“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.
Lennox was still alive. He spoke softly and quickly to Sharpe and Harper, who looked at each other, then back at the Scotsman, but promised him his last request. Sharpe remembered the moment on the battlefield when he had watched the French drag away the King’s Colour, he remembered now the nature of that fleeting idea which had eluded him, and he squeezed Lennox’s hand.
“I had already promised that to myself.”
Lennox smiled. “You’ll not let me down, I know. And Harper and you can do it, I know you can.”
They had to leave him to die alone, there was no choice, but the Scotsman’s only other request was that he should die with a sword in his hand. They walked reluctantly away and the big Sergeant looked at Sharpe.