Sharpes Escape   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

The two men met twenty paces from the farm. The Frenchman bowed, swept off his cocked hat, put it back on, then took the handkerchief from the tip of his sword. "I am Captain Jules Derain," he announced in impeccable English, "and I have the honor to be an aide to General Sarrut." He put the handkerchief in his breast pocket, then sheathed the sword so hard that the hilt clashed against the scabbard throat. It was an ominous noise.

"Lieutenant Jack Bullen," Bullen said.

Derain waited. "You have a regiment, Lieutenant?" he asked after the pause.

"The South Essex," Bullen said.

"Ah," Derain said, a response that delicately implied he had never heard of the unit. "My General," he went on, "salutes your bravery, Lieutenant, but wishes you to understand that any farther defense is tantamount to suicide. You might like to avail yourself of this opportunity to surrender?"

"No, sir," Bullen said instinctively. He had not been brought up to give in so easily.

"I congratulate you on a fine sentiment, Lieutenant," Derain said, then drew a watch from his pocket. He clicked open the watch's lid. "In five minutes, Lieutenant, we shall have a cannon by the bridge." He gestured down the track that was misted and so crowded with voltigeurs that Bullen had no chance to see if Derain told the truth. "Three or four shots should persuade you," Derain went on, "but if you yield first then you shall of course live. If you force me to use the cannon then I shall not offer you another chance to surrender, nor will I be responsible for my men's behavior."

"In my army," Bullen said, "officers are held responsible."

"I daily thank my God that I am not in your army," Derain said smoothly, then took off his hat and bowed again. "Five minutes, Lieutenant. I wish you good day." He turned and walked away. A mass of voltigeurs and chasseurs were on the track, but, worse, Bullen could see more on either side of the farmhouse. If the farm was a virtual island in the marshes then it already belonged more to the French than to him. He pulled on his shako and walked back to the farmhouse, watched by the French soldiers.

"What did they want, Lieutenant?" It was the Portuguese officer who asked the question.

"Our surrender, sir."

"And your reply?"

"No," Bullen said, and heard the men murmuring, though whether they agreed with him or were grieved by his decision, he could not tell.

"My name is Major Ferreira," Ferreira said, drawing Bullen towards the hearth where they were assured of a little privacy, "and I am on the Portuguese staff.