‘Sir!’ Sergeant Harper spurred up on Sharpe’s left. ‘Do you see, sir? The Colonel!’
It was, too, and at the same moment Dubreton recognized Sharpe and waved. The French Colonel touched spurs to his horse, went past the Lancer, splashed through the small stream and cantered towards them. ‘Major!’
‘Sharpe! Hold back!’ Farthingdale’s protest was lost as Sharpe also put his heels back and the two horsemen raced together, circled, then reined in so that the horses were alongside each other and facing different directions. ‘Is she safe?’
Dubreton’s eager request was in stark contrast to his studied calm when they had met before in the Convent. Then the Frenchman had been able to do nothing for his wife, now it was different.
‘She’s safe. Quite safe. Not even touched, sir. Can I say how glad I am?’
‘God!’ Dubreton shut his eyes. The bad dreams, the imaginings of all those drear nights seemed to flow out of him. He shook his head. ‘God!’ The eyes opened. ‘Your doing, Major?’
‘The Rifles, sir.’
‘But you led them?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Farthingdale reined in a few paces behind Sharpe and on his face was a look of fury because the Rifleman had offended decorum by racing ahead. ‘Major Sharpe!’
‘Sir.’ Sharpe twisted in his saddle. ‘I have the honour to name Chef du Battalion Dubreton. This is Colonel Sir Augustus Farthingdale.’
Farthingdale ignored Sharpe. He spoke in what, to Sharpe’s ears, sounded like fluent French, and then the other two French officers arrived and Dubreton made the introductions in his equally flawless English. One was a German Colonel of Lancers, a huge man with a red moustache and curiously gentle eyes, while the other was a French Colonel of Dragoons. The Dragoon Colonel wore a green cloak over his green uniform, and on his head was a tall metal helmet that had a cloth cover to stop the sun reflecting from the polished metal. He had a long straight sword and, unusual for a Colonel, a cavalry carbine rested in his saddle’s bucket holster. A fighting Regiment, the Dragoons, hardened by chasing elusive Partisans through a hostile countryside, and Sharpe saw the Frenchman’s disdain when he looked at the fastidious Sir Augustus. Behind the officers the Lancer picked at the knot of the white cloth.
Dubreton smiled at Sharpe. ‘I owe you thanks.’
‘No, sir.’
‘But I do.’ He looked at Harper, modestly holding back, and raised his voice. ‘I’m glad to see you well, Sergeant!’
‘Thank you, sir. Kind of you. And your Sergeant?’
‘Bigeard’s in the village. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.’ Farthingdale interrupted in French, his voice implying annoyance at the civilities. Dubreton’s replies were in English. ‘We came, Sir Augustus, on the same mission as yourselves. May I express our pleasure at your success, my personal thanks, and my regrets that you have suffered casualties?’ The stripped bodies of the dead waited white and cold beside the deepening graves.
Sir Augustus stayed talking in French, Sharpe suspected to exclude him from the discussion, while Dubreton, perhaps wishing the opposite, obstinately made his replies in English. The patrol Sharpe had half glimpsed in the dawn had been Dubreton’s scouts, brave men who had volunteered to ride into the valley pretending to be deserters and who would have somehow escaped back before nightfall to guide the rescue party into the valley. They had seen the Riflemen, seen the flag hoisted, and had prudently withdrawn. ‘They were disappointed, Sir Augustus!’
The Frenchwomen were to be handed over immediately, that Sharpe gathered from Dubreton’s words, and then the conversation grew sticky and awkward because Sir Augustus was not able to answer the Frenchman’s questions about the whereabouts of the French deserters. Farthingdale was forced to turn to Sharpe for help. Sharpe smiled ruefully. ‘I’m afraid many escaped.’
‘I’m sure you did everything possible, Major.’ Dubreton said it tactfully.
Sharpe glanced at the two other Colonels. Two Regiments of Cavalry? It seemed a lot for this rescue attempt, but their presence had given him another idea. The Dragoon Colonel was looking at Sharpe’s great sword that hung beside the cavalry sabre that was attached to his borrowed saddle. Sharpe grinned. ‘Our weakness, Colonel, was in cavalry. We chased them out of the Castle, but we can’t do much about rounding them up in the hills.’ He looked southwards. ‘Not, I think, that they’ll have got very far.’