full weight on the tiller behind Sharpe.
The bo’sun’s shout seemed like a prolonged bellow that melded with the roar of the surf. The world was white and grey, streaked bottle green at its heart where the wave broke to carry the tiny boat surging forward. Sharpe’s right hand was a cold and bloodless white where it gripped the gunwale, then the boat’s bow was dipping, falling, and the water was smashing around Sharpe’s ears in scraps of freezing white and still the shout echoed in his ears and he felt the panic of a man caught in a danger that is uncontrollable.
The bow caught, the boat twisted and shuddered, and suddenly she was running amidst bubbling sea- streaks beneath which the sand made a hissing noise as tons of beach were drawn backwards by the sucking water.
“Now!” the bo’sun shouted, “now, you heathens!” and the bow-men were overboard, up to their knees in churning water and dragging the small boat towards the safety of the shelving beach.
“There, Major. That was easy,” the bo’sun said calmly.
Sharpe, trying not to show the terror he had felt, stepped forward over the thwarts. The two remaining oarsmen, grinning at him, helped his unsteady progress. Another wave, breaking and running up the beach, lifted the boat and shifted it sideways so that Sharpe fell heavily on to a huge black man who laughed at the soldier’s predicament.
Sharpe stood again, balanced himself at the prow, then leaped into the receding wave. No firm ground, no lush soil of the most peaceful village green in England, had ever felt so good to him. He splashed to dry sand, breathing a silent thanks for safety as at last his boots crunched the small ridge of seaweed, shells, and timber scraps that marked the height of the winter tides.
“Major!” A voice hailed him. Lieutenant Ford, Bampfylde’s aide, walked through the clinging sand. “Welcome ashore. You’re precipitate, are you not, sir?”
“Precipitate?” Sharpe, taking the rag off his rifle-lock, had to shout over the noise of wind and surf.
“You’d not been ordered ashore, sir.” Ford spoke respectfully, but Sharpe was certain the young lieutenant had been sent by Bampfylde to deliver this reproof. The captain himself, resplendent in blue, white and gold, directed affairs fifty yards down the strand.
“Let me remind you, Lieutenant,” Sharpe said, “that proceedings ashore are under my command.”
The Comte de Maquerre, looking grey beneath the powder he had put on to his face, brushed at his cloak then stumped through the sand towards Bampfylde.
Ford glanced at the Comte, then back to Sharpe. “You can see, sir,” the lieutenant could not hide his embarrassment, “that our Marines have had a miraculous recovery.”
“Indeed.” There must have been hundreds of Marines on the beach and Sharpe had seen at least another fifty march inland.
“The captain feels,” Ford had carefully placed himself in a position that made it impossible for Sharpe to walk towards Bampfylde, “that we can safely look after the matter ourselves.” He smiled, as though he had brought splendid news.
Sharpe stared at the young, nervous lieutenant. “The matter?”
“The capture of the Teste de Buch,” Ford still smiled as if he could infect Sharpe with his good tidings.
Sharpe stared at Ford. “You’re standing in my path, Lieutenant.”
“Oh! My apologies, sir!” Ford stepped aside.
Bampfylde was greeting the Comte de Maquerre with evident familiarity, but, seeing Sharpe approach, he gestured for the Frenchman to wait, then stepped briskly towards the Rifleman. “Morning, Sharpe! Quite a clever one, what?”
“Clever, sir?”
“The weather! God smiles on sailormen.” A gust of wind picked up particles of sand and rattled them against Sharpe’s tall boots.
“Lieutenant Ford, sir, tells me you do not require my services.”
“Not at the Teste de Buch, certainly. One of our brigs quizzed a fisherman yesterday, Sharpe. Seems the Frogs have abandoned the fort! How about that, eh? There’s a few fencibles left there, but I can’t see you need to bother yourself with that sort of scum! I think the prudent thing, Major, is for you to march inland.”
“Inland, sir?”
“Weren’t you planning to ambush the high road? But I want you back here, with your report, by the forenoon on Thursday. Is that clear?”
Sharpe looked past the plump, confident Bampfylde to see the Marines being paraded on the sand. They were in light order, having left their packs and greatcoats on the Vengeance. They also seemed to be in fine fettle and the sight angered Sharpe. “Your men made a miraculous recovery, Captain?”
“Did they not, Major?” Bampfylde, in the heartiest of moods, smiled. “A ruse de guerre, Major. You understand?”
Sharpe contained his fury. “A ruse, sir?”
“We didn’t want enemy agents in St Jean de Luz to suspect our plans. They’ll have reported sick Marines and a tiny force of soldiery; scarce sufficient to round up a herd of sheep, let alone march on Bordeaux, eh?” Bampfylde saw Sharpe’s disbelief and smiled at it. “I’ve got more Marines afloat, Sharpe, if they’re needed.”
“To capture Bordeaux?” Sharpe’s voice was mocking.
“If Maquereau says it can be done, then we shall. He’s riding direct to Bordeaux, Sharpe. A brave fellow, what? Your advice will be invaluable, of course, but Maquereau will be the judge of failure or success.” Bampfylde, on the brink of his triumph, was trying hard to be affable.
“Maquereau, sir?”
“Ah, the Comte de Maquerre. You mustn’t use his nickname, Sharpe, it’s not polite.” Bampfylde laughed. “But you’re on the verge of great events, Major. You’ll be grateful for this opportunity.”
Sharpe’s gratitude was lost in anger. Bampfylde had lied consistently. He had wanted Sharpe and the Riflemen for his dreams of glory, and now, on a cold French beach, Sharpe was exposed to the madness against which Elphinstone had warned him. “I thought, sir, that the decision about Bordeaux was my responsibility.”
“And we’ve spared you that decision, Major. You can’t deny that de Maquerre will be a more cogent’ witness?” Bampfylde paused, sensing Sharpe’s anger. “Naturally I shall take your advice, Major.” Bampfylde opened the lid of his watch as if to demonstrate that Sharpe was delaying his advance. “Be back by Thursday, Major! That’s when Maquereau should bring us the good news from Bordeaux. Remember now! Speed and surprise, Major! Speed and surprise!”
Bampfylde turned away, but Sharpe called him back. “Sir! You believe the fisherman?”
Bampfylde bridled. “Is it your business, Sharpe?”
“You’ll send picquets ahead, sir?”
Bampfylde snapped his watch-lid shut. “If I wish for lessons in the operations of military forces, Major, then I shall seek them from my superiors, not my inferiors. My boats will fetch your men now, Major Sharpe, and I will bid you good day.”
Bampfylde walked away. He did not need Sharpe to capture the fort, so he would not dilute his victory by having Sharpe’s name mentioned in the despatch he would send to the Admiralty. That despatch was already taking shape in Bampfylde’s head, a despatch that would be printed in the Naval Gazette and tell, with a modesty that would be as impressive as it was transparent, of a fortress carried, of a bay cleared, and of a victory gained. But that small victory would be but a whisper compared to the trumpeted glory when Bordeaux fell. Thus Bampfylde walked through the cloying, crunching sand and his head was filled with dreams of triumph and the sweeter dreams of victory’s rewards that were fame and wealth beyond measure.
CHAPTER 5
Cornelius Killick spat coffee grounds into the fire that had been lit beneath the pine trees. The wind was chill, but at least it was not raining, though Killick suspected the lull in the foul weather would not last.
Some of his men slept, some clenched muskets, others played cribbage or dice. They were nervous, but they took comfort from their captain’s blithe confidence.
