“Thank you.” Favier calmed his horse that had suddenly skittered sideways on the road that led through the glacis. “And you should know, Major, that your ships believe you to be defeated and captured. They will not return for you.” He waited for a response, but Sharpe said nothing. Favier smiled. “You and your officers are invited to take lunch with General Calvet.”
“I shall give you that answer with the other,” Sharpe said.
“And General Calvet begs a favour of you. He would be appreciative of some fat bacon. He offers this in return.” Favier held up a black, squat bottle. “Brandy!”
Sharpe smiled. “Tell the general that we have all the food and drink we need. When you come for your answer I’ll give you the bacon.”
“It’s a pity for brave men to die!” Favier was shouting again. “For nothing!”
Eight minutes later Sharpe gave Favier the answer that the Frenchman expected, a rejection of the offered terms, and also tossed down a muslin-wrapped leg of bacon that the flag-carrier had to pick up from the broad ledge of the counter-guard. Favier waved a friendly farewell, then turned his horse away.
To the north a small waggon was still picking up the dead left in the dunes by Frederickson’s men. Sharpe wanted the French conscripts to see those corpses and to fear the night. The French could rule the day, but his Riflemen could make the environs of the Teste de Buch into a nightmare.
Yet within minutes of Favier’s departure Sharpe had some evidence that the Frenchman had planted some fear into his own men. Lieutenant Fytch, albeit sheepishly, wanted to know whether there was any hope in a fight.
“Who rules the waves, Lieutenant?” Sharpe asked.
“Britannia?”
Sharpe pointed to the sea. “So that’s our territory. Any moment, Lieutenant, a ship could appear. When it does, we’re safe. How would you feel if we surrendered and a naval squadron appeared an hour later?” The very fact that the question had been asked was cause for worry. Sharpe did not fear for the morale of his Riflemen, but the Marines had not been righting the French so consistently and, bereft of their ships, they felt the flickers of fear that could gnaw into a man’s confidence. “We’ve sent a message south, the Navy patrols this coast, we only have to hold on.”
“Yes, sir.”
Yet, in truth, Sharpe might have shared the tremor of despair that the lieutenant’s question had shown. There were no ships in sight, even though the waters beyond Cap Ferrat had settled to a gentle, sun-glittering chop. He waited on the ramparts, wondering what surprises the French general planned, and found himself contemplating the very thing Favier had encouraged; surrender.
Sharpe told himself that he was trapped, out-numbered, and with limited supplies of food, water and ammunition. When one of those things gave out, he was doomed.
Yet to be made a prisoner was to be taken far away from this part of France, to be marched north to the grim fortress town of Verdun and he would be even further from Jane. He had told his men they fought in hope of rescue, but he had lied.
Sharpe’s troubled thoughts were interrupted by Frederickson climbing the ramp. “I thought you were sleeping,” Sharpe said.
“I slept for three hours.” Frederickson stared out to sea. These western ramparts were the safest, the only wall not covered by the French forces, and the two officers could lean in a gun embrasure and stare at the waves.
“There’s something I should have told you,” Sharpe said uncertainly.
“You have an unnatural passion for my beauty.” Frederickson blew steam from a mug of tea. “I understand it.”
Sharpe smiled a dutiful appreciation. “Jane.”
“Ah.” Frederickson, abandoning jest, turned and leaned his rump on the stone. “Well?”
“She has the fever.”
Frederickson’s one eye considered Sharpe. “She was well the night before…”
“The symptoms appeared next morning.”
Frederickson sighed. “I wish I could express my sorrow properly, sir.”
“It’s not that.” Sharpe was embarrassed into incoherence. “I just think I’m fighting here because I can’t bear to leave her. If she dies, and I’m not there. You understand? If I surrender,” he waved feebly towards the north, “I’ll be taken away from her.”
“I understand.” Frederickson took a cheroot from his pocket. He only had six left and had rationed himself to one a day. He lit it, and drew the smoke into his lungs. He watched Sharpe, knowing what Sharpe wanted to hear, but unable and unwilling to express it. He was saved an immediate reply by the presence of three Riflemen carrying a barrel of lime to one of the citadels.
Frederickson did not know Jane. He had met her just once, and he had discovered a girl of startling prettiness, but that did not make her special. Many girls, to one degree or another, were pretty. Marine Robinson’s green-eyed drab, for whom Robinson risked a deserter’s death, would be as pretty as any society girl if she was washed, dressed properly, and taught the monkey-antics of the salon. Frederickson had noted that Jane had a sweet-natured smile and a pleasant, vivacious personality, but such things were the stock-in-trade of the young woman seeking matrimony. Any father from the middling sort in Britain, and hopeful of marrying his daughter into the better classes, made sure his child was tricked out with such allurements. And as for intelligence, which Jane seemed to have, in Frederickson’s view the largest part of female humanity so blessed inevitably wasted the gift on cheap novels, gossip, or evangelical religion.
So to suffer for such a girl, as Sharpe was evidently suffering, did not touch a nerve in Frederickson’s soul. He allowed that Jane Sharpe might one day prove to be above the common ruck, might even prove to have a distinction and character that would outlast the fading of her beauty, and doubtless Sharpe saw those possibilities within her, but Frederickson, not knowing her, did not. To agonize over a wife was therefore beyond Sweet William’s comprehension; indeed for a soldier to take a wife was beyond his comprehension. Whores could scratch that itch, and so Frederickson found he could say nothing that would be of comfort to his friend. Instead, abandoning sympathy, he posed a question. “If you died this morning, God forbid, then I’d take over?”
“Yes.” Sharpe knew that Frederickson’s commission was senior to Palmer’s.
“Then I,” Frederickson said stonily, “would fight the bastards.”
“Why?”
“Why!” Frederickson stared at Sharpe with amazement. “Because they’re crapauds! Because they’re slimy Frogs! Because as long as they’re fighting us they can’t go south and give the Peer a headache! Because the English have a God-given duty to rid the world of the French! Because it’s what I’m paid to do. Because I’ve got nothing better to do! Because Napoleon Bonaparte is a foul little worm who grovels in his own excrement! Because no one’s ordered me to surrender just because the odds are unhealthy! Because I don’t want to live under French rule and the more of those bastards I kill the more the rest of them will slowly comprehend that fact! Do you need more?” He watched Sharpe. “If you weren’t married, would you surrender?”
“No.”
“So being married has weakened you. It does, you know. Saps a man.” He grinned to show that he did not want to be taken seriously, even if he had spoken with real conviction. “I’m sorry about Jane, I truly am. But her fight isn’t here and you are.”
“Yes.” Sharpe felt ashamed of himself. He wanted to tell Frederickson about the superstition that had kept him going through the ambush and how Killick, unwittingly, had taken that strength away from him, but he could say nothing. “I’m sorry.”
“You need a good fight,” Frederickson said cheerfully. “Nothing like a good fight to raise the spirits. And two weeks from now, my friend, we’ll open a bottle and be embarrassed this conversation ever took place.”
“Yes.” Sharpe had expected some sympathy, and had found none. “They came for a parley.”
“So I heard.”
“They said that Bampfylde was told we’d been defeated. That’s why the Navy buggered off.”
“Clever.” Frederickson blew smoke into the wind.
It was de Maquerre, Sharpe thought. Perhaps Hogan had known de Maquerre was a traitor, but no one else had known. But now Sharpe knew and he vowed, should he survive this siege, that he would seek the Frenchman
