Sharpes assassin, p.2
Sharpe's Assassin, page 2
“Paris first,” Burrell said eagerly.
“We might have to fight for that,” Sharpe warned.
“You think so, sir?”
“What do I know? I hope not, but we’ll do whatever we must. And the sooner it’s over, the better, then we can all go home.”
“Where is home for you, sir?”
“Normandy.”
Burrell looked at him in astonishment. “Normandy, sir?”
“I have a French woman,” Sharpe explained, “and she has a farm in Normandy.” He smiled at Burrell’s expression. “It’s not what I expected, Captain. I spend a lifetime fighting the buggers, then end up living with them. Life is never what you expect.”
“I do have some good news,” Burrell said suddenly.
“What?”
“The Prince of Orange is recovering well, sir, I thought you’d like to know.”
Sharpe grunted. The prince had taken a bullet in the shoulder and Sharpe would have been happy if the ball had struck lower, straight into the heart, because in three days the prince had destroyed four or five battalions with his idiocy. “The surgeons removed the bullet,” Burrell said, “and the wound is clean.”
“Good,” Sharpe said unconvincingly.
“But the Duke said the bullet was one of ours!”
“One of ours?”
“It still had scraps of leather, sir, and don’t our riflemen wrap their bullets in a leather patch?”
“We do,” Sharpe said. “It helps the barrel grip the bullet.”
“The Duke surmised that one of our men shot the prince,” Burrell said.
“Why would they do that?” Sharpe asked, and wondered if that was why the Duke had summoned him. When Sharpe had fired at the prince he was scarcely a hundred paces beneath the ridge from which the Duke had been watching the battle. Damn it, he thought, but the ball should have hit the prince plumb in the middle of his chest to explode his heart, but instead had gone high. And had the Duke seen him fire the shot? In which case, he thought, he no longer commanded a battalion, indeed he would be lucky to escape a court-martial and disgrace. What was the penalty for shooting royalty? The rope? Or a firing squad? “Some Frogs use our captured rifles,” Sharpe added, sounding unconvincing even to himself.
Burrell said nothing more, just led Sharpe into the city, and then it was time to hand the horses to waiting orderlies and climb the steps to the Duke’s headquarters.
Captain Burrell showed Pat Harper the door that led to the kitchens, assuring the big Irishman there would be food and drink, then led Sharpe through a maze of corridors. “The Duke is in the library,” he told Sharpe as he rapped on a large door. A stern voice responded and Burrell accompanied Sharpe into the library, which was lit by a huge north-facing window. The walls were lined with shelves holding leather-bound books, and the Duke was seated at a round table covered in papers. But most worrying, Rebecque was seated beside him.
Baron Rebecque was a good man who served as the Prince of Orange’s chief aide and adviser. He smiled as Sharpe entered, nodding a greeting. The Duke, however, looked at Sharpe coldly and grunted his name.
“Your Grace,” Sharpe responded awkwardly, wishing he had taken time to shave before leaving the battalion.
“Rebecque tells me the Prince of Orange will live.”
“That’s good news, Your Grace.”
“The wound is clean, Sharpe,” Rebecque said, “though His Highness is still in considerable pain, but the surgeons are certain he will recover.”
“I’m glad,” Sharpe said.
“Are you, Sharpe?” the Duke demanded.
“Of course, sir.”
“The ball was one of ours,” the Duke said, “rifle caliber. The French don’t use that size ball.”
“They use captured ammunition, my lord,” Sharpe said. “And a rifle ball fits their musket almost exactly.”
“Then how do you explain the scrap of leather found around the bullet? The French won’t wrap a bullet!”
“They won’t, my lord, but I remember that the prince was wearing a leather strap over his shoulder. It was probably from the strap.” In fact he was sure of that because, in his haste, Sharpe had not wrapped the bullet in its greased leather patch, which might explain why it had struck too high. “And our patches burn up, my lord.” He knew he should call the Duke “Your Grace,” but he found it awkward.
“We ask, Colonel,” Rebecque said gently, “because you were seen on the slope beneath the prince’s position shortly before he was wounded.”
“I was there, sir. I went to help Major Dunnett’s riflemen.”
“Who were fighting the French,” the Duke said pointedly.
“Of course, my lord.”
“Of course,” the Duke said, and gazed at Sharpe for a few silent seconds. “So you don’t know who fired the shot that almost killed His Royal Highness?”
“There were scores of voltigeurs there, my lord. Could have been any one of them.”
“It could indeed,” the Duke said, “and I think we’re done here, Rebecque. Your men will march midmorning.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Rebecque stood and collected some papers, presumably the marching orders. “It’s good to see you, Sharpe,” Rebecque said, then left the library.
“A bullet in the shoulder,” the Duke said, “which takes the young fool off the battlefield and stops him from committing more idiocies, but doesn’t kill him. I would call that a very fine shot indeed.”
“Pure bad luck for the prince, my lord. There were a lot of voltigeurs firing up that slope.”
“As I said, a very fine shot.” Was there a trace of a smile on the Duke’s face? If so it vanished quickly. “How’s your battalion?”
“As good as can be expected, my lord.”
“Casualties?”
“Too many, my lord. We buried a hundred and eighty-six men.”
The Duke flinched at the figure. “And officers?”
“Five killed, my lord, eight are still in the surgeons’ hands.”
The Duke grunted. “You lost a major at Quatre Bras.”
“Major Micklewhite, my lord.”
“Because of that young fool’s incompetence,” the Duke said bitterly, talking of William, Prince of Orange. “Who’s the other major?”
“We don’t have one, my lord. Major Vine died yesterday.”
“You have adequate replacements?”
“No, my lord. Peter d’Alembord is our best man, but he was wounded.” Sharpe needed a good major to be his second in command, but both the battalion’s majors were dead and he doubted any of the surviving company commanders were ready for the higher rank. He had taken Captain Jefferson from the Light Company and put him in charge of the Grenadiers, hoping that would give him more experience, and put Harry Price in charge of the Light Company, but he doubted that either man would know how to fight the battalion as a single unit. “Peter d’Alembord is my best captain, my lord.”
“But you say he’s wounded? He’s hors de combat? Pity. Then I’d better find you someone,” the Duke said. “Probably not by tomorrow, Sharpe, and you march at dawn tomorrow. Yours will be the first battalion in the line of march.”
“An honor, my lord.”
Again the Duke grunted. “Don’t count on it, Sharpe. Look at this map.” He unfolded a vast map that he spread on the table and half turned toward Sharpe, who moved to the Duke’s side.
“The Prussians are marching south as well,” the Duke said, sounding disgruntled. “They’ll take the easternmost route, while we march to the west. Here.” He put a finger on a town called Mons. “We cross the border just south of Mons. Next town is Valenciennes, garrisoned, but if they don’t trouble us, we won’t trouble them. Then Péronne, another fortress, and note this road, Sharpe,” the finger moved south and east from Péronne, “to a town called Ham.”
“Ham, sir?”
“As in eggs. You’re going there with your battalion.”
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said, for want of anything else to say.
“There’s a citadel in Ham, Sharpe. You capture it.” The Duke rapped out the last three words, then fell silent.
“What do we know of the citadel, my lord?”
“Damn all. It’s ancient, I do know that, and it’s almost certainly garrisoned, and Bonaparte has been using it as a prison. That’s why you’re going. To free the prisoners.”
Sharpe peered at the map and saw that the direct route to Paris from Péronne went well to the west of Ham. “I assume, my lord, that the rest of the army doesn’t go to Ham?”
“It does not. From Péronne we march straight on for Paris. But there might be Prussians in Ham. The place is close to their line of march, but the prisoners come to me, Sharpe.”
“Of course, my lord.” Sharpe hesitated. “And the prisoners? Do we know who they are?”
“They’re whoever irritated Bonaparte enough to shut them away,” the Duke said unhelpfully, “but we know of at least one Englishman there, and he’s the fellow you bring back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sending an officer with you, Sharpe, Major Vincent. He speaks German and French, and he knows the prisoner we want. Listen to him, he’s capable. He’s one of my best exploring officers. You’re familiar with them?”
“I am, my lord,” Sharpe said. Exploring officers were men who rode fast, well-bred horses far behind the enemy lines to scout their positions and strength.
“Vincent has been to Ham before,” the Duke went on, “so he’ll be valuable to you. But he won’t interfere with your conduct of the battle, and you make that battle fast! Understand me, Sharpe? Fast! The French are more than capable of executing their captives, so you have to be in there quicker than they can line them up against a wall.”
“I will, my lord,” Sharpe said, wondering how in hell he was supposed to capture a fortress. He had no cannon so could not batter it down, and from all the Duke had just said there would not be enough time to make ladders and escalade the citadel’s walls.
“Where and when shall Major Vincent meet you tomorrow?” the Duke demanded.
“Four thirty a.m.,” Sharpe said, “at the Hotel Vlezenbeek.”
“You’re staying in the city overnight?” The question was a reprimand, suggesting Sharpe was choosing comfort over duty.
“I am, my lord, but the battalion will be ready.”
“Make sure it is. You’ll inform Major Vincent?” the Duke inquired of Captain Burrell, who had been listening.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“March hard and fight fast, Sharpe. Don’t let me down.”
“Of course not, my lord.”
“Show Colonel Sharpe out, Burrell.”
The captain escorted Sharpe to the front door, where Harper waited and where he offered to shake hands. “I wish I were going with you, Colonel.”
“It’s a fool’s errand,” Sharpe said, but shook Burrell’s offered hand. “Hotel Vlezenbeek, four thirty.”
“I’ll tell Major Vincent, sir.”
Burrell watched the rifleman mount his captured horse, then returned to the library, where the Duke was standing at the street window, evidently watching Sharpe.
“He’s a remarkable-looking fellow, don’t you think, Burrell?”
“To quote you, Your Grace, I don’t know what he does to the enemy, but by God he frightens me.”
“Ha!” the Duke said without a trace of amusement. “Did he make any comment?”
“He said it was a fool’s errand, Your Grace.”
“And so it is, Burrell, so it is. But Sharpe’s no fool. He’s a rogue, a damned rogue, but he’s my rogue. He also has the devil’s own luck and he wins his fights. And pray God he wins this one, otherwise . . .” The Duke’s voice trailed away, because the alternative was unthinkable.
Captain Burrell hesitated, then dared offer the Duke advice. “You could send another battalion, Your Grace?”
“You mean send a gentleman instead of a scoundrel?”
“Maybe an officer with more experience, Your Grace?”
“Ha!” The Duke snorted. “Sharpe’s no gentleman, but he has more experience of battle than all my other colonels put together. No, for this job we don’t need a gentleman, we need a ruthless bastard. And just pray he wins, Burrell, just pray he wins.”
Sharpe sent Harper south again, taking orders that the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers must be ready to march at dawn. “And I mean ready, Pat. As soon as I get there tomorrow we march.”
“They’ll be ready.”
“And we don’t wait for the rest of the army,” Sharpe said, “we go at dawn and we go on our own.”
“Us against France?”
“The wounded have to stay behind. The bandsmen stay with them. And if anyone argues with you, tell them it’s the Duke’s orders.”
Pat Harper had no true authority, other than his size and his reputation. He had left the army after the victories in southern France and gone home to his beloved Dublin, but the Emperor’s return from Elba had brought Harper to Sharpe’s side. At least the officers in the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers recognized his worth. He had been the battalion’s regimental sergeant major, and though he was now officially a civilian, he wore his uniform jacket and everyone in the battalion knew he spoke for Sharpe.
Who found his way to the cheap hotel where he had taken rooms for Lucille. He half expected she might be with the friend she had made in Brussels, the Dowager Countess of Mauberges, an elderly Frenchwoman who was a fierce supporter of Napoleon, but who had nevertheless taken Lucille under her generous wing. “Madame is here.” Jeanette, the maid, opened the door and offered Sharpe a curtsey.
“How are you, Jeanette?”
“We are all well, monsieur.”
“The baby?”
“He eats, he sleeps, he demands food.”
“You look tired,” Sharpe said, using French.
“You too, monsieur.”
Sharpe smiled. “The English have a saying, Jeanette; no rest for the wicked.”
“The English would certainly know about that, monsieur.”
He laughed and went into the bedroom that opened off the small hallway. Lucille, sitting up in bed, looked pleased, but put a finger to her lips. “Patrick is sleeping!”
Patrick was their son, and, like Sharpe, born out of wedlock. Sharpe bent over the crude cot, made from a fruit basket, and touched a gentle finger to the baby’s cheek, then sat on the bed and kissed Lucille. “This is a surprise!” she said.
“The Duke wanted to see me.”
“And the battle,” she gripped him fiercely, “was it bad?”
“Worst I’ve been through. You don’t want to know.”
“And the Emperor is gone?”
“He’s gone,” Sharpe said. He kissed her again, marveling as ever at her delicate beauty and his own good fortune in finding her. “Boney’s running south as fast as his legs can carry him.”
“So we can go home.”
“Paris first, then home. And no more soldiering.”
“What did the Duke want?” She sounded wary.
“Marching orders, love. We leave tomorrow.”
“You go to Paris?” He nodded. “Then we come too,” she said. “The Countess wants to get home!”
“You can’t come with us,” Sharpe said. “We’re marching at the front of the army. But there’ll be a crowd of carriages in the army’s baggage train. You’ll be safe there.”
“And tonight?”
“You’re not safe tonight,” Sharpe said, “I’m coming to bed.”
“Tell me there’ll be no more fighting,” Lucille said some time later.
“There’ll be no more fighting,” Sharpe said.
“Truly?”
“Not much more fighting,” Sharpe said, hoping he was right. “We beat the bastard. Now we just have to sweep up the pieces.”
Including whatever pieces waited at Ham, a citadel that Sharpe had to capture. And he had no idea how.
Chapter 2
Major Vincent was waiting outside the hotel next morning. He was a tall, rangy man mounted on a powerful black stallion. “He’s called Satan!” Vincent told Sharpe happily. “Bred in County Meath. He flies over hedgerows and can outgallop any French nag.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t have to.” Sharpe hauled himself into his saddle, then offered Vincent a half loaf of bread that had been hollowed out and stuffed with bacon. “Breakfast, if you want it.”
“What a good fellow you are. Bread and bacon?”
“With butter,” Sharpe said, “and that’s the last of our bacon. From now on it’s salt pork. Shall we go?”
“The sooner the better.” Vincent was wearing the dark blue double-breasted coat of the Royal Artillery, though Sharpe suspected the major had been nowhere near a cannon in the last few years. “The Duke tells me you’re a rogue,” Vincent said cheerfully as they started their southward journey.
“Aye, probably.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
“Not much to tell.”
“Oh come, Sharpe, don’t be modest. You took an Eagle at Talavera, yes?”
“Me and a sergeant, yes.”
“And doubtless you’ll claim it was just good luck?”
“No, it was bloody hard fighting. But I was angry. A bastard called Henry Simmerson had lost our King’s Color a few weeks earlier, so I wanted to square accounts.”
“Yes, I’ve met Sir Henry. He’s useless.”
“Worse than useless. He was malevolent.”
“He works for the excise now. A taxman!”
“Then God help England.”
“You’re the one who’ll help England, Sharpe, by capturing the citadel at Ham.”
“Which you’ve seen, sir.”
“I have indeed, not three weeks ago!”
Sharpe looked across at the lean officer. “You were deep in France? I heard that exploring officers weren’t allowed across the frontier?”
“Nor were we, because officially we weren’t at war with France, only with the Emperor, so were ordered not to provoke him, but some orders are made to be disobeyed. The Duke tells me you’re very good at that too.” He sounded amused.
“And if you’d been captured?”
“Death, I suppose, but that would never happen with this horse beneath me. Some of their lancers gave me a run, but Satan saw them off, didn’t you, boy?” He patted his stallion’s neck. The major looked as if he might be a year or two older than Sharpe, who thought he was thirty-eight. Like many children raised in the poorhouses, he had never been entirely sure of his age, nor did he know his birthday, but the estimate was close enough and he had long ago decided that his birthday would be August first because it was an easy date to remember. Major Vincent, Sharpe thought, would have no such problems. His horse was obviously expensive and his uniform was elegantly cut, and he affected a cavalryman’s pelisse edged with fur. Sharpe half smiled. “When did you last fire a cannon, Major?”
“We might have to fight for that,” Sharpe warned.
“You think so, sir?”
“What do I know? I hope not, but we’ll do whatever we must. And the sooner it’s over, the better, then we can all go home.”
“Where is home for you, sir?”
“Normandy.”
Burrell looked at him in astonishment. “Normandy, sir?”
“I have a French woman,” Sharpe explained, “and she has a farm in Normandy.” He smiled at Burrell’s expression. “It’s not what I expected, Captain. I spend a lifetime fighting the buggers, then end up living with them. Life is never what you expect.”
“I do have some good news,” Burrell said suddenly.
“What?”
“The Prince of Orange is recovering well, sir, I thought you’d like to know.”
Sharpe grunted. The prince had taken a bullet in the shoulder and Sharpe would have been happy if the ball had struck lower, straight into the heart, because in three days the prince had destroyed four or five battalions with his idiocy. “The surgeons removed the bullet,” Burrell said, “and the wound is clean.”
“Good,” Sharpe said unconvincingly.
“But the Duke said the bullet was one of ours!”
“One of ours?”
“It still had scraps of leather, sir, and don’t our riflemen wrap their bullets in a leather patch?”
“We do,” Sharpe said. “It helps the barrel grip the bullet.”
“The Duke surmised that one of our men shot the prince,” Burrell said.
“Why would they do that?” Sharpe asked, and wondered if that was why the Duke had summoned him. When Sharpe had fired at the prince he was scarcely a hundred paces beneath the ridge from which the Duke had been watching the battle. Damn it, he thought, but the ball should have hit the prince plumb in the middle of his chest to explode his heart, but instead had gone high. And had the Duke seen him fire the shot? In which case, he thought, he no longer commanded a battalion, indeed he would be lucky to escape a court-martial and disgrace. What was the penalty for shooting royalty? The rope? Or a firing squad? “Some Frogs use our captured rifles,” Sharpe added, sounding unconvincing even to himself.
Burrell said nothing more, just led Sharpe into the city, and then it was time to hand the horses to waiting orderlies and climb the steps to the Duke’s headquarters.
Captain Burrell showed Pat Harper the door that led to the kitchens, assuring the big Irishman there would be food and drink, then led Sharpe through a maze of corridors. “The Duke is in the library,” he told Sharpe as he rapped on a large door. A stern voice responded and Burrell accompanied Sharpe into the library, which was lit by a huge north-facing window. The walls were lined with shelves holding leather-bound books, and the Duke was seated at a round table covered in papers. But most worrying, Rebecque was seated beside him.
Baron Rebecque was a good man who served as the Prince of Orange’s chief aide and adviser. He smiled as Sharpe entered, nodding a greeting. The Duke, however, looked at Sharpe coldly and grunted his name.
“Your Grace,” Sharpe responded awkwardly, wishing he had taken time to shave before leaving the battalion.
“Rebecque tells me the Prince of Orange will live.”
“That’s good news, Your Grace.”
“The wound is clean, Sharpe,” Rebecque said, “though His Highness is still in considerable pain, but the surgeons are certain he will recover.”
“I’m glad,” Sharpe said.
“Are you, Sharpe?” the Duke demanded.
“Of course, sir.”
“The ball was one of ours,” the Duke said, “rifle caliber. The French don’t use that size ball.”
“They use captured ammunition, my lord,” Sharpe said. “And a rifle ball fits their musket almost exactly.”
“Then how do you explain the scrap of leather found around the bullet? The French won’t wrap a bullet!”
“They won’t, my lord, but I remember that the prince was wearing a leather strap over his shoulder. It was probably from the strap.” In fact he was sure of that because, in his haste, Sharpe had not wrapped the bullet in its greased leather patch, which might explain why it had struck too high. “And our patches burn up, my lord.” He knew he should call the Duke “Your Grace,” but he found it awkward.
“We ask, Colonel,” Rebecque said gently, “because you were seen on the slope beneath the prince’s position shortly before he was wounded.”
“I was there, sir. I went to help Major Dunnett’s riflemen.”
“Who were fighting the French,” the Duke said pointedly.
“Of course, my lord.”
“Of course,” the Duke said, and gazed at Sharpe for a few silent seconds. “So you don’t know who fired the shot that almost killed His Royal Highness?”
“There were scores of voltigeurs there, my lord. Could have been any one of them.”
“It could indeed,” the Duke said, “and I think we’re done here, Rebecque. Your men will march midmorning.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Rebecque stood and collected some papers, presumably the marching orders. “It’s good to see you, Sharpe,” Rebecque said, then left the library.
“A bullet in the shoulder,” the Duke said, “which takes the young fool off the battlefield and stops him from committing more idiocies, but doesn’t kill him. I would call that a very fine shot indeed.”
“Pure bad luck for the prince, my lord. There were a lot of voltigeurs firing up that slope.”
“As I said, a very fine shot.” Was there a trace of a smile on the Duke’s face? If so it vanished quickly. “How’s your battalion?”
“As good as can be expected, my lord.”
“Casualties?”
“Too many, my lord. We buried a hundred and eighty-six men.”
The Duke flinched at the figure. “And officers?”
“Five killed, my lord, eight are still in the surgeons’ hands.”
The Duke grunted. “You lost a major at Quatre Bras.”
“Major Micklewhite, my lord.”
“Because of that young fool’s incompetence,” the Duke said bitterly, talking of William, Prince of Orange. “Who’s the other major?”
“We don’t have one, my lord. Major Vine died yesterday.”
“You have adequate replacements?”
“No, my lord. Peter d’Alembord is our best man, but he was wounded.” Sharpe needed a good major to be his second in command, but both the battalion’s majors were dead and he doubted any of the surviving company commanders were ready for the higher rank. He had taken Captain Jefferson from the Light Company and put him in charge of the Grenadiers, hoping that would give him more experience, and put Harry Price in charge of the Light Company, but he doubted that either man would know how to fight the battalion as a single unit. “Peter d’Alembord is my best captain, my lord.”
“But you say he’s wounded? He’s hors de combat? Pity. Then I’d better find you someone,” the Duke said. “Probably not by tomorrow, Sharpe, and you march at dawn tomorrow. Yours will be the first battalion in the line of march.”
“An honor, my lord.”
Again the Duke grunted. “Don’t count on it, Sharpe. Look at this map.” He unfolded a vast map that he spread on the table and half turned toward Sharpe, who moved to the Duke’s side.
“The Prussians are marching south as well,” the Duke said, sounding disgruntled. “They’ll take the easternmost route, while we march to the west. Here.” He put a finger on a town called Mons. “We cross the border just south of Mons. Next town is Valenciennes, garrisoned, but if they don’t trouble us, we won’t trouble them. Then Péronne, another fortress, and note this road, Sharpe,” the finger moved south and east from Péronne, “to a town called Ham.”
“Ham, sir?”
“As in eggs. You’re going there with your battalion.”
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said, for want of anything else to say.
“There’s a citadel in Ham, Sharpe. You capture it.” The Duke rapped out the last three words, then fell silent.
“What do we know of the citadel, my lord?”
“Damn all. It’s ancient, I do know that, and it’s almost certainly garrisoned, and Bonaparte has been using it as a prison. That’s why you’re going. To free the prisoners.”
Sharpe peered at the map and saw that the direct route to Paris from Péronne went well to the west of Ham. “I assume, my lord, that the rest of the army doesn’t go to Ham?”
“It does not. From Péronne we march straight on for Paris. But there might be Prussians in Ham. The place is close to their line of march, but the prisoners come to me, Sharpe.”
“Of course, my lord.” Sharpe hesitated. “And the prisoners? Do we know who they are?”
“They’re whoever irritated Bonaparte enough to shut them away,” the Duke said unhelpfully, “but we know of at least one Englishman there, and he’s the fellow you bring back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sending an officer with you, Sharpe, Major Vincent. He speaks German and French, and he knows the prisoner we want. Listen to him, he’s capable. He’s one of my best exploring officers. You’re familiar with them?”
“I am, my lord,” Sharpe said. Exploring officers were men who rode fast, well-bred horses far behind the enemy lines to scout their positions and strength.
“Vincent has been to Ham before,” the Duke went on, “so he’ll be valuable to you. But he won’t interfere with your conduct of the battle, and you make that battle fast! Understand me, Sharpe? Fast! The French are more than capable of executing their captives, so you have to be in there quicker than they can line them up against a wall.”
“I will, my lord,” Sharpe said, wondering how in hell he was supposed to capture a fortress. He had no cannon so could not batter it down, and from all the Duke had just said there would not be enough time to make ladders and escalade the citadel’s walls.
“Where and when shall Major Vincent meet you tomorrow?” the Duke demanded.
“Four thirty a.m.,” Sharpe said, “at the Hotel Vlezenbeek.”
“You’re staying in the city overnight?” The question was a reprimand, suggesting Sharpe was choosing comfort over duty.
“I am, my lord, but the battalion will be ready.”
“Make sure it is. You’ll inform Major Vincent?” the Duke inquired of Captain Burrell, who had been listening.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“March hard and fight fast, Sharpe. Don’t let me down.”
“Of course not, my lord.”
“Show Colonel Sharpe out, Burrell.”
The captain escorted Sharpe to the front door, where Harper waited and where he offered to shake hands. “I wish I were going with you, Colonel.”
“It’s a fool’s errand,” Sharpe said, but shook Burrell’s offered hand. “Hotel Vlezenbeek, four thirty.”
“I’ll tell Major Vincent, sir.”
Burrell watched the rifleman mount his captured horse, then returned to the library, where the Duke was standing at the street window, evidently watching Sharpe.
“He’s a remarkable-looking fellow, don’t you think, Burrell?”
“To quote you, Your Grace, I don’t know what he does to the enemy, but by God he frightens me.”
“Ha!” the Duke said without a trace of amusement. “Did he make any comment?”
“He said it was a fool’s errand, Your Grace.”
“And so it is, Burrell, so it is. But Sharpe’s no fool. He’s a rogue, a damned rogue, but he’s my rogue. He also has the devil’s own luck and he wins his fights. And pray God he wins this one, otherwise . . .” The Duke’s voice trailed away, because the alternative was unthinkable.
Captain Burrell hesitated, then dared offer the Duke advice. “You could send another battalion, Your Grace?”
“You mean send a gentleman instead of a scoundrel?”
“Maybe an officer with more experience, Your Grace?”
“Ha!” The Duke snorted. “Sharpe’s no gentleman, but he has more experience of battle than all my other colonels put together. No, for this job we don’t need a gentleman, we need a ruthless bastard. And just pray he wins, Burrell, just pray he wins.”
Sharpe sent Harper south again, taking orders that the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers must be ready to march at dawn. “And I mean ready, Pat. As soon as I get there tomorrow we march.”
“They’ll be ready.”
“And we don’t wait for the rest of the army,” Sharpe said, “we go at dawn and we go on our own.”
“Us against France?”
“The wounded have to stay behind. The bandsmen stay with them. And if anyone argues with you, tell them it’s the Duke’s orders.”
Pat Harper had no true authority, other than his size and his reputation. He had left the army after the victories in southern France and gone home to his beloved Dublin, but the Emperor’s return from Elba had brought Harper to Sharpe’s side. At least the officers in the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers recognized his worth. He had been the battalion’s regimental sergeant major, and though he was now officially a civilian, he wore his uniform jacket and everyone in the battalion knew he spoke for Sharpe.
Who found his way to the cheap hotel where he had taken rooms for Lucille. He half expected she might be with the friend she had made in Brussels, the Dowager Countess of Mauberges, an elderly Frenchwoman who was a fierce supporter of Napoleon, but who had nevertheless taken Lucille under her generous wing. “Madame is here.” Jeanette, the maid, opened the door and offered Sharpe a curtsey.
“How are you, Jeanette?”
“We are all well, monsieur.”
“The baby?”
“He eats, he sleeps, he demands food.”
“You look tired,” Sharpe said, using French.
“You too, monsieur.”
Sharpe smiled. “The English have a saying, Jeanette; no rest for the wicked.”
“The English would certainly know about that, monsieur.”
He laughed and went into the bedroom that opened off the small hallway. Lucille, sitting up in bed, looked pleased, but put a finger to her lips. “Patrick is sleeping!”
Patrick was their son, and, like Sharpe, born out of wedlock. Sharpe bent over the crude cot, made from a fruit basket, and touched a gentle finger to the baby’s cheek, then sat on the bed and kissed Lucille. “This is a surprise!” she said.
“The Duke wanted to see me.”
“And the battle,” she gripped him fiercely, “was it bad?”
“Worst I’ve been through. You don’t want to know.”
“And the Emperor is gone?”
“He’s gone,” Sharpe said. He kissed her again, marveling as ever at her delicate beauty and his own good fortune in finding her. “Boney’s running south as fast as his legs can carry him.”
“So we can go home.”
“Paris first, then home. And no more soldiering.”
“What did the Duke want?” She sounded wary.
“Marching orders, love. We leave tomorrow.”
“You go to Paris?” He nodded. “Then we come too,” she said. “The Countess wants to get home!”
“You can’t come with us,” Sharpe said. “We’re marching at the front of the army. But there’ll be a crowd of carriages in the army’s baggage train. You’ll be safe there.”
“And tonight?”
“You’re not safe tonight,” Sharpe said, “I’m coming to bed.”
“Tell me there’ll be no more fighting,” Lucille said some time later.
“There’ll be no more fighting,” Sharpe said.
“Truly?”
“Not much more fighting,” Sharpe said, hoping he was right. “We beat the bastard. Now we just have to sweep up the pieces.”
Including whatever pieces waited at Ham, a citadel that Sharpe had to capture. And he had no idea how.
Chapter 2
Major Vincent was waiting outside the hotel next morning. He was a tall, rangy man mounted on a powerful black stallion. “He’s called Satan!” Vincent told Sharpe happily. “Bred in County Meath. He flies over hedgerows and can outgallop any French nag.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t have to.” Sharpe hauled himself into his saddle, then offered Vincent a half loaf of bread that had been hollowed out and stuffed with bacon. “Breakfast, if you want it.”
“What a good fellow you are. Bread and bacon?”
“With butter,” Sharpe said, “and that’s the last of our bacon. From now on it’s salt pork. Shall we go?”
“The sooner the better.” Vincent was wearing the dark blue double-breasted coat of the Royal Artillery, though Sharpe suspected the major had been nowhere near a cannon in the last few years. “The Duke tells me you’re a rogue,” Vincent said cheerfully as they started their southward journey.
“Aye, probably.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
“Not much to tell.”
“Oh come, Sharpe, don’t be modest. You took an Eagle at Talavera, yes?”
“Me and a sergeant, yes.”
“And doubtless you’ll claim it was just good luck?”
“No, it was bloody hard fighting. But I was angry. A bastard called Henry Simmerson had lost our King’s Color a few weeks earlier, so I wanted to square accounts.”
“Yes, I’ve met Sir Henry. He’s useless.”
“Worse than useless. He was malevolent.”
“He works for the excise now. A taxman!”
“Then God help England.”
“You’re the one who’ll help England, Sharpe, by capturing the citadel at Ham.”
“Which you’ve seen, sir.”
“I have indeed, not three weeks ago!”
Sharpe looked across at the lean officer. “You were deep in France? I heard that exploring officers weren’t allowed across the frontier?”
“Nor were we, because officially we weren’t at war with France, only with the Emperor, so were ordered not to provoke him, but some orders are made to be disobeyed. The Duke tells me you’re very good at that too.” He sounded amused.
“And if you’d been captured?”
“Death, I suppose, but that would never happen with this horse beneath me. Some of their lancers gave me a run, but Satan saw them off, didn’t you, boy?” He patted his stallion’s neck. The major looked as if he might be a year or two older than Sharpe, who thought he was thirty-eight. Like many children raised in the poorhouses, he had never been entirely sure of his age, nor did he know his birthday, but the estimate was close enough and he had long ago decided that his birthday would be August first because it was an easy date to remember. Major Vincent, Sharpe thought, would have no such problems. His horse was obviously expensive and his uniform was elegantly cut, and he affected a cavalryman’s pelisse edged with fur. Sharpe half smiled. “When did you last fire a cannon, Major?”
