‘In uniforms? Armed?’ Sharpe felt a cold shiver.
‘No uniforms, sir, but they were carrying a long bundle. Could easily have been muskets.’
Sharpe looked at the picquet. ‘McGurk?’
‘Mister Sharpe?’
‘You know where my rifle is kept?’
‘Yes, Mister Sharpe.’
‘Run and get it, would you?’
‘Sharpe! The Duke is waiting!’ Fox insisted.
‘Where is he?’
McGurk had already left and Sharpe turned to see Fox was pointing north across the grassland to where some evidently lavish houses were protected by a high brick wall and tall stands of trees. ‘He’s in one of those houses,’ Fox said, ‘and we need to leave now.’
‘Not without my rifle,’ Sharpe said.
‘I’ll come too,’ Harper offered.
‘Follow us, Pat,’ Sharpe said, ‘but stay back. You’re sure it was the same fellow?’
‘Positive. Floppy hair.’
‘That was him.’
‘Sharpe—’ Fox began, but got no further.
‘We’ll leave in a moment, Mister Fox,’ Sharpe interrupted him, ‘but not without a rifle.’
McGurk brought the rifle and Sharpe frustrated Fox a further moment by insisting on loading it. He took his time, wrapping a bullet in its leather patch and, once the weapon was primed, he pulled the cock all the way back so the rifle was ready to fire. ‘We can go,’ he said.
‘Thank the good Lord,’ Fox said, and pulled the gate open. ‘It’s not far! There’s a back gate to the Peer’s house. He has coffee!’
‘Is that why you’re in a hurry?’
‘I like my coffee hot,’ Fox snapped. ‘This way!’ He headed off across the grass, which was dotted with the crude shelters put up by the homeless and by the scared folk who had fled from the advance of the allied armies. ‘Most of these folk fled the Prussians,’ Fox explained.
‘Not from us?’
‘The Duke enforced discipline, Sharpe, but the Prussians behaved like beasts. They treated the civilians badly.’
‘As revenge for what the French did to Prussia?’
‘So they say. Do keep up, Sharpe.’
Sharpe was looking ahead, trying to find the men Harper had seen, but there were far too many places to hide. Each shelter, most of which were made from branches covered with turf or sometimes canvas, was a shadowed cave in which a man could find concealment. Sharpe was carrying the rifle low in his right hand, ready to bring it to his shoulder, and he felt that prickle of apprehension that he knew from the battlefield. Fox was following a well-worn path through the grass, and Sharpe plucked his left elbow. ‘This way,’ he said, steering Fox off the path into the longer grass between the shelters.
‘We’re in a hurry, Sharpe!’ Fox protested at the detour. ‘The Duke will not be happy if we keep him waiting.’
‘You want to die fast? Trust me.’
Fox looked disgruntled, but reluctantly stayed with Sharpe as he wove a random course through the shelters. The enemy, Sharpe knew, would be watching the path, and he had been walking directly towards their ambush, if indeed there was an ambush. But how had they known he would cross this ground? And was there even an enemy? He paused, searching the land to the north. There were about three hundred yards between his position and the high garden walls, and if Pat Harper’s suspicion was right there were four men from Lanier’s battalion somewhere in that space. ‘Can we move, Sharpe?’ Fox asked impatiently. ‘It’s raining and you’re dawdling!’
‘Stay with me, Fox.’
‘If I must,’ Fox grumbled.
Sharpe started walking, only to be checked by Fox’s hand. ‘That’s the way we want to go, Sharpe,’ Fox insisted, pointing to the large houses.
Sharpe looked that way, seeing a gate in the far wall, but he also saw the glint of light reflected from metal as a man moved in one of the closer shelters. The man must have thought Fox was pointing directly at him because he was aiming a musket. Sharpe shoved Fox hard to one side, making him stumble, and brought the rifle to his shoulder. Rifle versus musket, he thought, and damn the man. A shot sounded and a billow of smoke obscured the man in the shelter, but Sharpe’s rifle was already aimed and he pulled the trigger. A woman screamed nearby and children started crying. Fox was sprawled on the turf as Sharpe started running. He slung the rifle and drew the sword. He had seen one man whose hasty musket shot had evidently gone wide, so where were the others? Harper was shouting at his men to advance and had shaken them into a loose skirmish line. Sharpe was running towards the man who had fired and who now appeared to be dead, or at least unmoving in the mouth of the shelter from which the smoke had cleared, then the sharp crack of a rifle made him look to his right and he saw three men running back towards the city. Two more rifles fired and one of the men stumbled, but was helped by his companions. ‘Let them go, Pat!’
The man who had first fired was indeed dead, struck messily in the head by Sharpe’s bullet. Fox peered at the corpse, then turned away, retching. ‘That was a good shot,’ Harper said.
‘You sound surprised, Pat.’
‘Astonished, sir.’
‘What worries me,’ Sharpe said, ‘is why they ambushed this place. Almost as if they knew we’d be on this path.’
‘They must know where you’re quartered,’ Fox said, ‘and it’s no secret where the Duke is staying. They must have assumed you’d go to see him.’
McGurk dragged the corpse from the shelter and began searching the man’s pockets. ‘Look at the seams of his coat too,’ Sharpe said, knowing that many soldiers concealed small valuables in the seams.
‘What do we do with his body, Mister Sharpe?’ McGurk asked.
‘Leave it here, but take his musket and cartridge pouch. And Pat, thank you.’
‘Shall we see you the rest of the way?’
‘We’ll be fine. Just guard the Dowager’s house. Mister Price will relieve you. And thank you all, lads!’
‘We can go?’ Fox asked impatiently.
‘We can go,’ Sharpe said.
To meet the Duke.
CHAPTER 10
The Duke was at a dining table that was covered in papers. He was, as Fox had said, in a bad mood. ‘That firing just now,’ he demanded curtly, ‘was that you?’
‘The second shot was,’ Sharpe said.
‘And the first?’
‘Missed me, Your Grace.’
The Duke grunted almost as if he regretted that news. ‘And the second shot?’
‘Killed the man who fired the first shot, Your Grace.’
Another grunt. The Duke, Sharpe thought, looked older. There were flecks of grey hair at his temples and his face was lined. Maybe it was tiredness. Suddenly he looked directly at Sharpe, his eyes as keen as ever. ‘It’s your belief there’s a French battalion still in the city?’
‘I was told it was a battalion, Your Grace,’ Sharpe said carefully, ‘but it could be fewer men.’
‘Where?’
‘An estate on the Rue de Montreuil. A vineyard, Your Grace.’
‘Delaunay’s estate?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘The Prussians tell me you’re dreaming, Sharpe.’
‘The Prussians, Your Grace?’