‘Good God, no!’ Frederickson sounded pained. ‘I want to talk to him!’
Rifles cracked from the top of the tower, Rifles that drove confusion in the ranks of the Lancers. The German Colonel swore, grimaced, and blood was on his thigh. He clamped a hand on the wound, looked up the hill, and swore again.
The Voltigeurs were going back, hunted through the thorns that crackled as the Rifle bullets spun through them. The French Voltigeur Captain saw more troops appear, red-coated and equipped with bayonets. ‘Back! Back!’
Dubreton turned his horse and spurred back to the village. They had done everything Sharpe had known they would do, everything! They had played into his hand and now they would be forced to do the next thing Sharpe had planned. They would be forced to ask for a truce to rescue their wounded. Sharpe wanted time, and they would hand it to him on a plate!
‘Colonel!’ The General shouted. Behind the General an aide-de-camp was already skewering one of the white cloths from the inn onto a sword. ‘Yes, sir. I know.’
The aide-de-camp unhappily spread the cloth out and Dubreton could see the stains of last night’s wine. It seemed so long ago, and already his dinner guests had bloodied French pride in the grass. The next time it would not be so easy for them. Dubreton turned and spurred his horse between the ranks of the new Battalion, the aide-de-camp following him.
The firing died in the Gateway of God, the powder smoke drifting westward on the breeze, and Sharpe walked out into the pasture-land that he had spattered with the dead and waited for his enemy.
CHAPTER 21
‘Major Sharpe.’
‘Sir.’ Sharpe saluted.
‘I should have known, shouldn’t I?’ Dubreton was leaning forward on his saddle. ‘Did Sir Augustus die in the night?’
‘He found he had business elsewhere.’
Dubreton sighed, straightened up and looked at the wounded. ‘The next time it won’t be so easy, Major.’
‘No.’
The French Colonel gave Sharpe a wry smile. ‘It’s no good telling you that this is futile, is it? No.’ His voice became more formal. ‘We wish to rescue our wounded.’
‘Please do.’
‘May I ask why you fired on the parties we sent forward to do just that?’
‘Did we hit anyone?’
‘Nevertheless I wish to register our protest.’
Sharpe nodded. ‘Sir.’
Dubreton sighed. ‘I am empowered to offer a truce for the time it takes to clear the field.’ He looked over Sharpe’s head and frowned. Fusiliers were digging at the graves which had been dug the day before.
Sharpe shook his head. ‘No, Colonel.’ The French could bring gun limbers and have their wounded off the field in thirty minutes. ‘Any truce must last till mid-day.’
Dubreton looked to his right. The wounded who were still conscious shouted at him for help, they knew why he had come, and some, more horrible still, pulled themselves by their arms towards him. Others lay in their blood and just cried. Some were silent, their lives shattered, their future to be cripples in France. Some would live to fight again and a few of them limped on the road towards the village. The French Colonel looked back to Sharpe. ‘I must formally tell you that our truce will last only as long as it will take us to rescue our men.’
‘Then I must formally instruct you to send no more than ten men to their aid. Any others will be fired on, and my Riflemen will be ordered to kill.’
Dubreton nodded. He had known, as Sharpe had known, how this conference would go. ‘Eleven o’clock, Major?’ Sharpe hesitated, then nodded. ‘Eleven o’clock, sir.’ Dubreton half smiled. ‘Thank you, Major.’ He gestured towards the village. ‘May I?’
‘Please.’
Dubreton waved vigorously and the first men ran out from the ranks of the waiting Battalion, some holding stretchers, and then there was a bigger disturbance in the ranks and two of the strange French ambulances were galloping along the road. They were small covered carts, sprung for the comfort of the wounded, and they were the envy of the British soldiers. More men survived an amputation if their limb was removed within minutes of the battle wound, and the French had developed the fast ambulances to take the casualties to the waiting surgeons. Sharpe looked up to Dubreton. ‘You had them very close, considering you were not expecting to fight.’