Sharpe’s Siege: The Winter Campaign, 1814
Richard Sharpe, abandoned in enemy territory, has to trust in assistance from a hostile American privateer.The invasion of France is under way, and the British Navy has called upon the services of Major Richard Sharpe. He and a small force of Riflemen are to capture a fortress and secure a landing on the French coast. It is to be one of the most dangerous missions of his career.Through the reckless incompetence of a naval commander, Sharpe finds himself abandoned in the heart of enemy territory, facing overwhelming forces and the very real prospect of defeat. He has no alternative but to trust his fortunes to an American privateer – a man who has no love for the British invaders.Soldier, hero, rogue – Sharpe is the man you always want on your side. Born in poverty, he joined the army to escape jail and climbed the ranks by sheer brutal courage. He knows no other family than the regiment of the 95th Rifles whose green jacket he proudly wears.
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SHARPEâS SIEGE
Richard Sharpe and the
Winter Campaign, 1814
BERNARD CORNWELL
This novel is a work of fiction. The incidents and some of the characters portrayed in it, while based on real historical events and figures, are the work of the authorâs imagination.
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
Previously published in paperback by Fontana 1988
Reprinted five times
First published in Great Britain by Collins 1987
Copyright © Rifleman Productions Ltd 1987
Bernard Cornwell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007298600
Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2011 ISBN: 9780007346813 Version: 2017-04-26
Sharpeâs Siege is dedicated to
Brenym McNight, Terry Farrand, Bryan Thorniley, Diana Colbert, Ray Steele, and Stuart Wilkie; with thanks
Contents
Map of The French Biscay Coast
The SHARPE Series (in chronological order)
âCornwell has maintained a marvellously high standard throughout the series ⦠brilliantly lucid and compellingly excitingâ
Evening Standard
CHAPTER ONE
It was ten days short of Candlemas, 1814, and an Atlantic wind carried shivers of cold rain that slapped on narrow cobbled alleys, spilt from the broken gutters of tangled roofs, and pitted the water of St Jean de Luzâs inner harbour. It was a winter wind, cruel as a bared sabre, that whirled chimney smoke into the low January clouds shrouding the corner of south-western France where the British Army had its small lodgement.
A British soldier, his horse tired and mud-stained, rode down a cobbled street in St Jean de Luz. He ducked his head beneath a bakerâs wooden sign, edged his mare past a fish-cart, and dismounted at a corner where an iron bollard provided a tethering post for the horse. He patted the horse, then slung its saddle-bags over his shoulder. It was evident he had ridden a long way.
He walked into a narrow alley, searching for a house that he only knew by description; a house with a blue door and a line of cracked green tiles above the lintel. He shivered. At his left hip there hung a long, metal-scabbarded sword, and on his right shoulder was a rifle. He stepped aside for a woman, black-dressed and squat, who carried a basket of lobsters. She, grateful that this enemy soldier had shown her a small courtesy, smiled her thanks, but afterwards, when she was safely past him, she crossed herself. The soldierâs face had been bleak and scarred; darkly handsome, but still a killerâs face. She blessed her patron saint that her own son would not have to face such a man in battle, but had a secure, safe job in the French Customs service instead.
The soldier, oblivious of the effect his face had, found the blue door beneath the green tiles. The door, even though it was a cold day, stood ajar and, without knocking, he pushed his way into the front room. There he dropped his pack, rifle, and saddle-bags on to a threadbare carpet and found himself staring into the testy face of a British Army surgeon. âI know you,â the Army surgeon, his shirt-cuffs thick with dried blood, said.
âSharpe, sir, Prince of Walesâs Own â¦â
âI said I knew you,â the surgeon interrupted. âI took a musket-ball out of you after Fuentes dâOnoro. Had to truffle around for it, I remember.â
âIndeed, sir.â Sharpe could hardly forget. The surgeon had been half drunk, cursing, and digging into Sharpeâs flesh by the light of a guttering candle. Now the two men had met in the outer room of Lieutenant Colonel Michael Hoganâs lodgings.
âYou canât go in there.â The surgeonâs clothes were drenched in prophylactic vinegar, filling the small room with its acrid scent. âUnless you want to die.â
