“At this time, the Scylla, Captain Duncan Grant, was, as per my orders, fully engaging the guns of the fort with her main batteries. Thus distracted, the defenders were disconcerted by the sudden appearance from the woods, of my land force. Deeming the moment opportune, I went forward to the Escalade. It is with the Greatest Pleasure and Satisfaction that I make known to Their Lordships the Very Gallant Behaviour of Lieutenant Ford, who with the Utmost Intrepidity, was at the Forefront of the attack. In the crossing of two ditches, two walls, and the enceinte of the enemy position, Lieutenant Ford showed a True British spirit, as did the Marines who followed us in the Assault.” Bampfylde frowned, wondering whether he had over-egged the pudding a little, but it was important that Ford, who had noble connections in London, should feel pleased with this despatch. Bampfylde, still frowning, was concerned that their Lordships would realize that Ford, who had been described as so very gallant, was at all times at Bampfylde’s side and that the enconium so generously penned should, in reality, be read as applying to the author.
Captain Bampfylde was not certain that meaning was entirely plain, yet he knew their Lordships to be subtle men, and he must trust to their perspicacity. Again he scanned his words as a test for truth. He and Ford had indeed crossed two ditches and walls, all of them thanks to the drawbridge which had been captured by Sharpe’s Riflemen, but it would do no harm for the word ‘escalade’ to suggest a desperate struggle.
“Taken in the rear, their Defences broken, the Enemy retreated to the Inner Galleries of their Fortress where, with Fortitude and Determination, the Marines I had the Honour and Happiness to command, overpressed the Foe. Great Carnage was done upon the Enemy before a Surrender was accepted, whereupon I had the Privilege of Raising His Majesty’s Flag upon the Captured Mast.” Bampfylde had indeed ordered the flag raised, and it handily gave the impression that he had been present when the fort was captured.
And in all honesty, Bampfylde persuaded himself, he had captured the Teste de Buch. It had been his plan, his execution, and, though the Rifles had undoubtedly reached the fort first and taken possession of the gate and ramparts, the Marines, in exploring the labyrinthine tunnels and store-rooms, had discovered six French gunners hiding in a latrine. The existence of those men proved that the Rifles had not possessed all the fortress, and that it had been the Marines, under Bampfylde’s command, who had achieved that task. Captain Bampfylde felt certain that his account, far from being unfair, was a model of generous objectivity.
“Among the prisoners taken were the crew of the American Privateer, Thuella, which crew included in their numbers some Deserters from His Majesty’s Navy.“ Writing that line gave Captain Bampfylde particular satisfaction. Tomorrow he would have those men hanged. Sharpe would be leaving, and when Sharpe was gone Captain Bampfylde would show his men how a privateer’s crew was treated.
A knock sounded on the door. Bampfylde scowled at the interruption, but looked up. “Come!”
“Sir?” An astonished Lieutenant Ford stood there. “They’re letting them go, sir. The Americans.”
“Go?” Bampfylde stared with disbelief at his lieutenant.
“Gone rather, sir.” Ford shrugged helplessly. “Major Sharpe’s orders, sir.”
Bampfylde felt a pulse of hatred so fierce and so deep that he thought that never could he assuage such a feeling. Then he knew he must try. “Wait.”
He dipped his quill into ink, and the nib emerged coated with vitriol. “Those prisoners, condemned for Desertion or Piracy, were Released, without my Knowledge nor Consent, by Major Richard Sharpe, Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers, whom we had Conveyed to the Teste de Buch, together with a small Force of soldiery, for Operations in the interior. As yet, with all the Attendant Duties that this Victory brings, and in the Business of anticipating the Prizes that will lie open to His Majesty’s ships Tomorrow, I have had neither opportunity nor time to Demand of Major Sharpe his Reasons for this,” Bampfylde paused, then swooped, “Betrayal. But be Assured that such Reasons will be sought and Conveyed to their Lordships by Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant, Horace Bampfylde.”
He sanded the despatch, folded it, then sealed it. Ford would wrap it in waxed paper, then take it to the Lily to wait for the winds that would speed this message back to London to the greater glory of Horace Bampfylde and to the deserved damn, tion of Major Richard Sharpe.
The mist thickened slowly, just as the ice ori the marshes thickened. There was no wind as dawn silvered the Bassin d’Arcachon and as Cornelius Killick, with his men, finished their frozen march i.c the village of Gujan where the Tkuella. was grounded.
Liam Docherty was astonished by the night’s events. First his life had been spared by an Englishman, then, as he left the fort, a savage-faced Rifleman had thrust a cloth bundle into his arms. That bundle proved to be the Thuella’s ensign and, to Docherty, a further proof that some supernatural force had given the Tkuella’s crew protection in the cold, still night.
Cornelius Killick took their release more carelessly, as though he knew his time on this earth was not yet finished. “There never was a saying, Liam, that hanging a sailorman in still airs brought revenge. But it seemed worth an attempt, eh?” He laughed softly. “And it worked!” He stared up at his beached schooner, knowing that it needed days of work before it could float. “We’ll patch with the elm and hope for the best.”
“At least the bastards won’t find us in this mist,” Docherty said hopefully.
“ If the wind doesn’t spring.” Killick stared over the saltings beyond the creek and saw how the slow, creeping whiteness was thickening into a vaporous shroud that might yet be his schooner’s salvation. “But if we burn her,” he said slowly, “the British can’t.”
“Burn her?” Docherty sounded appalled.
“Get the topmasts down, I want the bowsprit off her. Make her look like a hulk, Liam.” Killick, despite his sleepless night, was suddenly full of demonic energy. “Then set smoke fires in the hold.” He stared up at the sleek bulge of the careened hull. “Streak it with tar. Make her look abandoned, burned, and wrecked.” For if the British saw a canted, mastless hull, seeping a smudge of smoke, they would think the Thuella beyond salvage. They would not know that men carefully tended the smoke-rich fires, or that the topmasts, guns and sails were held safe ashore. “Do it, Liam! Fast now, fast!”
Killick grinned at his men, filling them with hope, then stalked back to the small tavern where Commandant Henri Lassan, wet and disconsolate, huddled before a smoking fire. “You’ll not stay with us, Henri?”
Lassan was wondering what fate had attended upon his small and valuable library. No doubt it would be burned. The British, in Lassan’s grim view, were entirely capable of burning books, which made it all the more surprising that they had released the Americans. “What was the name of the officer?”
“Sharpe.” Killick, with relief, had found some of his cigars safe amongst the baggage stored at Gujan. He lit one now, noticing that the mist was thickening to fog.
“Sharpe?” Lassan frowned. “A Rifleman?”
“Green Jacket, anyway.” Killick watched as Lassan scribbled in a small notebook. The French officer, resting in Gujan on his eastward journey, wanted to know all that Killick could tell him about the British force and the American, considering the request, decided that the giving of information did not break his promise to Sharpe. “Does it matter who he is?”
“If he’s the man I think he is, yes.” Lassan sounded dispirited by his defeat. “You’ve met one of their more celebrated soldiers.”
“He met one of America’s more celebrated sailors,” Killick said happily. He wondered if this unnatural calm presaged a storm. He saw Lassan’s pencil pause, and sighed. “Let me think now. I’d guess a hundred Riflemen, maybe a few more.”