‘If there are no men, why—’ Morris began.
‘Because the Duke insists, and so do I,’ Sharpe snarled.
‘The warehouse,’ Kippen said slowly, ‘is the more formidable building. My men will assault it.’
‘That seems sensible,’ Morris said, unable to hide his relief.
‘And we’ll put two companies of my men with you,’ Sharpe said to Kippen.
‘You’ve already detached the Light Company,’ Morris began complaining.
‘And now I’m detaching two others. That leaves you seven companies, more than enough.’
Sharpe could almost smell Morris’s fear, and he remembered the man’s cowardice from India where he had refused to assault the breach at Gawilghur. Sharpe could not blame a man for fearing to assault a breach, it was perhaps the most dangerous duty any soldier faced, but there were moments when a man just had to block the terror and do his duty. But Morris had hung back, sheltering behind a sepoy ladder party rather than climb into the guns protecting the broken stone ramp, and in the end the Scots had done the work Morris was supposed to do. So why, Sharpe wondered, was he refusing to lead the battalion against the Delaunay house himself? Because he had another idea, which meant Morris had to command. He looked at the Captains who were gathered in the office. ‘I don’t know what’s waiting for us,’ he told them, ‘but unlike Colonel Kippen, I expect a battalion of Crapauds. A good battalion! The Emperor called them his devils, but you’re better. You don’t hold back, you understand? You get in the house and you kill the bastards. Hunt them down and kill them. Don’t give them time to stand!’
‘I think there will be none there,’ Kippen said unhelpfully.
‘In which case I’ll find them,’ Sharpe said, ‘and you all find me.’ He looked at Harry Price. ‘We leave at ten thirty, Harry.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘No later,’ Sharpe went on, ‘because we have a longish march. And we’ll have some artillerymen with us.’
‘Artillery?’ Price asked. ‘We’ll have a cannon?’
‘Just men,’ Sharpe said, ‘three or four of them.’
‘Why artillerymen?’ Morris wanted to know.
‘Because I asked the Duke for their help,’ Sharpe said, and though he knew they all wanted an explanation he was in no mood to offer one.
‘We can have some artillery too?’ Morris asked hopefully.
‘You’ve got one of the best battalions in the British army,’ Sharpe snarled, ‘and that’s enough.’
‘And if you’re not on time?’ Morris persisted with his questions.
‘We’ll be on time,’ Sharpe said, ‘and so will you.’
‘Of course,’ Morris said uncertainly.
‘We will be at the house as the clocks strike midnight,’ Kippen said, then glanced at Morris. ‘All of us.’
‘Then I suggest you all get some rest this afternoon,’ Sharpe finished.
The battalion officers filed out of the room that was some kind of office. Kippen stayed. ‘Your Major Morris …’ he began.
‘He’s not mine.’
‘He is frightened.’
‘He’s scared out of his wits, Colonel, but the Captains know their duty. So do the Sergeants.’
Kippen hesitated. ‘Perhaps you,’ he began.
‘Should lead them?’ Sharpe finished for him.
‘Yes, Colonel.’
And maybe Kippen was right, Sharpe thought. In essence his plan was simple; just assault the house and warehouse, and root out whoever was hiding in the buildings, but Sharpe knew it would not be that simple. Lanier would surely know the assault was coming. The Frenchman was no fool and would certainly have men watching the streets around the vineyard, and by the time Kippen and Morris reached the gate Lanier would have his defences ready. Sharpe’s only response to that was to encourage the attackers to go fast, and while they swarmed up the vineyard towards the house he would approach from the rear to stab Lanier’s men in the back. Or, if he was unlucky, to confront Lanier’s retreating men with an entirely inadequate force. ‘Lanier believes we don’t know about the tunnel,’ Sharpe explained, hoping he was right, ‘and I believe that’s where he hid his men two days ago. We have to take the tunnel, Colonel.’
‘If you say so.’ Kippen sounded unconvinced.
‘You still believe there’s no one there?’
‘I do.’
‘Then your task will be easy and I’ll look like a fool.’
Or he would be dead. Sharpe was still convinced that Lanier’s battalion was concealed in the house and his only explanation for the failure of the Prussians to discover them was to assume that Lanier, forewarned by his sentries, had concealed his men in the tunnel. And if Lanier did the same again, then the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteer’s Light Company would find themselves trapped in the tunnel against an overwhelming force. And if Lanier knew the assault was coming, which he surely would, then why wouldn’t he repeat the trick? The tunnel, Sharpe suspected, would be a deathtrap, yet he had to capture it, and he would lead the men who would meet the enemy in that underground darkness. He had thought of giving the task to Harry Price, but suspected that was only because he did not want to risk his own life. That thought had shamed him. He would lead the Light Company into the darkness because that was where the greatest danger lay.
A bellow of rage sounded from the vast halls of the Louvre beyond the office door, followed by a single shot. ‘For God’s sake …’ Sharpe snarled and ran to the door.
He went into the gallery where a cloud of powder smoke lingered. ‘What the hell?’ he shouted.
Major Morris had fired the pistol. ‘I’ll kill it!’ the Major shouted.
‘Kill what?’ Sharpe demanded.
‘That damned monkey!’
Sharpe looked to his left and saw Private Bee was crouching beside a statue. The monkey, evidently unscathed by the pistol ball, crawled into Bee’s arms and nestled inside his red coat. ‘I warned you!’ Morris shouted at the boy. ‘You do it on purpose!’
‘Do what?’ Sharpe shouted. The gallery was full of redcoats who were watching the scene. ‘Major Morris! Private Bee! Over here, now!’
He took both men back into the office. ‘Now what the hell is happening?’ he demanded.
Bee just looked frightened, as did the monkey, whose small face peered anxiously at Sharpe from inside the red jacket. Bee murmured to the creature and stroked its head. Morris pointed at them. ‘He encourages the bloody animal to shit on my bed! He does it on purpose!’
‘Do you, Bee?’
‘No, sir.’ Bee’s voice was almost too faint to hear.
‘He controls the animal,’ Morris spat, ‘no one else can!’
‘Is that true, Bee?’
‘I speak to him in Italian, sir,’ Bee muttered, ‘because he understands Italian.’
‘This is the third time it’s happened,’ Morris complained.
‘Where’s your bed, Major?’
‘In a small room down there,’ Morris pointed.
‘And the door is locked?’
‘There’s no lock. I warned him!’
‘Warned him of what?’
‘That if it happened a third time I would shoot that damned monkey and,’ Morris hesitated, then found what small courage he possessed, ‘flog him.’