Calvet said as he stared at the Stars and Stripes, “God bloody hell and damn.”
Cornelius Killick, standing beside Sharpe on the southern ramparts, stared at the great French column that waited beside the village. “If they choose to fight, Major, you know I can’t fire on them.”
“I agree it would be difficult for you.” Sharpe opened his glass and stared at the French until the rain bleared the outer lens. He snapped the tubes shut. “Do I have your permission, Captain Killick, to put my wounded on board?”
“You have my permission,” Killick spoke solemnly, as if to invest this agreed charade with dignity. “You also have my permission to keep your sword that you failed to offer me.”
“Thank you.” Sharpe grinned, then turned to the western ramparts. “Captain Palmer! You may begin the evacuation! Wounded and baggage first!” All the packs of Sharpe’s small garrison were heaped next to the wounded men, for he was determined to leave the French nothing.
Sharpe’s men, sensing that their ordeal was over, relaxed. They knew that Major Sharpe had gone into the night, and the rumour had spread that he had talked to the Americans and the Americans had agreed to take them away. The American Colours, bright on the fort’s outer face, testified to that deliverance. “It’s all because we didn’t hang the buggers,” a Marine sergeant opined. “We scratched their backsides, now they scratch ours.”
Rifleman Hernandez, watching the French column, wondered aloud whether he would now be going to America and, if so, whether there were Frenchmen there waiting to be killed. William Frederickson assured him they were not bound for the United States. Frederickson was staring at the French and saw three horsemen suddenly spur forward. He cupped his hands towards Sharpe. “Sir! Crapauds coming!”
Sharpe did not want the three enemy officers to come too close to the fort, so he ran, jumped from the broken ramparts, and sprawled in an ungainly, bruising fall on the jagged summit of the breach. He clambered down the outer stones, then leaped the gap on to the roadway. Frederickson and Killick followed more slowly.
Sharpe waited in the narrow cutting that led through the glacis. The road was thick with musket balls that had already half settled into the wet, sandy surface. He held up a hand as the horsemen came close.
Favier was the leading horseman. Behind Favier was a general, cloak open to show the braid on his jacket, and behind the general was Ducos. Sharpe, warned by Killick that he might see his old enemy, stared with loathing, but he had nothing to say to Ducos. He spoke instead to Colonel Favier. “Good morning, Colonel.”
“What’s the meaning of that?” Favier pointed to the American flag.
“It means,” Sharpe spoke loud enough for Ducos to hear, “that we have surrendered ourselves to the armed forces of the United States and put ourselves under the protection of her President and Congress.” Killick had given him the words last night, and Sharpe saw the flicker of anger that they provoked in Pierre Ducos.
There was silence. Frederickson and Killick joined Sharpe, then the general demanded a translation that Favier provided. Rain dripped from bridles and sword scabbards.
Favier looked back at Sharpe. “As allies of America we will take responsibility for Captain Killick’s prisoners.” He doffed his hat to Killick. “We congratulate you, Captain.”
“My pleasure,” Killick said. “And my prisoners. I’m taking them aboard.”
Again there was a pause for the exchange to be translated and, when Favier looked back, his face was angry. “This is the soil of France. If British troops surrender on this soil then those troops become prisoners of the French government.”
Sharpe dug his heel into the wet, sandy road. “This is British soil, Favier, captured by my men, held by my men against your best efforts, and now surrendered to the United States. Doubtless you can negotiate with those States for its return.”
“I think the United States would agree to return it.” Killick, amused by the pomposities of the moment, smiled.
There was a fall of dislodged stone from the breach and all six men, their attention drawn by the noise, saw the huge figure of Patrick Harper, head bare, standing on the breach’s summit. Over his right shoulder, like a dreadful threat, lay the French engineer’s axe that Sharpe had used the day before. Favier looked back to Killick. “It seems you do not disarm your prisoners, Mr Killick?”
“Captain Killick,” Killick corrected Favier. “You have to understand, Colonel, that Major Sharpe has sworn a solemn oath not to take up arms against the United States of America. Therefore I had no need to remove his weapons, nor those of his men.”
“And France?” Ducos spoke for the first time.
“France?” Killick inquired innocently.
“It would be normal, Captain Killick, to demand that a captured prisoner should not take up arms against the allies of your country. Or had you forgotten that your country and mine are bound by solemn treaty?”
Killick shrugged. “I suppose that in the flush of my victory, Major, I forgot that clause.”
“Then impose it now.”
Killick looked at Sharpe, the movement of his head spilling water from the peaks of his bicorne hat. “Well, Major?”
“The terms of the surrender,” Sharpe said, “cannot be changed.”
Calvet was demanding a translation. Favier and Ducos jostled each other’s words in their eagerness to reveal the perfidy of this surrender.
“They’re all Anglo-Saxons,” Ducos said bitterly.
Calvet asked a question in French, was answered by Killick in that language, and Frederickson smiled. “He asked,” he said to Sharpe, “whether Killick’s taking us to America. Killick said that was where the Thuella was sailing.”
“And doubtless,” Ducos had edged his horse closer so he could stare down at Sharpe, “you have relieved Captain Killick of his sworn oath not to fight against the British?”
“Yes,” Sharpe said, “I have.” That was the devil’s pact, made in the seething rainstorm of last night. Sharpe had promised that neither he nor his garrison would fight against the United States, and in return Sharpe had relieved Killick of his own irksome oath. The price was this surrender that would make the escape of Sharpe’s men possible.
Ducos sneered at Sharpe. “And you think a privateer captain honours his promises?”
“I honoured the promise I made you,” Killick said. “I fired till the enemy surrendered.”
“You have no standing in this matter!” Ducos snapped the words. “You are not a military officer, Mr Killick; you are a pirate.”
Killick opened his mouth to reply, but Ducos scornfully wheeled his horse away. He spoke to the general, chopping the air with his thin, gloved hand to accentuate his words.
“I don’t think they’re impressed,” Frederickson said softly.
“I don’t give a damn,” Sharpe growled. The boats must already be taking the wounded to the Thuella, and the Marines would be following. The longer the French argued, the more men would be saved.
Favier looked down sadly at Sharpe. “This is unworthy, Major.”
“No more so, Colonel, than your own feeble effort to make me march to Bordeaux as a Major General.”
Favier shrugged. “That was a ruse de guerre, a legitimate manouevre.”
“Just as it is legitimate for me to surrender to whom I wish.”
“To fight again?” Favier smiled. “I think not. This is cynical expediency, Major, not honour.”
General Calvet was feeling cheated. His men had died in the struggle for this effort and no cheap surrender would deny them their victory. He looked at Sharpe and asked a question.
“He wants to know,” Frederickson said, “whether you truly rose from the ranks.”
“Yes,” Sharpe said.
Calvet smiled and spoke again. “He says it will be a pity to kill you,” Frederickson said.
Sharpe shrugged as reply, and Calvet spoke harsh, curt words to Favier, who, in turn, interpreted for Sharpe. “The general informs you, Major Sharpe, that we do not accept your arrangements. You have one minute to surrender to us.” Favier looked to Killick. “And we advise you to remove your ship from the vicinity of this fortress. If you interfere now, Mr Killick, you may be sure that the strongest representations will be made to your government. Good day to you.” He wheeled his horse to follow Calvet and Ducos back across the esplanade.
“Bugger me,” Killick said. “Are they going to fight?”
“Yes,” Sharpe said, “they are.”
The Marines were clambering up the side of the Thuella, leaving the Riflemen alone in the fortress. It would
