Sharpe's Eagle (13 page)

"Hello!" There could only be thirty minutes of the hour left. He cupped his hands again.
"Hello!"

Hogan appeared, waved to him, and came across the other part of the broken bridge. It was
reassuring to see the Engineer's blue coat and cocked hat, but there was something different
about the uniform. Sharpe could not place the oddity but it was there. He waved at the gap
between them.

"What happened?"

Hogan spread his hands. "Not my doing. Simmerson lit the fuse."

"For God's sake, why?"

"Why do you think? He got frightened. Thought the French would swarm all over him. I'm sorry.
I tried to stop him but I'm under arrest." That was it! Hogan wore no sword. The Irishman grinned
happily at Sharpe. "So are you, by the way."

Sharpe swore viciously and at length. Hogan let him finish. "I know, Sharpe, I know. It's just
plain stupid. It's all because we refused to let your Riflemen form a skirmish line,
remember?"

"He thinks that would have saved him?"

"He has to blame someone. He won't blame himself, so you and I are the scapegoats." Hogan took
off his hat and scratched his balding pate. "I couldn't give a damn, Richard. It'll just mean
enduring the man's spleen till we get back to the army. After that we'll hear no more about it.
The General will tear him apart! Don't worry yourself!"

It seemed ridiculous to be discussing their mutual arrest in shouts across the gap where the
water broke white on the shattered stonework. Sharpe waved his hand at the wounded.

"What about this lot? We've got dozens of wounded and the French are coming back soon. We need
help. What's he doing?"

"Doing?" Hogan shook his head. "He's like a chicken with its head chopped off. He's drilling
the men, that's what he's doing. Any poor sod who doesn't have a musket will be lucky if he only
gets three dozen lashes. The bastard doesn't know what to do!"

"But for Christ's sake!"

Hogan held up his hand. "I know, I know. I've told him he's got to get timber and ropes." He
pointed at the forty-foot gap. "I can't hope to get timber to bridge this, but we can make rafts
and float them across. But there's no timber here. He'll have to send back for it!"

"Has he done it?"

"No." Hogan said no more. Sharpe could imagine the argument he had had with Simmerson, and he
knew the Engineer would have done his best. For a moment they discussed names, who was dead, who
was wounded. Hogan asked after Lennox but Sharpe had no news, and he wondered whether the
Scotsman was lying dead on the field. Then there was the clatter of hooves and Sharpe saw
Lieutenant Christian Gibbons ride onto the bridge behind Hogan. The blond lieutenant stared down
at the Engineer.

"I thought you were under arrest, Captain, and con-fined?"

Hogan looked up at the arrogant Lieutenant. "I needed a piss."

Sharpe laughed. Hogan waved, wished him luck, and turned back to the convent leaving Sharpe
facing Gibbons across the water. The Lieutenant's uniform was clean and pristine.

"You're under arrest, Sharpe, and I am ordered to tell you that Sir Henry will request a
General Court Martial."

Sharpe laughed. It was the only possible response, and it enraged the Lieutenant. "It's no
laughing matter! You are ordered to surrender your sword to me."

Sharpe looked at the water. "Will you fetch it, Gibbons? Or shall I bring it to
you?"

Gibbons ignored the comment. He had been given a message to deliver and was determined to
reach the end, whatever the difficulties. "And you are ordered to return the Regimental
Colour."

It was unbelievable. Sharpe could scarcely credit his ears. He stood on the shattered bridge
in the searing heat while behind him were rows of wounded men whose cries could clearly be heard,
yet Simmerson had sent his nephew to demand that Sharpe surrender his sword and hand over the
colour.

"Why was the bridge blown up?"

"It is not your business, Sharpe."

"It damn well is, Gibbons, I'm on the wrong bloody side of it." He looked at the elegant
Lieutenant, whose uniform was quite unstained by any blood or earth. He suspected Simmerson's
uniform would be the same. "Were you going to abandon the wounded, Gibbons? Was that
it?"

The Lieutenant looked at Sharpe with distaste. "Will you please fetch the colour, Sharpe, and
throw it to this side of the bridge?"

"Go away, Gibbons." Sharpe spoke with an equal disdain. "Get your precious uncle to talk with
me, not his lapdog. As for the colour? It stays here. You deserted it and I fought for it. My men
fought for it and it stays with us till you get us back across the river. Do you understand?" His
voice was rising with anger. "So tell that to your fat windbag! He gets his colour with us. And
tell him the French are coming back for another attack. They want that colour and that's why I'm
keeping my sword, Gibbons, so that I can fight for it!" He drew the thirty-five inches of steel.
There had been no time to clean the blade, and Gibbons could scarcely take his eyes off the
crusted blood. "And Gibbons. If you want this you can bloody well come and get it yourself." He
turned away from the Lieutenant, back to the wounded and dead, back to where Harper was waiting
with a distressed face.

"Sergeant?"

"We found Captain Lennox, sir. He's bad."

Sharpe followed Harper through the rows of wounded, who stared at him dumbly. There was so
little he could do! He could bind up wounds but there was no way to dull the pain. He needed
brandy, a doctor, help. And now Lennox.

The Scotsman was white, his face drawn with pain, but he nodded and grinned when Sharpe
squatted beside him. Sharpe felt a pang of guilt when he remembered the last words he had spoken
to the Captain of the Light Company only a few feet from this spot. They had been `enjoy
yourself. Lennox grinned through the pain.

"I told you he was mad, Richard. Now this. I'm dying." He spoke matter-of-factly. Sharpe shook
his head.

"You're not. You'll be all right. They're making rafts. We'll get you home, to a doctor,
you'll be all right."

It was Lennox's turn to shake his head. It moved with agonising slowness, and he bit his lip
as a fresh stab of pain shot through him. The lower half of his body was soaked in blood, and
Sharpe did not dare pull at the soaked and torn uniform for fear of making the wound worse.
Lennox breathed a long sigh.

"Don't cheat me, Sharpe. I'm dying and I know it." His Scottish accent was thicker. He looked
up into Sharpe's face. "The fool tried to make me form a skirmish line."

"Me too."

Lennox nodded slowly. He frowned slightly. "I was caught early on. Bastard laid me open with a
sabre, right in the belly. I couldna` do a thing." He looked up again. "What happened?"

Sharpe told him. Told how the Spanish had broken the British square by seeking safety inside,
how the survivors had rallied and beaten off the French attack, of the carbine fire and the loss
of the colour. When he spoke of the King's Colour Lennox flinched in pain. The disgrace of it
hurt more than the ripped open body that was killing him.

"Sir! Sir!" A private was calling Sharpe, but he waved him away. Lennox was trying to say
something but the private insisted. "Sir!"

Sharpe turned and saw three Chasseurs trotting towards him. The hour must be up.

"More trouble?" Lennox grinned weakly.

"Yes. But it can wait."

Lennox's hand gripped Sharpe's. "No. I can wait. I'll not die yet. Listen. I have something I
want to ask you. You and that big Irishman. Will you come back? Promise?" Sharpe nodded.
"Promise?"

"I promise." He stood up, surprised that he had to wipe his vision clear, and walked between
the wounded to where the Chasseurs waited. The Captain who had come before was there and with him
two troopers, who looked curiously at the charnel house their sabres had created. Sharpe saluted,
suddenly realising that he still held the sword with its crusted blade, and the French Captain
winced when he saw it.

"M'sieu."

"Sir."

"The hour is up."

"We have still not collected all our wounded."

The Frenchman nodded gravely. He looked round the field. There was another hour's work, and
that was before Sharpe could hope to begin dealing with the dead. He turned back to Sharpe and
spoke gently.

"I think, M'sieu, you must consider yourselves our prisoners." He waved down Sharpe's
protests. "No, M'sieu, I understand. You can throw the colour to your compatriots, we are not
after that, but your position is hopeless. The wounded outnumber your living. You cannot fight
further."

Sharpe thought of the muskets he had collected, each one loaded, each checked; they would
destroy the French if they were foolish enough to attack. He bowed slightly to the
Chasseur.

"You are thoughtful, sir, but you will see I am not from the Regiment whose standard you
captured. I am a Rifleman. I do not surrender." A little bravado, he decided, was not out of
place. After all, the French Captain had to be bluffing; he was experienced enough to know that
his men would not break an infantry formation properly led, and he had proof enough that the tall
Rifleman with the bloody sword could provide the leadership. The Captain nodded as if he had
expected the answer.

"M'sieu. You should have been born a Frenchman. By now you would be a Colonel!"

"I began, sir, as a private."

The Frenchman showed surprise. It was not uncommon for soldiers from the French ranks to
become officers, but clearly the Chasseur Captain had thought it impossible in the British army.
Gallantly he raised his silver-looped shako.

"I congratulate you. You are a worthy opponent."

Sharpe decided that the conversation was once again becoming too flowery and polite. He looked
pointedly at the rows of wounded. "I must get on, sir. If you wish to attack again, that is your
affair." He turned away but the Frenchman demanded his attention.

"You do not understand, Lieutenant."

Sharpe turned back. "Sir. I understand. Please permit me to continue?"

The Captain shook his head. "M'sieu. I am not talking about we Chasseurs. We are merely the. "
he paused, looking for the right word. "The vanguard? Your position, Lieutenant, is truly
hopeless." He pointed up the hill to the far skyline but there was nothing there. The Captain
waited and then turned back to Sharpe with a rueful smile. "My timing, Lieutenant, is hopeless. I
would have been a terrible actor."

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand."

But then he did. The Captain needed to say nothing more because there was a sudden movement on
the crest, and Sharpe had no need of his telescope to tell him what he saw. Horses, riderless
horses, just a dozen, but Sharpe knew what they meant. A gun, the French had brought a gun, a
field gun that could pound his small force into oblivion. He looked back to the Captain, who
shrugged.

"Now you understand, Lieutenant?"

Sharpe stared at the horizon. Only one gun? It was probably a small four-pounder, so why only
one? Were there more coming or had the French bent all their effort into getting one gun into
action? If they were short of horses then it was possible that the others were miles behind.
Presumably the Chasseurs had sent a message back to their main force that they were faced with
two Regiments of infantry, and the French had sent the gun as fast as they could to help break
the squares. There was an idea far back in his head. He looked at the Captain.

"It makes no difference, M'sieu." He held up his sword. "Today you are the second person who
has demanded my sword. I give you the same answer. You must come and take it for
yourself."

The Frenchman smiled, raised his own sword, and bowed. "It will be my pleasure, M'sieu. I
trust you will survive the encounter and do me the honour of dining with me afterwards. It is
poor food."

"Then I am glad I shall not have the honour of tasting it."

Sharpe grinned to himself as the Captain rattled orders in French and the three men turned
their horses back up the slope. For a bastard risen from the ranks he fancied he had played the
diplomatic game like a master. Then the thought of Lennox came to him, and he hurried back, all
the time trying to pin the thought in his head. There was so much to be done, so many
arrangements to make, and so little time, but he had promised Lennox. He glanced backwards. The
gun, with its limber, was coming slowly down the hill. He had a half hour yet.

Lennox was still alive. He spoke softly and quickly to Sharpe and Harper, who looked at each
other, then back at the Scotsman, but promised him his last request. Sharpe remembered the moment
on the battlefield when he had watched the French drag away the King's Colour, he remembered now
the nature of that fleeting idea which had eluded him, and he squeezed Lennox's hand.

"I had already promised that to myself."

Lennox smiled. "You'll not let me down, I know. And Harper and you can do it, I know you
can."

They had to leave him to die alone, there was no choice, but the Scotsman's only other request
was that he should die with a sword in his hand. They walked reluctantly away and the big
Sergeant looked at Sharpe.

"Can we do it, sir?"

"We promised, didn't we?"

"Aye, but it's never been done."

"Then we'll be the first!" Sharpe spoke fiercely. "Now come on, we've got work to do!" He
stared at the gun. It crept closer and closer, and he knew now that his idea could work. It had
loose ends, there always were unan-swered questions, and he put himself in the place of his
enemies and tracked the answers down. Harper saw the excitement on his Lieutenant's face, watched
his hand grip and regrip the sword hilt, and waited patiently for the orders.

Sharpe measured distances, angles, lines of fire. He was excited, the elation returning; there
was hope despite the field gun. He summoned the Lieutenants, the Sergeants, faced them and
slammed a fist into his open palm.