There was a thunderous sound from the Portuguese side of the bridge and Sharpe saw the brigadier, accompanied by two officers, galloping onto the roadway. More redcoats were coming from the fort, doubling down the stony track, evidently to reinforce Sharpe’s men. The brigadier’s commandeered stallion was nervous of the vibrating roadway, but Moon was a superb horseman and kept the beast under control. He curbed the horse close to Sharpe. “What the devil’s going on?”

“They said they wanted to fetch their wounded, sir.”

“So what are those bloody men doing?” Moon looked at the French infantry.

“I reckon they want to stop us blowing the bridge, sir.”

“Damn them to hell,” Moon said, throwing Sharpe an angry look as if it was Sharpe’s fault. “Either they’re talking to us or they’re fighting us. They can’t do both at the same time! There are some bloody rules in war!” He spurred on. Major Gillespie, the brigadier’s aide, followed him after giving Sharpe a sympathetic glance. The third horseman was Jack Bullen. “Come on, Bullen!” Moon shouted. “You can interpret for me. My frog ain’t up to scratch.”

Harper was filling the bows of the fourth pontoon with the barrels and Sturridge had taken off his jacket and was unwinding the slow match coiled about his waist. There was nothing there for Sharpe to do, so he went to where the brigadier was snarling at Lecroix. The immediate cause of the brigadier’s anger was that the French infantry company had advanced halfway down the hill and were now arrayed in line facing the bridge. They were no more than a hundred paces away, and were accompanied by three mounted officers. “You can’t talk to us about recovering your wounded and make threatening movements at the same time!” Moon snapped.

“I believe, monsieur, those men merely come to collect the wounded,” Lecroix said soothingly.

“Not carrying weapons, they don’t,” Moon said, “and not without my permission! And why the hell have they got fixed bayonets?”

“A misunderstanding, I’m sure,” Lecroix said emolliently. “Perhaps you would do us the honor of discussing the matter with my colonel?” He gestured toward the horsemen waiting behind the French infantry.

But Moon was not going to be summoned by some French colonel. “Tell him to come here,” he insisted.

“Or you will send an emissary, perhaps?” Lecroix suggested smoothly, ignoring the brigadier’s direct order.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Moon snarled. “Major Gillespie? Go and talk sense to the damned man. Tell him he can send one officer and twenty soldiers to recover their wounded. They’re not to bring any weapons, but the officer may carry sidearms. Lieutenant?” The brigadier looked at Bullen. “Go and translate.”

Gillespie and Bullen rode uphill with Lecroix. Meanwhile the light company of the 88th had arrived on the French side of the bridge that was now crowded with soldiers. Sharpe was worried. His own company was on the roadway, guarding Sturridge, and now the 88th’s light company had joined them, and they all made a prime target for the French company that was in a line of three ranks. Then there were the French gunners watching from the ramparts of Fort Josephine who doubtless had their barrels loaded with grapeshot. Moon had ordered the 88th down to the bridge, but now seemed to realize that they were an embarrassment rather than a reinforcement. “Take your men back to the other side,” he called to their captain, then turned around because a single Frenchman was now riding toward the bridge. Gillespie and Bullen, meanwhile, were with the other French officers behind the enemy company.

The French officer curbed his horse twenty paces away and Sharpe assumed this was the renowned Colonel Vandal, the 8th’s commanding officer, for he had two heavy gold epaulettes on his blue coat and his cocked hat was crowned with a white pom-pom, which seemed a frivolous decoration for a man who looked so baleful. He had a savagely unfriendly face with a narrow black moustache. He appeared to be about Sharpe’s age, in his middle thirties, and had a force that came from an arrogant confidence. He spoke good English in a clipped, harsh voice. “You will withdraw to the far bank,” he said without any preamble.

“And who the devil are you?” Moon demanded.

“Colonel Henri Vandal,” the Frenchman said, “and you will withdraw to the far bank and leave the bridge undamaged.” He took a watch from his coat pocket, clicked open the lid, and showed the face to the brigadier. “I shall give you one minute before I open fire.”

“This is no way to behave,” Moon said loftily. “If you wish to fight, Colonel, then you will have the courtesy to return my envoys first.”

“Your envoys?” Vandal seemed amused by the word. “I saw no flag of truce.”

“Your fellow didn’t carry one either!” Moon protested.

“And Captain Lecroix reports that you brought your gunpowder with our women. I could not stop you, of course, without killing women. You risked the women’s lives, I did not, so I assume you have abandoned the rules of civilized warfare. I shall, however, return your officers when you withdraw from the undamaged bridge. You have one minute, monsieur.” And with those words Vandal turned his horse and spurred it back up the track.

“Are you holding my men prisoners?” Moon shouted.

“I am!” Vandal called back carelessly.

“There are rules of warfare!” Moon shouted at the retreating colonel.

“Rules?” Vandal turned his horse, and his handsome, arrogant face showed disdain. “You think there are rules in war? You think it is like your English game of cricket?”

“Your fellow asked us to send an emissary,” Moon said hotly. “We did. There are rules governing such matters. Even you French should know that.”

“We French,” Vandal said, amused. “I shall tell you the rules, monsieur. I have orders to cross the bridge with a battery of artillery. If there is no bridge, I cannot cross the river. So my rule is that I shall preserve the bridge. In short, monsieur, there is only one rule in warfare, and that is to win. Other than that, monsieur, we French have no rules.” He turned his horse and spurred uphill. “You have one minute,” he called back carelessly.

“Good God incarnate,” Moon said, staring after the retreating Frenchman. The brigadier was plainly puzzled, even astonished by Vandal’s ruthlessness. “There are rules!” he protested into thin air.

“Blow the bridge, sir?” Sharpe asked stolidly.

Moon was still gazing after Vandal. “They invited us to talk! The bloody man invited us to talk! They can’t do this. There are rules!”

“You want us to blow the bridge, sir?” Sharpe asked again.

Moon appeared not to hear. “He has to return Gillespie and your lieutenant,” he said. “God damn it, there are rules!”

“He’s not going to return them, sir,” Sharpe said.

Moon frowned from the saddle. He appeared puzzled, as if he did not know how he was to deal with Vandal’s treachery. “He can’t keep them prisoner!” he protested.

“He’s going to keep them, sir, unless you tell me to leave the bridge intact.”

Moon hesitated, but then recalled that his future career, with all its dazzling rewards, depended on the bridge’s destruction. “Blow the bridge,” he said harshly.

“Back!” Sharpe turned and shouted at his men. “Get back! Mister Sturridge! Light the fuse!”

“Bloody hell!” The brigadier suddenly realized he was on the wrong side of a bridge that was crowded with men, and that in about half a minute the French planned to open fire. So he turned his horse and spurred it back along the roadway. The riflemen and redcoats were running and Sharpe followed them, walking backward, keeping his eye on the French, the rifle in his hands. He reckoned he was safe enough. The French company was a long musket shot away and so far they had made no attempt to close the range, but then Sharpe saw Vandal turn and wave to the fort.