge of his sword.
‘I wish ...’ Killick began instinctively.
‘You can’t,‘ Sharpe said. ’This is our fight. And if we don’t make it, sail without us. Lieutenant Minver!‘
‘Sir?’
‘Your men next! Get them down to the water. Regimental Sergeant Major!’
Harper was inside the fortress at the foot of the breach. ‘Sir?’
‘Block it!’
Harper waited with a squad of men beside a cheval-de-frise made from a scorched beam to which had been lashed and nailed fifty captured French bayonets. The blades jutted at all angles to make a savage barricade that Harper, with six Riflemen, now struggled to carry to the breach’s crest. As they did, so the renewed fire of the twelve-pounders struck the breach’s outer face. A chip of stone whistled over Harper’s head, but he heaved at his end of the beam, bellowed at the Riflemen to push, and the great spiked bulwark was slammed into place.
Sharpe was on the west wall. Minver’s men were climbing down ladders to the sand, while the first of Killick’s longboats was pushing away from the Thuella. Sharpe guessed it would take ten minutes to board Minver’s company safely, and another five before the longboats would return for the last of the Teste de Buch’s defenders. The tide in the channel swept far too strongly to risk swimming to the safety of the schooner, so Sharpe must fight until the boats could carry all his men away. Killick, carrying his American flag to safety, paused by Sharpe and stared at the French horde. ‘Do I wish you luck, Major?’
‘No.’
Killick seemed torn by his desire to stay and witness what promised to be a rare fight, and his need to hasten the longboats in the rain-flecked channel. ‘I’ll have a bottle of brandy waiting in my cabin, Major.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’ Sharpe was unable to express his emotions, instead, awkwardly, he thanked the American for keeping their pact.
Killick shrugged. ‘Why thank me? Hell, I get a chance to fight you bastards again!’
‘But your government. They’ll make trouble because you helped me?’
‘As long as I make money,’ Killick said, ‘the American government won’t give a damn.’ The French drums began their sound, then, just as suddenly, stopped. The American stared at the column. ‘Two thousand of them, and fifty of you?’
‘That’s about it.’
Killick laughed, and his voice was suddenly warm. ‘Hell, Major, I’m glad I’m not one of those poor bastards. I’ll have the brandy waiting, just make sure you come and drink it.’ He nodded, then walked towards his boats.
Sharpe walked to the broken end of the rampart above the breach where half of Frederickson’s company was stationed. The other half, with Frederickson himself, was in the courtyard.
Harper was still on the breach, jamming captured bayonets among the stones. The rain still crashed down, washing mortar and dust away from the breach and spreading dirty yellow floodwater out of the ditch.
The French drums, made soggy by rain, sounded again from the south. A Rifleman licked cracked lips. The rain, grey and depressing, blurred the massed French bayonets above which, glinting gold, Sharpe saw an enemy standard. Such, he thought, was the vision of death in the morning. The French were coming.
Commandant Henri Lassan would march, at his own request, in the front rank of the column. He had written to his mother, apologizing to her that he had lost the fortress and telling her that she could nevertheless be proud of her son. He had sent her his rosary and asked that the shining, much-fingered beads be laid to rest in the family’s chapel.
‘They’re boarding the schooner,’ Favier reported to Calvet. The northern attack had been abandoned and everything would be thrown into this one, final storm. Favier thought that was a mistake. The northern attack could have driven itself between the fortress and the water, blocking the garrison’s escape, but Calvet was not worried.
‘The cavalry can play on the beach. Send them an order.’ Calvet dismounted, then drew his sword that had once impaled two Cossacks together like chickens on a spit. The general shrugged off his cloak so that his men could see the gold braid on his jacket, then walked to the column’s head and raised his stubby, muscular arms. ‘Children! Children!’ The drummers, hushed by officers, rested their sticks.
Calvet’s voice reached to the very last rank of the column. ‘They’re colder than you are! They’re wetter than you are! They’re more frightened than you are! And you’re French! In the name of the Emperor! In the name of France! Follow!’
The drummers hauled leather rings up ropes to tighten wet skins then, as the cheer caught l
ike fire in the ranks, the sticks started their tattoo again. Like a monster, lurching and shuddering, driven by the heartbeat of the drumsticks and bright with bayonets and given courage by a brave general, the column marched forward.
One of the German Riflemen, his left arm bandaged, played a flute. The tune came thin through the pouring rain to fill Sharpe with melancholy. He had always wanted to play the flute, but had never learned. There was small comfort in such thoughts so he dismissed them, wondering instead whether the boats had reached the shore to pick up Minver’s men, but he could not see from beside the breach, nor could he spare the time to go and look.
The French column, swaying left and right as it marched in step, was halfway to the fortress. Sharpe’s men knew not to fire, but Sharpe guessed half of the rain-sodden rifles would not fire at all when the time came. The rain dripped down his sleeves, soaked his overalls, and squelched in his boots. Goddamned bloody treacherous mucky rain.
Harper, Frederickson, and a dozen Riflemen were crouching high on the breach, just behind the cheval-de-frise. Frederickson watched Sharpe, who shook his head. Not yet, not yet. The German flautist carefully wrapped his instrument in wash-leather, tucked it into his jacket, and picked up his rifle that had layers of sacking wrapped round the lock.
The French twelve-pounder guns had ceased firing. The gunners, knowing that this was no weather for Riflemen, had come outside the mill’s sheltering walls to watch the assault.
The rain glittered like polished blades. It seethed down vertically. Water flowed in great swathes off the battlements to flood the inner ditch. A bolt of lightning, sudden and scaring, cracked to the east.
The French were a hundred yards away. They shouted their ‘Vive l’Empereur’ in the drumbeat’s pause, but the great shout was drowned by the hammering, silver rain that bounced in fine spray from the scorched and battered stones of the fort.
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe's Honour, Sharpe's Regiment, Sharpe's Siege Page 92