“Just as you did not take the fortress, you bastard, I did. And then I held it, you bastard, I held it against a goddamned brigade of crapaud troops. We beat them, Bampfylde. We fought them and beat them. I lost some of your Marines, Bampfylde, because you don’t fight a demi-brigade without losing men, but we won!“ There was an embarrassed silence among the elegantly dressed party. A cold wind stirred the water to Sharpe’s right, then a dull cough of artillery thumped its noise across the, river. ”Do you hear me, Bampfylde?“
The naval officer said nothing, and there was nothing but terror on his fleshy young face. The other officers, appalled by Sharpe’s face and by the anger in his voice, stood as if frozen.
“Over two thousand men, you bastard, and less than two hundred of us. We fought them till we had no bullets left, then we fought with steel, Bampfylde. And we won!” Sharpe took another step towards the naval captain who, terrified, stepped backwards.
“He told me…” Bampfylde began, but could not go on.
“Who told you what?”
Bampfylde’s eyes went past Sharpe and the Rifleman turned to see the Comte de Maquerre, a girl on his arm, standing with Colonel Wigram. The Comte looked at Sharpe as though he saw a revenant come from the tomb. Sharpe, who had not expected to find the Comte, stared with equal disbelief.
Then, to both minds, came the shared knowledge of treachery and the Comte de Maquerre panicked. He ran.
The Comte ran towards the bridge that led to the north bank of the Adour-where a handful of French troops retreated from the First Division. There should have been more French troops there, Calvet’s troops, enough troops to turn the river into blood, but de Maquerre had been fooled by the story of a landing and so Calvet’s troops had been frittered away at Arcachon. The Comte de Maquerre had unwittingly served Wellington well, but he was a traitor and so he ran.
Sharpe ran after him.
Colonel Wigram raised a hand as if to call for prudent decorum in front of ladies, but Sharpe pushed the man down the sea-wall and into the mud.
De Maquerre leaped down the sloping wall, miraculously kept his footing on the slippery river’s edge, and climbed on to the bridge.
“Stop him!” Sharpe bellowed it.
Portuguese infantrymen crossing the bridge saw a tall, distinguished officer in British uniform being chased by a dirty, tattered wretch. They made way for the Comte.
Sharpe banged his wounded thigh as he clambered on to the roadway. Blood ran warm on his thigh as he snarled at men to make way. “Stop him!”
A jittery horse, made nervous by the strange road across which it was being led blindfolded, checked de Maquerre’s panicked flight. It swerved its rump into the Frenchman’s path and the Comte was forced to leap for the safety of one of the moored chasse-marees. He turned as he landed on the deck, saw he could run no further, and drew his sword.
Sharpe jumped forward from the planks on to the boat’s deck and drew his own sword.
The Comte de Maquerre, seeing the filth and blood of battle on Sharpe, sensed that the fight was lost before it began. He lowered his slim blade. “I surrender, Major.”
“They hang spies,” Sharpe said, “you bastard.”
De Maquerre glanced towards the water and Sharpe knew the man was contemplating a leap into the cold grey tide, but then a voice drew the Frenchman’s attention back to the bridge.
“Sharpe!” It was the petulant voice of the mud-smeared Colonel Wigram who, with Elphinstone, was forcing his way past the Portuguese troops on the crowded roadway.
The Comte de Maquerre looked at Wigram and gestured towards Sharpe. “He’s mad!”
“Major!” Wigram stepped down to the chasse-maree’s deck. “There are things you don’t understand, Major!”
“He’s a traitor. A spy.”
Wigram stayed by the cable-taut roadway. “He was supposed to tell the French we planned a landing! Don’t you see that?”
Sharpe stared at the tall, thin Frenchman. “He works for a man called Pierre Ducos. Oh, you fooled him, Wigram, I understand that, but this bastard tried to trap me.”
De Maquerre, sensing survival in Wigram’s alliance, gestured again at Sharpe. “He’s mad, Wigram, mad!”
“I’m mad enough,” Sharpe said, “to hate hanging men.”
The Comte de Maquerre could step no further back. His retreat was blocked by two naval ratings who crouched nervously beside the anchor’s winch. The Frenchman watched Sharpe’s sword, then Sharpe’s eyes. The boat shivered as Elphinstone leaped on to the deck from the roadway, and the movement seemed to prompt de Maquerre into a burst of pleading French directed at Wigram.
“In English, you bastard!” Sharpe stepped a pace closer to the frightened de Maquerre. “Tell him who Ducos is! Tell him who Favier is! Tell him how you offered to make me a Major General in your Royalist Army!”
„Monsieur!“ de Maquerre, faced with the Rifleman, could only plead.
“Sharpe!” Colonel Wigram made his voice very sensible and calm. “There will have to be a formal inquiry before a properly constituted tribunal…”
“… and what will they do? Hang him?”
“If found guilty, yes.” Wigram sounded uncertain.
“But I don’t like hanging men!” Sharpe said each word slowly and deliberately. “I’ve discovered a weakness in myself, and I regret it, but I can’t bear seeing men hanged!”
“Quite understandable.” Wigram, convinced he was dealing with a madman, spoke soothingly.
The Comte de Maquerre, sensing a reprieve in Sharpe’s words, tried a very nervous smile. “You don’t understand, monsieur.”
“I understand you’re a bastard,” Sharpe said, “and a spy, but you won’t hang for it. But this is for the men you killed, you pimp!“ The sword lunged as Sharpe shouted the final word. The blade, pitted with the rust of water and blood, twisted as Sharpe thrust it, twisted as it took de Maquerre in the upper belly, still twisted as the blood sprayed two feet into the air, and still was twisted so that the body’s flesh would not stick to the steel as the Frenchman, blood drenching his white breeches, fell into the river that Calvet should have defended.
The sound of Sharpe’s voice faded over the water. The two sailors gaped and one of them, spattered by blood, turned to retch into the scuppers.
“That wasn’t wise,” Colonel Elphinstone pushed past an appalled Wigram who watched as the body of a spy, surrounded by diluting blood, floated towards the sea.
“He was a traitor,” Sharpe said, “and he killed my men.” The tiredness was washing through him. He wanted to sit down, but he supposed he should explain. Somehow it was too difficult. “Hogan knew,” he said, remembering his friend’s fevered words. “Michael Hogan?” He looked for understanding into Elphinstone’s honest face.
Elphinstone nodded. “It was Hogan’s idea to let the French think we planned an invasion.”
“But Wigram sent de Maquerre, didn’t you?” Sharpe stared at the grey-faced colonel who said nothing. “Hogan would never have sent that pimp to risk our lives!”
“Hogan was ill,” Wigram spoke defensively.
“Then wait till he’s well,” Sharpe glowered at the staff officer, “then call him before your properly constituted tribunal.”
“That can’t be done.” Colonel Elphinstone spoke gently. “Hogan died.”
For a second the news made no sense. “Dead?”
“The fever. May he rest in peace.”
“Oh, God.” Tears came to Sharpe’s eyes and, so that neither Elphinstone nor Wigram should see them, the Rifleman turned away. Hogan, his particular friend, with whom he had so often talked of the pleasures to come when peace brought an end to killing, was dead of the fever. Sharpe watched de Maquerre’s body turning on the tide, and his grief for a friend turned into a fresh pulse of anger. “That should have been Bampfylde!” Sharpe pointed at the corpse and turned to Elphinstone. “He ran away!”
The grimness of Sharpe’s face made Colonel Wigram scramble back to the plank bridge, but Elphinstone
