Sharpe 18 - Sharpe's Siege (12 page)

Killick could have said nothing more helpful to his cause. His words made Sharpe think of Jane, shivering in the cold sweat of her fever, and he thought, with sudden self-pity, that if she could not be saved then he would rather catch the fever and die with her than be in this cold, ice-slicked fort where the mist writhed silent about the stones.

Killick, watching the hard face that was slashed by a casual scar, saw a shudder go through the Rifleman. He sensed that Docherty was about to speak and, rather than have their situation jeopardized by Irish hostility, he kicked his lieutenant to silence. Killick, who had spoken lightly enough before, knew that his words had struck a seam of feeling and he pressed his advantage with a gentle voice. “There's no peace for a man who hangs a sailorman in a calm.”

Their eyes met. Sharpe wondered whether the American's words were true. Sharpe told himself it was nonsense, a superstition as baseless as any soldier's talisman, yet the thought was irresistibly lodged. Sharpe had been cursed years before, his name buried on a stone, and his first wife had died within hours of that curse. He frowned. “The deserters must hang. That's the law.”

No one spoke. Harper waited for the soup to seethe and Frederickson leaned against the door. Docherty licked bloodied lips, then Killick smiled. “All my men are citizens of the United States, Major. What they were before is not your business, nor my President's business, nor the business of the bloody law. They all have citizens' papers!” Killick ignored the fact that the certificates had been burned by Bampfylde.

“You give those scraps of paper to anyone who volunteers; anyone!” Sharpe said mockingly. “If a donkey could pull a trigger you'd make it into a citizen of the United States!”

“And what do you give to your volunteers?” Killick retorted with an equal scorn. “Everyone knows a murderer is forgiven his crime if he'll join your Army! You expect us to be more delicate than your own service?” There was no reply, and Killick smiled. “And I tell you now that none of my men deserted the Royal Navy. Some may have fouled-anchor tattoos, some may have English voices, and some may have scarred backs, but I tell you now that they are all, every last jack of them, free-born citizens of the Republic.”

Sharpe looked into the hard, bright eyes. “You tell me? Or do you swear to me?”

,I'll swear on every damned Bible in Massachusetts if you demand it." Which meant that Killick lied, but that he lied to protect his men, and Sharpe knew that he himself would tell just such a lie for his own men.

“Thomas Taylor is American,” Frederickson observed mildly to Sharpe. “Would you approve of him being hanged if the tables were turned?”

And if he let them go, Sharpe thought, then the Navy-would complain to the Admiralty and the Admiralty would huff and puff to the Horse Guards and the Horse Guards would write a letter to Wellington and all hell would break loose about Major Richard Sharpe's head. Men like Wigram, the bores who worshipped proper procedure, would demand explanations and decree punishments.

And if he did not let the Americans go, Sharpe thought, then a girl might die, and he would go back to St Jean de Luz to be shown the fresh, damp earth of her grave. Somehow he believed, with the fervour of a man who would cling to any hope, that he could buy Jane's life by not hanging a sailor-man in still airs. He had lost one wife by a curse; he could not risk it again.

He was silent. The soup boiled and Harper shifted it from the flames. Killick, as if he did not care what the outcome of this meeting was, smiled. “A flat calm, Major, and the ice will mask our dead faces just because we fought like men for our own country.”

,If I were to let you go,“ Sharpe spoke so quietly that, even in this night's uncanny silence, Killick and Docherty had to lean forward to hear his voice, ”would you give me your word, as American citizens, that neither of you, nor any man in your crew, here or absent, will take up arms against Britain for the rest of this war's duration?"

Sharpe had expected instant acceptance, even gratitude, but the tall American was wary. “Suppose I'm attacked?”

“Then you run.” Sharpe waited for a reply that did not come, then, to his astonishment, found himself pleading with a man not to choose a hanging. “I can't stop Bampfylde hanging you, Killick. I don't have the power. I can't escort you into captivity; we're a hundred miles behind enemy lines! So the Navy has to take you away from here and the Navy will string you up, all of you. But give me your word and I'll release you.”

Killick suddenly let out a great breath, the first sign of the tension he had felt. “You have my word.”

Sharpe looked at the Irishman. “And you?”

Docherty stared in puzzlement at Sharpe. “You'll let all of us go? All the crew?”

“I said so.”

“And how do we know.?”

Harper spoke in sudden Gaelic. His words were brief, harshly spoken, and a mystery to every man in the room except to himself and Docherty. The American lieutenant listened to the huge Irishman, then looked back to Sharpe with a sudden, unnatural humility. “You have my word.”

Cornelius Killick held up a hand. “But if I'm attacked, Major, and can't run, then by Christ I'll fight!”

“But you won't seek a fight?”

“I will not,” Killick said.

Sharpe, his head splitting with pain from the bullet-strike, leaned back. Harper brought the cauldron to the table and splashed soup into five bowls. Frederickson came and sat down, Harper sat beside him, and only Sharpe did not eat. He looked at Killick instead, and his voice was suddenly very weary. “Your boat's wrecked?”

“Yes,” Killick told the lie glibly.

“Then I suggest you go to Paris. The American Minister there can arrange passage home.”

“Indeed,” Killick smiled. He spooned soup into his mouth. “So what now, Major?”

“You finish your soup, collect your men, and go. I'll make sure there's no trouble at the gate. You forfeit your weapons, of course, except for officers' swords.”

Killick stared at Sharpe as though he could not believe what he was hearing. “We just go?”

“You just go,” Sharpe said. He pushed his chair back and walked to the door. He went into the yard, stared upwards, and sure enough the Union flag that the sailors had raised to the flagpole's peak was hanging utterly limp in the still, misting air.

It was a flat calm, an utter stillness; no airs in which to hang a sailorman, and so Richard Sharpe would let an enemy go and he would say he did it for honour, or because the war was so close to ending that there was no need for more death, or because it was just his pleasure to do it.

He felt tears in his eyes that had been earlier closed with blood, then walked to the gate to make sure that no man stopped the Thuella's crew from leaving. His wife would live and Sharpe, for the first time since the Amelie had sailed, felt that he, just like the Americans, was free.

CHAPTER 9

“Be Pleased to acquaint the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty,” wrote Captain Horace Bampfylde as he drafted his first despatch to the Secretary of the Admiralty, which gentleman would not only acquaint the Lords Commissioners, but also the unlordly editor of the Naval Gazette who was in a position to do much honour to Captain Bampfylde, “that judging it to be of Consequence that their Lordships should have as early Information as possible of the Defeat of the French Forces in the Basin of Arcachon, I have this day ordered the Lily cutter to sail with this Despatch.” The Lily was waiting in the roads outside.

“I had established,” Bampfylde's quill squeaked on the thick paper, “from picquets sent ahead, that an Artillery Fortification, of Breastwork, Ditch, and Emplacements, in which six pieces of artillery were arrayed, which pieces were defended by musketeers, had been constructed against just such an approach as I had the honour to make.” Bampfylde had decided not to reveal that the `breastwork' was manned by American sailors, for victory over such opponents would not be considered as praiseworthy as a triumph over French land forces. By default, therefore, Bampfylde would allow the Lords Commissioners to believe that he had faced and overcome a part of Napoleon's Army.

He refought the battle with quill and ink. not as it had actually taken place, but as he was convinced it ought to have taken place; indeed in a manner that precisely described what Bampfylde believed would have happened if Major Sharpe had not disobeyed his orders and assaulted the Teste de Buch instead of marching inland. The quill paused and Bampfylde persuaded himself that he did Major Sharpe a favour by not writing a description of the Rifleman's disobedience, and further persuaded himself that it might be better, all round, if Sharpe's name did not appear in the description of the fort's capture at all. Why raise the subject of a fellow-officer's failure to follow orders?

“Going forward with a file of men under Lieutenant of Marines Fytch,” Bampfylde resumed, “I succeeded in drawing the Enemy fire and thus marking the position of the skilfully hidden battery to my flanking force that was under the command of Captain Palmer. The Guns were taken at point of cutlass and sword. Due to the Temerity and Masterful Gallantry shown by the men under my command our losses were trifling.” That seemed eminently just to Bampfylde. After all the guns had been physically taken by the Marines and it seemed hardly necessary to spell out the trifling point that the gun crews had already been captured. Guns were guns, and next to enemy flags, were valuable trophies. That thought gave Bampfylde pause. He had already sequestered the French tricolour that had flown over the Teste de Buch, but his Midshipman had so far failed to find the American ensign. That must be diligently sought, Bampfylde thought, as he bent again to his literary labours.

“At this time, the Scylla, Captain Duncan Grant, was, as per my orders, fully engaging the guns of the fort with her main batteries. Thus distracted, the defenders were disconcerted by the sudden appearance from the woods, of my land force. Deeming the moment opportune, I went forward to the Escalade. It is with the Greatest Pleasure and Satisfaction that I make known to Their Lordships the Very Gallant Behaviour of Lieutenant Ford, who with the Utmost Intrepidity, was at the Forefront of the attack. In the crossing of two ditches, two walls, and the enceinte of the enemy position, Lieutenant Ford showed a True British spirit, as did the Marines who followed us in the Assault.” Bampfylde frowned, wondering whether he had over-egged the pudding a little, but it was important that Ford, who had noble connections in London, should feel pleased with this despatch. Bampfylde, still frowning, was concerned that their Lordships would realize that Ford, who had been described as so very gallant, was at all times at Bampfylde's side and that the enconium so generously penned should, in reality, be read as applying to the author.

Captain Bampfylde was not certain that meaning was entirely plain, yet he knew their Lordships to be subtle men, and he must trust to their perspicacity. Again he scanned his words as a test for truth. He and Ford had indeed crossed two ditches and walls, all of them thanks to the drawbridge which had been captured by Sharpe's Riflemen, but it would do no harm for the word `escalade' to suggest a desperate struggle.

“Taken in the rear, their Defences broken, the Enemy retreated to the Inner Galleries of their Fortress where, with Fortitude and Determination, the Marines I had the Honour and Happiness to command, overpressed the Foe. Great Carnage was done upon the Enemy before a Surrender was accepted, whereupon I had the Privilege of Raising His Majesty's Flag upon the Captured Mast.” Bampfylde had indeed ordered the flag raised, and it handily gave the impression that he had been present when the fort was captured.

And in all honesty, Bampfylde persuaded himself, he had captured the Teste de Buch. It had been his plan, his execution, and, though the Rifles had undoubtedly reached the fort first and taken possession of the gate and ramparts, the Marines, in exploring the labyrinthine tunnels and store-rooms, had discovered six French gunners hiding in a latrine. The existence of those men proved that the Rifles had not possessed all the fortress, and that it had been the Marines, under Bampfylde's command, who had achieved that task. Captain Bampfylde felt certain that his account, far from being unfair, was a model of generous objectivity.

“Among the prisoners taken were the crew of the American Privateer, Thuella, which crew included in their numbers some Deserters from His Majesty's Navy.” Writing that line gave Captain Bampfylde particular satisfaction. Tomorrow he would have those men hanged. Sharpe would be leaving, and when Sharpe was gone Captain Bampfylde would show his men how a privateer's crew was treated.

A knock sounded on the door. Bampfylde scowled at the interruption, but looked up. “Come!”

“Sir?” An astonished Lieutenant Ford stood there. “They're letting them go, sir. The Americans.”

“Go?” Bampfylde stared with disbelief at his lieutenant.

“Gone rather, sir.” Ford shrugged helplessly. “Major Sharpe's orders, sir.”

Bampfylde felt a pulse of hatred so fierce and so deep that he thought that never could he assuage such a feeling. Then he knew he must try. “Wait.”

He dipped his quill into ink, and the nib emerged coated with vitriol. “Those prisoners, condemned for Desertion or Piracy, were Released, without my Knowledge nor Consent, by Major Richard Sharpe, Prince of Wales's Own Volunteers, whom we had Conveyed to the Teste de Buch, together with a small Force of soldiery, for Operations in the interior. As yet, with all the Attendant Duties that this Victory brings, and in the Business of anticipating the Prizes that will lie open to His Majesty's ships Tomorrow, I have had neither opportunity nor time to Demand of Major Sharpe his Reasons for this,” Bampfylde paused, then swooped, “Betrayal. But be Assured that such Reasons will be sought and Conveyed to their Lordships by Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant, Horace Bampfylde.”

He sanded the despatch, folded it, then sealed it. Ford would wrap it in waxed paper, then take it to the Lily to wait for the winds that would speed this message back to London to the greater glory of Horace Bampfylde and to the deserved damn, tion of Major Richard Sharpe.

The mist thickened slowly, just as the ice ori the marshes thickened. There was no wind as dawn silvered the Bassin d'Arcachon and as Cornelius Killick, with his men, finished their frozen march i.c the village of Gujan where the Tkuella. was grounded.

Liam Docherty was astonished by the night's events. First his life had been spared by an Englishman, then, as he left the fort, a savage-faced Rifleman had thrust a cloth bundle into his arms. That bundle proved to be the Thuella's ensign and, to Docherty, a further proof that some supernatural force had given the Tkuella's crew protection in the cold, still night.

Cornelius Killick took their release more carelessly, as though he knew his time on this earth was not yet finished. “There never was a saying, Liam, that hanging a sailorman in still airs brought revenge. But it seemed worth an attempt, eh?” He laughed softly. “And it worked!” He stared up at his beached schooner, knowing that it needed days of work before it could float. “We'll patch with the elm and hope for the best.”

“At least the bastards won't find us in this mist,” Docherty said hopefully.

“ If the wind doesn't spring.” Killick stared over the saltings beyond the creek and saw how the slow, creeping whiteness was thickening into a vaporous shroud that might yet be his schooner's salvation. “But if we burn her,” he said slowly, “the British can't.”

“Burn her?” Docherty sounded appalled.

“Get the topmasts down, I want the bowsprit off her. Make her look like a hulk, Liam.” Killick, despite his sleepless night, was suddenly full of demonic energy. “Then set smoke fires in the hold.” He stared up at the sleek bulge of the careened hull. “Streak it with tar. Make her look abandoned, burned, and wrecked.” For if the British saw a canted, mastless hull, seeping a smudge of smoke, they would think the Thuella beyond salvage. They would not know that men carefully tended the smoke-rich fires, or that the topmasts, guns and sails were held safe ashore. “Do it, Liam! Fast now, fast!”

Killick grinned at his men, filling them with hope, then stalked back to the small tavern where Commandant Henri Lassan, wet and disconsolate, huddled before a smoking fire. “You'll not stay with us, Henri?”

Lassan was wondering what fate had attended upon his small and valuable library. No doubt it would be burned. The British, in Lassan's grim view, were entirely capable of burning books, which made it all the more surprising that they had released the Americans. “What was the name of the officer?”

“Sharpe.” Killick, with relief, had found some of his cigars safe amongst the baggage stored at Gujan. He lit one now, noticing that the mist was thickening to fog.

“Sharpe?” Lassan frowned. “A Rifleman?”

“Green Jacket, anyway.” Killick watched as Lassan scribbled in a small notebook. The French officer, resting in Gujan on his eastward journey, wanted to know all that Killick could tell him about the British force and the American, considering the request, decided that the giving of information did not break his promise to Sharpe. “Does it matter who he is?”

“If he's the man I think he is, yes.” Lassan sounded dispirited by his defeat. “You've met one of their more celebrated soldiers.”

“He met one of America's more celebrated sailors,” Killick said happily. He wondered if this unnatural calm presaged a storm. He saw Lassan's pencil pause, and sighed. “Let me think now. I'd guess a hundred Riflemen, maybe a few more.”

“Marines?” Lassan asked.

“At least a hundred.” Killick shrugged.

Lassan looked through the window, saw the fog, and knew he must find a horse, any horse, and take his news to those who could best use it. The British had come, had won their victory, but they had not yet left Arcachon, so Lassan would go to Bordeaux and there find the men who could organize revenge on a Rifleman.

Fog writhed about the low walls of the Teste de Buch, utterly obscuring the ramparts from the courtyard where Sharpe, in the dawn, paraded his Riflemen.

“He's not best pleased with you,” Captain of Marines Palmer spoke hesitantly. Sharpe replied with his brief opinion of Captain Bampfylde that made the tough Marine smile. “I'm to give you this.” Palmer handed Sharpe a sealed paper.

Sharpe supposed the paper was a reprimand or protest from Bampfylde, but it was merely a reminder that Major Sharpe was expected back at the Teste de Buch by noon on Thursday. Doubtless Bampfylde was unwilling to face Sharpe in person, and Sharpe did not care. His head was aching, sometimes pulsing with a stab of dark agony, and his mood was bleak.

“We're marching with you,” Captain Palmer said. He had fifty Marines on parade. He had also taken two of the captured gun-limbers, each harnessed behind a pair of carthorses that had been discovered in a meadow by the village and which now drew the Marines' packs and supplies. “The men aren't hardened to marching,” Palmer explained.

“You're attached to us?” Sharpe asked with surprise.

Palmer shook his head. “We're supposed to be hunting your Americans.”

“If they've got any sense,” Sharpe said, “they'll be long gone.”

The gate squealed open, boots slammed on the cobbles, and the small force that was intended to cut the French supply-road marched into the cold whiteness of the fog. If his map was right Sharpe reckoned they faced a full day's march. First they would follow the main road, keeping to its ruts in the blinding fog as far as a bridge at a village called Facture. There they would turn south-east and follow the River Leyre until they reached the supply road. One day on the road to cause what chaos he could, then one day for the return journey.

The Riflemen again outstripped the Marines. Gradually the sound of the horses' trace-chains faded behind and Sharpe's men marched amidst the clinging, soft wet fog as if in a silent cloud.

Nothing stirred in Arcachon. The fog half obscured the buildings, the shuttered windows stayed shuttered, but the road led straight through the market-place.

“I wanted to thank you,” Frederickson said, “for your actions last night.”

Sharpe had been lost in the private pain of a stabbing headache. He had to think to remember the events of the night, then he shrugged. “For nothing.”

“I doubt that Bampfylde feels it's nothing?”

Sharpe gave a dutiful smile. He flinched as a dart of pain stabbed behind his bandaged forehead.

Frederickson saw the flinch. “Are you well, sir?”

“I'm well.” It was said curtly.

Frederickson walked in silence for a few paces. “I doubt Captain Palmer can find the fugitives in this fog.” He spoke in the tones of a man who openly changed the subject.

“Bampfylde's got the chasse-marees,” Sharpe said, “what the hell else does he want?”

“He wants the American schooner for prize money. Did you ever meet a naval captain who didn't want prize money?” Frederickson sounded scornful. “The web-foots fight a battle and spend the next ten years in litigation over the division of the spoils. The Navy's made the legal profession wealthy!”