Sharpe's Revenge

by Bernard Cornwell

  Sharpe went to the window and stared at the ships’ masts which showed above the rooftops. ‘We’ve got to get the hell out of here.’

  ‘Getting the hell out of here,’ Frederickson spoke very mildly, ‘is called desertion.’ Both officers stared at each other, appalled at the enormity of what they proposed. Desertion would invite a court-martial, loss of rank, and imprisonment, but exactly the same fate would attend them if they were found guilty of stealing the Emperor’s gold and concealing it from their masters. ‘And there is rather a lot of gold at stake,’ Frederickson added gently, ‘and unlike you, I’m a poor man.’

  ‘You can’t come.’ Sharpe turned on Harper.

  ‘Mary, Mother of God, and why not?’

  ‘Because if you desert, and are caught, they’ll shoot you. They’ll only cashier us, because we’re officers, but they’ll shoot you.’

  ‘I’m coming anyway.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Patrick! I don’t mind taking the risk for myself, and Mr Frcdcrickson’s in the same boat as I am, but I won’t have you...’

  ‘And why don’t you just save your bloody breath?’ Harper asked, then, after a pause, ‘sir?’

  Frederickson smiled. ‘I wasn’t enjoying peace much anyway. So let’s go back to war, shall we?’

  ‘War?’ Sharpe stared back at the ships’ masts. He should have been on board one of those vessels, ready for the voyage up the Garonne estuary, across Biscay, around Ushant, and so home to Jane.

  ‘Because if we’re to escape this problem,’ Frederickson said softly, ‘then we’ll have to fight, and we’re rather better at fighting when we’re armed and free. So let’s get the hell out of here, find Ducos or Lassan, and make some mischief. And some money.’

  Sharpe stared west. Somewhere out there, beneath the sinking sun, was an enemy who still skulked and schemed. So his reunion with Jane must wait, and peace must wait, for a last fight must still be fought. But after that, he prayed, he would find his peace in the English countryside. ‘We’ll go tonight,’ he said, but he suddenly wished to the depths of his heart that he was sailing home instead. But an enemy had decreed otherwise, so Sharpe’s war was not yet done.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Chateau Lassan was in Normandy. It was called a château for it had once had the pretensions of a fortress, and was still the home of a noble family, yet in truth it was now little more than a large moated farmhouse, though it was undeniably a very pleasant farmhouse. The two storeys of the main wing were built of grey Caen stone that had been quarried and dressed fifty years before the Conqueror had sailed for England. In the fifteenth century, and as a result of a fortunate marriage, the lord of the manor had added a second wing at right angles to the first. The new wing, even now in 1814 it was still known as the ‘new’ wing, was pierced by a high arched gate and surmounted by a crenellated tower. A private chapel with deep lancet windows completed the château that was surrounded by a moat which also protected an acre of land that had once been gracious with lawns and flowers.

  It had been many years since the moat had defended the house against an enemy’s attack and so the drawbridge had been left permanently down and its heavy-geared windlass had been taken away to make the upper part of a cider press. Two further wooden bridges were put across the moat; one led from the château to the dairy and the other gave quick access from house to orchards. The old moat-encircled garden became a farmyard; a compost heap mouldered warm by the chapel wall, chickens and ducks scrabbled for feed, and two hogs fattened where once the lords and ladies had strolled on the smoothly scythed lawn. The ‘new’ wing, all but for the chapel, had become farm buildings where horses and oxen were stabled, wains were stored, and apples heaped next to the press.

  The Revolution had left the Château Lassan unscathed, though its master, dutifully and humbly serving his King in Paris, had gone to the guillotine solely because he possessed an ancient title. The local Committee of Public Safety had visited the homely château and tried to summon a fashionable and bloodthirsty enthusiasm to pillage the dead Count’s belongings, but the family was well-liked and, after much harmless bluster, the Committee had muttered an apology to the dowager Countess and contented themselves with stealing five barrels of newly pressed cider and a wagon-load of the old Count’s wine. The new Count, an earnest eighteen-year-old, was troubled by his conscience into the belief that the disasters of France were truly the result of social inequalities, and so told the local Committee that he would renounce his title and join the new Republic’s army. The Committee, privately astonished that anyone should renounce the privileges they so publicly despised, applauded the decision, though the dowager Countess was seen to purse her lips with disapproval. Her daughter, just seven years old, did not understand any of it. There had been five other children, but all had died in infancy. Only the eldest, Henri, and the youngest, Lucille, had survived.

  Now, twenty-one years later, the wars that had begun against the Republic and continued against the Empire were at last over. The Dowager Countess still lived, and liked to sit where the sun was trapped by the junction of the château’s two wings and where roses grew clear up to the moss which grew on the château’s stone roof. The old lady shared the château with her daughter. Lucille had been married to a General’s son, but within two months of the wedding her husband had died in the snows of Russia and Lucille Castineau had returned to her mother as a childless widow.

  Now, in the peace that came after Easter, the son had come home as well. Henri, Comte de Lassan, had walked up the lane and crossed the drawbridge, just as if he was returning from a stroll, and his mother had wept with joy that her soldier son had survived, and that night, just as if he had never been away, Henri took the top place at the supper table. He had quietly and unfussily folded his blue uniform away in the pious hope that he would never again be forced to wear it. He said grace before the meal, then commented that the apple blossom looked thin in the orchards.

  ‘We need to graft new stock on to the trees,’ his mother said.

  ‘Only there isn’t any money,’ Lucille added.

  ‘You must borrow some, Henri,’ the Dowager Countess said. ‘They wouldn’t lend to two widows like us, but they’ll lend to a man.’

  ‘We have nothing to sell?’

  ‘Very little.’ The Dowager sat very straight-backed.

  ‘And what little is left, Henri, must be preserved. It is not right that a Comte de Lassan be without family silver or good horses.’

  Henri smiled. ‘The titles of the old nobility were abolished over twenty years ago, Maman. I am now Monsieur Henri Lassan, nothing more.’

  The Dowager sniffed disapproval. She had seen the fashions of French nomenclature come and go. Henri, Comte de Lassan had become Citoyen Lassan, then Lieutenant Lassan, then Capitaine Lassan, and now he claimed to be plain Monsieur Lassan. That, in the Dowager’s opinion, was nonsense. Her son was the Count of this manor, lord of its estates and heir to eight centuries of noble history. No government in Paris could change that.

  Yet, despite his mother, Henri refused to use his title and disliked it when the villagers bowed to him and called him ‘my Lord’. One of those villagers had once been on the Committee of Public Safety, but those heady days of equality were long gone and the ageing revolutionary was now as eager as any man to doff his cap to the Comte de Lassan.

  ‘Why don’t you please Maman?’ Lucille asked her brother. It was a Sunday afternoon soon after Henri’s return and, while the Dowager Countess took her afternoon nap, the brother and sister had crossed one of the wooden bridges and were walking between the scanty blossomed apple trees towards the millstream that lay at the end of the château’s orchards.

  ‘To call myself Count would be a sin of pride.’

  ‘Henri!’ Lucille said reproachfully, though she knew that no reproach would sway her gentle, but very stubborn brother. She found it hard to imagine Henri as a soldier, though it had been clear from his letters that he had taken his military responsi
bilities with great seriousness, and, reading between the lines, that he had been popular with his men. Yet always, in every letter, Henri had spoken of his ambition to become a priest. When the war is over, he would write, he would take orders.

  The Dowager Countess decried, disapproved of, and even despised such an ambition. Henri was nearly forty years old, and it was high time that he married and had a son who would carry the Lassan name. That was the important thing; that a new Count should be born, and on Henri’s return the Dowager quickly invited Madame Pellemont and her unmarried daughter to visit the château, and thereafter harried Henri with frequent and tactless hints about Mademoiselle Pellemont who, though no beauty, was malleable and placid. ‘She has broad hips, Henri,’ the Dowager said enticingly. ‘She’ll spit out babies like a sow farrowing a litter.’

  The Dowager did not extend her desire for grandchildren to her daughter, for if Lucille were to marry again her children would not bear the family name, nor would any son of Lucille’s be a Count of Lassan. It was the survival of that name and lineage that the Dowager wanted, and so Lucille’s marriage prospects were of no interest to the Dowager. In fact two men had proposed marriage to the widow Castineau, but Lucille did not want to risk the unhappiness of losing love again. ‘I shall grow old and crotchety,’ she told her brother, though the last quality seemed an unlikely fate, for Lucille had an innate vivacity that gave her face an illuminating smile. She had grey eyes, light brown hair, and a long lantern jaw. She thought herself plain, and was certainly no great beauty, yet the spark in her soul was bright, and the man who had married her had counted himself to be among the most fortunate of husbands.

  ‘Will you marry again?’ her brother asked as they walked down to the millstrcam.

  ‘No, Henri. I shall just moulder away here. I like it here, and I’m kept busy. I like being busy.’ Lucille was an early riser, and rarely rested in daylight. When so many men had been away at the wars it had been Lucille who ran the farm, the cider press, the mill, the dairy, and the château. She supervised the lambing, she raised calves, and fattened hogs for the slaughter. She mended the centuries old flax sheets on which the family still slept, she churned butter, made cheese, and eked out the family’s tiny income in an effort to preserve the estate. She had been forced to sell two fields, and much of the old silver, yet the château had survived for Henri’s return. Henri thought that the work had worn his sister out, for she was thin and pale, but Lucille denied the accusation. ‘It isn’t the work that’s so tiring, but money. There’s never enough. We have to mend the tower roof, we need new apple trees.’ Lucille sighed. ‘We need everything. Even the chairs in the kitchen need mending, and I can’t afford a carpenter.’

  They came to the millrace and sat on the stone wall above the glistening rush of water. Henri had been carrying a musket which he now propped against the wall. His coat pockets were weighed down with two heavy pistols. He disliked carrying the weapons, but the French countryside was infested with armed bands of men who had either deserted from the Emperor’s armies or else had been discharged and had no home or work. Such men often attacked villagers, and had even ransacked small towns. No such brigands had yet been seen near the château, but Henri Lassan would take no chances and thus carried the weapons whenever he left the safe area inside the moat. The château’s few farmworkers were also armed, and the village knew that if the bell above the château’s chapel tolled then there was danger abroad and they should herd their cattle into the château’s yard.

  ‘Not that I can promise a very successful defence,’ Henri now said ruefully. ‘I wasn’t very good at defending my fortress.’ He had commanded the Teste de Buch fort and, day after day, year after year, he had watched the empty sea and thought the war was passing him by until, in the very last weeks of the fighting, the British Riflemen had come from the landward side to bring horror to his small command.

  Lucille heard the sadness in her brother’s voice. ‘Was it awful?’

  ‘Yes,’ Henri said simply, then fell silent so that Lucille thought he would say no more, but after a moment Henri shrugged and began to speak of that one lost fight. He told her about the Englishmen in green, and how they had appeared in his fortress as though from nowhere. ‘Big men,’ he said, ‘and scarred. They fought like demons. They loved to fight. I could tell that from their faces.’ He shuddered. ‘And they destroyed all my books, all of them. They took years to collect, and afterwards there wasn’t one left.’

  Lucille twisted a campion’s stalk about her finger. ‘The English.’ She said it disparagingly, as though it explained everything.

  ‘They are a brutal people.’ Henri had never known an Englishman, yet the prejudice against the island race was bred into his Norman bone. There was a tribal memory of steel-helmeted archers and mounted men-at-arms who crossed the channel to burn barns, steal women, and slaughter children. To Henri and Lucille the English were a rapacious and brawling race of Protestants whom God had seen fit to place just across the water. ‘I sometimes dream of those Riflemen,’ Henri Lassan now said.

  ‘They failed to kill you,’ Lucille said as if to encourage her brother’s self-esteem.

  ‘At the end they could have killed me. I waded into the sea, straight for their leader. He’s a famous soldier, and I thought I might expiate my failure if I killed him, or pay for it if I died myself, but he would not fight. He lowered his sword. He could have killed me, but he did not.’

  ‘So there’s some good in the green men?’

  ‘I think he just despised me.’ Henri Lassan shrugged. ‘His name is Sharpe, and I have the most ridiculous nightmare that one day he will come back to finish me off. That is stupid, I know, but I cannot shake the notion away.’ He tried to smile the foolishness away, but Lucille could tell that somehow this Sharpe had become her brother’s private demon; the man who had shamed Lassan as a soldier, and Lucille wondered that a man who wanted to be a priest nevertheless should also worry that he had not been a great soldier. She tried to tell her brother that the failure did not matter, that he was a better man than any soldier.

  ‘I hope I will be a better man,’ Henri said.

  ‘As a priest?’ Lucille touched on the argument which their mother pursued so doggedly.

  ‘I’ve thought of little else these past years.’ And, he could have added, he had prepared himself for little else over these past years. He had read, studied, and argued with the priest at Arcachon; always testing the soundness of his own faith and always finding it strong. The alternative to the priesthood was to become the master of this château, but Henri Lassan did not relish the task. The old building needed a fortune spent on its walls and roof. It would be best, he thought privately, if the place was sold and if his mother would live close to the abbey in Caen, but he knew he could never persuade the Dowager of that sensible solution.

  ‘You don’t sound utterly certain that you want to be a priest,’ Lucille said.

  Henri shrugged. ‘There’s been a Lassan in this house for eight hundred years.’ He stopped, unable to argue against the numbing weight of that tradition, and even feeling some sympathy for his mother’s fervent wishes for the family’s future. But if the price of that future was Mademoiselle Pellemont? He shuddered, then looked at his watch. ‘Maman will be awake soon.’

  They stood. Lassan glanced once more at the far hills, but nothing untoward moved among the orchards, and no green men threatened on the high ridge where the elms, beeches and hornbeams grew. The château was calm, at peace, and safe, so Henri picked up his loaded musket and walked his sister home.

  ‘They’re scared, you see,’ Harper explained, and, as if to prove his point, he wafted the chamber-pot towards the provost sentries who guarded the corridor outside the room where Sharpe and Frederickson waited.

  The provost recoiled from the chamber-pot, then protested when Harper offered to remove the strip of cloth which covered its contents.

  ‘You can’t expect gently-born officers to live in a room with
the stench of shit,’ Harper said, ‘so I have to empty it.’

  ‘Go to the yard. Don’t bloody loiter about.’ It was the Provost Sergeant who snapped the orders at Harper.

  ‘You’re a grand man, Sergeant.’

  ‘Get the hell out of here. And hurry, man!’ The Sergeant watched the big Irishman go down the stairs. ‘Bloody Irish, and a bloody Rifleman,’ he said to no one in particular, ‘two things I hate most.’

  The windowless corridor was lit by two glass-fronted lanterns which threw the shadows of the three guards long across the floorboards. Laughter and loud voices echoed from the prefecture’s ground floor where the highest officials of the Transport Board were giving a dinner. A clock at the foot of the deep stairwell struck half past eight.

  More than fifteen minutes passed before Harper came whistling up the stairs. He carried the empty chamber-pot in one hand. Inside the pot were three empty wine glasses, while on his shoulder was a sizeable wooden keg that he first dropped on to the landing, then rolled towards the officers’ doorway with his right foot. He nodded a cheerful greeting to the Provost Sergeant. ‘A gentleman downstairs sent this up to the officers, Sergeant.’

  The Provost Sergeant stepped into the path of the rolling keg which he checked with a boot. ‘Who sent it?’

  ‘Now how would I be knowing that?’ Harper, when it pleased him, could easily play the role of a vague-witted Irishman. That such a role, however it distorted the truth, nevertheless suited the prejudice of men like the Provost Sergeant only made it the more effective. ‘He didn’t give me his name, nor did he, but he said he had a sympathy for the poor gentlemen. He said he’d never met them, but he was sorry for them. Mind you, Sergeant, the gentleman was more than a little drunk himself, which always makes a man sympathetic. Isn’t that the truth? It’s a pity our wives don’t drink more, so it is.’