Sharpes Siege   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

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 be close, damned close. “Take your flag, Captain,” Sharpe said to Killick.

The American was watching the French column reform. “There’s hundreds of the bastards.”

“Only two thousand.” Sharpe was scraping with a stone at a nick on the fore-edge of his sword.

“I wish…” Killick began instinctively.

“You can’t,” Sharpe said. “This is our fight. And if we don’t make it, sail without us. Lieutenant Minver!”

“Sir?”

“Your men next! Get them down to the water. Regimental Sergeant Major!”

Harper was inside the fortress at the foot of the breach. “Sir?”

“Block it!”

Harper waited with a squad of men beside a cheval-de-frise made from a scorched beam to which had been lashed and nailed fifty captured French bayonets. The blades jutted at all angles to make a savage barricade that Harper, with six Riflemen, now struggled to carry to the breach’s crest.