Sharpes assassin, p.17
Sharpe's Assassin, page 17
Chapter 9
“General Delaunay is dead, Sharpe,” Fox boomed. “Gone to meet his maker, and good riddance.”
“You know that, sir?”
“I spoke to two officers who saw him fall.”
“You shouldn’t have gone off on your own,” Sharpe said.
“Oh do stop being an old woman, Sharpe.” Fox had returned to the Hôtel Mauberges, where he now strolled in the garden with Sharpe. He had inspected the Dowager Countess’s pictures and declared them to be dross. “Just the kind of daubs you’d expect from a coal merchant’s taste,” he said dismissively.
“And who were these men who saw Delaunay fall?”
“Cuirassiers. They were exercising their horses just up the road.” Fox gestured westward. “Have you seen the arch there?”
“Only from a distance.”
“The arch of triumph, they call it! It’s not even stone! It’s wood and canvas! A fake! But the Emperor ordered it made. I think we should burn it.”
“And I think we must find la Fraternité,” Sharpe offered sourly.
“It doesn’t exist, Sharpe! That old bitch was right, it was medieval claptrap! And with her husband gone? Forget it.”
“Colonel Lanier lives. I saw him.”
“Bugger Lanier, from what I heard he’s a mere adventurer.”
“So probably the right man for medieval claptrap.”
“Where did you see him?”
“At the Delaunay vineyard.”
“Then your job, Sharpe, is to make sure he stays there. Can’t do any damage with a bullet in his filthy heart, can he? I want him dead, then I can get on with my proper job.”
“Listing paintings?”
Fox sneered at that. “Saving paintings, Sharpe. That may sound trivial to you, but we have an agreement with our allies to restore the stolen works, and that’s important!”
“More important than la Fraternité?” Sharpe asked harshly.
“Bugger la Fraternité! A piece of romantic balderdash, Sharpe, and with Delaunay dead the balderdash died too.”
“Except for Lanier.”
Fox sighed with exasperation. “Lanier is a brute. But yes, maybe you’re right, maybe he’s a danger, but if it makes you feel safer, kill the man. You’re good at that.”
“Is that an order?”
“As if from the Duke himself. Who must be here soon! Maybe tomorrow? You know the craven little buggers are surrendering?”
“They are?”
“It was settled this morning. Our troops will occupy Paris, and all French forces are ordered to scuttle off to the far side of the Loire. Bonaparte has abdicated and given the throne to his four-year-old son. Shouldn’t have much trouble eviscerating that little bastard, should we? But it’s all flim-flam.”
“Flim-flam?”
“Pure show, Sharpe, circus tricks. No one takes Bonaparte’s wishes seriously. They’ve lost and they damn well know it. The four-year-old can concentrate on his toilet training, and Fat Louis will be king again, peace is restored, and we can all go back to sleep.”
“Where is Bonaparte?”
“Skulking somewhere. Licking his wounds and hoping he isn’t put against a wall and filleted. The provisional government want no part of him. Except, perhaps, his head!” Fox thought this a great joke and laughed heartily.
“So who’s in charge?” Sharpe asked when the laughter subsided.
“This is France, Sharpe, no one is in charge. They’re like headless chickens, a lot of clucking, feathers everywhere, and broken eggs. Don’t concern yourself! Just make sure none of the bastards takes a shot at the Duke.”
Fox had expected the Duke to march the British army into Paris the next day, but it was three days before Sharpe heard a band playing and recognized the tune as the “Female Drummer”; a song celebrating a girl who had marched with the British army at the very beginning of the wars. “That must be our boys,” Harper said.
“Unless the Frogs use that tune.”
“Let’s see!”
They walked to the gate of the house where, to Sharpe’s pleasure, a battalion of British infantry was marching westward. Horse artillery followed, then a long column of cavalry on tired horses. More infantry came behind. Sharpe, emboldened by the music, wore his green jacket and was greeted by a company of riflemen who saw him at the road’s edge and gave him a cheer. The infantry was marching with colors flying, the flags protected by sergeants carrying halberds.
“It’s a grand sight,” Harper said.
“It is?”
“From Portugal to the heart of France, sir. We deserve this.”
“But you wouldn’t celebrate them in Dublin.”
“Christ, no.” Harper grinned. “Unless they were marching out.”
A crowd of Parisians watched the soldiers, their faces dull, even sad. Some looked askance at Sharpe and Harper, doubtless wondering why they were not marching with the rest of the British. A provost must have thought the same thing because he marched to confront them. “You men don’t know the Duke’s orders?” he demanded brusquely.
“What orders would they be, Sergeant?” Sharpe asked mildly.
“No one, but no one, is to leave the line of march on risk of punishment.”
“And you wish to punish us, Sergeant?”
The sergeant looked Sharpe up and down, seeing a tattered rifleman’s jacket, French cavalry overalls, and scarred boots. Sharpe was not wearing his officer’s sash, though he did have the heavy cavalry sword at his side. “Who’s your commanding officer?” the provost sergeant demanded.
“The Duke, Sergeant.”
“Don’t be funny with me! What’s your name? Both of you.”
“I’m Patrick Harper, Sergeant,” Harper said happily.
“A bog Irishman?”
“I crawled out of the bog over twenty years ago. And your name?”
“I’m a provost, that’s all you need to know.”
“I think not,” Harper said. “I’m a regimental sergeant major and he’s Lieutenant-Colonel Sharpe, and the only man we answer to is the Duke of Wellington. Maybe we should flog you?”
“What is your name, Sergeant?” Sharpe demanded.
“Cullen, sir.” He stepped back, looking frightened.
“Back to your duty, Sergeant,” Sharpe said quietly.
“Sir!” Cullen stood briefly to attention and then happily fell in with a passing battalion.
“Poor wee man,” Harper said.
“This might be our lads.” Sharpe was looking to his right and could see a battalion approaching with yellow facings on their red jackets.
“It is!” Harper said happily. “I can see Pigface Malone! Bugger never could keep step.”
Major Morris, mounted on a black horse, led the battalion. He pretended not to see Sharpe, but Captain Jefferson, leading the Grenadier Company immediately behind Morris, made sure the pretense failed. “Grenadier Company!” he called. “Eyes left!” Jefferson saluted with his sword and Morris turned, annoyed.
“Stop that noise, now!” he snarled as the grenadiers gave a cheer.
“Good morning, Major,” Sharpe called, startling Morris, who grimaced and spurred his horse on without answering. The cheering, Sharpe noted, did not subside.
One by one Sharpe’s companies marched past, all saluting him and all cheering. Sharpe waited for Harry Price to appear and fell in beside him. “How are things, Harry?”
“Dire, sir. We’re the worst-disciplined battalion in the history of the British army.”
“Morris’s opinion?”
“Frequently expressed, sir, and I’m the disgrace of the battalion.”
“You are, Harry?”
“Indolent, insolent, and impudent, he told me.”
“He got that right,” Harper put in.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Price said cheerfully.
“Any floggings, Harry?”
“Two, not yet carried out, sir, both my men.”
“Who?” Sharpe felt a surge of anger, but tried to control it.
“O’Neill and Flaherty, sir, accused of being asleep on sentry duty.”
“Were they?”
“They were probably dozing, sir, but Christ! We were exhausted, and they’d marched all day. And we hadn’t seen an enemy for days! Their real offense is being Irish. He hates the Irish.”
“He hasn’t flogged them yet?”
“Says it will wait till we’re in our cantonment here, sir.”
“Which is where?”
“The Bois de Boulogne, sir, wherever that is.”
“Not far off,” Sharpe said, “so tomorrow, probably?”
“Or tonight, sir.”
“I’ll stop it, Harry.”
“I hope you do, sir.”
“Have you seen Lucille, Harry?”
“She’s fine, sir, not far behind us. And . . .” he paused.
“And?”
“Major Morris has been paying her attention, sir.” Price grimaced. “Unwelcome attention, sir.”
“Meaning?”
“He can’t take his eyes off her, sir, and thinks she’ll welcome his company.”
“But nothing—” Sharpe began asking, then stopped.
“Nothing at all, sir. Of course not, sir!”
“You heard all that, Sergeant Harper?” Sharpe asked.
“Every word, sir.”
“Have you ever seen a major flogged?”
“Not had that pleasure, sir.”
Sharpe touched Harry Price’s arm. “I’ll see you soon, Harry.”
Sharpe let the rest of the battalion march past him, then greeted the wives who drew up the rear just behind two baggage wagons. He was still talking to them when a rough-coated dog sped up the avenue and leaped at his chest. “Nosey!” The women laughed to see their colonel being assaulted by the big dog, who was finally calmed as the Dowager Countess Mauberges’s carriage rolled to a stop. Sharpe bowed to the women in the carriage, then climbed to join them while Harper pulled himself up beside the coachman on the box. “Keep going, Pat!” Sharpe called. “Stay with the battalion.”
“All the way, sir.”
“Richard!” Lucille reached for him. “Thank God.”
Sharpe embraced her, suddenly feeling tears in his eyes. “I hate this city,” he said.
“But it’s beautiful!” Lucille protested.
“Now you’re here, it is.”
“We’ll go home soon.” Lucille smiled.
“Can’t be soon enough.” Sharpe nodded to Sally Clayton, who was holding the baby, Patrick. “How’s the boy, Sally?”
“He’s your son, Mister Sharpe! He’s boisterous.”
“There is my house, Colonel!” the Dowager said brusquely, wondering why the carriage was not turning into the entrance.
“And we kicked out the men who invaded it, milady,” Sharpe said, “and it’s been cleaned up, but forgive me, I really need to stay with the battalion for a while. We’ll come straight back.”
The Dowager sniffed disapproval, but silently yielded and the carriage followed the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers past the monstrous arch that the Emperor had ordered built in the Champs-Élysées. There had been no time to make a proper arch from stone, so a wooden frame had been made, then covered with canvas painted as stone. “It celebrates the Emperor’s victories,” the Dowager said proudly. Torn scraps of canvas fluttered in the fitful wind and birds nested at the arch’s top. “You have nothing like it in London?”
“Can’t build an arch big enough,” Sharpe said, and was rewarded by a dig in the ribs from Lucille.
“There is news of the Emperor, perhaps?” the Dowager asked.
“I’m told he’s abdicated, milady, and no one is sure where he is. And Paris has surrendered to us.”
That news was greeted with another disapproving sniff. “So no more war?” Lucille asked.
“It’s over, thank God,” Sharpe said. “All the French troops in and around Paris have been ordered to withdraw beyond the Loire. Only allied soldiers here now.”
Though that was not quite true. He had spent the last three days watching the Delaunay mansion and had seen that the soldiers camped inside the warehouse had stayed. He had looked for Lanier, but had not seen the colonel, only his men, who now mostly wore civilian clothes, though the sentries at the house still retained their uniforms. The walls beyond the house were unmanned, a place now for civilians to walk whenever they wished. Sharpe had strolled the length of the wall behind the house and had seen no soldiers on the ramparts, but plenty of evidence that the battalion of light infantry was still occupying the vineyard. He had used the telescope to gaze at the tavern beyond the wall, but the man he thought was Lanier seemed to have vanished. “Will you really shoot him?” Harper had asked one evening.
“Those are my orders.”
“But would you?”
Sharpe had shrugged. Alan Fox seemed convinced that any danger posed by la Fraternité had evaporated with General Delaunay’s death, yet insisted that Lanier must follow the General into oblivion. Sharpe instinctively disliked the order. Lanier was a soldier, and, if his reputation was accurate, a good one. Fox had admitted as much. “He was the hero of Marengo, Sharpe!”
“Hero?”
“The battle was lost, Sharpe! Austrians were advancing everywhere, and Lanier’s men made a last stand that they turned into a rout. Broke half the Austrian army and turned defeat into victory. Splendid stuff! It was a makeshift battalion too, but the Emperor called them his devils!”
And Sharpe reckoned such a man deserved better than a rifle bullet fired after peace had been declared. He had carried the rifle to the vineyard every evening, but had been happy that Lanier had not shown his face. On their most recent visit to the wall above the vineyard, Sharpe and Harper had seen the smoke of the British campfires to the southwest of the city, and Sharpe had reckoned there were fewer soldiers in the courtyards behind the Delaunay house. Maybe most of the battalion had retreated beyond the Loire as the agreement between the allies and the French had demanded? And perhaps Lanier had retreated with them.
The land around the shabby arch was scrubby and dotted with crudely built shelters that made it look like an army’s encampment, except there were no sentries, and too many of the folk crawling in or out of the shelters were women. “They’re taking refuge here,” the Dowager lamented. “Deserters and frightened folk! They should be cleaned out!”
The same sad shelters were built in the Bois de Boulogne, a half wooded area that lay beyond the Champs-Élysées and in the embrace of a sharp curve of the River Seine. Harry Price came back from his company. “We’re to billet here, sir,” he called up to Sharpe.
Axemen were already attacking trees to make shelters. The Dowager sighed again. “This was a royal hunting preserve and rather beautiful. I suppose that ghastly fat man is on his way back?”
“He is the King,” Sharpe said.
“He is a gross disgusting creature, Colonel. He wobbles when he walks! He’s a sack of offal on legs the size of tree trunks! An offense to the eye.”
Harry Price had led a work party that was struggling great canvas bags from the supply wagons. “What are those, Harry?”
“His lordship likes to sleep in a tent, sir.”
“His lordship?”
“Bloody Morris, sir. Best not watch them unpack his tent.”
“Not watch?”
“The boys like to piss in the bag before they unpack it, sir, so it stinks.”
“Carry on, Captain,” Sharpe said very formally, then walked toward the growing encampment.
He found Morris sitting on a fallen tree trunk from where he contemplated the growing shelters. The major stood as Sharpe approached. He looked nervous. “Are you resuming command, Colonel?” he asked.
“I never relinquished it, Major,” Sharpe said. “How are the men?”
“Spry, Colonel, spry! Tight discipline!”
“They’ve always had discipline,” Sharpe said, “as you’d have seen at Waterloo.”
“I shall always regret missing that,” Morris said. His eyes flicked right to see Lucille, who had left the carriage and was now watching just out of earshot.
“Look at me, Major!” Sharpe snapped, and waited for Morris to obey. “Strange, isn’t it,” he went on, “that I was with them through the Spanish war and they never lacked discipline. Never lost a battle either, and I never flogged one of them.”
“Ah.” Morris shifted uncomfortably.
“Tell me, Major,” Sharpe said, “after you had me flogged, did you find I was more disciplined?”
“It was a lesson to the company,” Morris muttered.
“So I was the last man you flogged?”
“No,” Morris admitted.
“Then the company didn’t learn your lesson that day, did they?” Sharpe lowered his voice. “I promise you, Major, that if one of my men gets flogged then you follow them. As a lesson. And I’ll flog you myself. Do you understand?”
“Discipline must be maintained!” Morris managed to find some courage. “There has to be punishment!”
“Your choice, Major, but I warn you that a flogging hurts. Hurts like hell. You won’t like it.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Morris said.
“Sergeant Harper!” Sharpe called. “Would you say I was daring?”
“You’re a mad bugger, sir, so you are.”
Sharpe looked back to Morris. “There is a convention in this army, Major, that men who perform well in battle are forgiven punishment. The Duke does it, we all do it. I watched O’Neill and Flaherty in battle. They stood, Major, against the worst the enemy could throw against us, and they carried their bayonets against the Imperial Guard. I think they deserve forgiveness for that, don’t you? How many lashes did you order?”
Morris looked uncomfortable again. “Just a hundred.”
“And if they receive even one lash,” Sharpe said, “I will personally give you two hundred.”
“And I shall watch,” Lucille put in. She had come closer. “Good morning, Major.”
“Your ladyship.” Morris bobbed his head toward her.
“And I’m taking the Light Company from you,” Sharpe said.
“Taking the Light Company!” Morris sounded alarmed.
