‘My mother taught me, sir.’
‘You’re halfway there,’ Sharpe said. ‘Is there still a pub called The Saracen’s Head on Bow Road?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I was told my mother lived there,’ Sharpe said.
Bee was no fool. He looked surprised, even blushed. ‘She …’ he began, then tactfully stopped.
‘She was, Bee. And one day you and I will have a drink in there. You’re buying.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sharpe made sure Price and his few men went back to the Dowager’s house, then marched on into the city. He heard the crisp sound of marching boots behind him and knew the battalion was putting on a show for the Parisians. They were proud. They might carry battered weapons and wear ragged uniforms with mud-spattered shoes, but by God they had defeated the best the Emperor could throw against them.
Sharpe remembered the morning of the battle, when stray shafts of wan sunlight had slanted onto the southern ridge where the Emperor had paraded his army. It had been a glittering mass of uniforms, of breastplates and lances, of cannon and bayonets. That parade had been designed to terrify the waiting redcoats; a display of an Empire’s magnificence, plumes, blades, banners and glory, while the massed drums hammered out their threat of imminent death. Even Sharpe, who had fought the Emperor’s men more often than he cared to recall, had been awed by the sight, by the massed pennants of the lancers, the rows of huge cannons, the horde of infantry shouting Vive l’Empereur whenever the drums paused.
But when that glittering mass of men had crossed the valley, they had met the ragged battalions from London’s slums, from the English shires, from Ireland, from the Scottish wastes and the Welsh hills, and the ragged men had hammered the glory of Napoleon’s Empire into the mud, and now Paris was seeing their conquerors. And those conquerors were still ragged and dirty, but Sharpe was proud of them. They were soldiers, and they had fought through hell itself to reach their enemy’s capital. He turned to watch them and saw they were marching proudly behind their battle standards, their steps driven by a half-dozen drummers. ‘God,’ he said to Harper, ‘they look good.’
‘They look horrible, sir, so they do, but I wouldn’t want to fight them.’
‘I pray you don’t, Pat.’
‘So long as you’re not one of them,’ Harper said, ‘be a pity to kill you, sir.’
Sharpe half smiled, then turned the battalion in to the courtyard of the Louvre, he halted them, climbed the few steps of the entrance, and looked out at his men. ‘This is the Musée Napoléon,’ he said, ‘and the Crapauds will tell you it’s the most important museum in the world. Our job is to guard it! The bloody Frogs stole paintings from all over Europe and we’re sending them back where they came from. It’s possible that will make people angry and they’ll try to stop us. You stop them! You do not fire at them unless they shoot first! Musket butts and bayonets should be enough. You’ll live and sleep in the museum, where you will light no fires! Nor will you use charcoal to put moustaches on paintings! You will behave your bloody selves!’ He saw there were several civilians listening to him. ‘You treat this place with respect!’
‘They won’t,’ Morris said dourly as they went into the vestibule.
‘You like discipline,’ Sharpe growled, ‘so keep it. And put a half company on every door out of the museum. The rest can meet me in the Salon des Empereurs.’
‘Which is where?’
‘Where you’ll find me,’ Sharpe said.
He knew he was being both rude and obdurate, but for years he had nursed a hatred of Morris. Even as a Private Sharpe had recognised the falsity of the man, the fear that lurked behind the bravado. Many officers feared their own men, but Morris was terrified of his redcoats, and responded by trying to make the men fear him more. Instead they just hated him, and Sharpe found himself wishing that Morris did demand another flogging, because then he would scour the flesh off Morris’s back and leave him screaming. He could almost feel the pleasure.
‘Ladders are here, sir!’ A cheerful voice interrupted his thoughts and he turned to see Harper striding through the vestibule. ‘But your man wants them back, so we’re just renting them.’
‘Well done, Pat.’
‘Nice fellow, that Italian!’
‘Private Bee spoke to him?’
‘They jabbered away like a pair of monkeys, sir. Good as gold, that lad.’
A burst of laughter sounded from the museum’s entrance and Sharpe walked towards it.
‘So where do you want the ladders, sir?’ Harper asked loudly.
‘Just stack them somewhere, Pat,’ Sharpe said, then stopped.
Private Bee was surrounded by half the Grenadier Company who had been posted to guard the main entrance, and on Bee’s shoulder was a monkey.
‘Sir …’ Harper began.
‘For God’s sake, Pat!’
‘Just a wee monkey, sir.’
‘Didn’t I tell you not to get one?’
‘I didn’t, sir! That’s young Patrick’s monkey!’
‘God help us,’ Sharpe said, ‘what do you feed it?’
‘The fellow says vegetables, fruit and nuts. And Charlie will eat bugs too. The little bugger loves a cockroach!’
‘Charlie?’
‘That’s what we call him.’
‘After Major Morris?’
Harper grinned for an answer, then snapped his fingers. ‘Hey Charlie! Come here!’
The animal looked at Harper then leaped, not to obey the summons, but evidently in a bid for freedom. Private Bee made a lunge for the leash, failed, and the monkey scuttled across the floor, pursued by yelling redcoats. Sharpe tried to step on the leash, missed, and the animal raced into the galleries. Sharpe followed to see Charlie leap and scamper up the ornate gilded frame of the painting by Raphael. Reaching the top he edged to the centre of the frame, from where he gazed down at his pursuers. Then, apparently deliberately, he peed copiously.
‘God save Ireland,’ Harper said, ‘but the little bugger just peed on Jesus.’
‘I’ll pee on you—’ Sharpe began, but just then a shot sounded from beyond the museum’s entrance. ‘Oh, Christ!’ he swore and ran back to the big doors, pushed through, and saw horsemen milling in the courtyard. ‘Who fired?’ he bellowed at the men of the Grenadier Company at the top of the steps.
‘Not us, sir,’ Sergeant Reddish said, looking anxious.
‘Sounded like a rifle,’ one of the men said.
‘But he missed, Colonel Sharpe,’ another voice said coldly, and Sharpe turned to see the Duke of Wellington had dismounted and, accompanied by staff officers, was coming towards him.
‘Your Grace,’ Sharpe said, coming to attention.
‘It seems you are right, Sharpe, someone wants me dead.’ The Duke was not pleased.
Sharpe looked to his left and saw a patch of thinning smoke drifting northwards at the top of a tall building. ‘Sergeant Reddish!’
‘Sir?’
‘A dozen men, there!’ he pointed.
‘A little late, Colonel?’ the Duke asked sarcastically.