They rode back to the road and so north through the village. More raucous singing sounded from a tavern and, as they passed the entrance, two French officers came into the road. ‘Qui va là?’ one of them challenged.
‘Colonel Villon,’ Vincent answered calmly, ‘Seventh Infantry Brigade, and you?’
‘Lieutenant Brissac, monsieur. Artillery.’
‘You serve in the garrison here?’
‘For the moment, monsieur.’ The Lieutenant hesitated. ‘You were at the battle, Colonel?’
‘We were,’ Sharpe answered instead of Vincent, ‘and the British are on our heels.’
‘Here, monsieur?’ The Lieutenant sounded alarmed.
‘Not far behind. Expect them tonight or tomorrow. Didn’t you hear the gunfire today?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘That was Péronne. Didn’t they send you a warning?’
‘They did,’ the Lieutenant said.
‘They’re pursuing us,’ Sharpe said, ‘and we need refuge.’
The Lieutenant frowned at Sharpe, whose green Rifleman’s uniform looked black in the shadows and could have belonged to any army. Besides it was mostly hidden by the great cloak from which the letter ‘N’ glittered in the small light thrown from the tavern door. ‘Tonight?’ Brissac asked.
‘We need refuge, and we need it fast,’ Sharpe said.
‘I’m sorry, monsieur?’ The Frenchman had apparently misheard Sharpe’s answer.
‘Capitaine Lassan is from the ?les Anglo-Normandes,’ Vincent put in helpfully, ‘and wants a refuge for his men.’
‘How many men?’ Brissac asked, evidently satisfied with the explanation.
‘I have fifteen,’ Sharpe said. ‘The rest are dead.’
‘They’ll be welcome,’ Brissac said.
‘How many men do you have in the chateau?’ Vincent demanded.
‘A hundred and eighty, Colonel. And a unit from the Garde Nationale.’ His tone suggested that the men of the Garde Nationale would be worse than useless.
‘And your artillery?’ Sharpe put in.
‘We just delivered some old cannon for the Garde,’ the second French officer put in contemptuously.
‘We’ll join you,’ Sharpe said, ‘tonight. Tell your Commandant to expect us.’
The Lieutenant hesitated. ‘And the battle, monsieur?’ he asked. ‘The Emperor was really defeated?’
‘He was torn to pieces, Lieutenant,’ Vincent answered rather too gleefully, ‘even the Imperial Guard ran away.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ Brissac took a pace back.
‘But you’re to hold the fortress?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Those are the orders, monsieur.’
‘Then my men will be pleased to help,’ Sharpe said, and turned his horse away.
Vincent wished the two Lieutenants a good night and spurred to catch up with Sharpe. ‘Tonight?’ he asked sharply.
Sharpe grinned. ‘I don’t have a cannon so I can’t blow down their gate, and anyway we can’t even reach the gate without going through that bastion. And I’m not going to make ladders and have my men shot down like dogs. But I do have fifteen Riflemen.’
‘How come you have Riflemen?’
‘We’re a strange battalion, Major. We were a company of the 95th Rifles that got attached to the South Essex back in Spain. We’ve stayed there, and my men, those who survived, wear their green jackets even though they march in a redcoat battalion. Those fifteen will be the only survivors of Captain Lassan’s command because in the darkness their uniforms don’t look British.’
‘And me?’ Vincent asked.
‘You’ll still be Colonel Villon, and you’ll demand they open the gates.’
‘Wouldn’t it be simpler to demand their surrender?’
Sharpe sighed. ‘They’ll see we’ve no artillery. They’re not going to surrender, Major, and the Duke wants this all done fast. So we go tonight.’ He paused. ‘We’re going to fight a battle, Major, and we’ll win.’
‘We will?’ Vincent sounded dubious.
‘We will,’ Sharpe said firmly.
And if he was right then by morning he would command the Chateau de Ham.
They were safe enough at the farm. The owner, a dour man, was pleased with the coins Sharpe had given him, and the picquets, who were posted all around the property, reported that no one had left the farm to warn the town that British soldiers were close by. The farmer was even more pleased when three of Sharpe’s men had milked his cows. Late in the evening, Sharpe gathered all his men in the barn and talked them through the coming night.
His fifteen Riflemen were to one side, joined there by Harper. ‘You’re not coming, Pat,’ Sharpe told him.
‘And how will you stop me?’
‘For God’s sake, you want to die?’
‘I’ve no mind to do that, Mister Sharpe, but I’ve no mind to see you die either.’ He hefted his seven-barrel gun. ‘I’m coming.’
‘Dear God, what do I tell Isabella if you die?’
‘Tell her there’s a wee fortune hidden in the tavern’s cellar,’ Harper said, grinning, ‘and besides, you know damn well you want me to come.’
‘I do,’ Sharpe admitted, ‘but take care, Pat.’
‘And don’t I always?’
They left close to midnight. The moon lit the road as the Riflemen followed Sharpe towards the town. He stopped a hundred paces from the nearest houses and turned to Rifleman Finn, a tall, saturnine Irishman. ‘You always wanted to shoot a redcoat, Brendan, but try not to.’
‘How about Captain Price, Mister Sharpe?’ The Riflemen all knew that Sharpe liked Harry Price.
‘You can scare him, but don’t hit him.’
Finn knelt and brought his rifle to his shoulder. The rest of the battalion was just seventy or eighty paces away and Price was clearly visible leading the column.
Finn fired, the sound sudden and loud in the quiet night. Sharpe saw Price jerk sideways, evidently scared by the bullet’s near miss. ‘Right, lads,’ he told his greenjackets, ‘keep your heads down. Lie flat!’
Sharpe lay on the road, and a moment later the first shots came from the battalion. The musketry came from the Light Company that a startled Price had wheeled into line. The balls flew high over the Riflemen’s heads, just as Sharpe had ordered. Sharpe waited till he was certain that Harry Price’s men were busy reloading, then scrambled to his feet. ‘Now, boys! Run!’
The Riflemen ran towards the village. A scatter of musket shots followed them, all going high, but making enough noise to wake the dead in Ham’s graveyard. Sharpe led them past the tavern where he and Vincent had spoken with the French Lieutenants. Major Vincent was beside him. ‘Your fellow almost killed Captain Price!’ he panted to Sharpe.
‘They’re Riflemen. They only hit when they intend to.’
Sharpe halted his Riflemen at the last houses before the open space in front of the citadel. ‘Give them fire, boys,’ he called, ‘but shoot high!’