Sharpe 18 - Sharpe's Siege (19 page)

“Maybe.”

“Stranded, are you? A modern Robinson Crusoe?”

“Maybe.”

Killick laughed at Sharpe's evasive answers, then allowed himself to be drawn away from the fort. "I'm doing a bit of repair work myself

“You are?”

“I'm putting an elmwood arse on an oak-built ship.” The American grinned. “The Thuella wasn't quite as knocked up as I thought. You want passage, Major Sharpe?”

“To America?” The thought amused Sharpe.

“We make fine whisky, Major,” Killick said persuasively, “and fine women!”

“If you say so, but I'll refuse just the same.”

The two men walked to the sand dunes by the channel where the American opened a leather bag and offered Sharpe an oyster. “Ever eaten a raw oyster, Major?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you'd better not. You might accuse me of breaking my promise not to fight Englishmen.” Killick laughed, broke a shell open with a clasp knife, and tipped the oyster into his mouth. “So you're in trouble.”

“I can't deny it.”

Killick sat and, after a moment's hesitation, Sharpe sat beside him. He suspected the American had come here for some purpose, though Killick was at pains to make the visit seem casual. The purpose could be simply to spy on Sharpe's preparations, but Killick had made no real effort to enter the fort and seemed content to have Sharpe's attention. The American tossed empty shells on to the sand. “Some of my men, Major, being less civilized than myself, ain't happy with me. All because of my oath, you understand. If we can't fight, then we can't make money.”

“Is that why you fight?”

Killick shrugged. “It's a business, Major. The Thuella cost my principals one hundred and sixty-three thousand new-fangled dollars. They've made a profit, but have you ever known a merchant content with a simple profit? And if my men don't take prizes, my men starve, so they're unhappy.”

“But alive,” Sharpe observed drily.

“There is that,” Killick allowed. “But their pride is hurt. They had to squat in Gujan while a British brig put a couple of roundshot into their boat and I wouldn't let them fire back. I'm now being accused of cowardice, lack of patriotism, bastardy, even atheism! Me!” Killick's tone suggested that he could more than cope with the grumbles of his crew.

“I'm sorry.”

Killick gave Sharpe a long, pensive look. “I suppose you wouldn't release me from my promise?”

Sharpe smiled at the innocence with which the question had been asked. “Why on earth should I?”

“I can't think of a good reason,” Killick said cheerfully, “except that it irks me. Oh, it was fair! I grant you that. And I'd take it again if it would save my excellent hide for another few years, but it irks. This is my only war, Major, and I am damned good at it. Damn good.” The statement was not a boast, but a bleak fact and it reminded Sharpe of that noontide at St Jean de Luz when this big, confident man had made a monkey out of the Navy. Killick shrugged. “I want to be released from that oath. It keeps me awake at nights, it itches like the pox, it irks.”

“The answer's still no.”

Killick nodded, as though he had known he could not change Sharpe's mind, but had nevertheless made a dutiful effort. “Why did those bastards run out on you?”

“I don't know.”

The American cocked an eye towards the sky. “It might have been the weather. I thought we were in for one hell of a blow, but the damn thing disappeared. Strange weather here, Major. You expecting them back?”

“Maybe.”

“But they haven't come today, my friend, so my bones tell me you're in trouble.” Killick gave a slow, friendly grin. “You're between the devil and the deep blue sea, aren't you?”

“Maybe.”

The American laughed. “You could always join my crew, Major. Just march your men to Gujan and I'll sign you all on. You want to be an American citizen?”

Sharpe laughed. The teasing was good-natured, and came from a man that Sharpe instinctively liked. If Killick had been British, Sharpe thought, and dressed in a green jacket, he would have made a damn fine Rifleman. “Perhaps you'd like to sign your men up in the Rifles? I could start you off as a corporal.”

“I've had my bellyful of land fighting,” Killick said with a rueful honesty. He gave a wistful glance towards the open sea, then looked again at Sharpe. “I'll be sorry to see you defeated, Major.”

“I don't intend to be.”

“And I'm mindful,” the American continued as though Sharpe had not spoken, “that you saved my life. So even if you won't release me from my oath I reckon I owe you something. Isn't that right, Major?”

“If you say so.” Sharpe spoke with the caution of a man wary of an enemy bringing a gift.

But this enemy smiled, shucked an oyster, then tossed the shell halves on to the sand in front of Sharpe. “They used to collect tons of those things out of the bay. Tons! Used to take them to a place at the end of the channel,” Killick jerked a thumb north, “and burn them, Major. Burn them. They stopped a few years back because they couldn't ship the stuff out any more, but there's a stone barn full of it up there. Full of it.” Killick smiled.

Sharpe frowned, not understanding. “Full of what?”

“Major! I may bring you breeches, but I'm damned if I'm going to pull them up for you.” Killick twisted another oyster apart with his blade, then shrugged. “Always think I'm going to find a pearl in these damn things, and I never do. Lassan was pretty astonished you spared our lives, Major.” The last sentence was said as casually as his remark about pearls.

“Lassan?” Sharpe asked.

“He was the commandant here. Scrupulous sort of fellow. So why did you, Major?”

The question was evidently asked seriously, and Sharpe thought carefully about his answer. “I find it hard to hang people, even Americans.”

Killick chuckled. “Squeamishness, eh? I was hoping I'd talked my way out of a hanging. All that guff about never hanging a sailorman in still airs.” Killick grinned, pleased with his cleverness. “It was all bally-hoo, Major. I just made it up.”

Sharpe stared at the American. For days Sharpe had believed, with all the force a superstition could command, that by showing mercy to Killick he had saved Jane's life. Now it was bally-hoo? “It isn't true?”

“Not a word, Major.” Killick was pleased with Sharpe's shock reaction. “But I thank you anyway.”

Sharpe stood. “I have work to do.” His hopes were sliding into a bleak despair. “Good day to you.”

Killick watched the tall figure walk away. “Remember, Major! Oyster shells! Halfway between here and Gujan, and that ain't bally-hoo!”

Sharpe went into the fortress. He wanted to speak with no one. Suddenly all the preparations he had made against siege seemed useless, contemptible, and pathetic. The hay-rakes, taken from the villages, seemed feeble instruments with which scaling-ladders could be knocked aside. The two guns, made ready by Harper, were toys to swat at a monster. The pine abatis was a bauble, no more of an obstacle than a sheep hurdle. Jane was dying. Sharpe could not see beyond that fact.

“Sir!” Frederickson ran up the stone ramp. “Sir!”

Sharpe, who had been sitting in one of the embrasures that faced the channel, looked up. “William?”

“Two thousand of the buggers, plus two batteries of artillery.” Frederickson's mounted Riflemen had returned on lathered horses with the grim news.

Sharpe looked down again, wondering what purpose the white lines on the rampart, each numbered, had served.

“Sir?” Frederickson frowned.

Sharpe's head jerked up again. “Two thousand, you say?”

“At least.”

Sharpe forced himself to attend to the news. “How far?”

“Three hours.”

“They'll arrive in darkness,” Sharpe spoke softly. Somehow he did not care if it was two or twenty thousand.

“Sir?” Frederickson was puzzled by Sharpe's mood.

“Tell me,” Sharpe suddenly stood, “what happens when you burn oyster shells?”

“Oyster shells?” Frederickson frowned at the strange question. “You get quicklime, of course.”

“Lime?” Sharpe told himself he could not wallow in self-pity. He had men to defend and an enemy to defy. “It blinds people?”

“That's the stuff,” Frederickson said.

“Then we've got three hours to fetch some.” Sharpe was shaking himself back to normal. He passed on Killick's directions and ordered one of the limbers taken north.

Two hours later, when the light was nothing but a glow above the western horizon, eight barrels of quicklime were carried into the fortress. Like the powder from the Customs House it was old and damp through too long storage behind the lime-kilns and it clumped in great dirty-white fist-sized lumps, but Frederickson took the barrels to the gallery where the cooking fires were lit and levered off the barrel tops so that the powder would start to dry. “It's a nasty weapon,” he said to Harper.

“It's a nasty war,” Harper crumbled one of the lumps, “and if the Frogs decide not to fight, sir, we can always paint the bloody place white.”

From the courtyard outside came the sound of stones whispering on steel as the bayonets were sharpened. The job was being done with the obsessiveness of men who knew that careful preparation could fractionally tip the casual scales of life and death in their favour. Sharpe, listening to the hiss of steel, tried to guess what his enemy planned.

The French, he decided, would be mostly raw troops. They would arrive in weary darkness and head for the village that promised shelter and water. Yet their General would know that a surprise night assault could bring him swift victory. If Sharpe was that General he would assemble his veterans and send them on a silent march to the north, from whence, while the defenders were distracted by the noise of the troops in the village, those veterans would strike.

So Sharpe must strike first.

Except that, sitting in the gathering dusk, Sharpe was assailed by bleak and horrid doubts. One hundred and seventy men, desperately short of ammunition, faced over ten times their own number. The enemy brought guns, while Sharpe only had the two twelve-pounders that were loaded, like the duck-guns, with scraps of stone and metal. It was madness to fight here, yet unthinkable to surrender without a fight.

Captain Frederickson, his face smeared black with dampened soot scraped from the shattered kitchen chimney, crouched beside Sharpe. “I've chosen a dozen men, sir. Including Harper.”

“Good.” Sharpe tried to imbue his voice with enthusiasm, but could not succeed. “I don't understand, William, why the bastards are fighting us. Why not let us rot here? Why waste men on us?”

“Christ knows, sir.” Frederickson obviously did not care. He only anticipated a rare fight. “You'll want a prisoner, no doubt?”

“It would be useful, William.” Sharpe stared eastwards, but there was still no sign of the approaching French forces. “I wish I could come with you.”

“You can't, sir.”

“No.” This was one of the sacrifices of command; that Sharpe must delegate. In years past he would have liked nothing better than to have led a raiding party against the enemy, but now he must stay in the fortress where the nervous garrison could see and take confidence from his calm demeanour.

He walked with Frederickson to the north-west corner of the fort where, with the aid of a fishing net hung from an embrasure, the Riflemen climbed down to the night-shadowed sand. The shining metal of their weapons and uniforms had, like their faces, been blacked. They carried no packs, no canteens, only ammunition, bayonets, and firearms. They were Sharpe's best and if he lost them tonight he would lose this battle.

When they had disappeared into the darkness Sharpe turned and walked, feeling suddenly lonely, to the eastern ramparts. He waited there, staring inland, until at last the sounds came from the darkness.

“Sir?” A Marine sentry spoke nervously.

“I hear it, lad.” Sharpe heard the chink of trace chains, the thump of wheels, the noise of artillery drawn behind horses. He heard, too, the soft thunder made by boots. The French had come.

For a long time he could not see the enemy. There was no moon and the land was dark. He heard the noises, he heard the voices raised in sudden orders, then a flash of lantern light showed, another, and slowly, dimly, Sharpe made out the darker mass that seemed to mill into the village to the south.

The enemy had come and the second battle of Arcachon was about to begin.

CHAPTER 14

General Calvet sat in a miserable hovel in a miserable village on the miserable edge of an increasingly miserable France. “You say this Sharpe is good?”

“Lucky,” Ducos said scornfully.

“The Emperor,” Calvet said, “will tell you a soldier needs luck more than brains. He came up from the ranks?”

“Like yourself, General,” Ducos replied.

“Then he must be good.” Calvet rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation. The general had a broad, scarred face, burned with powder stains like dark tattoos. He wore a bushy, black veteran's moustache. “Favier! You've fought the English, what are they like?”

Favier knew this was a time for truth, not bombast. “Unimaginative in attack, rock-solid in defence, and quick with their muskets, very.”

“But these scoundrels are short of ammunition.” The general had heard how the British had scoured the local villages for powder. Calvet sat at a scarred table with a map drawn by Commandant Lassan beside the bread and cheese that was his supper. “So the quicker they are with muskets, the sooner they'll exhaust their powder.” Calvet stared at the map. A double ditch, one of them flooded, surrounded three sides of the fort, but the fourth side, that which faced the channel, had no flooded ditch. The main bastion stood in the tidal shallows, but the northern half of the western wall was edged with sand as far as the moat's outflow. That was the vulnerable place.

The moat's outflow was a sluice gate in a small, masonry dam at the fort's north-western corner. That dam would act as a bridge leading to the ramparts' base, and the trick of this attack, Calvet knew, would be to draw the defenders' attention away from that spot.

“You'll attack tonight?” Ducos asked eagerly.

“Don't be a damned fool, man. That's what he's expecting! He's got his men on alert! They'll have a bad night and I'll make it worse, but I won't attack.” Calvet saw the disapproval on Ducos' face and, knowing what sinister power Ducos sometimes wielded with the Emperor, the big general deigned to explain himself. “I've got raw troops, Ducos, nothing more than bloody farm-boys. Have you ever attacked at night? It's chaos! A bloody shambles! If they're repulsed, and they will be, they'll taste defeat and a new conscript should always be given a victory. It makes him feel invincible! No. We attack tomorrow. The goddamns have had no sleep, they'll be nervous as virgins in a Grenadiers' barracks, and we'll crush them.” Calvet leaned back in his chair and smiled about the crowded room. “Tomorrow night we'll have Major Sharpe as our dinner guest.”

An aide lit a new candle. “If he's alive, sir.”

“If he's not, we'll eat him.” Calvet laughed. “We ate enough men in Russia. Human flesh tastes like skate, did you know that, Ducos? Next time you eat skate, remember it.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ducos did not smile.

“Boiled buttock of corporal, well-peppered,” Calvet mused. “I've dined on worse. What's the range of their damned rifles?”

“Two hundred paces,” Favier said, “but they can be a nuisance up to four hundred.”

“Then we'll put the howitzers here.” Calvet's thumb smeared the pencil marks that showed the village on the map. “I want them bedded down as mortars.”

“Of course, sir,” the Artillery colonel said.

“And the other guns here,” the thumb stabbed down again, leaving a scrap of cheese by the watermill. “Make embrasures in the wall, but don't open fire tonight. Tonight I want muskets up on the glacis. Lots of them. Keep the bastards worried. I want noise, bangs, shouts.” He was looking at one of his Battalion colonels. “Pick a different spot every few minutes, don't make it regular. You know how to do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Make `em use up some of their precious ammunition. But keep clear of this place.” Calvet pointed to the dam. “I want that left alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And at dawn I want no one in sight, no one.” Calvet stood. He was a huge man, with a paunch like a ready-barrel of howitzer powder. He stretched his arms, yawned, and turned to the straw mattress that was laid by the fire. “Now I'm sleeping, so get out. Wake me at five.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When we do attack,” the general's rumbling voice checked the exodus of uniformed officers, “we do it quickly, efficiently, and right. Any man who lets me down will have to explain himself, alone, to me.” He raised one clenched fist the size of a small cannon-ball. “Now bugger off and keep the bastards hopping.”

The waves broke and sucked on the beach at the channel entrance, the wind rattled pine branches and sighed over the ramparts, and the picked men of the best French Battalion went to their night-time task while the others slept. And General Calvet, head on a haversack and boots ready by his bed, snored.

“Hold your fire!” Sharpe bellowed the order, heard it echoed by a sergeant, then ran down the southern rampart.

Six or seven musket shots had cracked from the glacis, the balls hissing uselessly overhead, and, two Marines and a Rifleman had instinctively returned fire. “You don't fire,” Sharpe said, “unless you're ordered to fire or unless the bastards are climbing the wall! You hear?”

None of the three men replied. Instead, crouching beneath the battlements, they reloaded their weapons.

Sharpe sent Fytch around the ramparts with a new warning that no man was to fire. The French, Sharpe guessed, were trying to provoke just such defensive fire to see which parts of the rampart responded most heavily. Let the bastards guess.

Sixty men were in the old garrison offices, fully armed, but told to catch what sleep they could. When the attack came, and Sharpe did not expect it till the deadest hours of the night, those men could be on the ramparts in minutes.

He crouched in an embrasure. The wind fingered cold on the scabbed blood on his forehead, and the sigh of it in his ears made listening difficult. He thought he heard the scrape of a boot or musket butt on the glacis, but was not sure. Whatever the sound was, it was too small to presage a full attack. Sharpe had crouched beyond a fortress's defences, throat dry and fear rampant, and he knew what sudden commotion was made by a mass of men moving to the escalade. There would be ladders bumping forward, the chink of equipment, the scrape of hundreds of boots, but he could hear nothing but the wind and see nothing but the blackness.

He went to the eastern wall and crouched beside Sergeant Rossner. “Anything?”

“Nothing, sir.” The German sergeant had his shako upended on the firestep and half-filled with cartridges. Beside him was a roped mass of hay. If an attack came the hay would be lit then slung far over the walls to illuminate targets. No lights were allowed in the courtyard or on the walls of the Teste de Buch, for such lights could only silhouette the defenders for the convenience of French marksmen.

Sharpe moved on, crouching to talk with men, offering them wine from his canteen, always giving the same message. There was nothing to fear from random shots, or from the shouts that sometimes sounded in the darkness. The French were trying to fray the defenders' nerves, and Sharpe would have done the same. Once there was the sound of massed feet, shouts, and a fusillade of musketry that flattened on the walls, but no dark shapes appeared beyond the glacis lip. Jeers and insults came from the darkness, more shots, but Sharpe's men, once the first fear had subsided, learned to ignore the sounds.

In Commandmant Lassan's old quarters two Marines, one who had been a surgeon's mate and another who had trained in the butcher's trade, laid out carpenter's tools, shaving razors, and sewing kits on a table. They had no clamps, instead there was a cauldron of boiling pitch with which to cauterize a stump. They had no camphorated wine, nor any solution of lead acetate, so instead they had a barrel of salt-water to wash wounds, and a pot filled with spider-webs that could be stuffed into deep, cuts. Patrick Harper, the big Irishman, had recommended maggots for cleaning wounds, but the dignity of their new-fetched professional pride would not allow the two Marines to accept the nostrum. They listened to the shots in the night, sipped the brandy that was supposed to dull wounded men's pain, and wondered when the first wounded would be brought for their attention.

Captain Palmer, trying to sleep where the sixty men were held in reserve, knew that there would be small rest tonight. Musket shots and sudden shouts came faint to the old offices, but not so faint that they did not cause men to stir and reach for their muskets or rifles. “I wish the bastards would come,” one Marine muttered, and Palmer held the same belief. Better to get it over, he thought, than this damned waiting.

A Spanish Rifleman on the southern wall sent for Sharpe. “Can you hear it, senor?” The man spoke in Spanish.

Sharpe listened. Faint, but unmistakable, came the sound of picks and spades thudding into earth, then the ring of a crowbar on stone. “They're making a battery,” he replied in Spanish. ,

“In the village?” The Rifleman made it half a guess and half a question.

Sharpe listened again. “I'd say so.”

“They'll be in range, then.” The Spaniard slapped the woodwork of his rifle.

“Long range,” Sharpe said dubiously.

“Not for Taylor,” the Spaniard said. The American's marksmanship was a legend to Frederickson's men.

But Taylor, this night, was in the darkness; gone with Harper and Frederickson, gone to spread terror among the men who tried to keep a garrison awake with clamour, gone to the kill.

Not a man made a sound. They lay flat to let their eyes adjust to the darkness.

The sky was not so dark as the land. There was no moon, but a spread of stars showed between patches of cloud and that lighter sky might betray a silhouette from ground-level and so the Riflemen lay, bellies on the sand, unmoving.

They were the best. Each man was a veteran, each had fought in more battles than could be casually recalled, and each had killed and gone past that point where a man found astonishment in the act of giving death to another human being.

William Frederickson, whose passion was for the architecture of the past and who was as well educated as any man in Wellington's Army, saw death as a regrettable but inevitable necessity of his trade. If wars could be won without death Frederickson would have been content, but so far mankind had devised no such process. And war, he believed, was necessary. To Frederickson the enemy was the embodiment of Napoleon's Imperial ambitions, the foe of all that he held most dear, and while he was not so foolish, nor so blind, as to be unaware of their humanity, it was nevertheless a humanity that had been pointed in his direction with orders to kill. It was therefore necessary to kill more swiftly and more efficiently than the enemy.

Thomas Taylor, Frederickson's American, reckoned death as commonplace as a meal or a woman. It was part of being alive. From his youngest days he had only known cruelty, pain, sickness, poverty, and death, and he saw nothing strange in any of those things. If it had made him heartless, it had also given him a pride in surviving in the valley of the shadow. He could kill with a rifle, a knife, a sword bayonet, or his bare hands, and he was good with all of them. He was a man of great resentment, and small remorse. He resented a fate that had driven him from his own land, that had doomed him to an Army he did not love, but his pride would not let him be a bad soldier.

For Patrick Harper killing was a soldier's trade and an act that provoked equal measures of regret and pride. By nature the Irishman was a gentle, pacific man, but there was a rage in him that could be touched by battle and turn him into a warrior as fearsome as any celebrated in Celtic song. Only battle seemed to touch that rage.

Sometimes, thinking of the men he had killed and whose faces he had seen show the last emotion of life, Harper might wish the blow withdrawn, the bayonet unthrust, or the trigger unpulled, but it was always too late. Other times, when he looked about the men he led, he was proud that he was of the best, that his deeds were celebrated, and that his name was never spoken with disdain. He loved the men he fought alongside, and their deaths hurt him, so he fought for them like a demon. He was a soldier, and he was a good one, and now he lay in the sand and was aware of the Green Jackets lying to his left and right and of the small sounds that came from the dunes ahead.

For an hour or more the French had been sniping at the fort, teasing the defenders, but always from a safe distance. They had done it to the southern and eastern ramparts, and now dark figures showed in the dead ground to the north where Frederickson's men lay.

Sweet William clicked his tongue softly, held a hand up so that it was silhouetted on the dark sky, and slowly gestured further north.

Thirteen shadows moved in the sand. They had blackened faces, blackened hands, and darkened weapons. Their rifles were slung taut across their backs for Frederickson, knowing the value of fear driven into an enemy's heart, wanted this night's killing to be silent. They would use blades, not bullets, and the thirteen men moved with the skilled silence that presages death. Each Rifleman had spent time in daylight on this very ground and, though the dunes looked different under the night's cloak, the remembered knowledge was an advantage not given to their enemies.

A squad of ten Frenchmen gathered under the fold of a -dune that edged on to the saw-grass of the glacis. They were one of six such parties abroad this night and they were enjoying their work. No danger seemed to threaten them, not even random musket fire from the dark ramparts that showed above the glacis. For the first hour of their excursion, treading into unknown darkness, they had gone cautiously and nervously, but the night's innocent silence had lulled their fears and made them bold.

Fifty yards to their left Lieutenant Piellot's squad suddenly yelled like savages and blasted shots at the fort. The men in the shelter of the dune grinned. Their own officer whispered that they could rest a moment and one sergeant made a cave about his head with his greatcoat and, under its hooding darkness, struck a flint on steel, blew tinder to life, and lit his short pipe.

Five yards away, unseen, Thomas Taylor eased himself along the sand on his elbows. In his right hand, blackened with a ball of boot-blacking, was a twenty-three inch sword bayonet that had been honed and sharpened to a razor's fineness.