Sharpes assassin, p.27
Sharpe's Assassin, page 27
The Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers had reached Lanier’s men and the bayonets were doing their work. The French, those who lived, were retreating toward the house and Lanier was bellowing at them to stand and fight. Sharpe could hear him, but not see him.
Sharpe had gone through the defenders’ line, which was now breaking into retreating groups harried by the redcoats’ long bayonets. A tall man came at him with a musket, planning to smash the stock at Sharpe’s head, but it was simple to step inside the wild swing and hammer the heavy hilt of his sword into the man’s face. Blood spewed from the blow, then the man went down with a bayonet in his back. Private Carter tugged the bayonet free and grinned. “Bugger was trying to kill you, Mister Sharpe!”
“I knew you’d be close, Jem.”
Carter looked past Sharpe. “Bloody house is on fire!”
Sharpe turned. The widow Delaunay’s house was indeed burning, or at least the big hallway where he had been trapped on the staircase was well ablaze, the flames bright beyond the shattered windows through which smoke was now boiling. A Frenchman tugged open the front door and recoiled from a blast of flame that gushed bright. Lanier’s line had re-formed with their backs to the house, and Sharpe could see men loading their muskets. “South Essex!” he bellowed. “Don’t give them time! Follow me!”
Let the bayonets finish it, he thought. They had already thinned Lanier’s soldiers, most of whom had not fixed bayonets and who were now caught between a burning house and Sharpe’s vengeful redcoats. “Kill them!” he heard himself scream as he ran across the forecourt.
“Stop! Halt!” An even louder voice bellowed in English, and Sharpe’s men, confused, checked their charge. “South Essex! Halt! Cease fire!”
It was Lanier who had shouted and who now walked calmly between the two lines toward Sharpe. “Brave Englishmen!” he called. “You have fought well! But the war is over and there is no need to die. I wish you only to go to your homes, to your wives, to your children.”
Sharpe, astonished and offended that Lanier had given orders to his battalion, and that, moreover, the battalion had obeyed the commands, turned on the Frenchman. “South Essex!” he shouted. “This fight’s not over!”
“But it will be soon!” Lanier called. He turned to look at Sharpe’s men. “You have fought well! But no more men need die. Your colonel and I will decide this fight.” He looked at Sharpe, smiling. “And if I win, Colonel, your men go back to their billets.”
“And if I win?”
“My men will withdraw beyond the Loire, of course.” Lanier drew his sword, a blade as heavy and long as Sharpe’s crude sword. The man sounded annoyingly calm and supremely confident, and Sharpe could only admire the way Lanier had taken command of the night. “That is fair, is it not?” Lanier appealed to Sharpe’s men. “Too many good men have already died in this war, and there is no need for more men to die. One death will decide the night.”
“Kill the bugger, Mister Sharpe!” a voice called from the red-coated ranks and was greeted by a cheer.
Sharpe turned his back on Lanier so he could face his men. He turned slowly so that the growing flames from the burning house lit his back that he knew was soaked with blood, though he was not sure whether that would show clearly against the dark green of his uniform. “Quiet, lads!” he called. “Load your muskets! And rifles!”
“You wish the fight to go on?” Lanier asked mockingly.
“I don’t trust you,” Sharpe said. “You win and you could still massacre my men. I’m making sure they’re not defenseless.”
Lanier came a few paces closer. “I give you my word that your men are safe. Whoever wins, Colonel, your men will live. Can you say the same about mine?”
“Your men will live,” Sharpe said, and knew that with those words he was accepting Lanier’s challenge. He did not want to, he had wanted to destroy the French battalion, but Lanier appeared to have control, and now Sharpe must fight despite the stabbing pain in his shoulder and back.
“Let me speak to my men,” Lanier said and, without waiting for an answer, turned and addressed his battalion. He told them what he had told Sharpe’s men, that too many had already died in the war, that no more needed to die, and therefore this fight would be between the two colonels. That provoked a cheer from the blue-coated ranks, some of whom were edging away from the heat of the burning house. Lanier let the cheer die, then ordered his men to ground their muskets. “You might do the same?” he suggested to Sharpe.
“Sergeant Major Harper!” Sharpe called.
“Sir?”
“Once the men are loaded they can lay their muskets on the ground.”
“Very good, sir.” Harper sounded dubious. He walked to Sharpe, the volley gun low in his right hand. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“I’m not, but if I beat the bastard we’ll keep our word.”
“And your back is fair messy with blood.”
“I’ll live,” Sharpe said.
“Let me fight him, sir.”
“I doubt he’d agree to that, Pat. Besides, it’s my fight.”
“You’re a mad bugger, sir, so you are.”
“Tell Lucille . . .” Sharpe began, but could not finish.
“Oh, I think she knows.” Harper clapped a hand on Sharpe’s left shoulder. “And I’ll have no need to say a word to her. Just kill the bastard, sir.”
Some of Lanier’s men had gone into the house, using windows to get access, and were evidently trying to extinguish the flames that must have started when the rocket hit the broken furniture in the big hallway. Sharpe wondered what had happened to the men he had left in the cellar, and hoped they had had the sense to escape back through the tunnel, then he turned to face Lanier, who was standing five paces away. “So, Colonel,” he said, “you and I fight the last battle of the war?”
“And only my second against the English,” Lanier said.
“The first?”
“A small fight in Italy,” Lanier said, “at a place called Maida. My battalion came late to that fight, but I remember the carnage caused by your volleys, and I trained my men to fight with equal speed.”
“And you lost at Maida,” Sharpe said.
“You have never been in a losing battle?” Lanier asked, amused. Sharpe said nothing and Lanier smiled. “Until tonight, perhaps?”
“And tonight,” Sharpe said, “when I kill you. Who commands your battalion?”
Lanier shrugged. “My major en second is called de Brosse. I assure you he will keep our agreement. And who do I look for in your battalion?”
“Major Morris,” Sharpe said, and looked along the South Essex to see Morris standing close to the Grenadier Company. “Morris! Come here!” Morris hesitated. “Here, Charlie! Quick now!”
Morris came slowly, ignoring the sniggering from the ranks. He stopped short of Lanier and Sharpe. “Colonel?” he said to Sharpe.
“The word you want, Morris, is ‘sir,’ ” Sharpe snarled, “and let me introduce you to Colonel Lanier, a famous French killer.”
“The word you want, Colonel Sharpe, is ‘soldat,’ ” Lanier said, still amused.
“A famous French soldier, Morris, the hero of Marengo. His men call him the Monster. He’s good, very good. He had you skulking in the vineyard.”
“He . . .” Morris began, then decided courtesy would be better. “I am honored to meet you, Colonel,” he said to Lanier.
“The honor is entirely mine, Major.” Lanier had looked from Sharpe to Morris and back again, and his amusement was plain. He sensed their hatred. “You summoned Major Morris to instruct him in his duty if I kill you, Sharpe?”
“No, Lanier. I summoned him because he’s my deputy. Are you my deputy, Charlie?”
“I am,” Morris said stiffly.
“And the thing is,” Sharpe said, turning around, “that I’m wounded. That’s blood on my back, Charlie, in case you’ve never seen it except at a flogging. Won’t be a fair fight, will it? A wounded man against a monster, so why don’t you fight Lanier for the honor of Britain?”
“Why don’t I . . .” Morris stammered and looked appalled.
“Colonel Lanier won’t mind, will you?”
Lanier understood precisely what Sharpe was doing and smiled affably at Morris. “It will be a pleasure to fight you, Major, and an honor. I have killed sixteen men in single combat, but no Englishmen,” he paused, “yet.”
God damn it, Sharpe thought, but I like this man. “So, Charlie, want to use my sword? It’s heavier than yours.” He held the cavalry sword hilt first toward Morris. “It’s a right butcher’s blade, but you need something like this to slaughter a monster.”
“Monsieur?” Lanier sheathed his sword as if to encourage Morris, and gestured for the major to come and take Sharpe’s blade.
“This is ridiculous, Sharpe,” Morris protested.
“So what do you suggest we do?” Sharpe asked. “Come on, now, tell me! You’re a proper officer, Charlie, not some jumped-up guttersnipe from the ranks. Tell me what a proper officer should do?”
“Do?” Morris asked faintly.
“That’s a Crapaud battalion, and that’s a British battalion. It’s a fight, Charlie. Maybe the last fight of the whole war, and Colonel Lanier and I have seen enough slaughter to last a lifetime. So we’ve agreed to settle it man to man, only I’m wounded. I’m weak, Charlie. So what do we do?”
“You . . .” Morris began, then fell silent.
“I? I what? I picked the fight? Aye, I did. Because I’ve never backed down from a fight, Charlie, and you’ve never fought properly. Are you refusing to fight Colonel Lanier?”
“It’s a preposterous idea,” Morris said, taking a backward step.
“You’re refusing?” Sharpe demanded.
“I’m . . .” Morris began, then fell silent again. Jeers sounded from the battalion.
“Captain Jefferson!” Sharpe bellowed to stop the noise.
“Sir?” Jefferson ran along the ranks.
“If Colonel Lanier kills me,” Sharpe said, “you will command the battalion and you will obey Colonel Lanier’s orders, which will be to take the battalion back to the Louvre. You will also take Major Morris under guard.”
“Under guard, sir?” Jefferson inquired.
“Cowardice in the face of the enemy,” Sharpe said, “that’s the charge. Lock him up and report the incident to General Halkett in the morning.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Take him away, Captain.”
Morris looked as if he was about to protest, but Sharpe stepped toward him, raising the sword’s bloody blade, and Morris just stumbled backward. The battalion cheered. “Quiet!” Sharpe roared. He looked at Lanier. “Sorry about that, Colonel.”
Lanier watched Jefferson escort Morris away. “You do not like this Charlie?”
“I despise him.”
“And humiliate him. You are cruel, Colonel Sharpe.”
“And you’re not?”
“When necessary,” Lanier said.
“And it’s necessary now,” Sharpe said, and stepped toward the Frenchman, who slowly drew his sword again.
“We fight with swords, yes?” Lanier asked.
“Swords,” Sharpe agreed and noted that Lanier carried a long blade, equal in length to his own, but with a very slight curve, which suggested it was designed for slashing rather than stabbing. Lanier held it low, evidently content to let Sharpe begin the fight. “This is a Solingen blade,” Lanier said.
“And this is cheap Birmingham steel,” Sharpe responded. He knew of the reputation of Solingen swords; they were forged in Prussia and reputed to be the best in Europe.
“How old are you, Colonel?” Lanier suddenly asked.
“I don’t know,” Sharpe said, “does it matter?”
“Forty maybe?”
“About that, I reckon.”
“I like to know something of the men I kill,” Lanier said, then took a half pace backward as if he would rather continue the conversation than begin the fight. “You used a word to Charlie,” he invested the name with scorn, “guttersnipe. What does that mean?”
“It means I was born in the gutter, Lanier. Je suis un bâtard.”
“I salute you, Colonel,” Lanier said, and swept his long blade up in a salute. “I like bastards, they fight hard.” He lowered the blade again. “How bad is your wound?”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Then we fight,” Lanier said, “but if you yield you will live. You agree?”
“Are you here to talk or fight?”
Lanier acknowledged the question with an inclination of his head, then raised the sword. “En garde, Colonel.”
Sharpe raised his own blade and touched Lanier’s sword. Behind him the fire roared, its glare illuminating the forecourt, where the two battalions watched in silence. “I would regret killing you, Sharpe,” Lanier said. He twitched his blade, presumably to test Sharpe’s reaction, but Sharpe stayed motionless. He was thinking that this was all wrong. It was supposed to be a fight to the death, yet Lanier was offering friendship, even sympathy, and Lanier was le Monstre, famous throughout France for his exploits, and Sharpe realized the man was deliberately soothing him to take away his anger.
And that anger had been Sharpe’s fuel since childhood. Anger at the people who had raised him, at the sergeants who had tried to break him, at the men who had flogged him, and at the officers who despised him. Anger had driven him into breaches reeking of blood, across fields littered with the dead, and into the command of a battalion, and Lanier had seen that in him and so wanted to take away the anger. So damn Lanier, Sharpe thought, and the familiar anger surged into his blood and he twitched his sword as Lanier had done, and the Frenchman responded with a parry and stepped back.
“Bastard,” Sharpe spat at him and let the anger loose. He attacked, provoking an instant cheer from his men who watched as he savaged the heavy blade at Lanier. There was no subtlety in his assault, only massive cuts that he hammered hard at the Frenchman, who parried them all with an instinctive ease. The two blades rang together so hard that Sharpe feared his own cheaper sword would break, but the Birmingham steel held firm as he drove Lanier backward with the sheer ferocity of his slashing assault.
And Sharpe realized within seconds that the crazed attack would not work. True, Lanier was being driven backward and the slight alarm in his eyes showed his appreciation of Sharpe’s strength and speed, but he was parrying each blow skilfully, and after the fourth or fifth slashing attack he began to smile. That smile enraged Sharpe, knowing he was being mocked, but instead of changing his attack he redoubled the blows, trying to batter Lanier’s obstinate blade aside and slam the heavy cavalry sword into his head or neck. Sharpe’s men were cheering, Lanier’s troops looked downcast, though Lanier himself now appeared unworried and content to block each wild slash.
“My mother,” Lanier said, “first taught me to fight with a sword,” he paused to parry a blow, “ ‘and always remember, Philippe,’ she told me, ‘that the point beats the edge.’ ” He smiled, then looked startled as the next swing of Sharpe’s sword slid down his blade and struck the hilt’s crossguard hard and pushed his arm across his body. Sharpe lunged, driving the point of his sword toward Lanier’s belly, but the Frenchman moved aside fast and threw Sharpe’s blade off. “Your mother didn’t teach you to fence, Colonel?” the Frenchman inquired.
“I never knew her,” Sharpe said. His back was a sheet of pain, the muscles protesting at the exertion needed to swing the heavy blade. He was breathing hard. Lanier had stepped back after eluding his lunge, and Sharpe did not press forward, but let his sword arm drop as he caught his breath.
“So your mother will not mourn your death?” Lanier asked.
“From the grave, Colonel. She’s long dead.”
“Time you met her then!” Lanier raised his sword and made a half-hearted lunge toward Sharpe’s right-hand side. Sharpe parried, but the Frenchman’s blade seemed to dip under his stroke and flashed toward his left, striking him on the hip. He felt the sword’s tip pierce his skin and strike bone. Lanier recovered his blade to block Sharpe’s counterstroke, beat the sword hard to Sharpe’s right, and thrust again, this time his sword piercing Sharpe’s jacket just above the belt and again breaking skin. “Two,” Lanier said.
The bastard is playing with me, Sharpe thought. He could have pushed the thrust harder and his damned sword would have been in my belly. His back was a streak of fire now, every movement of his sword arm a lance of pain. The blood was warm on his skin, but not as hot as the fierce fire that was spreading through the roof and bursting through the rafters to flame in the sky. “Are you ready to yield, Colonel?” Lanier asked. He had lowered his sword so that the tip rested on the gravel.
“Go to hell,” Sharpe said.
Lanier raised his sword slowly, the polished blade reflecting the bright flames. “My mother taught me first,” he said, “but the village priest was my real tutor. An extraordinary man! He had been a soldier, but found God. He taught me to pray in the words of the psalmist. ‘Béni soit l’Eternel qui dispose mes mains au combat, et mes doigts à la bataille.’ ” He smiled mockingly. “A good prayer for a soldier, don’t you think?” He suddenly lunged with the sword and Sharpe stumbled desperately backward, his parry missing Lanier’s blade altogether.
