Бернард Корнуэлл - Sharpe's Siege

Calvet looked at his orderly who was putting an edge on to his sword. “Make sure the point’s wicked!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Won’t be a day for the edge, Favier.” Calvet knew that wet uniforms resisted a sword cut much better than dry. “It’ll be a day for stabbing. In and out, Favier, in and out!” Calvet, feeling far better for his breakfast, glanced at the door where Ducos had suddenly appeared. “You look damp, Ducos, and I ate your bacon.”

Ducos did not care that the general goaded him. Today he would capture Richard Sharpe and it would be a consolation to Pierre Ducos amidst the tragedies that beset France. “There’s a wind stirring.”

“Splendid.”

“The schooner should be anchored soon.”

“God bless our allies,” Calvet said. “It might have taken them twenty damned years to join the war, but better late than never.” He went to the doorway and saw that the Thuella had indeed used the freshening wind to hasten her progress. A splash of water showed as the forward anchor was let go. “I think,” Calvet said as the schooner’s gunports opened, “that we are at last ready.” He called for his horse and, from its saddle,“ saw his wet, dispirited troops forming into their attack column. ”We shall give our gallant allies twenty minutes of target practice,“ Calvet said, ”then advance.“

Ducos was staring at the Thuella. ‘If Killick opens fire at all,“ he said. The schooner lay silent in the channel. Her wet sails were being furled on to the yards, but otherwise there was no sign of movement on the sleek vessel. ”He’s not going to fire!“ Ducos said savagely.

“Give him time.” Calvet also watched the Thuella and imagined the rain seething on the wooden decks.

“He’s broken his word,” Ducos said bitterly, then, quite suddenly, the schooner’s battle ensign broke open and flames stabbed across the water, smoke billowed above the channel, and the Thuella’s broadside opened the final attack on the Teste de Buch.

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 oh 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.