"Five civilians?" Bullen managed to interrupt with the question.
"I shall pretend to be one," Ferreira said airily, "and once we have passed the French lines you will then yield, and I assure you that Lord Wellington will be told of your sacrifice. I also have no doubt you will be exchanged very soon."
"My men won't be," Bullen said belligerently.
Ferreira smiled. "I am giving you an order, Lieutenant." He paused to take off his uniform coat, evidently deciding the lack of it would disguise his military status. The big civilian with the frightening face came to stand beside him, using his bulk as an added persuasion, and the other civilians stood close behind, carrying their guns and their heavy bags.
"I recognize you!" Slingsby said suddenly from the hearth. He blinked at Ferragus. "Sharpe hit you."
"Who are you?" Ferreira demanded coldly.
"I command here," Slingsby said, and tried to salute with his sword, but only succeeded in striking the heavy wooden mantel. "Captain Slingsby," he said.
"Until Captain Slingsby recovers," Bullen said, ashamed to be admitting to a foreigner that his commanding officer was drunk, "I command."
"Then go, Lieutenant." Ferreira pointed to the door.
"Do as he says," Slingsby said, though in truth he had not understood the conversation.
"Best to do what he says, sir," Sergeant Read muttered. The Sergeant was no coward, but he reckoned staying where they were was to invite death. "Frogs will look after us."
"You can't give me orders," Bullen challenged Ferreira.
The Major restrained the big man, who had growled and started forward. "That is true," Ferreira said to Bullen, "but if you do not surrender, Lieutenant, and we are captured then eventually we shall be exchanged and I shall have things to tell Lord Wellington. Things, Lieutenant, that will not improve your chances of advancement." He paused, then lowered his voice. "This is important, Lieutenant."
"Important!" Slingsby echoed.
"On my honor," Ferreira said solemnly, "I have to reach Lord Wellington. It is a sacrifice I ask of you, Lieutenant, indeed I beg it of you, but by making it you will serve your country well."
"God save the gracious King," Slingsby said.
"On your honor?" Bullen asked Ferreira.
"Upon my most sacred honor," the Major replied.
So Bullen turned to the door. The light company would surrender.
Colonel Lawford stared into the valley. The mist was fast disappearing now, showing the whole area covered in French skirmishers. Hundreds of skirmishers! They were spread out so that the British and Portuguese guns were having little or no effect. The shells exploded, shrapnel burst in the air with black puffs of smoke, but Lawford could see no French casualties.
Nor could he see his light company. "Damn," he said quietly, then stooped to the telescope on its tripod and stared at the ruined barn that was half shrouded in the remaining mist, and though he could see men moving close to the broken walls he was fairly sure they wore neither green nor red coats. "Damn," he said again.
"What the devil are the benighted buggers doing? Morning, Lawford. What the devil do the bloody bastards think they're doing?" It was General Picton, dressed in a shabby black coat, who bounded up the steps and scowled down at the enemy. He was wearing the same tasseled nightcap he had worn during the battle on Bussaco's ridge. "Bloody silly maneuver," he said, "whatever it is." His aides, out of breath, followed him onto the bastion where a twelve-pounder fired, deafening everyone and shrouding the air with smoke. "Stop your damned firing!" Picton bellowed. "So, Lawford, what the devil are they doing?"
"They've sent out a brigade of skirmishers, sir," Lawford said, which was not a particularly helpful answer, but all he could think of saying.
"They've sent out skirmishers?" Picton asked. "But nothing heavy? Just out for a bloody stroll, are they?"
Musket fire crackled in the valley. It seemed to come from the big abandoned farm that was hidden by the mist, which lay thicker above the swampy ground, yet it was plain something was happening there, for three or four hundred of the French skirmishers, instead of advancing across the valley, were crossing the bridge and moving towards the farm. The floods were receding with the ebbing tide, showing the big curve of the stream that cradled the farm.
"They're there," Major Leroy announced. He had his own telescope propped on the parapet and was staring into the shredding mist. He could only see the farm's rooftops and there was no sign of the missing light company, but Leroy could see dozens of voltigeurs firing at the buildings. He pointed down into the valley. "They must be at the farm, sir."
"Who's at the farm?" Picton demanded. "What farm? Who the devil are you talking about?"
That was the question Lawford had dreaded, but he had no choice but to confess what he had done. "I put our light company out as a picquet, sir," he said.
"You did what?" Picton asked, his tone dangerous.
"They were in the barn," Lawford said, pointing at the ruined building. He could hardly explain that he had put them there as an opportunity for his brother-in-law to get a grip on the light company, and that he had supposed that even Slingsby would have the wit to retreat the moment he was faced with overwhelming force.
"Just the barn?" Picton asked.
"They were ordered to patrol," Lawford replied.
"God damn it, man," Picton exploded. "God damn it! One picquet's about as much use as a tit on a broomstick! Chain of picquets, man, chain of picquets! One bloody picquet? The bloody French quick-stepped round them, didn't they? You might as well have ordered the poor devils to line up and shoot themselves in the head. It would have been a quicker end. So where the hell are they now?"
"There's a farm," Leroy said, pointing, and just then the mist cleared enough to show the western face of the farm from which musket smoke spurted.
"Sweet Jesus bloody Christ," Picton grumbled. "You don't want to lose them, do you, Lawford? Looks bad in His Majesty's bloody army when you lose a whole light company. It reeks of carelessness. I suppose we'd best rescue them." The last words, spoken in an exaggerated Welsh accent, were scornful.
"My battalion's standing to," Lawford said with as much dignity as he could muster.
"What's left of it," Picton said. "And we have the Portuguese, don't we?" He turned to an aide.
"Both battalions are ready, sir," the aide said.
"Then bloody go," Picton ordered. "Draw them off, Lawford." Lawford and the other South Essex officers ran down the steps. Picton shook his head. "It's too late, of course," he said to an aide, "much too late." He watched the powder smoke thicken the lingering mist around the distant farmstead. "Poor buggers will be in the net long before Lawford has a chance, but we can't do nothing, can we? We can't just do nothing." He turned furiously on the gunners. "Why are you standing around like barrack-gate whores? Put some fire on those bastards." He pointed to the skirmishers threatening the farm. "Kill the vermin."
The guns were realigned, then bucked back and their smoke vented out into the valley as the shells screamed away, leaving their traces of fuse smoke behind. Picton scowled. "Bloody picquet in a barn," he said to no one in particular. "No Welsh regiment would have been so cretinous! That's what we need. More Welsh regiments. I could clear bloody Europe if I had enough Welsh regiments, instead of which I have to rescue the bloody English. God only knows why the Almighty made bloody foreigners."