“Mister Sharpe?” A tentative hand touched Sharpe’s wounded arm. It was George Parker again. “My dear wife and I have discussed it, Lieutenant, and we would appreciate it if you would communicate with the French commander.” Parker suddenly saw Sharpe’s blood on his own fingers. He blanched and stuttered on: ‘Please don’t think we wish to desert you at this time, but…“
“I know,” Sharpe cut him short, “you think we’re doomed.” He spoke savagely, not because he disapproved of Parker’s wish to be safe, but because, if the Parkers went, he would lose Louisa. He could have left the Parkers on the road, safe in their carriage, but he had panicked them into flight because he did not want to lose the girl’s company. Yet now Sharpe knew he had no choice, for the two women could not be expected to endure the French assault, nor the danger of a ricocheting bullet. Louisa must go.
On the table, where the dead Rifleman lay among shattered crockery with the blood still dripping from his sopping hair, there was a piece of cheesecloth which, though grey and dirty, might pass for a flag of truce. Sharpe speared the flimsy material onto the tip of his sword, then shuffled over to the window. The Riflemen made way for him.
He reached up and pushed the sword clear of the window frame. He waved it left and right, and was rewarded with a shout from outside. There was a pause in which, tentatively, Sharpe stood upright.
“What do you want, Englishman?” a voice shouted.
“To talk.”
“Come out then. Just one of you!”
Sharpe plucked the cheesecloth from his sword, sheathed the blade, and went into the passage. He stepped over a dead Dragoon, pulled the chest clear of the northern door, then, feeling oddly naked and exposed, walked into the rain.
To talk to the man in the red pelisse.
CHAPTER 9
A dozen French wounded lay in the barn, filling its cavernous space with the stench of blood, pus, and camphorated vinegar. The casualties lay on rough beds of hay at one end while at the other, in front of a stack of woven sheep hurdles, the officers had made a crude command post out of an upturned water barrel. A half-dozen officers stood about the barrel and among them was the chasseur in his red pelisse, who greeted Sharpe warmly and in fluent English. “My name is Colonel Pierre de l’Eclin, and I have the honour to be a chasseur of His Majesty’s Imperial Guard.”
Sharpe returned the hint of a bow. “Lieutenant Richard Sharpe of the Rifles.”
“The Rifles, eh? You make it sound like a very proud boast.” De l’Eclin was a handsome man; as tall as Sharpe, strongly built, and with a square-jawed face and golden hair. He gestured at a flask of wine which stood on the makeshift table. “Will a Rifle take some wine?”
Sharpe was not certain whether he was being mocked or complimented. “Thank you, sir.”
The chasseur waved away a Lieutenant, insisting on filling the two small silver cups himself. He handed one towards Sharpe but, before the Rifleman could take the cup, de l’Eclin withdrew it slightly as though giving himself a chance to study his scarred face. “Have we met, Lieutenant?”
“By a bridge, sir. You broke my sabre.”
De l’Eclin seemed delighted. He gave the cup to Sharpe and clicked his fingers as the memory came back. “You parried! A quite remarkable parry! Or was it luck?”
“Probably luck, sir.”
“Soldiers should be lucky, and consider how lucky you are that I didn’t catch up with you in open ground today. All the same, Lieutenant, I salute your Rifles’ excellent defence. It’s a pity it must end like this.”
Sharpe drank the wine to scour the sour taste of powder from his mouth. “It isn’t ended, sir.”
“No?” De l’Eclin raised a polite eyebrow.
“I’m here, sir, solely on behalf of some English civilians, trapped inside the farm, who desire to leave. They are willing to trust to your kindness, sir.”
“My kindness?” De l’Eclin gave a gleeful bellow of laughter. “I told you that I am a chasseur of the Emperor’s Imperial Guard, Lieutenant. A man does not achieve that signal honour, let alone a colonelcy, by kindness. Still, I’m grateful for what was indubitably meant as a compliment. Who are these civilians?”