Killick shrugged. “I suppose that in the flush of my victory, Major, I forgot that clause.”

“Then impose it now.”

Killick looked at Sharpe, the movement of his head spilling water from the peaks of his bicorne hat. “Well, Major?”

“The terms of the surrender,” Sharpe said, “cannot be changed.”

Calvet was demanding a translation. Favier and Ducos jostled each other’s words in their eagerness to reveal the perfidy of this surrender.

“They’re all Anglo-Saxons,” Ducos said bitterly.

Calvet asked a question in French, was answered by Killick in that language, and Frederickson smiled. “He asked,” he said to Sharpe, “whether Killick’s taking us to America. Killick said that was where the Thuella was sailing.”

“And doubtless,” Ducos had edged his horse closer so he could stare down at Sharpe, “you have relieved Captain Killick of his sworn oath not to fight against the British?”

“Yes,” Sharpe said, “I have.” That was the devil’s pact, made in the seething rainstorm of last night. Sharpe had promised that neither he nor his garrison would fight against the United States, and in return Sharpe had relieved Killick of his own irksome oath. The price was this surrender that would make the escape of Sharpe’s men possible.

Ducos sneered at Sharpe. “And you think a privateer captain honours his promises?”

“I honoured the promise I made you,” Killick said. “I fired till the enemy surrendered.”

“You have no standing in this matter!” Ducos snapped the words. “You are not a military officer, Mr Killick; you are a pirate.”

Killick opened his mouth to reply, but Ducos scornfully wheeled his horse away. He spoke to the general, chopping the air with his thin, gloved hand to accentuate his words.

“I don’t think they’re impressed,” Frederickson said softly.

“I don’t give a damn,” Sharpe growled. The boats must already be taking the wounded to the Thuella, and the Marines would be following. The longer the French argued, the more men would be saved.

Favier looked down sadly at Sharpe. “This is unworthy, Major.”

“No more so, Colonel, than your own feeble effort to make me march to Bordeaux as a Major General.”

Favier shrugged. “That was a ruse de guerre, a legitimate manouevre.”

“Just as it is legitimate for me to surrender to whom I wish.”

“To fight again?” Favier smiled. “I think not. This is cynical expediency, Major, not honour.”

General Calvet was feeling cheated. His men had died in the struggle for this effort and no cheap surrender would deny them their victory. He looked at Sharpe and asked a question.

“He wants to know,” Frederickson said, “whether you truly rose from the ranks.”

“Yes,” Sharpe said.

Calvet smiled and spoke again. “He says it will be a pity to kill you,” Frederickson said.

Sharpe shrugged as reply, and Calvet spoke harsh, curt words to Favier, who, in turn, interpreted for Sharpe. “The general informs you, Major Sharpe, that we do not accept your arrangements. You have one minute to surrender to us.” Favier looked to Killick. “And we advise you to remove your ship from the vicinity of this fortress. If you interfere now, Mr Killick, you may be sure that the strongest representations will be made to your government. Good day to you.” He wheeled his horse to follow Calvet and Ducos back across the esplanade.

“Bugger me,” Killick said. “Are they going to fight?”

“Yes,” Sharpe said, “they are.”

The Marines were clambering up the side of the Thuella, leaving the Riflemen alone in the fortress. It would be close, damned close. “Take your flag, Captain,” Sharpe said to Killick.

The American was watching the French column reform. “There’s hundreds of the bastards.”

“Only two thousand.” Sharpe was scraping with a stone at a nick on the fore-edge of his sword.

“I wish…” Killick began instinctively.

“You can’t,” Sharpe said. “This is our fight. And if we don’t make it, sail without us. Lieutenant Minver!”

“Sir?”

“Your men next! Get them down to the water. Regimental Sergeant Major!”

Harper was inside the fortress at the foot of the breach. “Sir?”

“Block it!”

Harper waited with a squad of men beside a cheval-de-frise made from a scorched beam to which had been lashed and nailed fifty captured French bayonets. The blades jutted at all angles to make a savage barricade that Harper, with six Riflemen, now struggled to carry to the breach’s crest. As they did, so the renewed fire of the twelve-pounders struck the breach’s outer face. A chip of stone whistled over Harper’s head, but he heaved at his end of the beam, bellowed at the Riflemen to push, and the great spiked bulwark was slammed into place.

Sharpe was on the west wall. Minver’s men were climbing down ladders to the sand, while the first of Killick’s longboats was pushing away from the Thuella. Sharpe guessed it would take ten minutes to board Minver’s company safely, and another five before the longboats would return for the last of the Teste de Buch’s defenders. The tide in the channel swept far too strongly to risk swimming to the safety of the schooner, so Sharpe must fight until the boats could carry all his men away. Killick, carrying his American flag to safety, paused by Sharpe and stared at the French horde. “Do I wish you luck, Major?”

“No.”

Killick seemed torn by his desire to stay and witness what promised to be a rare fight, and his need to hasten the longboats in the rain-flecked channel. „I’ll have a bottle of brandy waiting in my cabin, Major.“

“I’ll look forward to it.” Sharpe was unable to express his emotions, instead, awkwardly, he thanked the American for keeping their pact.

Killick shrugged. “Why thank me? Hell, I get a chance to fight you bastards again!”

“But your government. They’ll make trouble because you helped me?”

“As long as I make money,” Killick said, “the American government won’t give a damn.“ The French drums began their sound, then, just as suddenly, stopped. The American stared at the column. ”Two thousand of them, and fifty of you?“

That’s about it.“

Killick laughed, and his voice was suddenly warm. “Hell, Major, I’m glad I’m not one of those poor bastards. I’ll have the brandy waiting, just make sure you come and drink it.” He nodded, then walked towards his boats.

Sharpe walked to the broken end of the rampart above the breach where half of Frederickson’s company was stationed. The other half, with Frederickson himself, was in the courtyard.

Harper was still on the breach, jamming captured bayonets among the stones. The rain still crashed down, washing mortar and dust away from the breach and spreading dirty yellow floodwater out of the ditch.

The French drums, made soggy by rain, sounded again from the south. A Rifleman licked cracked lips. The rain, grey and depressing, blurred the massed French bayonets above which, glinting gold, Sharpe saw an enemy standard. Such, he thought, was the vision of death in the morning. The French were coming.

Commandant Henri Lassan would march, at his own request, in the front rank of the column. He had written to his mother, apologizing to her that he had lost the fortress and telling her that she could nevertheless be proud of her son. He had sent her his rosary and asked that the shining, much-fingered beads be laid to rest in the family’s chapel.

“They’re boarding the schooner,” Favier reported to Calvet. The northern attack had been abandoned and everything would be thrown into this one, final storm. Favier thought that was a mistake. The northern attack could have driven itself between the fortress and the water, blocking the garrison’s escape, but Calvet was not worried.

“The cavalry can play on the beach. Send them an order.” Calvet dismounted, then drew his sword that had once impaled two Cossacks together like chickens on a spit. The general shrugged off his cloak so that his men could see the gold braid on his jacket, then walked to the column’s head and raised his stubby, muscular arms. “Children! Children!” The drummers, hushed by officers, rested their sticks.