“Go away, Gibbons.” Sharpe spoke with an equal disdain. “Get your precious uncle to talk with me, not his lapdog. As for the colour? It stays here. You deserted it and I fought for it. My men fought for it and it stays with us till you get us back across the river. Do you understand?” His voice was rising with anger. “So tell that to your fat windbag! He gets his colour with us. And tell him the French are coming back for another attack. They want that colour and that’s why I’m keeping my sword, Gibbons, so that I can fight for it!” He drew the thirty-five inches of steel. There had been no time to clean the blade, and Gibbons could scarcely take his eyes off the crusted blood. “And Gibbons. If you want this you can bloody well come and get it yourself.” He turned away from the Lieutenant, back to the wounded and dead, back to where Harper was waiting with a distressed face.
“Sergeant?”
“We found Captain Lennox, sir. He’s bad.”
Sharpe followed Harper through the rows of wounded, who stared at him dumbly. There was so little he could do! He could bind up wounds but there was no way to dull the pain. He needed brandy, a doctor, help. And now Lennox.
The Scotsman was white, his face drawn with pain, but he nodded and grinned when Sharpe squatted beside him. Sharpe felt a pang of guilt when he remembered the last words he had spoken to the Captain of the Light Company only a few feet from this spot. They had been ‘enjoy yourself. Lennox grinned through the pain.
“I told you he was mad, Richard. Now this. I’m dying.” He spoke matter-of-factly. Sharpe shook his head.
“You’re not. You’ll be all right. They’re making rafts. We’ll get you home, to a doctor, you’ll be all right.”
It was Lennox’s turn to shake his head. It moved with agonising slowness, and he bit his lip as a fresh stab of pain shot through him. The lower half of his body was soaked in blood, and Sharpe did not dare pull at the soaked and torn uniform for fear of making the wound worse. Lennox breathed a long sigh.
“Don’t cheat me, Sharpe. I’m dying and I know it.” His Scottish accent was thicker. He looked up into Sharpe’s face. “The fool tried to make me form a skirmish line.”
“Me too.”
Lennox nodded slowly. He frowned slightly. “I was caught early on. Bastard laid me open with a sabre, right in the belly. I couldna‘ do a thing.” He looked up again. “What happened?”
Sharpe told him. Told how the Spanish had broken the British square by seeking safety inside, how the survivors had rallied and beaten off the French attack, of the carbine fire and the loss of the colour. When he spoke of the King’s Colour Lennox flinched in pain. The disgrace of it hurt more than the ripped open body that was killing him.
“Sir! Sir!” A private was calling Sharpe, but he waved him away. Lennox was trying to say something but the private insisted. “Sir!”
Sharpe turned and saw three Chasseurs trotting towards him. The hour must be up.
“More trouble?” Lennox grinned weakly.
“Yes. But it can wait.”
Lennox’s hand gripped Sharpe’s. “No. I can wait. I’ll not die yet. Listen. I have something I want to ask you. You and that big Irishman. Will you come back? Promise?” Sharpe nodded. “Promise?”
“I promise.” He stood up, surprised that he had to wipe his vision clear, and walked between the wounded to where the Chasseurs waited. The Captain who had come before was there and with him two troopers, who looked curiously at the charnel house their sabres had created. Sharpe saluted, suddenly realising that he still held the sword with its crusted blade, and the French Captain winced when he saw it.
“M’sieu.”
“Sir.”
“The hour is up.”
“We have still not collected all our wounded.”
The Frenchman nodded gravely. He looked round the field. There was another hour’s work, and that was before Sharpe could hope to begin dealing with the dead. He turned back to Sharpe and spoke gently.
“I think, M’sieu, you must consider yourselves our prisoners.” He waved down Sharpe’s protests. “No, M’sieu, I understand. You can throw the colour to your compatriots, we are not after that, but your position is hopeless. The wounded outnumber your living. You cannot fight further.”
Sharpe thought of the muskets he had collected, each one loaded, each checked; they would destroy the French if they were foolish enough to attack. He bowed slightly to the Chasseur.
“You are thoughtful, sir, but you will see I am not from the Regiment whose standard you captured. I am a Rifleman. I do not surrender.” A little bravado, he decided, was not out of place. After all, the French Captain had to be bluffing; he was experienced enough to know that his men would not break an infantry formation properly led, and he had proof enough that the tall Rifleman with the bloody sword could provide the leadership. The Captain nodded as if he had expected the answer.
“M’sieu. You should have been born a Frenchman. By now you would be a Colonel!”
“I began, sir, as a private.”
The Frenchman showed surprise. It was not uncommon for soldiers from the French ranks to become officers, but clearly the Chasseur Captain had thought it impossible in the British army. Gallantly he raised his silver-looped shako.
“I congratulate you. You are a worthy opponent.”
Sharpe decided that the conversation was once again becoming too flowery and polite. He looked pointedly at the rows of wounded. “I must get on, sir. If you wish to attack again, that is your affair.” He turned away but the Frenchman demanded his attention.
“You do not understand, Lieutenant.”
Sharpe turned back. “Sir. I understand. Please permit me to continue?”
The Captain shook his head. “M’sieu. I am not talking about we Chasseurs. We are merely the… “ he paused, looking for the right word. ”The vanguard? Your position, Lieutenant, is truly hopeless.“ He pointed up the hill to the far skyline but there was nothing there. The Captain waited and then turned back to Sharpe with a rueful smile. ”My timing, Lieutenant, is hopeless. I would have been a terrible actor.“
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand.”
But then he did. The Captain needed to say nothing more because there was a sudden movement on the crest, and Sharpe had no need of his telescope to tell him what he saw. Horses, riderless horses, just a dozen, but Sharpe knew what they meant. A gun, the French had brought a gun, a field gun that could pound his small force into oblivion. He looked back to the Captain, who shrugged.
“Now you understand, Lieutenant?”
Sharpe stared at the horizon. Only one gun? It was probably a small four-pounder, so why only one? Were there more coming or had the French bent all their effort into getting one gun into action? If they were short of horses then it was possible that the others were miles behind. Presumably the Chasseurs had sent a message back to their main force that they were faced with two Regiments of infantry, and the French had sent the gun as fast as they could to help break the squares. There was an idea far back in his head. He looked at the Captain.
“It makes no difference, M’sieu.” He held up his sword. “Today you are the second person who has demanded my sword. I give you the same answer. You must come and take it for yourself.”
The Frenchman smiled, raised his own sword, and bowed. “It will be my pleasure, M’sieu. I trust you will survive the encounter and do me the honour of dining with me afterwards. It is poor food.”
“Then I am glad I shall not have the honour of tasting it.”
Sharpe grinned to himself as the Captain rattled orders in French and the three men turned their horses back up the slope. For a bastard risen from the ranks he fancied he had played the diplomatic game like a master. Then the thought of Lennox came to him, and he hurried back, all the time trying to pin the thought in his head. There was so much to be done, so many arrangements to make, and so little time, but he had promised Lennox. He glanced backwards. The gun, with its limber, was coming slowly down the hill. He had a half hour yet.