Josefina rewarded him with parted lips, dipped eyelashes, and a pretty speech that complimented both Kinney and his troops. Sir Augustus watched it with pleasure, enjoying the admiration in Kinney's eyes, approving as his 'wife' walked with small steps to pet Kinney's horse. When she was away from his side he plucked at Sharpe's sleeve. 'A word with you.
Had she told him that Sharpe had known her? It seemed unbelievable, but Sharpe could think of no other explanation why Sir Augustus should draw him aside, out of Josefina's earshot. The Colonel's face was furious. 'There are naked men in there, Sharpe!
Sharpe almost smiled. 'Prisoners, sir. He had ordered a work-party of deserters to continue the hard slog of boring loopholes in the huge walls. 'Why the hell are they naked?’
’They disgraced their uniforms, sir.’
’Good God, Sharpe! You let my wife see this? Sharpe bit back a retort that Josefina had probably seen more naked men than Sir Augustus ever had, instead he gave a mild answer. 'I'll see that they're covered, sir.’You do that, Sharpe. Another thing.
‘Sir?
'You haven't shaved. You're hardly in a position to talk about disgracing uniforms! Farthingdale turned abruptly, and his face changed to an indulgent smile as Josefina approached. 'My dear. Do you really want to stay ou tin this cold?’
’Of course, Augustus. I wish to see Colonel Kinney's men punish my oppressors. Sharpe almost smiled again at the last word, but she had chosen it well for Sir Augustus. He straightened up, looking fierce, and nodded.
'Of course, my dear, of course. He looked at Sharpe. 'A chair for her Ladyship and some refreshment, Sharpe.
'Yes, sir.
'Not that there'll be much of a fight. Sir Augustus was talking to Josefina again. 'They won't have the stomach for a fight.
An hour later it seemed as if Sir Augustus was right. The deserters who had stayed in the village fled with their women and children as Kinney's Light Company went in from the north. They fled, unmolested, across the valley floor and threaded the thorn bushes towards the watchtower. Two dozen were on horseback, muskets slung on their shoulders and sabres visible at their sides. Madame Dubreton and the other two hostages from the French army came out for a while, took tea with Josefina, but the cold drove them back into the Convent that had been their prison. Sharpe had asked Madame Dubreton what she had thought when she saw her husband in the upper gallery of the inner cloister.
'I thought I would never see him again.
'You showed no recognition. That must have been hard.
'For him as well, Major, but I would not give them that satisfaction.
He had talked to her, while Price had tried to charm Josefina, of the difficulties of living as an Englishwoman in France, but she had shrugged the difficulties away. 'I am married to a Frenchman, Major, so my loyalty is obvious. Not that he requires me to feel enmity for my own country. She smiled. 'In truth, Major, the war affects us little. I imagine it must be like living in Hampshire. The cows get milked, we go to balls, and once a year we hear of a victory and remember that there's a war. She had looked down at her lap, then up again. 'It's difficult with my husband away, but the war will end, Major.
Pot-au-Feu's war was ending now. With the village cleared of the enemy, Kinney lined his Battalion in the crisp wintry sunlight, and then he rode forward, two officers at his side, walking the horses slowly towards the Castle. Sharpe walked up the valley so he could see the broken east wall, and Frederickson came with him. The Captain nodded towards the three horsemen. 'Calling for a surrender?
'Yes.
'I can't think why the bastards haven't run for it. They must know what's waiting for them.
Sharpe did not reply. The thought worried him too, but perhaps Kinney was right. Perhaps they were too drunk to know what was happening, or perhaps the survivors of Pot-au-Feu's band preferred to throw themselves on the mercy of the British army rather than face a cold winter in these hills that would be infested with vengeful Partisans. Or perhaps Pot-au-Feu simply did not want to leave. The prisoners, questioned in the night, had said that the fat Frenchman had set himself up in mock state in the Castle, lording it like a mediaeval baron, imparting justice and reward on his followers. Perhaps Marshal Pot-au-Feu's fantasy was strong enough to persuade him, and his followers, that the Castle could resist assault. Whatever the reason, he had stayed, and his men had stayed, and now Kinney with his two officers reined in eighty yards from the fallen east wall, the rubble of which made a chest high barrier that guarded the great courtyard.
Kinney was standing in his stirrups, his hands cupped in front of his face. A group of men stood on the rubble and Sharpe saw one of them beckon the horsemen closer. 'They can't hear.
'Jesus! Frederickson was frustrated. He did not approve of this parley with a dishonourable enemy. He fidgeted with the frayed edge of his eye-patch and obviously wanted to lead his Riflemen against the enemy who still beckoned Kinney closer.
Kinney, in exasperation, kicked back with his heels and his horse trotted forward. He stopped fifty yards from the enemy, within musket range, and shouted again. Then he seemed to wrench at his reins, lean to his right to help the horse turn, for he had seen the movement to his left, the uncovering of the gun embrasured at the broken end of the eastern wall, but he was too late.
Sharpe saw the smoke first, growing from the stub of wall, and then the bang came, a flat sound, echoing round the valley like dying thunder, and the sound had the distinctive crack of a splitting canister fired from a cannon. The tin can had burst in the muzzle-flame of the gun, spreading its musket-balls in a widening cone that centred on Lieutenant Colonel Kinney. Horse and man went down, knocked sideways, and while the horse vainly thrashed and tried to regain its feet, the man lay still in the torn spray of his blood. Sharpe whirled on Frederickson. 'Get your Company over to the Fusilier Light Company! You'll be attacking the watchtower!
‘Sir!
Sharpe looked at his own men, lazing by the Convent wall. 'Sergeant!
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
