More powder still came from Arcachon and from the villages of Le Teste, Pyla and Le Moulleau. There were leather bags of powder, boxes of powder, and small barrels of powder. There were even musketoons, an ancient matchlock, six blunderbusses, eight duck guns, and a fine duelling pistol that had yet another bullet mould in its wooden case.
The men were busy and, as ever, purposeful activity made them content. When a cheer announced that Patrick Harper had succeeded in making one of the twelve-pounders battle-worthy, that contentment soared into a confidence that belied the desperation of their predicament. Harper started on the second twelve-pounder gun. “Unless you’d like me to work on one of the big buggers?” he asked Sharpe hopefully.
Sharpe declined the offer. He did not have enough men to raise one of the vast thirty-six pounders from the channel, nor could he spare the powder needed to fire one of the huge guns. Even these smaller field guns, if they could both be fired, would not be used more than once or twice. They were weapons for emergency only.
“Sir!” The wounded man watching inland waved to Sharpe. “Visitor, sir!”
Sharpe ran to the gate, walked across the precarious plank bridge, and saw a tall, long-haired man walking towards the glacis.
It was Cornelius Killick, and the sight of the American astonished Sharpe. He had thought Killick would have long gone inland, yet here was the privateer captain looking for all the world as though he merely took an afternoon stroll. Sharpe met the American beyond the glacis. “I thought you’d gone to Paris, Mr Killick.”
Killick ignored Sharpe’s greeting, staring instead at the work being done to barricade the fort’s blackened archway. “You look as if you’re expecting trouble, Major.”
“Maybe.”
“Stranded, are you? A modern Robinson Crusoe?”
“Maybe.”
Killick laughed at Sharpe’s evasive answers, then allowed himself to be drawn away from the fort. “I’m doing a bit of repair work myself
“You are?”
“I’m putting an elmwood arse on an oak-built ship.” The American grinned. “The Thuella wasn’t quite as knocked up as I thought. You want passage, Major Sharpe?”
“To America?” The thought amused Sharpe.
“We make fine whisky, Major,” Killick said persuasively, “and fine women!”
“If you say so, but I’ll refuse just the same.”
The two men walked to the sand dunes by the channel where the American opened a leather bag and offered Sharpe an oyster. “Ever eaten a raw oyster, Major?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you’d better not. You might accuse me of breaking my promise not to fight Englishmen.” Killick laughed, broke a shell open with a clasp knife, and tipped the oyster into his mouth. “So you’re in trouble.”
“I can’t deny it.”
Killick sat and, after a moment’s hesitation, Sharpe sat beside him. He suspected the American had come here for some purpose, though Killick was at pains to make the visit seem casual. The purpose could be simply to spy on Sharpe’s preparations, but Killick had made no real effort to enter the fort and seemed content to have Sharpe’s attention. The American tossed empty shells on to the sand. “Some of my men, Major, being less civilized than myself, ain’t happy with me. All because of my oath, you understand. If we can’t fight, then we can’t make money.”
“Is that why you fight?”
Killick shrugged. “It’s a business, Major. The Thuella cost my principals one hundred and sixty-three thousand new-fangled dollars. They’ve made a profit, but have you ever known a merchant content with a simple profit? And if my men don’t take prizes, my men starve, so they’re unhappy.”
“But alive,” Sharpe observed drily.
“There is that,” Killick allowed. “But their pride is hurt. They had to squat in Gujan while a British brig put a couple of roundshot into their boat and I wouldn’t let them fire back. I’m now being accused of cowardice, lack of patriotism, bastardy, even atheism! Me!” Killick’s tone suggested that he could more than cope with the grumbles of his crew.
“I’m sorry.”
Killick gave Sharpe a long, pensive look. “I suppose you wouldn’t release me from my promise?”
Sharpe smiled at the innocence with which the question had been asked. “Why on earth should I?”
“I can’t think of a good reason,” Killick said cheerfully, “except that it irks me. Oh, it was fair! I grant you that. And I’d take it again if it would save my excellent hide for another few years, but it irks. This is my only war, Major, and I am damned good at it. Damn good.“ The statement was not a boast, but a bleak fact and it reminded Sharpe of that noontide at St Jean de Luz when this big, confident man had made a monkey out of the Navy. Killick shrugged. ”I want to be released from that oath. It keeps me awake at nights, it itches like the pox, it irks.“
“The answer’s still no.”
Killick nodded, as though he had known he could not change Sharpe’s mind, but had nevertheless made a dutiful effort. “Why did those bastards run out on you?”
“I don’t know.”
The American cocked an eye towards the sky. “It might have been the weather. I thought we were in for one hell of a blow, but the damn thing disappeared. Strange weather here, Major. You expecting them back?”
“Maybe.”
“But they haven’t come today, my friend, so my bones tell me you’re in trouble.” Killick gave a slow, friendly grin. “You’re between the devil and the deep blue sea, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
The American laughed. “You could always join my crew, Major. Just march your men to Gujan and I’ll sign you all on. You want to be an American citizen?”
Sharpe laughed. The teasing was good-natured, and came from a man that Sharpe instinctively liked. If Killick had been British, Sharpe thought, and dressed in a green jacket, he would have made a damn fine Rifleman. “Perhaps you’d like to sign your men up in the Rifles? I could start you off as a corporal.”
“I’ve had my bellyful of land fighting,” Killick said with a rueful honesty. He gave a wistful glance towards the open sea, then looked again at Sharpe. “I’ll be sorry to see you defeated, Major.”
“I don’t intend to be.”
“And I’m mindful,” the American continued as though Sharpe had not spoken, “that you saved my life. So even if you won’t release me from my oath I reckon I owe you something. Isn’t that right, Major?”
“If you say so.” Sharpe spoke with the caution of a man wary of an enemy bringing a gift.
But this enemy smiled, shucked an oyster, then tossed the shell halves on to the sand in front of Sharpe. “They used to collect tons of those things out of the bay. Tons! Used to take them to a place at the end of the channel,” Killick jerked a thumb north, “and burn them, Major. Burn them. They stopped a few years back because they couldn’t ship the stuff out any more, but there’s a stone barn full of it up there. Full of it.” Killick smiled.
Sharpe frowned, not understanding. “Full of what?”
“Major! I may bring you breeches, but I’m damned if I’m going to pull them up for you.” Killick twisted another oyster apart with his blade, then shrugged. “Always think I’m going to find a pearl in these damn things, and I never do. Lassan was pretty astonished you spared our lives, Major.” The last sentence was said as casually as his remark about pearls.
“Lassan?” Sharpe asked.
“He was the commandant here. Scrupulous sort of fellow. So why did you, Major?”
The question was evidently asked seriously, and Sharpe thought carefully about his answer. “I find it hard to hang people, even Americans.”
Killick chuckled. “Squeamishness, eh? I was hoping I’d talked my way out of a hanging. All that guff about never hanging a sailorman in still airs.” Killick grinned, pleased with his cleverness. “It was all bally-hoo, Major. I just made it up.”
Sharpe stared at the American. For days Sharpe had believed, with all the force a superstition could command, that by showing mercy to Killick he had saved Jane’s life. Now it was bally-hoo? “It isn’t true?”