Sharpe’s Havoc by Bernard Cornwell

„Cease fire!” Sharpe shouted.

Not one man had followed Dulong, not one. He came alone and Sharpe recognized the Frenchman’s bravery and, to show it, he stepped forward and raised his sword in a formal salute.

Dulong saw the salute, checked and turned and saw he was alone. He looked back to Sharpe, raised his own saber, then sheathed it with a violent thrust that betrayed the disgust he felt at his men’s reluctance to die for the Emperor. He nodded at Sharpe, then walked away, and twenty minutes later the rest of the French were gone from the hill. Vicente’s men had been formed in two ranks on the tower’s open terrace, ready to fire a volley that had not been needed, and two of them had been killed by a howitzer shell, and another shell had slammed a piece of its casing into Gataker’s leg, gouging a bloody path down his right thigh, but leaving the bone unbroken. Sharpe had not even registered that the howitzer had been firing during the attack, but it had stopped now, the sun was fully risen and the valleys were flooded by light and Sergeant Harper, his rifle barrel fouled by powder deposits and hot from firing, had made the day’s first pot of tea.

CHAPTER 7

it was just before midday when a French soldier climbed the hill carrying a white flag of truce tied to the muzzle of his musket. Two officers accompanied him, one in French infantry blue and the other, Colonel Christopher, in his red British uniform jacket with its black facings and cuffs.

Sharpe and Vicente went to meet the two officers who had advanced a dozen paces ahead of the glum-looking man with the white flag and Vicente was forcibly struck by the resemblance between Sharpe and the French infantry officer, who was a tall, black-haired man with a scar on his right cheek and a bruise across the bridge of his nose. His ragged blue uniform bore the green-fringed epaulettes that showed he was a light infantryman and his flared shako was fronted with a white metal plate stamped with the French eagle and the number 31. The badge was surmounted by a plume of red and white feathers which looked new and fresh compared to the Frenchman’s stained and threadbare uniform.

„We’ll kill the Frog first,” Sharpe said to Vicente, „because he’s the dangerous bugger, and then we’ll fillet Christopher slowly.”

„Sharpe!” the lawyer in Vicente was shocked. „They’re under a flag of truce!”

They stopped a few paces from Colonel Christopher, who took a toothpick from his lips and chucked it away. „How are you, Sharpe?” he asked genially, then held up a hand to stay any answer. „Give me a moment, will you?” the Colonel said and one-handedly clicked open a tinderbox, struck a light and drew on a cigar. When it was burning satisfactorily he closed the tinderbox’s lid on the small flames and smiled. „Fellow with me is called Major Dulong. He don’t speak a word of English, but he wanted to have a look at you.”

Sharpe looked at Dulong, recognized him as the officer who had led so bravely up the hill, and then felt sorry that a good man had climbed back up the hill alongside a traitor. A traitor and a thief. „Where’s my telescope?” he demanded of Christopher.

„Back down the hill,” Christopher said carelessly. „You can have it later.” He drew on the cigar and looked at the French bodies among the rocks. „Brigadier Vuillard has been a mite over eager, wouldn’t you say? Cigar?”

„Please yourself.” The Colonel sucked deep. „You’ve done well, Sharpe, proud of you. The 31st Leger”-he jerked his head toward Dulong-”ain’t used to losing. You showed the damn Frogs how an Englishman fights, eh?”

„And how Irishmen fight,” Sharpe said, „and Scots, Welsh and Portuguese.”

„Decent of you to remember the uglier breeds,” Christopher said, „but it’s over now, Sharpe, all over. Time to pack up and go. Frogs are offering you honors of war and all that. March out with your guns shouldered, your colors flying and let bygones be bygones. They ain’t happy, Sharpe, but I persuaded them.”

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