‘I thought I would never see him again.’
‘You showed no recognition. That must have been hard.’
‘For him as well, Major, but I would not give them that satisfaction.’
He had talked to her, while Price had tried to charm Josefina, of the difficulties of living as an Englishwoman in France, but she had shrugged the difficulties away. ‘I am married to a Frenchman, Major, so my loyalty is obvious. Not that he requires me to feel enmity for my own country.’ She smiled. ‘In truth, Major, the war affects us little. I imagine it must be like living in Hampshire. The cows get milked, we go to balls, and once a year we hear of a victory and remember that there’s a war.’ She had looked down at her lap, then up again. ‘It’s difficult with my husband away, but the war will end, Major.’
Pot-au-Feu’s war was ending now. With the village cleared of the enemy, Kinney lined his Battalion in the crisp wintry sunlight, and then he rode forward, two officers at his side, walking the horses slowly towards the Castle. Sharpe walked up the valley so he could see the broken east wall, and
Frederickson came with him. The Captain nodded towards the three horsemen. ‘Calling for a surrender?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t think why the bastards haven’t run for it. They must know what’s waiting for them.’
Sharpe did not reply. The thought worried him too, but perhaps Kinney was right. Perhaps they were too drunk to know what was happening, or perhaps the survivors of Pot-au-Feu’s band preferred to throw themselves on the mercy of the British army rather than face a cold winter in these hills that would be infested with vengeful Partisans. Or perhaps Pot-au-Feu simply did not want to leave. The prisoners, questioned in the night, had said that the fat Frenchman had set himself up in mock state in the Castle, lording it like a mediaeval baron, imparting justice and reward on his followers. Perhaps Marshal Pot-au-Feu’s fantasy was strong enough to persuade him, and his followers, that the Castle could resist assault. Whatever the reason, he had stayed, and his men had stayed, and now Kinney with his two officers reined in eighty yards from the fallen east wall, the rubble of which made a chest high barrier that guarded the great courtyard.
Kinney was standing in his stirrups, his hands cupped in front of his face. A group of men stood on the rubble and Sharpe saw one of them beckon the horsemen closer. ‘They can’t hear.’
‘Jesus!’ Frederickson was frustrated. He did not approve of this parley with a dishonourable enemy. He fidgeted with the frayed edge of his eye-patch and obviously wanted to lead his Riflemen against the enemy who still beckoned Kinney closer.
Kinney, in exasperation, kicked back with his heels and his horse trotted forward. He stopped fifty yards from the enemy, within musket range, and shouted again. Then he seemed to wrench at his reins, lean to his right to help the horse turn, for he had seen the movement to his left, the uncovering of the gun embrasured at the broken end of the eastern wall, but he was too late.
Sharpe saw the smoke first, growing from the stub of wall, and then the bang came, a flat sound, echoing round the valley like dying thunder, and the sound had the distinctive crack of a splitting canister fired from a cannon. The tin can had burst in the muzzle-flame of the gun, spreading its musket-balls in a widening cone that centred on Lieutenant Colonel Kinney. Horse and man went down, knocked sideways, and while the horse vainly thrashed and tried to regain its feet, the man lay still in the torn spray of his blood. Sharpe whirled on Frederickson. ‘Get your Company over to the Fusilier Light Company! You’ll be attacking the watchtower!’
`Sir!’
Sharpe looked at his own men, lazing by the Convent wall. ‘Sergeant!’
Farthingdale was out of his chair, calling for his horse, then for Sharpe. ‘Major!’
`Sir?’
‘I want your men in front of the Castle! Skirmish order!’
Frederickson, already running, heard Farthingdale and stopped, looking back at Sharpe. Sharpe looked at the Colonel who was swinging himself into his saddle. ‘Not the watchtower, sir?’