'Are they going to fight? Sir Augustus was not happy to ask the question, but he could not help himself. The author of 'Practical Instructions' had taken his material entirely from Despatches and from the other books similar to his own, and he was not used to such close proximity to the enemy.
Sharpe pulled the plug from the wineskin's neck. 'I doubt it, sir. Their women are still with us. I expect we'll get a flag of truce within the half hour. Might I suggest we advise Madame Dubreton that she will be leaving us soon.
'Yes. Farthingdale was craning over Sharpe's head looking for a glimpse of the enemy. Nothing was yet in sight. 'Look after it, Sharpe.
Sharpe looked after it, and he also sent Harper with a request to Gilliland for the loan of a saddle horse. He had no intention of letting Sir Augustus do all the talking with the enemy, and Sharpe's trust in the senior officer was not bolstered when he at last took an interest in Sharpe's preparations. He watched the soldiers dismantling the low wall and frowned. 'Why did you order that?
'Because it's useless as a defence, sir. And anyway, if it comes to a fight I'd rather they got into the courtyard.
Farthingdale was speechless for a moment. 'Into the courtyard?
Sharpe wiped wine from his lips, restoppered the bottle, and smiled. 'A rat-pit, sir. Once inside they're trapped. He made himself sound more confident than he felt. 'But you said they wouldn't fight.
'I don't suppose they will, sir, but we should prepare against the possibility. He told Farthingdale of his other precautions, of the garrison in the watchtower, and kept his voice polite. 'Is there anything else you'd want done, sir?’
’No, Sharpe, no. Carry on!
Bloody Farthingdale. Major General Nairn, with his engaging indiscretion, had told Sharpe that Farthingdale had hopes of high command. 'Nothing dangerous, mind you, Christ no! One of those fancy rooms in the Horse Guards with chocolate soldiers saluting him. Thinks if he writes the right book then they'll give him the whole army to smarten up. Nairn had looked gloomy. 'They probably will, too.
Patrick Harper appeared from the stables leading two horses. He passed close to Sir Augustus and stopped by Sharpe. 'Horse, sir.
'I see two.
'Thought you might like company. Harper's face was tight with annoyance. Sharpe looked at him curiously.
'What is it?
'D'you hear what the man's saying?
'No.
'‘My victory.’ He's telling her that he won here, so he is. Telling her that
Sharpe grinned, took the reins, and pushed his left foot into a stirrup. 'She has a fortune to protect, Patrick. Wait till he's gone, she'll say hello. He pulled himself up. 'Wait here.
He hid his annoyance from Harper, but he was affronted just the same. If Sharpe ever wrote a book like 'Practical Instructions', which he would not, then there would be one piece of advice repeated page after page. Always give credit where it is due, however tempting to take it for yourself, for the higher a man rises in the army the more he needs the loyalty and support of his inferiors. It was time, Sharpe decided, to puncture Sir Augustus' self-esteem. He pulled the horse round, walked it to where Farthingdale was pointing up at the Colours and describing the morning as a very satisfying little fight.
'Sir?
'Major Sharpe?
'I thought you should have this, sir. For your report. Sharpe held out a scruffy, folded scrap of paper.
'What is it?
'The butcher's bill, sir.
'Ah. A hand, gloved in fine leather, twitched the paper away and tucked it into his sabretache.
'Aren't you going to look at it, sir?
'I was with the doctor, Sharpe. I've seen our wounded.’
’I was thinking of the killed, sir. Colonel Kinney, Major Ford, one Captain, and thirty-seven men, sir. Most of those died in the explosion. Wounded, sir. Forty-eight seriously, another twenty-nine not so serious. I'm sorry, sir. Thirty. I'd forgotten yourself.
Josefina giggled. Sir Augustus looked at Sharpe as though the Major had just crawled out of a particularly malodorous sewer. 'Thank you, Major.’
’And my apologies, sir.’
’Apologies?
'I haven't had time to shave.
Josefina laughed outright and Sharpe, remembering that she had always liked her men to fight, gave her a look of anger. He was not her man, and he was not fighting for her, and then whatever he might have said was interrupted by a trumpet call, insistent and faraway, the tones of a French cavalry instrument.
'Sir! The Rifleman on the keep. 'Four froggies, sir! One of 'em's got a white flag, sir. Coming this way!
'Thank you! Sharpe was tugging at the slings of his sword. He was not elegant on horseback, not like Sir Augustus, but at least the huge cavalry sword could hang properly at his side instead of being hitched halfway up his ribs by shortened slings. He rebuckled the leather straps and looked about the courtyard. 'Lieutenant Price!’Sir? Harry Price was tired. 'Look after Lady Farthingdale till we return!’Yes, sir! Price seemed suddenly awake. If Sir Augustus was peeved at this usurpation of his authority then Sharpe gave him no time to protest, nor did Sir Augustus choose to countermand the order. He followed Sharpe's horse through the shadowed sloping cobbles of the gateway, out onto the track and then right onto the grass where Sharpe let his horse have its head.
The trumpet was still calling, demanding a response from the British positions, but at the appearance of the three horsemen the notes died to an echo. In front of the French officers was a Lancer, a white strip of cloth tied beneath his lance-head, and Sharpe remembered the white ribbons that decorated the hornbeam in the Convent and he wondered if the German Lancers who fought for Napoleon also worshipped their old forest Gods at Yuletide; the old pre-Christian name for the winter feast.
'Sir! Sergeant Harper spurred up on Sharpe's left. 'Do you see, sir? The Colonel!
It was, too, and at the same moment Dubreton recognized Sharpe and waved. The French Colonel touched spurs to his horse, went past the Lancer, splashed through the small stream and cantered towards them. 'Major!
'Sharpe! Hold back! Farthingdale's protest was lost as Sharpe also put his heels back and the two horsemen raced together, circled, then reined in so that the horses were alongside each other and facing different directions. 'Is she safe?
Dubreton's eager request was in stark contrast to his studied calm when they had met before in the Convent. Then the Frenchman had been able to do nothing for his wife, now it was different.
'She's safe. Quite safe. Not even touched, sir. Can I say how glad I am?
'God! Dubreton shut his eyes. The bad dreams, the imaginings of all those drear nights seemed to flow out of him. He shook his head. 'God! The eyes opened. 'Your doing, Major?
'The Rifles, sir.
'But you led them?
'Yes, sir.
Farthingdale reined in a few paces behind Sharpe and on his face was a look of fury because the Rifleman had offended decorum by racing ahead. 'Major Sharpe!
'Sir. Sharpe twisted in his saddle. 'I have the honour to name Chef du Battalion Dubreton. This is Colonel Sir Augustus Farthingdale.
Farthingdale ignored Sharpe. He spoke in what, to Sharpe's ears, sounded like fluent French, and then the other two French officers arrived and Dubreton made the introductions in his equally flawless English. One was a German Colonel of Lancers, a huge man with a red moustache and curiously gentle eyes, while the other was a French Colonel of Dragoons. The Dragoon Colonel wore a green cloak over his green uniform, and on his head was a tall metal helmet that had a cloth cover to stop the sun reflecting from the polished metal. He had a long
