“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 compatri-ots, 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.