‘Her husband was a Bonapartiste. I assume she’s travelling to Paris?’
‘She is.’
‘Then she could well speak to old friends and unwittingly betray us. Women can’t keep secrets! It’s not in their nature, so say nothing! Dawn tomorrow, Sharpe!’ Fox scooped up his coat and hat and strode from the room.
Sharpe found Lucille in the room she had taken. ‘You wouldn’t betray me, would you?’ he asked.
‘Richard! How could you ask such a thing?’
So he told her everything. Then went to find the men who would go with him to Paris. To kill the Emperor’s hounds.
Harper, of course. Because Pat Harper would not let Sharpe out of his sight if he could help it, and Harper picked three men who he assured Sharpe were as cunning as rats and fierce as wolves. ‘You’ll want Rifleman Finn, sir, he’s a vicious bastard in a fight. Then John Fitzpatrick from Three Company, he’s a good man to have at your side. And Mickey O’Farrell from the Seven Company.’
‘O’Farrell? He’s the small man?’
‘He’s a devil, sir.’
‘I’ll take Butler,’ Sharpe said, ‘and Sergeant Weller.’
‘Charlie’s a good man,’ Harper said, ‘but not a natural killer.’
‘He’s steady,’ Sharpe said, ‘and I like him.’
‘So Weller then, and Micky Geoghegan, he’s a nasty fighter is Micky.’ And another Irishman, Sharpe noted, but that did not surprise him. Harper was convinced that the Irish were the best fighters in the world, and Sharpe was not inclined to disagree. ‘But you’ve only one Rifleman so far, sir,’ Harper warned.
‘Three,’ Sharpe said, ‘you forget you and me. But pick me five more, all rifles.’
They walked to the barracks where Sharpe pulled the chosen dozen aside. ‘You’re attached to me,’ he told them, ‘and you won’t march with the rest of the battalion. You parade ready to march at dawn tomorrow. Sergeant Weller?’
‘Mister Sharpe?’
‘Come with me now and I’ll show you where to meet tomorrow.’
Charlie Weller was young, scarcely twenty, a farmer’s son from northern Essex who had volunteered to the army out of a sincere patriotism, which made him unusual in an army that mostly depended on men who had joined to escape prison. Weller’s normally cheerful face looked distraught as he walked beside Sharpe. ‘What is it, Charlie?’ Sharpe asked him.
‘We’re leaving the battalion, Mister Sharpe.’
‘You’ll be back, Charlie.’
‘And leaving Sally,’ Weller added.
Sharpe paused, understanding. Sally Clayton was one of the battalion’s official wives, a married woman permitted to accompany her husband on campaign, only her husband had been killed at Waterloo and she had immediately sought out Charlie Weller’s company. That made Weller fortunate because Sally was by far the prettiest of the battalion’s wives. She was also cheerful, hard-working and shrewd. ‘Sally will be fine,’ Sharpe said.
‘You think so, sir?’ Weller responded miserably.
Sally, Sharpe thought, would be anything but fine. She was too pretty, and Sharpe did not want Weller distracted during whatever it was he must do in Paris. ‘Go back and fetch her now, Charlie,’ he said on an impulse, ‘and bring her here.’ He pointed to the big inn next to the church across the square. ‘Meet me in the yard of that inn.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Weller said enthusiastically and ran back the way they had come.
Harper had been close enough to hear what Sharpe had said. ‘Taking Sally with us, are we?’ he asked.
‘No. She can work for Lucille. Another maid.’
‘And Lucille stays with the army?’
‘She has to, but she’ll find us in Paris.’
‘And who looks after the ladies?’
‘They’ll stay with the baggage guard. They’ll be safe enough.’ Lucille had two pistols if she needed them, and the Dowager Countess was a formidable woman. ‘And I’ll ask Harry Price to detail half a dozen men to keep an eye on them.’
The dozen men would bed down in the inn’s stables, while Sharpe joined Lucille upstairs. He took Sally Clayton with him and introduced her to Lucille, who was happy to have another young woman to help with the luggage and the baby. ‘We’ll pay you, Sally,’ Sharpe said, ‘and you get to ride in a carriage all the way to Paris.’
‘And you’ll look after Charlie, Mister Sharpe?’
‘I’ll take good care of him,’ Sharpe promised.
Next morning the dozen men paraded in the inn’s yard where Alan Fox brought saddled horses. ‘We’re bleeding cavalry now,’ Butler complained as he clambered into the saddle. ‘How do you make it go?’
‘Kick it gently,’ Weller advised.
Alan Fox rode a tall black stallion that Sharpe suspected came from the Duke’s own stable, while Sharpe stayed with his captured French mount which was a docile beast. Once everyone was mounted Fox led them under the inn’s archway into the square, where the first British battalions were forming. The Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers was among them, parading in front of an officer who faced them on horseback. ‘Who’s that?’ Sharpe asked.
‘New Major, sir,’ Charlie Weller answered. ‘He arrived last night with twenty new men.’
Sharpe decided he should give the new man a wide berth and steered his horse towards the houses at the edge of the square. Then the new Major turned and caught sight of him.
Sharpe checked his horse and just stared back in disbelief. Then he kicked the horse towards the Major. ‘You,’ he said.
‘Sharpe,’ the Major answered, in the same tone of disbelief that Sharpe had used.
‘The word you’re looking for,’ Sharpe said, ‘is sir.’
He waited. The Major bridled, looked at the battalion, then back to Sharpe. ‘Sir,’ he said unhappily.
‘Off your horse, Major,’ Sharpe growled, ‘and come with me.’
He did not wait to see if the Major obeyed, but swung off his horse and paced towards an alley that led between two shops. At the alley’s end he discovered a small courtyard piled with broken crates. Sharpe turned there, hidden from the battalion, and watched the Major approach.
He was a tall man, his uniform jacket a bright red, unfaded by campaigning. Sharpe remembered him as a handsome man, but the good looks had been dissipated by appetite and alcohol, and the Major stumbled as he came into the small yard. ‘Charles Morris,’ Sharpe said the name as though it left a bad taste in his mouth.
‘It’s been a long time,’ Morris said, ‘Colonel.’
‘And the Duke appointed you a Major in my battalion.’
‘He did.’
‘I’m on his staff now,’ Sharpe said, ‘and I’ve a mind to tell him to take you away.’
‘Now, Sharpe …’
‘Sir!’ Sharpe roared. ‘You call me “sir”.’ He paused, but Morris said nothing. ‘I’d been hoping to meet you, Charlie, you poxed bastard. I’ve been dreaming of it for nigh on fifteen years.’
‘There’s no need …’ Morris began, then saw Sharpe’s face and went silent.
‘You had me flogged, Charlie, and you knew it was for nothing. You and that bastard Hakeswill.’