‘Go, Private,’ Sharpe said to Bee, and the boy fled. ‘Flog him?’ Sharpe asked Morris.
‘You don’t frighten me, Sharpe,’ Morris said, ‘I talked to General Halkett.’
‘Whined to him, did you?’
‘If you lay a finger on me, Sharpe, you’ll lose your commission and face punishment.’
‘And if you lay a finger on Private Bee or his damned monkey,’ Sharpe said, ‘I’ll flog the skin off your back, Major. And tonight, Major, you lead the attack and you’ll do it as I said. Fast!’
‘I know my duty,’ Morris said.
‘I somehow doubt that,’ Sharpe retorted. ‘I’ve seen you in a fight, Charlie, and you don’t fight. You look for somewhere to hide. But you won’t do that tonight. You get to the house fast and you get inside fast. And there’ll be no flogging! None!’
‘And if that Prussian is right,’ Morris said, ‘it will all be a waste of time.’
‘Then you’d best hope he is right,’ Sharpe said, ‘because then you’ll be safe. And Private Bee is also safe now, as is his monkey.’
‘You know what they call that damned animal?’ Morris asked indignantly.
‘The damned animal is called Charlie. Now go, Charlie. Go!’
Morris stalked from the room and Sharpe sank into the chair behind the table. The door opened and a grinning Pat Harper came in. ‘He didn’t look happy.’
‘He’s not. Did the boy tell the monkey to shit on his bed?’
‘Probably. The wee thing speaks Italian, can you believe it?’
‘Tell him to stop it.’
‘The men encourage Charlie,’ Harper said, ‘they open the Major’s door and give it a slice of apple.’
‘Then tell them that the next man to do that will be flogged. By me!’
‘And they won’t believe you. But not to worry, I’ll stop them.’ Harper looked down at the map spread on the table. ‘So your man didn’t go back last night?’
‘No one did,’ Sharpe said. ‘I told the widow we’d ruined the powder.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t think the Duke would be happy if there was a firefight at his mansion in the middle of the night.’
‘Aye, true enough. But you think Lanier will try again?’
‘Unless we stop him. And the next attempt won’t be so clumsy.’
‘What if your Prussian is right? And they’re not there?’
‘Then we find them, Pat. They haven’t gone.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Lanier isn’t a man to give up. He’s here and so are his men.’
Harper sank into a chair and laid the volley gun across his knees. ‘So we’ll need this tonight,’ he said, patting the seven barrels.
‘You should stay here, Pat.’
‘Save your breath, Colonel Sharpe.’
‘It could be nasty, Pat.’
‘Could be? It will be! It’ll be a bloody horror! That’s why they’re sending us. And I’m coming.’
To face Napoleon’s devils, led by the Emperor’s monster.
The elephant loomed in the moonlight, its pale skin streaked with soot and dirt. Sharpe gazed at the monstrous beast, wondering what madness had demanded its construction. Even as he watched, a lump of plaster fell from the belly and crashed into the thick weeds growing between its vast legs. ‘They’re mad, so they are,’ Pat Harper said.
‘Everything’s mad,’ Sharpe said curtly. He had paused to let the Light Company gape at the elephant. ‘Can you imagine that in Dublin? Or London?’
‘I think it’s kind of wonderful,’ Harper said enthusiastically. ‘You think they’ll finish the beast?’
‘It’s supposed to be made from bronze. God knows where they’ll find it.’
‘A pity. Folk would travel miles just to see it!’
‘Keep going!’ Sharpe called, and headed past the elephant. ‘The Bastille was here.’
‘Their prison, yes?’
‘Now it’s got a bloody elephant, and the world has gone mad.’
It was dark, though the moon was bright enough, even if frequent strands of cloud obscured it. The Light Company, forty-three strong, followed Sharpe, their rifles and muskets slung on shoulders. Parisians watched them pass. ‘Lanier will know we’re coming,’ Sharpe said.
‘You think so?’
‘Wouldn’t you have sentries watching the roads?’
‘I would.’
‘Which means they’ll see the battalion approaching.’
‘So your bloody man will run into trouble.’
‘He will,’ Sharpe said grimly. The ‘bloody man’ was Morris, and Sharpe had no faith in him at all.
‘The kipper will have to lead them,’ Harper said. The whole battalion now called the Prussian ‘the kipper’.
‘If the bloody man lets him.’ Sharpe brooded for a few steps. ‘Men are going to die, Pat, and that makes me angry. The war’s over, for Christ’s sake!’
He ignored the Rue de Montreuil, which led to the Delaunay estate, instead slanting right onto the Rue de Vincennes. He suspected Lanier’s picquets had seen the Light Company, but by turning away from the Delaunay estate he hoped they would be persuaded he was no threat.
Sharpe felt irritable, nervous. There had been a time when he welcomed a fight, but this night’s madness had made him apprehensive. It would be such a stupid time to die. The war was won, the Emperor was defeated, and still Sharpe was marching to battle. It was Lucille, he knew, that made him so nervous. In the past he had little or nothing to lose, but now he had everything to lose; a woman, a son, and a life. He remembered the countless men who had experienced a premonition of death before a fight, and how many of them had fallen, and he touched the brass buttplate of Dan Hagman’s rifle and rubbed the notches in the stock as though it were a talisman against his fear. Lucille! He said the name to himself, and marvelled that she was his woman. We’ll marry, he promised himself, and he imagined being in Normandy again, yet somehow that vision would not take shape in his head. This night’s work was all he could see.
He turned and watched a pair of artillerymen pushing a garden cart. ‘Doing all right, lads?’ he asked.
‘Much further, sir?’
‘Another half hour or so.’
The cart, meant for light loads of cuttings or manure, held three long wooden boxes. The two men pushing the clumsy vehicle were commanded by a Lieutenant dressed in a suspiciously clean blue jacket, suspicious because it suggested he had seen little action. His name was Anderson and he came recommended by his commanding officer.
‘Waterloo was your first battle, Lieutenant?’ Sharpe asked as they headed on down the Rue de Vincennes.
‘I was at the fight two days before, sir, and the next day.’
‘And you brought me six-pounders?’
‘Six of them, sir. Two to a crate.’
‘And your watch is working?’ Sharpe had requested not just the artillery’s assistance, but a man with an accurate watch too. ‘It’s a Breguet, sir!’ Anderson sounded excited. ‘Took it off a dead French officer after the battle. It looks brand new, too! It has an eccentric dial!’
‘Is that good?’
‘It’s amazing, sir! Probably worth more than my commission!’
‘We’ll need it,’ Sharpe said, ‘but I’m hoping I won’t need you.’