Sharpe pulled out the telescope. ‘Light Infantry again,’ he said. ‘It’s a tavern.’ Through the glass he could see soldiers and women sitting at the tables with wine or ale. It looked like a pleasant place to spend a summer evening.
‘Why drink outside the city?’ Harper asked. ‘Plenty of taverns much closer.’
‘The tax,’ Sharpe guessed. ‘The wine will be cheaper there.’ He still gazed through the glass and saw the tavern’s back door open and a group of officers appear. Six of them, gold braid glinting in the sun’s sinking light. ‘Good God,’ he said, ‘I swear those are the men we just saw ride up the drive.’
He could not be sure, of course, but the six, still laughing, found a table, where they were joined by three young women. ‘They went through the tunnel,’ Sharpe guessed, and explained to Harper how the city wall was notorious for the tunnels that smugglers had driven beneath it to evade the high duty on wine. ‘Fox claims he heard men talking about the tunnel,’ he added.
‘Dust,’ Harper said, then added, ‘over there.’ He was pointing east and, when Sharpe looked around, he saw that many of the folk on the wall were staring in the same direction. He aimed the glass and saw the army, or rather he saw, in the wavering circle of the lens, a mass of dark shapes above which dust hung in the air. He was gazing almost due east, which suggested the approaching men were circling the city.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said, ‘it’s either our lot, or the Prussians.’ He gave the telescope to Harper. ‘And the sooner they get here the better.’
‘Think the buggers will fight for the city?’ Harper asked.
Sharpe gestured at the wall. ‘Fox tells me they want to surrender, but God help them if they don’t. A parish choir could capture this wall.’
They walked on, staring down at the back of the Delaunay house, where yards were piled with firewood and rubbish heaps. Beyond it the warehouse was built hard against the wall, with a walkway from an upper storey onto the timber ramparts. A dozen infantrymen, wearing the red collars and cuffs of a light battalion, were crossing the walkway. ‘Far enough,’ Sharpe said, and stopped to gaze over the rampart. He trained the telescope again, this time seeing horsemen in the distance.
‘May I, monsieur?’ a voice said close to Sharpe, and he looked up to see a young French officer gesturing at the telescope.
‘Please.’ Sharpe held him the glass.
The young man gazed for a few seconds. ‘The Prussians,’ he said in a tone of disappointment.
‘Not the British?’
‘They are on the city’s west. You sound English, monsieur!’ It was not an accusation, more an expression of curiosity.
‘I’m from the ?les Normandes,’ Sharpe said.
‘Ah, I have never been, but one day?’
‘You should go,’ Sharpe said, sounding awkward to himself. ‘They are beautiful islands!’
‘I hope I can visit.’ The officer looked through the glass again.
‘You’re stationed here?’ Sharpe asked.
‘For the moment. Our depot is at Péronne, so alas, we cannot go there, and our Colonel brought us here. And you, monsieur? You served?’
‘The navy,’ Sharpe said, ‘but if there is a fight for the city?’ he left it as a question.
‘I am told there will be no fighting,’ the young man said, sounding disappointed, then swerved the glass to the right and trained it at the tavern garden. ‘My Colonel told us that. He says the politicians have no guts.’
‘You marched north with the Emperor?’ Sharpe asked.
‘We did, monsieur,’ the young man sounded proud, ‘and we beat the Prussians at Wavre! We took the Bridge of Christ! What a fight that was! The Colonel led the charge, of course.’
‘Would that be Colonel Lanier?’ Sharpe risked asking. He knew that the battle at Wavre had been fought on the same day as Waterloo and had been between a Prussian force and a French Corps that should have marched to Napoleon’s aid. Instead it had wasted its efforts, and the Emperor, bereft of their support, had lost.
‘Ah! You have heard of him! Who has not, eh? And he prays for a fight! Poor man, he suffers from this disgrace.’ He was still gazing at the tavern’s garden. ‘He is a great soldier, the Colonel! We call him le Monstre!’ He said the last two words with admiration. ‘He’s a monster in a fight! A killing machine!’
‘The monster,’ Sharpe said under his breath, then nodded towards the tavern, ‘and he brought your battalion safely back to Paris?’
‘He did! We are all here and eager to fight, but alas, the politicians?’
‘Alas,’ Sharpe agreed.
‘But our Colonel has not given up hope,’ the young man said, nodding towards the tavern beyond the wall.
‘He’s there?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Le Monstre can afford his pleasures, monsieur, which are women, wine, and death to his enemies. I, alas, cannot afford the wine or the women. I thank you for the glass.’
‘I must bid you good evening,’ Sharpe said, taking the telescope back, ‘because we must leave before sundown.’
They strolled towards the gate, but halfway back Sharpe trained the glass on the tavern again and saw two officers sitting with two young women at a small table. One was the fair-haired Captain he had met the night before, but the other, he was certain, had to be Lanier. He was older than the other soldiers, a man perhaps in his forties with dark hair going grey at the temples and drawn back to a long queue that was held by a black ribbon. The thin face, Sharpe thought, was savage, a soldier’s face, darkened by sun, scarred by war, confident and even cruel. ‘I’m guessing that’s Colonel Lanier,’ he told Harper, giving the Irishman the telescope. ‘Table furthest right by the house.’
‘Who’s Lanier?’
‘Another of la Fraternité.’
Harper trained the glass. ‘Christ, he looks a bloody handful.’ He stared a moment longer. ‘He looks like you, sir, except for that fancy tail of his hair.’
‘Very funny, Pat.’
‘He does, sir! Just like you, except his hair is tidier. Let’s hope we don’t have to fight him. He looks like a right bastard.’
‘Just like me, eh?’
‘Could be your twin, sir.’
They walked on, and Sharpe had the soldier’s premonition that before this nonsense was done he would have to face the killing machine, le Monstre.
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 H?tel 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 westwards. ‘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.’