‘The word you are looking for, madame,’ Sharpe said, ‘is soldat.’
He turned his back on her and walked away. Sharpe’s war was over.
EPILOGUE
Sharpe sat with Lucille beneath the willows that edged the stream which marked the western edge of the estate. ‘The bugger won’t be back,’ he said.
‘Richard!’ There was remonstrance in her voice. ‘You should not have shot him!’
‘The buggers can just steal our sheep?’
‘They’re hungry. And you could have killed him!’
‘I wish I had.’
It was a rare fine day, scarce a cloud in the sky, and Sharpe, dressed as ever in cavalry overalls, sprawled at the water’s edge. Nosey, his dog, lay beside him. ‘Maybe the weather’s turned,’ he said hopefully.
‘Too late for the harvest,’ Lucille sighed.
The summer of 1815 had been the coldest and wettest in memory, but this year’s promised to be as bad. France was hungry. The price of bread was dangerously high. There was unrest in the cities, while the countryside was threatened by bands of discharged soldiers who had learned how to live by pillage. Sharpe was fairly certain that the thieves who had stolen three sheep from his land were such men.
Charlie Weller had purchased the sheep in Dorset. They had cost a pound apiece and another three pounds to pay for their shipping from Lyme Regis. Twenty-five sheep, of which twenty-two still lived. The small flock was in the pasture behind Sharpe, and next to him on the stream bank was the rifle that protected them. ‘It was no one from the village,’ he said. ‘We’d have heard if it was.’
The night before he had waited in the beech wood at the top of the pasture and seen a man coming from the northern hedgerow. He had eased Dan Hagman’s rifle forward, aimed, and shot. He had aimed to kill, but the bullet had merely wounded the trespasser who had turned and fled with the rifle bullet embedded in a thigh. ‘He won’t be back,’ Sharpe said, ‘and next year we’ll have mutton and wool.’
‘We can make cheese.’
‘You can,’ Sharpe said, ‘and Charlie wants to put a trap in the stream. Reckons we can live on salmon and sea trout.’
Hiring Charlie had turned out to be a huge success. He was energetic, knew his business and, better still, was popular in the village. His wife Sally was pregnant, Charlie was happy, and the estate, despite the weather, looked as if it might turn a small profit. ‘Poor Charlie,’ Lucille said, ‘he works so hard.’
‘He’s happy.’
‘And you?’ Lucille asked pointedly.
Sharpe took her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘You know I’m happy.’
‘You miss the army,’ Lucille said, almost accusingly.
‘No,’ Sharpe said, knowing he lied. He did miss some parts of it; the joy of out-thinking an enemy, the elation of victory, the energy that came from constant danger. But he did not miss the stench of death, the sound of men weeping as they died, the agony of wounded horses. It had been a year since the fight at Waterloo, but Sharpe still woke some nights sweating and shivering, his mind racked with the images of suffering and horror.
‘You can go home,’ Lucille had said.
‘This is home,’ Sharpe had insisted, and so it was, and it was the first home Sharpe had ever known, even if many of the local people distrusted him. He was l’Anglais, a word spoken with vinegar on the tongue, and though folk nodded in greeting, there was little friendliness in their eyes or manner. And Lucille was right, he thought, about the sheep-stealer. If the man had come from the village then the unfriendliness would have turned to hatred, maybe even revenge, for there were a score of men back from Napoleon’s army who still possessed their muskets. And many of those folk wished Napoleon was back, instead of being marooned on St Helena.
France was an occupied country now. There were 150,000 allied troops stationed in Bonaparte’s old garrisons and the Duke commanded the occupying forces, who were fed from the French treasury. Sharpe had been summoned to the Duke’s presence at Mont-Saint-Martin, to a country house the Duke had commandeered north of Paris. ‘So you’re leaving the army?’ he had peremptorily greeted Sharpe.
‘I am, Your Grace.’
‘To go home?’
‘To Normandy.’
The Duke grimaced. ‘Strange fate, Colonel. You fight them then live with them.’
‘Indeed, Your Grace.’
They were walking across a wide, damp lawn where a half-dozen of the Duke’s foxhounds were romping. ‘Had them sent from England,’ the Duke explained. ‘There’s decent hunting here, even boars.’ He paused. ‘So, peacetime army has no appeal to you?’
‘Never known a peacetime army, Your Grace.’
‘What will you do in Normandy?’
‘Farm. Your Grace.’
A grunt, which suggested Sharpe was ill-equipped to be a farmer. ‘We’ll miss you, Sharpe.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’
‘You have had a remarkable career. I assume that if we need your services we can call on you?’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’
‘I’ve confirmed your rank, which should help.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ Sharpe said fervently. Almost all of his promotions had been brevet, which meant his official rank was probably still a Captain, but the half-pay of a Lieutenant-Colonel would go a long way to help replacing the chateau’s roof.
‘Captain Burrell tells me you have a dog?’
Captain Burrell, Sharpe thought, should keep his bloody mouth shut. ‘I do, Your Grace.’
‘Called Nosey?’
Sharpe blushed. ‘He is, Your Grace.’
The Duke snorted, which Sharpe supposed to be laughter. ‘Morris told me you were an insubordinate bastard.’
Sharpe said nothing. He knew that Morris had resigned in disgrace rather than face a court martial for cowardice. ‘You should have told me when I appointed him, Sharpe,’ the Duke said, ‘I had no idea there was a history there.’
‘I didn’t want to speak ill of a fellow officer, sir.’
‘I remember him from when I commanded the 33rd. He seemed full of promise. But you approve of the new fellow?’
‘Peter d’Alembord will make a fine battalion commander, Your Grace.’
‘Even with a gammy leg?’
‘He may not be able to dance, Your Grace, but he can fight.’
Peter d’Alembord, recovered from the wound he had taken at Waterloo, had been given command of the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers. ‘Let’s pray there’s no more fighting,’ the Duke had said, then glanced up at the sky. ‘More rain coming,’ he grumbled, ‘never known weather like it.’ He had looked awkward for a moment, then held out his hand. ‘I summoned you, Sharpe, to thank you,’ the Duke said, letting go of the handshake. ‘You served me well for many years.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Sharpe was almost as embarrassed as the Duke.
‘I wish you well, Colonel, and if you’re ever in England then I hope you will let me know.’
‘And if life takes you to Normandy,’ Sharpe said, then faltered.
‘You’ll stay for lunch? It’ll be a cold collation.’
‘Mutton, Your Grace?’
The Duke snorted again. ‘You heard the news of Colonel Lanier?’