‘Madame.’ Dubreton’s voice was gentle.
‘Monsieur.’ She was probably, Sharpe thought, a beautiful woman, but her face was in shadow, was marked by tiredness, and the strain of captivity had deepened the lines either side of her mouth. She was thin, like her husband, and her voice, as they spoke, was dignified and controlled. One of the soldiers guarding her was French and he listened to the conversation.
Hakeswill was bored. ‘In English! English!’
Dubreton looked at Sharpe, back to this wife. ‘I have the honour to introduce Major Richard Sharpe, Madame. He is of the English army.’
Sharpe bowed, saw her incline her head in acknowledgement, but her words were drowned by a great cackle from Hakeswill. ‘Major! They made you a bleeding Major, Sharpy? Christ on the cross! They must be bloody desperate! Major!’ Sharpe had not put a Major’s stars on his shoulders; Hakeswill had not known till this minute.
Madame Dubreton looked at Sharpe. ‘Lady Farthingdale will be pleased to know you were here, Major.’
‘Please pass on her husband’s solicitations, Ma’am. I trust she, and all of you, are well.’ Hakeswill was listening, grinning. Sharpe desperately searched in his head for some form of words, any form of words, that might hint to this woman that she must give some indication of where the hostages were kept. He was determined that he would avenge this day’s insults, that he would rescue this woman and the other women, but Hakeswill had been right. If he did not know in which building they were kept, then he was helpless. Yet he could not think of anything that he could say which would not sound suspicious, which would not provoke Hakeswill into ordering the branding of Dubreton’s wife.
She nodded slowly. ‘We are well, Major, and we have not been hurt.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that, Ma’am.’
Hakeswill leaned over the balustrade. ‘You’re happy here, aren’t you, dearie?’ He laughed. ‘Happy! Say you’re happy!’
She looked at him. ‘I am withering in my bloom, Colonel. Lost in solitary gloom.’
‘Ah!’ He grinned. ‘Doesn’t she speak nice!’ He turned to the officers. ‘Satisfied?’
‘No.’ Dubreton’s face was harsh.
‘Well I am.’ He waved at the soldiers. ‘Take her away!’
They turned her and, for the first time, her poise went. She pulled at her captors, twisted, and her voice was pleading and desperate. ‘I’m withering in my bloom!’
‘Take her away!’
Sharpe looked at Dubreton, but still his face was a mask showing no reaction to his wife’s distress. The Frenchman watched her until she was gone and then turned, wordlessly, towards the upper cloister.
Harper and Bigeard were standing together and their faces showed relief as their officers came back into the cloister. The door was shut behind them, the soldiers once more were arrayed against the western wall, and Pot-au-Feu, still in his chair, spoke in French to Dubreton. When he had finished he spooned more of the stew from the great earthenware pot.
Dubreton looked at Sharpe. ‘He’s saying what your man was saying. We’ve paid for their virtue, that’s all. We must go home empty-handed.’
Pot-au-Feu grinned as the Colonel finished, swallowed his mouthful, then waved the soldiers who barred the entrance to the Convent to make way. He gestured with his spoon at the officers. ‘Go! Go!’
Dubreton glanced at Sharpe, but Sharpe did not move except to unsling the rifle from his shoulder and thumb back the flint. There was one thing unsaid, one thing that needed to be said, and even though he knew it to be hopeless he would try. He raised his voice, looking around the cloister at the men in red uniforms. ‘I have a message for you. Every man here will die except those of you who give yourselves up!’ They began jeering him, shouting him down, but Sharpe’s voice had been trained on a parade ground. He forced the words through their noise. ‘You must present yourselves to our outposts before New Year’s Day. Remember that! Before the New Year! Otherwise!’ He pulled the trigger.
The shot was a fluke, yet he knew it would work because he had willed it to work, because he would not leave without one small measure of revenge on the scum of this place. It was a shot from the hip, but the range was short and the target big, and the spinning bullet shattered the cooking pot and Pot-au-Feu screamed in pain as the hot sauce and meat exploded over his thighs. The fat man wrenched himself sideways, lost his balance and fell onto the tiles. The soldiers were silent. Sharpe looked round. ‘New Year’s Day.’
He slammed the butt of the rifle down, felt in his pouch for a cartridge and then, before their eyes, reloaded the rifle with quick professional movements. He bit the bullet out of the paper cartridge, primed the pan, closed it, then poured the rest of the powder into the barrel, followed it with the wadding, and then he spat the bullet into the greased leather patch that gripped the rifling of the barrel and made the Baker Rifle into the most accurate weapon on the battlefield. He did it fast, his eyes not on his work, but on the men who watched him, and he rammed the bullet down the seven spiralling grooves, slotted the ramrod into its brass tubes, and the gun was loaded. ‘Sergeant!’
‘Sir!’
‘What will you do to these bastards in the New Year?’
‘Kill them, sir!’ Harper sounded confident, happy.
Dubreton grinned, spoke softly, his eyes on Pot-au-Feu who was struggling to his feet helped by two of the girls. ‘That was dangerous, my friend. They might have fired back.’
‘They’re scared of the Sergeants.’ Anyone would be scared of those two.
‘Shall we go, Major?’
A crowd had gathered outside the Convent, men, women and children, and they shouted insults at the two officers, insults that died as the two vast Sergeants appeared with their weapons held ready. The two big men walked down the steps and pushed the crowd back by their sheer presence. They seemed to like each other, Harper and Bigeard, each one amused, perhaps, by meeting another man as strong. Sharpe hoped they never met on a battlefield.
‘Major?’ Dubreton was standing on the top step, pulling on thin leather gloves.
‘Sir?’
‘Are you planning to rescue the hostages?’ His voice was low, though no enemy was in earshot.
‘If it can be done, sir. You?’
Dubreton shrugged. ‘This place is much further from our lines than yours. You move through the country a good deal easier than us.’ He half smiled. He was referring to the Partisans who ambushed the French in the northern hills. ‘We needed a full Regiment of cavalry to bring us within two miles of this place.’ He tugged the gloves comfortable. ‘If you do, Major, may I make a request of you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I know, of course, that you would return our hostages. I would be grateful if you could also return our deserters.’ He held up an elegant hand. ‘Not, I assure you, to fight again. I would like them to pay their penalty. I assume yours will meet the same fate.’ He walked down the steps, looked back at Sharpe. ‘On the other hand, Major, the difficulties of rescue may be too great?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Unless you know where the women are kept?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Dubreton smiled. Bigeard was waiting with the horses. The Colonel looked up at the sky as if checking the weather. ‘My wife has great dignity, Major, as you saw. She did not give those bastards the satisfaction of knowing I was her husband. On the other hand she sounded a little hysterical at the end, yes?’
Sharpe nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
Dubreton smiled happily.