One of the lantern shields was lifted as a man stooped to light a cigar. Frederickson thought he saw the shape of a-French field gun in the recesses of the mill, but it was hard to tell exactly what lay in the deep shadows. But Frederickson knew that at least twenty men worked inside, and another four Frenchmen were close to the mill. Sweet William had thirteen men, but his were Riflemen. The odds therefore seemed stacked against the French, in which case there was small point in waiting, so Frederickson, sword drawn, led his men to the attack.

General Calvet was not unduly annoyed, he was even amused. “So he’s good! That makes him a worthy foe. I’ll take another egg.” Another rifle crack and another scream betrayed that some fool had shown himself on the northern edge of the village. “Four hundred paces!” Calvet looked at Favier.

“They have some marksmen,” Favier said apologetically.

“I’ve never understood,” Calvet broke off a piece of bread with which to mop up his egg-yolk, “why the Emperor won’t use rifles. I like them!”

“Slow to load,” Favier ventured.

“Tell that to the poor bugger who’s on his way to the surgeons.” Calvet grunted scant thanks as his servant tipped another runny egg from the pan on to the plate. “Where’s the bacon?”

The British took it all to the fort.“

“So they’re eating bacon for breakfast and I’m not,” Calvet growled, then looked at Ducos who sat in the corner with a pen and notebook. “Tell your master, Ducos, that we lost thirty-four dead, six wounded, and had one twelve-pounder scorched. We lost two limbers of ammunition. That’s not a big loss! I remember a night we got in among the Ivans at Vilna. I had two of them on this sword! One behind the other like chickens on a spit! And the one in front was grinning at me and jabbering away in his heathen language. Remember that?” He twisted to look at his aide. “How many guns did we take?”

“Four, sir.”

“I thought it was six.”

“Six it was,” the aide said hastily.

“Six guns!” the general said happily, “and Sharpe didn’t take one last night! Not one! He just scorched a carriage!”

The mill had burned, but the stone walls were still intact and the guns were being emplaced behind the finished, scorched embrasures. Calvet acknowledged that the British troops had done well in the night. They had scoured the mill of its work-party, exploded the limbers, but they could have done much better. Sharpe, in Calvet’s book, had made a mistake. He had only sent out a small force and, though that force had committed butchery, they had done not nearly so much damage as a major sortie from the fortress might have achieved. Calvet chuckled. “He thought we were going to pounce, so he kept most of his men at home.” The general spooned half the fried egg into his mouth, then went on talking despite the mouthful. “So we’ll just have to surprise this half-clever bugger, won’t we?” He wiped egg yolk from his chin with his sleeve, then looked at Favier. “Go and have a talk with this Sharpe. You know what to say.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And tell him I’d be obliged for some bacon. The fat sort.”

“Yes, sir.” Favier paused. “He’ll probably want some brandy in return.”

“Give it to him! I’ll get it back by the end of the day, but I do feel like some fat bacon for lunch. Right, gentlemen,” Calvet slapped the table to show that the pleasantries were over, and that the siege proper could begin.

CHAPTER 15

The moment Colonel Favier removed his hat, Sharpe recognized the man who had spoken to him at the bridge over the Leyre. Favier smiled. “My general sends his congratulations.”

“Give him my commiserations.”

The French corporal holding the white flag of truce stood miserably beside Favier’s horse, while Favier stared along the ramparts. There was no one but Sharpe to be seen. Favier smiled. “My general informs you that you have acquitted yourself nobly and that you may march out with all the honours of war.” Favier shouted far louder than was necessary for just Sharpe to hear; he wanted the hidden garrison to listen to this offer. “You will be imprisoned, of course, but treated as honourable and brave opponents.”

“I’ll give you my answer,” Sharpe said, “at midday.”

Favier, who knew all the rules of this game, smiled. “If your answer is not forthcoming in ten minutes, Major, we shall presume that it is a rejection of our most generous terms. In the meantime may we remove our dead from the north ground?”

“You can send six men, unarmed, and one light cart. You should know that Captain Mayeron is our prisoner.”

“Thank you.” Favier calmed his horse that had suddenly skittered sideways on the road that led through the glacis. “And you should know, Major, that your ships believe you to be defeated and captured. They will not return for you.” He waited for a response, but Sharpe said nothing. Favier smiled. “You and your officers are invited to take lunch with General Calvet.”

“I shall give you that answer with the other,” Sharpe said.

“And General Calvet begs a favour of you. He would be appreciative of some fat bacon. He offers this in return.” Favier held up a black, squat bottle. “Brandy!”

Sharpe smiled. “Tell the general that we have all the food and drink we need. When you come for your answer I’ll give you the bacon.”

“It’s a pity for brave men to die!” Favier was shouting again. “For nothing!”

Eight minutes later Sharpe gave Favier the answer that the Frenchman expected, a rejection of the offered terms, and also tossed down a muslin-wrapped leg of bacon that the flag-carrier had to pick up from the broad ledge of the counter-guard. Favier waved a friendly farewell, then turned his horse away.

To the north a small waggon was still picking up the dead left in the dunes by Frederickson’s men. Sharpe wanted the French conscripts to see those corpses and to fear the night. The French could rule the day, but his Riflemen could make the environs of the Teste de Buch into a nightmare.

Yet within minutes of Favier’s departure Sharpe had some evidence that the Frenchman had planted some fear into his own men. Lieutenant Fytch, albeit sheepishly, wanted to know whether there was any hope in a fight.

“Who rules the waves, Lieutenant?” Sharpe asked.

“Britannia?”

Sharpe pointed to the sea. “So that’s our territory. Any moment, Lieutenant, a ship could appear. When it does, we’re safe. How would you feel if we surrendered and a naval squadron appeared an hour later?” The very fact that the question had been asked was cause for worry. Sharpe did not fear for the morale of his Riflemen, but the Marines had not been righting the French so consistently and, bereft of their ships, they felt the flickers of fear that could gnaw into a man’s confidence. “We’ve sent a message south, the Navy patrols this coast, we only have to hold on.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yet, in truth, Sharpe might have shared the tremor of despair that the lieutenant’s question had shown. There were no ships in sight, even though the waters beyond Cap Ferrat had settled to a gentle, sun-glittering chop. He waited on the ramparts, wondering what surprises the French general planned, and found himself contemplating the very thing Favier had encouraged; surrender.

Sharpe told himself that he was trapped, out-numbered, and with limited supplies of food, water and ammunition. When one of those things gave out, he was doomed.

Yet to be made a prisoner was to be taken far away from this part of France, to be marched north to the grim fortress town of Verdun and he would be even further from Jane. He had told his men they fought in hope of rescue, but he had lied.

Sharpe’s troubled thoughts were interrupted by Frederickson climbing the ramp. “I thought you were sleeping,” Sharpe said.