Sharpe hid his astonishment at the threat, “I understand you, sir.”

De l’Eclin, despite Sharpe’s assent, could not resist embroidering his menace. “You will all die, Lieutenant. Not slowly, as we kill the Spanish peasants, but die all the same. Tomorrow the army will catch up with me, and I shall deploy artillery to grind your Rifles into mincemeat. It will be a lesson to other enemies of France not to waste the Emperor’s time.”

“Yes, sir.”

De l’Eclin smiled pleasantly. “Does that affirmative signify your surrender?”

“No, sir. You see, sir, I don’t believe in your guns. You’re carrying forage nets,” Sharpe gestured through the barn’s gaping rear door at the officers’ horses which, tethered safely out of sight of the Rifles, all had heavy nets of hay slung from their saddle spoons. Tf your army was going to catch up with you, sir, you’d let the waggons carry your feed. You’re on a patrol, nothing more, and if I resist long enough, you’ll leave.“

The French Colonel gazed thoughtfully at him for a few seconds. It was plain that, just as de l’Eclin had correctly guessed Sharpe’s tactics a moment before, so Sharpe had now guessed the Frenchman’s. De l’Eclin shrugged.

“I admire your courage, Lieutenant. But it won’t avail you. There really is no choice. Your army is defeated and fled home, the Spanish armies are broken and scattered. No one will help you. You can surrender now or you can be stubborn, which means that you will be cut to shreds by my blades.” His voice had lost its light and bantering tone, and was now deadly serious. “One way or another, Lieutenant, I will see you all killed.”

Sharpe knew he had no chance to win this siege, but was too pig-headed to give way. “I want time to think about it, sir.”

“Time to delay, you mean?” The chasseur shrugged scornfully. “It won’t help, Lieutenant. Do you really think we’ve come this far just to let Major Vivar escape?” Sharpe stared blankly at him. De l’Eclin entirely misunderstood Sharpe’s expression; mistaking the Rifleman’s incomprehension for guilty astonishment. “We know he’s with you, Lieutenant. He and his precious strongbox!”

“He’s…“ Sharpe did not know what to say.

“So you see, Lieutenant, I really will not abandon the hunt now. I was charged by the Emperor himself to take that strongbox to Paris, and I do not intend to fail him.” De l’Eclin smiled condescendingly. “Of course, if you send the Major out to me, with his box, I might let you continue south. I doubt if a few ragged Rifles will endanger the future of the Empire.”

“He’s not with me!” Sharpe protested.,

“Lieutenant!” de l’Eclin chided.

“Ask the Methodists! I haven’t seen Major Vivar in two days!”

“He’s lying!” The voice came from behind the stack of sheep hurdles, from where the tall civilian in the black coat and white riding boots appeared. “You’re lying, Englishman.”

“Piss on you, you bastard.” Sharpe snarled at the insult to his honour.

Colonel de l’Eclin moved swiftly to interpose himself between the two angry men. He addressed himself in English to the man in the black coat, though he still stared at the Rifleman. “It seems, my dear Count, that your brother might have successfully spread a false rumour? He is not, after all, travelling south to find remounts?”

“Vivar is his brother?” Sharpe’s confusion was absolute. Vivar, whose hatred of the French was so overwhelming, had a brother who rode with the enemy? Who must have watched as the Dragoons raped and killed Spanish women and children? His disbelief must have shown on his face for de PEclin, clearly astonished that Sharpe had not known of the relationship, made a formal introduction. “Allow me to name the Count of Mouromorto, Lieutenant. He is indeed Major Vivar’s brother. You have to understand that, contrary to the lies told in the English newspapers, there are many Spaniards who welcome the French presence. They believe it is time to sweep away the old superstitions and practices that have crippled Spain for so long. The Count is such a man.” De l’Eclin bowed to the Spaniard at the end of that description, but the Count merely glared at the Englishman.

Sharpe returned the hostile stare. “You let these bastards kill your own people?”

For a second it seemed as if the Count would lash out at him. He was taller than Bias Vivar, but now that he was close, Sharpe could see the familiarity. He had the same pugnacious jaw and fervent eyes, which now regarded Sharpe with hostility. “What would you know of Spain, Lieutenant?” the Count asked, “or of Spain’s desperate needs? Or of the sacrifices its people must make if they are to know liberty?”

“What do you know of liberty? You’re nothing but a bloody murdering bastard.”

“Enough!” De l’Eclin raised his left hand to check Sharpe’s anger. “You say Major Vivar is not with you?”

“He is not with me, nor is his damned strongbox. If it’s any business of yours, which it is not, I parted from Major Vivar in anger and I don’t much care if I never see him again! But he’s sent you on a wild goose chase, hasn’t he?”

De l’Eclin seemed amused at Sharpe’s anger. “Maybe, but you’re the goose, Lieutenant, and you’re the one who’ll be plucked. You and your Rifles.” The Colonel was entranced by the word. He knew Hussars, chasseurs, lancers, Dragoons, and gunners, he was familiar with sappers and cuirassiers, grenadiers and fusiliers, but he had never before heard a man described as a ‘Rifle’. “On the other hand,” de l’Eclin continued, “if Major Vivar is with you, then you are bound to deny his presence, are you not? Just as you are bound to defend him, which might explain your persistence in this hopeless fight.”

“He isn’t here,” Sharpe said wearily. “Ask the Methodists.”

“I shall certainly ask the girl,” de l’Eclin said happily.

“Do that.” Sharpe spat the words. Bias Vivar, he thought, had been superbly clever, using a rumour to persuade the French that he had fled south with the Riflemen, thereby sacrificing them. But Sharpe could feel no anger against the Spaniard, only a reluctant admiration. He threw his cigar onto the floor. “I’m going back.”

De l’Eclin nodded. “I shall give you ten minutes to make up your mind about surrender. Au revoir, Lieutenant.”

“And go to hell yourself.”

Sharpe went back to the farmhouse. The wild goose was trapped, and would now be killed and plucked. That, in a way, was Vivar’s revenge for Sharpe’s abandonment and Sharpe laughed at it, for there was nothing else to do. Except fight.

“What did the bugger want, sir?” Harper asked.

“He wants us to surrender.”

“Bugger would.” Harper spat towards the fire.

“If we don’t surrender now, they won’t let us do it later.”

“So he’s got the wind up his backside, has he? He’s scared of the night?”

“He is, yes.”

“So what are you going to do, sir?”

“Tell him to go to hell. And make you a Sergeant.”

Harper grimaced. “No, sir.”

“Why the hell not?”

The big man shook his head. “I don’t mind telling the lads what to do in a fight, sir. Captain Murray always let me do that, so he did, and I’ll do it whether you wanted me to or not. But I’ll go no further. I won’t run your punishments for you or take a badge from you.”

“For Christ’s sake, why not?”

“Why the hell should I?”

“Why the hell did you save my life out there?” Sharpe gestured beyond the farmhouse to where, in the panicked scramble to escape the Dragoons, he had been rescued by Harper’s volleys.

The big Irishman looked embarrassed. “That would be Major Vivar’s fault, sir.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Well, sir, he told me that, with one exception, you were the best man in a fight he’d ever seen. And that so long as the heathen English were fighting for a free Catholic Spain, sir, that I was to keep you alive.”

“The best?”

“With the one exception.”