‘The war’s not over!’ Vincent said firmly. ‘Napoleon was trounced last Sunday, but he can still gather a sizeable army if he has a mind to do it. We have to persuade the French that more fighting is futile, and the only way to do that is to pulverise the bastards every time they resist.’
They rode south-east through unremarkable farmland and the sound of the cannon at Péronne stopped as the battalion passed out of sight. There had not been many shots, and none had struck the battalion, but the sound of each had punched across the fields and puzzled Sharpe. The French had been defeated on Sunday, he had watched as the whole of Napoleon’s army had fled in disorder, pursued by roundshot, common shell and cavalry. Yet still the French were defiant. Did the Emperor cling to a hope of a final victory? One last battle that could defeat the British, Prussians, Austrians and Russians? The armies of all those countries were now converging on Paris, and surely Bonaparte had no hope of defeating them? Yet still the French were defiant, and Sharpe was beset by the fear that he would be killed in the war’s waning days. There would be no return to Normandy, no life with Lucille, no chance to watch his son grow.
Patrick Harper, the only other mounted man in the column, spurred to join Sharpe. ‘The lads are marching fine,’ he reassured Sharpe.
‘Who is at the rear now?’
‘Sergeant Huckfield.’ Harper wore civilian clothing beneath his green Rifleman’s jacket, and his appearance plainly puzzled Vincent. Sharpe had introduced him on the day they left the battlefield at Waterloo, but now offered a further explanation. ‘Sergeant Major Pat Harper,’ he said, ‘is an idiot from County Donegal.’
‘On a good horse,’ Vincent nodded at Harper’s stallion, a big grey.
‘I’m a tavern owner back home,’ Harper said, ‘and I do some horse-dealing as well.’
‘Which probably means he’s a horse thief,’ Sharpe put in.
‘And according to Colonel Sharpe an idiot?’ Vincent asked good-naturedly.
‘He left the army a year ago,’ Sharpe said, ‘but came back.’
‘I couldn’t let Colonel Sharpe fight without me,’ Harper said.
Vincent smiled. ‘And that’s a formidable gun you have, Sergeant Major.’
‘Mister Nock’s volley gun, sir.’
‘I thought only the navy used that weapon?’
‘They lost this one, sir, so they did,’ Harper said happily. ‘It’s a bastard to load, but when you fire the thing? It’s a burst from hell.’ The gun had seven barrels, each shooting a pistol ball and all fired by a single flintlock. Henry Nock had designed his volley gun to scour the rigging of enemy ships, and though it did that effectively, the kick of the gun had broken shoulders. Harper was big enough to fire the weapon without doing himself injury, and now passed the heavy brute to Major Vincent.
‘It’s not loaded, Sergeant Major?’
‘Loaded, but not primed, sir.’
Vincent admired the gun and handed it back. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Sergeant. We may need you.’
‘You’ll need me, sir! Colonel Sharpe can’t fight without me!’
And Lieutenant-Colonel Sharpe, though reluctant to say it, silently agreed.
The rain held off and the battalion made good time, passing through villages where folk watched them suspiciously. In one village a priest accosted the three horsemen leading the column and asked if they were British.
‘We are, Father,’ Vincent answered.
‘And the Emperor, monsieur?’
‘Defeated, Father, and running for his life.’
‘Praise God,’ the priest crossed himself. ‘So the boys will come home now?’
‘Some of them,’ Sharpe put in, ‘but a lot of men died, Father.’
‘Or were crippled,’ the priest said, nodding towards a man who had lost both legs and sat by the church wall with an upturned shako in front of him. ‘He was a forester once, with a wife and three children. Then lost his legs at Austerlitz. How is he to feed his family now?’
‘With your help, Father?’
‘There are too many to help.’
Sharpe kicked his horse to the beggar and dropped coins into the shako, then rode on with Vincent. Harper stayed by the church to make sure no man broke ranks to plunder the small village. ‘You can buy food, lads,’ he called to them, ‘but there’s to be no plunder. And I’ll check your buttons tonight!’
In the afternoon Sharpe again gave his horse to Private Bee and marched at the column’s head. Vincent rode beside him. ‘I imagine,’ the Major said, ‘that the garrison at Péronne saw which way we’re going and sent a warning to Ham. That’s not a reassuring thought.’
‘I hope they did,’ Sharpe said.
‘You hope …’ Vincent left the question unfinished.
‘I hope they know we’re coming, Major. I’m relying on it.’
‘Good God, Sharpe, we need surprise!’
‘We’ll surprise them, Major, don’t you worry.’
‘Sharpe—’ Vincent began, then quietened as Sharpe held up a hand.
‘I can’t batter their wall down, Major,’ Sharpe said, ‘and I don’t have time to make ladders which would probably get us killed anyway, so I have to use deception. I have to make them think all wrong.’ He stubbornly refused to say more, mostly because he was not sure himself how he could deceive an enemy who was doubtless expecting him.
They came close to Ham that afternoon and stopped a couple of miles outside the town where a large farm had a capacious stone-built barn that offered shelter for the whole battalion. Sharpe paid the farmer in French coins and promised that the farm, its inhabitants and livestock would suffer no damage. The man was happy enough with the payment and seemed curiously uninquisitive about the reason that had brought a battalion of British soldiers to his farm. ‘But I reckon he’ll send word to the citadel,’ Sharpe said.
‘So we should assault soon,’ Vincent retorted.
‘We’re not assaulting the bloody place without looking at it first,’ Sharpe insisted.
‘We’ll both go,’ Vincent suggested. ‘My uniform’s blue, yours is green. And your horse has that enemy saddlecloth. The only problem is your execrable French.’
‘Execrable, Major?’ Sharpe did not even know what the word meant, but it was plainly not a compliment.
‘If anyone asks,’ Vincent said, talking French, ‘say you’re an officer from St Helier. That will explain your horrible accent.’
‘St Helier?’
‘On Jersey, one of Les ?les Anglo-Normandes, Colonel. Some men volunteered into the French army from those islands. Not many, but a few. Most fought for us, of course.’
‘And your French, Major?’
‘My mother is French, God bless her. I grew up speaking both languages. We’ll pretend to be French officers. I shall be Colonel Villon, and you?’
‘Lassan,’ Sharpe said, using Lucille’s surname.
‘Capitaine Lassan,’ Vincent said, ‘shall we go?’
‘Capitaine?’ Sharpe asked, amused that Vincent had chosen a lesser rank for him.