Dubreton shrugged. ‘They were used to bring last night’s food and wine, Major.’ Sharpe wished he had not spoken. The last time he had met Dubreton a gift had passed between them, now they were enemies on a field. The Colonel looked at the Pioneers who were shovelling the loose earth from the graves. ‘I assume, Major, that we will undertake no military works for the duration of the truce?’ Sharpe nodded. ‘I agree.’So I assume that is not a defensive trench?’
‘A grave, sir. We lost men, too.’ The lie came smoothly off his tongue. Three Fusiliers had died, and eight were wounded, but the grave was not being enlarged for the dead.
Sharpe turned to the Castle and waved, as Dubreton had waved, and the French Captain was released by the sentries on the gate. He rode into the field, trotted towards Dubreton, and he looked aghast at the carnage that had been wreaked on his Battalion. Behind him Fusiliers rolled the cart into the archway, sealing it.
Sharpe waved towards the Captain and spoke to Dubreton. ‘Captain Desaix had the misfortune to be in the Castle yard when the fighting begun. He has given me his parole and undertaken not to bear arms against His Britannic Majesty, or his allies, until he has been exchanged for an officer of equal rank. Till then he is in your charge.’ It was a pompous speech, but a necessary formality, and Dubreton nodded.
‘It will be done.’ He spoke in French to the Captain, jerking his head towards the village, and the young man spurred away. Dubreton looked back to Sharpe. ‘He was lucky.’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope luck stays with you, Major.’ Dubreton gathered his reins. ‘We shall meet again.’
He turned, his spurs touched the flanks of his horse, and Sharpe watched him go. An hour and a half, a little more, and the fighting would begin again.
He stopped by the Fusilier Pioneers who scraped in the graves. A Sergeant looked up at the officer. ‘Bloody horrid, sir. What do we do with them?’
The bodies had been uncovered, their nakedness horribly white and stained by earth, their wounds somehow unreal. ‘They weren’t buried deep, were they?’
‘No.’ The Pioneer Sergeant sniffed. The bodies were scarce one foot under the earth, no protection against the carrion eaters that would scrape them up and tear at the dead flesh.
Sharpe jerked his head towards the southernmost part of the trench, the excavation nearest to the thorn covered hillside. ‘Put them up there. Dig it deep. I want most of this trench free.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And hurry.’
The Sergeant shook his head. ‘We could do with some help, sir.’
Sharpe knew there were enough men. ‘If it isn’t ready in an hour and a half, Sergeant, I’ll leave you here when they attack.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The formal politeness barely disguised the hatred the Sergeant felt. As Sharpe walked away he heard the sound of the man spitting, but then there were bellowed orders, shouts for the Pioneers to get on with it, and Sharpe let the Sergeant be. It was a horrid job, but the Pioneers of a Battalion often got the horrid jobs, the worst of the digging and the least thanks. At least this time their work would not be wasted. Sharpe would need the trench to bury his dead in when this business was done.
He climbed to the ramparts of the keep and settled himself with his telescope and a cup of tea. He could see Frederickson’s men dragging thorn bushes from the slope facing the village, some men hacking at trunks with saw-backed bayonets, others pulling at the thorns so that a wide path was being cleared up the hillside. The bushes were being taken to the southern slope, the vulnerable slope, arid Sharpe wondered what cunning had devised the orders. Doubtless he would find out soon. He expected the watchtower to be the next point of attack, and he expected it to fall by mid-afternoon, and he rehearsed in his mind the plan he had to evacuate the garrison. Strictly speaking, whatever Fred-erickson was doing on the hill broke the terms of the truce, but the French were not meticulous in it either. Through the lens of his glass Sharpe could see the artillery coming into the village. Twelve pounders, the kings of the battlefield, big bastards to make the next hours into misery and death.