‘Let’s meet him,’ Vincent said.
Sharpe and Vincent walked towards the three men, who stopped a few yards beyond the tree and waited for them. Gourgand carried a cane that he tapped impatiently on the ground. He wore a red coat and yellow breeches. ‘He’s a Chasseur of the Guard?’ Sharpe asked, surprised at Gourgand’s uniform.
‘Evidently,’ Vincent said calmly. ‘Shall we talk with them?’
‘Might be easier to just shoot them.’
Vincent smiled. ‘You forget, Colonel, that we come to bring peace and prosperity to France.’
‘So we do, Major,’ Sharpe said. He slung his rifle on his shoulder. ‘Let’s talk.’
‘You always carry that rifle?’ Vincent asked.
‘Never without one, Major. I’m a Rifleman.’
The three French officers stood at attention as Sharpe and Vincent neared them. Lieutenant Brissac was one of the three and was standing beside a plump man who looked nervous. ‘You are Colonel Gourgand?’ Vincent demanded peremptorily as he stopped a few paces away.
‘I am,’ Gourgand replied.
‘I am Colonel Vincent,’ Vincent said, apparently promoting himself again, ‘of his Brittanic Majesty’s army. We have occupied this town and demand your surrender.’
Gourgand smiled. It was not friendly. ‘I serve his Imperial Majesty,’ he said, ‘and give you ten minutes to take your forces out of this citadel, and a half hour to leave the town.’
Vincent returned the smile. ‘His Imperial Majesty is defeated, his army broken. What authority he possessed died with his army.’ He pulled a watch from his pocket and clicked open the lid. He turned the face so the moonlight shone on it. ‘I give you ten minutes, Colonel, to parade your men. They will pile their arms and march from the citadel. Officers may keep their swords.’
‘If you are not gone in ten minutes,’ Gourgand answered, ‘my men will attack. I have nothing more to say.’ He turned and stumped away, followed by his two officers.
‘He sounded confident,’ Vincent said when the Frenchmen were out of earshot.
‘So did you.’
‘I’d appreciate it if you could capture Gourgand rather than slaughter him,’ Vincent said.
‘Why?’
‘To question him, of course,’ Vincent said. ‘If our man isn’t here, God forbid, then Gourgand will know where he’s gone. How many men do you think he has?’
‘More than us,’ Sharpe replied, ‘but we’ll find out how many when we fight them.’ He turned. ‘Captain Jefferson, to me!’
‘What are you doing, Sharpe?’ Vincent asked.
‘Taking the high ground, Major.’
Jefferson met Sharpe as he walked back to the gatehouse. ‘Split your company into two,’ Sharpe ordered him. ‘Half goes to those windows,’ he pointed to the upper floor of the building that lay on the left of the courtyard, ‘and half to the other side. Send five Riflemen with each half company. The Crapauds think they can drive us out, so your men shoot at them from above. The Riflemen take out the officers and Sergeants, your boys just keep shooting. But don’t show yourselves till the shooting starts, and I want their Colonel with the wooden leg as a prisoner.’
‘You’re left with five Riflemen,’ Vincent pointed out.
‘They go up there.’ Sharpe gestured at the high gatehouse. He sent Patrick Harper and five men to the high windows above the gatehouse. ‘Let the Crapauds shoot first,’ Sharpe told him, ‘then start killing the bastards, but I want the bugger with the wooden leg alive. Captain Godwin!’
Godwin ran to Sharpe. ‘Sir?’
‘Split your company into two. One half to that building,’ again he pointed left, ‘and the other there. The bastards might try to outflank us by sending men through the buildings. You stop them.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Godwin was new to the battalion, having joined a month before, but he had proved steady and sensible, and Colonel Ford, who Sharpe had replaced during the battle, had put him in command of Number Three Company.
‘Captain Jefferson will have men on the top floors,’ Sharpe told Godwin, ‘so protect the stairways.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The courtyard was only ninety paces wide, which meant the remaining companies of the battalion could form two ranks across its width. ‘It will be firing by company when we start!’ Sharpe stood in front of the three ranks. ‘The bastards think they can run us out of here, boys, and we’re going to beat them! Don’t fire high! A low shot will bounce off the cobbles and cripple a man, so aim low and keep firing! This one’s going to be easy!’
‘Easy?’ Vincent asked quietly.
‘They have to think that,’ Sharpe said. ‘Can I suggest you join Pat Harper? You’ll get a better view from up there.’
‘And you?’
Sharpe slapped his rifle butt. ‘I’ll join the front rank, Major. Or is it Colonel?’
‘One or the other,’ Vincent said, amused, then edged through the ranks to find the staircase.
Sharpe stood in the front rank. He had considered a swift charge down the length of the courtyard, but there were enemy troops there and he suspected more would erupt from the buildings on either side of the long courtyard to assault his rear. Better to do it the slower way and rely on his men’s musketry, which should still be quick enough to keep the prisoners safe. He loaded the rifle, forcing the leather-wrapped ball down the rifled barrel. Once the fighting started he doubted he would bother with the leather patch which made loading a rifle so slow, but just blast away. He was standing amongst Number Six Company and for the life of him could not recall the name of the soldier to his left. He prided himself on knowing all their names. He knew Jem Carter was to his right, but he could not recall the man on the left, though his face was familiar. ‘Ready, Jem?’ Sharpe asked.
‘The buggers won’t surrender, sir?’
‘They think they can beat us.’
‘Never, sir.’
‘Keep your aim low,’ Sharpe said loudly, ‘and wait for the order. I’m letting the Crapauds shoot first.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘Because I’m giving them a chance to surrender.’ He raised his voice. ‘We’ll begin with a battalion volley, lads! Then fire by companies from the right! But wait for it!’
He waited. The far end of the courtyard was shadowed from the moonlight, but he saw men moving there, and the faint sound of boots on the cobbles reached him. This, he reflected, was a rare killing ground, stone floored and edged with stone, a space where musket balls could glance off walls and cobbles to strike the men at either end of the long courtyard. ‘Can you see how many there are, Jem?’ he asked.
‘Too many of the buggers, sir.’
‘Two hundred and forty so far,’ the man on Sharpe’s left said.
‘You can count them?’
‘Bastards are coming from that door.’ The man pointed down the courtyard. ‘Two hundred and sixty now, and still coming.’
Sharpe could just make out the white crossbelts of the men filing into the deep shadow. He tried to remember the man’s name. A corporal. ‘Keep counting,’ he said, ‘and well done.’
‘A lot of them,’ the corporal said.