he was not caught in a trap, but was an unwitting part of a greater trap. But that was no consolation, for in the morning the French guns would begin their fire and the time of trial would begin.
Frederickson first led his squad eastwards, then south through the tangle of small meadows. He was drawn by a rhythmic, clanging sound that came from the direction of the watermill.
He paused in the black-shadowed shelter of the byre where Harper had drawn his own tooth. There was the beat of owl-wings overhead, then silence again except for the ring of picks or crowbars on the watermill’s stones.
Frederickson waved his men into hiding, then stared at the mill. There was the faintest glow of light limning the doors and windows, suggesting that men worked inside the big stone building by the light of shielded lanterns.
“They’re putting guns in there,” Harper offered his opinion in a hoarse whisper.
“Probably.” Artillery placed in the mill would be protected by stone walls from rifle fire, and would be able to rake the southern and eastern flanks of the beleaguered fortress.
Frederickson turned towards the village where the bulk of the enemy forces had gone. More half-shielded lights showed among the small buildings, but he could see no movement between the village and the mill. He wondered how many picquets guarded the big stone building that straddled the stream. “Hernandez?”
The Spanish Rifleman from Salamanca appeared beside Frederickson. He moved with an uncanny silence; a stealth learned when he was a guerrillero, and a stealth much prized by Captain Frederickson. The Spaniard listened to his Captain’s quick orders, showed a white grin against blackened skin, and went southwards. Hernandez, Frederickson believed, could have picked the devil’s own pockets and got clean away.
The other Riflemen waited for twenty minutes. A French squad fired from the glacis, shouted insults at the ramparts, but no defender fired back. A dog barked in the village, then yelped as it was kicked into silence.
Frederickson smelt Hernandez before he saw him, or rather he smelt blood, then heard two thumps as the Spaniard seemed to materialize out of the shadows. “There are four men on the track from the mill to the village,” Hernandez whispered, “and there were two guarding the bridge.”
“Were?”
„Si, senor.“ Hernandez gestured to the ground and thus explained the curious double thump that had presaged his return.
Frederickson’s voice was gentle with reproof. “You didn’t cut their heads off, did you, Marcos?”
„Si, senor. Now they cannot give the alarm.“
“That’s certainly true.” Frederickson was glad that the darkness cloaked the horrors at his feet.
He led his squad south, following the path reco’nnbitred by Hernandez, a path that led to the small bridge beside the mill. Once at the bridge they were close enough to see the shapes of men working inside the building. One group of men, using crowbars, sledgehammers and picks, were making loopholes in the thick outer wall of the mill, while others cleared the mill’s machinery to leave a space for the guns. “There were twenty French bastards inside,” Hernandez whispered.
“Guns?”
“I didn’t see them.”
One of the lantern shields was lifted as a man stooped to light a cigar. Frederickson thought he saw the shape of a-French field gun in the recesses of the mill, but it was hard to tell exactly what lay in the deep shadows. But Frederickson knew that at least twenty men worked inside, and another four Frenchmen were close to the mill. Sweet William had thirteen men, but his were Riflemen. The odds therefore seemed stacked against the French, in which case there was small point in waiting, so Frederickson, sword drawn, led his men to the attack.
General Calvet was not unduly annoyed, he was even amused. “So he’s good! That makes him a worthy foe. I’ll take another egg.” Another rifle crack and another scream betrayed that some fool had shown himself on the northern edge of the village. “Four hundred paces!” Calvet looked at Favier.
“They have some marksmen,” Favier said apologetically.
“I’ve never understood,” Calvet broke off a piece of bread with which to mop up his egg-yolk, “why the Emperor won’t use rifles. I like them!”
“Slow to load,” Favier ventured.
“Tell that to the poor bugger who’s on his way to the surgeons.” Calvet grunted scant thanks as his servant tipped another runny egg from the pan on to the plate. “Where’s the bacon?”
The British took it all to the fort.“
“So they’re eating bacon for breakfast and I’m not,” Calvet growled, then looked at Ducos who sat in the corner with a pen and notebook. “Tell your master, Ducos, that we lost thirty-four dead, six wounded, and had one twelve-pounder scorched. We lost two limbers of ammunition. That’s not a big loss! I remember a night we got in among the Ivans at Vilna. I had two of them on this sword! One behind the other like chickens on a spit! And the one in front was grinning at me and jabbering away in his heathen language. Remember that?” He twisted to look at his aide. “How many guns did we take?”
“Four, sir.”
“I thought it was six.”
“Six it was,” the aide said hastily.
“Six guns!” the general said happily, “and Sharpe didn’t take one last night! Not one! He just scorched a carriage!”
The mill had burned, but the stone walls were still intact and the guns were being emplaced behind the finished, scorched embrasures. Calvet acknowledged that the British troops had done well in the night. They had scoured the mill of its work-party, exploded the limbers, but they could have done much better. Sharpe, in Calvet’s book, had made a mistake. He had only sent out a small force and, though that force had committed butchery, they had done not nearly so much damage as a major sortie from the fortress might have achieved. Calvet chuckled. “He thought we were going to pounce, so he kept most of his men at home.” The general spooned half the fried egg into his mouth, then went on talking despite the mouthful. “So we’ll just have to surprise this half- clever bugger, won’t we?” He wiped egg yolk from his chin with his sleeve, then looked at Favier. “Go and have a talk with this Sharpe. You know what to say.”
“Of course, sir.”
“And tell him I’d be obliged for some bacon. The fat sort.”
“Yes, sir.” Favier paused. “He’ll probably want some brandy in return.”
“Give it to him! I’ll get it back by the end of the day, but I do feel like some fat bacon for lunch. Right, gentlemen,” Calvet slapped the table to show that the pleasantries were over, and that the siege proper could begin.
CHAPTER 15
The moment Colonel Favier removed his hat, Sharpe recognized the man who had spoken to him at the bridge over the Leyre. Favier smiled. “My general sends his congratulations.”
“Give him my commiserations.”
The French corporal holding the white flag of truce stood miserably beside Favier’s horse, while Favier stared along the ramparts. There was no one but Sharpe to be seen. Favier smiled. “My general informs you that you have acquitted yourself nobly and that you may march out with all the honours of war.” Favier shouted far louder than was necessary for just Sharpe to hear; he wanted the hidden garrison to listen to this offer. “You will be imprisoned, of course, but treated as honourable and brave opponents.”
“I’ll give you my answer,” Sharpe said, “at midday.”
Favier, who knew all the rules of this game, smiled. “If your answer is not forthcoming in ten minutes, Major, we shall presume that it is a rejection of our most generous terms. In the meantime may we remove our dead from the north ground?”
“You can send six men, unarmed, and one light cart. You should know that Captain Mayeron is our prisoner.”
