Бернард Корнуэлл - Sharpe's Siege

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 said 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!”