Sharpes assassin, p.23
Sharpe's Assassin, page 23
“Nice?”
“They brought a gift, sir.”
Sharpe frowned. “They brought barrels,” he said, “not bottles. Why?”
“Not unusual, sir. My father always buys his claret in barrels. We decant it.”
A door opened at the top of the stairs leading into the house. “Colonel Sharpe?” a voice called.
“Coming!” Sharpe said. He looked around the cellar and saw some tools on a bench. He found a chisel and hammer. “What happens when you roll a barrel of wine, Captain?”
“No idea, sir,” Burrell said.
“It makes a noise! The stuff sloshes around. Did you hear it sloshing?”
“No, sir.”
“Exactly.” Sharpe hammered the chisel into the top of a barrel, then levered up the shattered piece of wood. He sniffed and grimaced at the smell. “I knew something was wrong.”
“Oh my God.” Burrell had gone pale.
“It’s safe enough,” Sharpe said, “but they plan to come back later, don’t they.” He pushed a hand through the gap he had made and brought out a handful of gunpowder.
“I’ll call out the guard,” Burrell turned away.
“Don’t bother,” Sharpe said, “the buggers have gone.”
“What do we do?” Burrell asked.
“You get a squad of men to take the barrels into the garden. There’s a pond here?”
“An ornamental lake, sir. With fountains.”
“Drop them all in the lake. Then put a guard on the cellar to see who comes back later tonight.”
“Dear God,” Burrell said. “I should tell the Duke, sir.”
“Don’t spoil his dinner! I’ll tell him later. Just get rid of the stuff.”
“Sharpe!” It was Major Vincent’s voice, peremptory from above.
“Coming!” Sharpe clapped Burrell on the shoulder, then climbed to the kitchen, where Vincent waited. “They can’t serve the main course till you return,” the major complained.
Sharpe went back to the dining room and took his seat. “All well, Sharpe?” the Duke demanded.
“Madame Delaunay has been very generous, Your Grace,” Sharpe said, “a dozen barrels of the 1811 vintage. I’m told it’s excellent.”
“It is,” the widow put in.
“You tasted it, Sharpe?” Halkett asked.
“No, sir, we just left the barrels in the cellar.” He said that loud enough for the widow to hear.
“There was a comet in 1811,” the widow said, “and years with a comet always give the best wine. I hope Your Grace enjoys it.”
“I shall, madame, and am most grateful for your generosity.” The Duke scowled at Sharpe, then clapped his hands. “Roast leg of mutton and vinegar sauce,” he announced happily.
“Of course,” Halkett grumbled. Sharpe liked roast mutton, but as he sat he suddenly wondered if he had been right. Supposing Lanier was not planning to return? Suppose there was a slow match in one of the barrels? Dear God, that is how he would have ignited the powder. He would have made a separate compartment in one of the barrels and secreted an artillery shell attached to a slow match that could even now be burning in the cellar. He had not smelled burning powder, and a slow match would be extinguished if the barrel was airtight, but he could not lose the suspicion, nor the fear that at any moment the whole house would be engulfed in a vast explosion. “You’ll forgive me,” he said to the table at large, stood, and dashed back to the kitchen. Down the stairs and into the cellar where a half-dozen guardsmen were manhandling the last three barrels up to the garden. Sharpe followed to watch them rolling the barrels across the lawn to the ornamental pond with its two fountains. Captain Burrell stood watching. “That’s the last barrel,” he told Sharpe. “All safe now.”
The barrel was rolled into the pond.
“Well done, Captain. Keep a guard on them.”
“I will, sir.”
Sharpe went back to the house, knowing he would have to explain his sudden exit. Sure enough the Duke gave him an unfriendly look. “You had a more pressing engagement, Colonel?”
“I forgot to thank the men who delivered the wine, Your Grace. I thought they deserved some thanks.”
“Even though they destroyed something?”
“The outer cellar door, Your Grace, rather than trundle the barrels through the house. They couldn’t find the key.”
The Duke grunted. “Sensible, I suppose. Sit down, Sharpe. What did you give them?”
“Twenty francs, Your Grace.”
“Good God, that was generous!”
“They assured me it is very good wine, Your Grace.”
“It is excellent wine,” the widow put in, and Sharpe dared not meet her gaze.
“I’ll reimburse you, Sharpe,” the Duke said ungraciously, then sawed at the mutton with his knife. Lucille, Sharpe noted, was eating with feigned enjoyment. He winked at her and she half smiled.
“You’re really planning to settle in Normandy, Colonel?” Halkett asked him.
“Already have, sir. Can’t wait to get back there.”
“Understandable,” Halkett said, looking at Lucille, “but if you stayed in the army there’d be advancement for you.”
“I doubt it, sir. There’ll be too many colonels and not enough war.”
“There’s always war, Sharpe, it’s the natural state of mankind. Are you sure this is mutton? Tastes like goat.”
“Long time since I ate goat,” Sharpe said, “probably not since Portugal.” And he thought how far he had come since those first battles in Portugal. He looked across the table at Lucille, who was speaking animatedly to the Duke. Would he really be happy in Normandy? Maybe he should stay in the army as Halkett suggested. Now he was a colonel the promotions would come without effort; no purchase needed, just seniority. Live long enough, he thought, and he would be General Sharpe, and that thought made him smile. General Sharpe! That would be an achievement for a gutter-born boy from East London, but the thought was also ridiculous and he knew that as long as he lived he would always be the officer who had come from the ranks, and whose back was scarred by a flogging. In Normandy he had nothing to prove, except perhaps that he could farm Lucille’s acres as well as any other man. And he remembered the Duke at Waterloo, amid the din of battle, under the thick powder smoke that hung over the ragged infantry, the trumpet calls and the drumbeats of the approaching French, and every man in that thin abraded line at the crest of the ridge had known that death was coming up the slope; death by musket fire, by bayonet lunges, by canister or by round shot, and in the center of that dread the Duke had called out that the reward for standing and surviving was peace, and for Sharpe that meant Lucille. “I’ll not stay in the army,” he told Halkett, who looked slightly surprised at the sudden words. “The army’s been good to me, sir,” Sharpe went on, but did not finish the thought. The army, he thought, had guided him to Lucille, so the army had done its job, as he had. He had fought on the ridge at Waterloo, and now he would take the Duke’s promised result; peace.
Except Lanier would break that promise. Fox had reckoned la Fraternité could start another war, a war of vengeance for the deaths of dukes and princes, and if Fox was right then there would be no sanctuary in Normandy, just another campaign and more battles. “I’ve fought long enough,” he muttered.
“Few have fought better,” Halkett said. “You know you’re something of a legend, Sharpe?”
“I doubt that, sir.”
“Truly!” Halkett insisted.
“I remember in India, sir, a cavalry officer told me what I was. I was a sergeant then.” He paused.
“What did he say?” Halkett insisted. “Tell me!”
“A lump, sir. He said I was a lump. Not sure he wasn’t right.”
The mutton was cleared away, the wine glasses refilled, then dishes of strawberries were put on the table with bowls of lemon ice cream. A clock in the hallway struck ten and the widow stood. “I must cross the city,” she said, “so I hope you will excuse me?”
“It was good of you to come,” the Duke said, “and I thank you for the wine.”
“I know you will enjoy it, Your Grace.” She moved to the door, then looked back. “Colonel Sharpe! May I have a word?”
The Duke nodded permission and Sharpe followed the widow into the hallway. “Madame?”
“Do you still persist in believing that silly story?” She spoke in English.
More than ever, Sharpe thought, then realized that there could not have been a slow match concealed in the barrels while Madame Delaunay was in the house. So men were coming back to finish the treachery. “We’re assured that there’s no truth in the tale, madame,” he said, “and my job now is to clear the stolen paintings out of the Louvre.”
“Sheer vandalism! The Musée Napoléon is the most important repository of culture in Europe! In the world!”
“I’ll do my duty, madame.”
“Always the soldier’s excuse,” she snarled, then calmed down. “The world changes, Colonel, and it’s not good. The Emperor was a clever man and a good ruler. You know the Prussians want him executed?”
“They do, madame?”
“They’re savages! But the Duke assures me he will plead for his life.”
“Then we must hope the Duke lives to make that plea,” Sharpe said.
She gave him a very hard look. “Did you taste the wine, Colonel?”
“There wasn’t time, madame, and besides we like the wine chilled. We put it all in the fountains.”
“You . . .” she began, then nodded as she understood what he had done. “You are a clever man, Colonel Sharpe. But it’s no matter, I rather thought that fat fool the King might be here. He wasn’t.”
“And you planned to send men here later to fire the barrels?”
“I planned to rid France of an obese wobbling monarch, Colonel. What kind of world allows my husband to die and Fat Louis to live?”
“A world that allows my Lucille to live.”
“I would have regretted that,” Madame Delaunay said. “I like her. She deserves better than you, of course, but look after her.”
“I intend to, madame.”
“Then good night, Colonel.” Hoofbeats and carriage wheels sounded from the portico and she swept out of the door with what Sharpe thought was indecent haste.
Coffee and cognac were being served in the great parlor, where Lucille had attracted a small crowd of admirers. Sharpe ignored them and headed for the Duke, who was standing by a curtained window evidently having been trapped there by Colonel Kippen, who was talking earnestly and emphasizing his words with a pumped fist. The Duke looked rather relieved as Sharpe approached. “Colonel Kippen,” he interrupted the Prussian, “assures me that the Delaunay property is free of enemy.”
“Your Grace,” Sharpe said, “a word?”
“You’ll excuse us, Colonel?” The Duke turned away from the Prussian. “What is it, Sharpe?”
“I have to commend Captain Burrell, Your Grace.”
“Jack’s a fine fellow. I’m glad you approve of him.”
Kippen had followed them and Sharpe lowered his voice to tell the Duke of the attempt to fire the mansion. The Duke’s eyes widened as he listened. “You didn’t think to warn me!”
“And interrupt your dinner? Captain Burrell had the situation well in hand, Your Grace.”
“And that damned woman was my guest!” The Duke was angry now, but it was a cool anger. “And Lanier was here?”
“I spoke with him, Your Grace.”
“I thought you were under orders to kill the man?”
“A fight in the house would not have been a good idea, Your Grace. He had men, I had none.”
“Not like you, Sharpe! Learning discretion are you?” The Duke gave him no chance to answer. “So we’re safe now? You’re certain?”
“Quite certain, Your Grace. Captain Burrell put all the powder in the pond here.”
“Then damn the Prussians,” the Duke went on, loud enough now for Kippen to hear. “Tomorrow you clean out that nest of vipers, and that’s an order.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Colonel Kippen,” the Duke turned to the Prussian, “you will be good enough to inform your masters that a British battalion will be active in the east of the city tomorrow.”
“But—” Kippen began.
“No buts!” the Duke snapped. “If your fellows can’t do it, mine will. Your fellows will do it, Sharpe.” He prodded Sharpe by poking the star on Sharpe’s chest. “If you want to help, Colonel,” he was talking to Kippen now, “then bring some troops, but Colonel Sharpe is in command. You understand?” He did not wait for an answer, but stalked across the room, leaving Kippen and Sharpe by the empty hearth.
“They are not there!” Kippen pleaded to Sharpe. “We searched!”
“The cellars too?”
“Nothing there but, what do you say? Pilze?”
“Pilze?”
“They grow in the forest. Under the trees.”
“Mushrooms.”
“Ja! Mushrooms.”
“And the tunnel, Colonel?”
Kippen looked flustered. “There is a tunnel?”
“There is a tunnel,” Sharpe said, “and tomorrow we search it.”
“There is no tunnel! We would have found it! There is nothing but a mushroom farm. My men were thorough!”
“Tomorrow,” Sharpe said, tired of the man. “If you want to be part of it, Colonel, meet me in the Louvre at midday.”
“This is madness,” Kippen protested.
And it had been madness, Sharpe thought, since the moment he had marched his men onto the ridge at Waterloo. And damn it, the war was over, the victory won! But tomorrow he must face le Monstre and his devils. Damn it, Sharpe thought, but Kippen was right, it was madness.
Chapter 12
“Midnight,” Sharpe said firmly, putting a finger on the map of Paris. “You have to be here ten minutes before,” his finger prodded the map, “at the elephant, you can’t miss it, and here,” he moved his finger to the Delaunay estate, “when the church clocks strike midnight.”
“And the Prussians?” Major Morris asked.
“We will be waiting at the gate,” Kippen said. “When you arrive, Major, we all go to the house.” Kippen had promised three companies of troops. “And my men will lead,” he insisted, “but they will find nothing. We were there two days ago and the house was not occupied.”
“And if it is?” Morris asked.
“Then you get rid of them,” Sharpe said.
“But the Prussians go first?” Morris asked anxiously.
“You all go,” Sharpe said. “If there’s a battalion of French Light Infantry in Madame Delaunay’s house then three companies of Prussians won’t be enough.”
“We will go first,” Colonel Kippen assured the nervous Morris.
Sharpe slapped the table hard. “No one goes first! You attack together. I don’t give a tinker’s cuss who’s first into the house, so long as you get there fast and go in fast.”
“The doors will be locked,” Morris pointed out.
Sharpe looked at Captain Jefferson. “Get some axes from the Pioneers.”
“I will, sir.”
Sharpe looked back to Morris. “The Grenadier Company will break the doors down, and the other companies can smash the windows and get in that way.”
“But no windows on what you say is the storehouse,” Morris said, pointing to the rough sketch Sharpe had made of Madame Delaunay’s house and warehouse.
“So you go through the bloody door!”
“But you think most of the French will be in that warehouse?”
“Which is why you go in fast and hard!”
“We searched that warehouse two days ago,” Kippen said, “and there were no men there. Just a wine press and barrels.”
“If there are no men, why—” Morris began.
“Because the Duke insists, and so do I,” Sharpe snarled.
“The warehouse,” Kippen said slowly, “is the more formidable building. My men will assault it.”
“That seems sensible,” Morris said, unable to hide his relief.
“And we’ll put two companies of my men with you,” Sharpe said to Kippen.
“You’ve already detached the Light Company,” Morris began complaining.
“And now I’m detaching two others. That leaves you seven companies, more than enough.”
Sharpe could almost smell Morris’s fear, and he remembered the man’s cowardice from India, where he had refused to assault the breach at Gawilghur. Sharpe could not blame a man for fearing to assault a breach, it was perhaps the most dangerous duty any soldier faced, but there were moments when a man just had to block the terror and do his duty. But Morris had hung back, sheltering behind a sepoy ladder party rather than climb into the guns protecting the broken stone ramp, and in the end the Scots had done the work Morris was supposed to do. So why, Sharpe wondered, was he refusing to lead the battalion against the Delaunay house himself? Because he had another idea, which meant Morris had to command. He looked at the captains who were gathered in the office. “I don’t know what’s waiting for us,” he told them, “but unlike Colonel Kippen, I expect a battalion of Crapauds. A good battalion! The Emperor called them his devils, but you’re better. You don’t hold back, you understand? You get in the house and you kill the bastards. Hunt them down and kill them. Don’t give them time to stand!”
“I think there will be none there,” Kippen said unhelpfully.
“In which case I’ll find them,” Sharpe said, “and you all find me.” He looked at Harry Price. “We leave at ten thirty, Harry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No later,” Sharpe went on, “because we have a longish march. And we’ll have some artillerymen with us.”
“Artillery?” Price asked. “We’ll have a cannon?”
“Just men,” Sharpe said, “three or four of them.”
“Why artillerymen?” Morris wanted to know.
“Because I asked the Duke for their help,” Sharpe said, and though he knew they all wanted an explanation he was in no mood to offer one.
