Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe’s Revenge, Sharpe’s Waterloo, Sharpe’s Devil

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘Major Ducos,’ Roland went blandly on, ‘conveyed the baggage in great secrecy to the Teste de Buch fort which covers the seaward entrance of the Bassin d’Arcachon.’

  ‘He’s lying!’ Sharpe interrupted.

  ‘Quiet!’ Wigram slapped the table.

  ‘It was that fortress, of course,’ Roland was quite unmoved by Sharpe’s interruption, ‘which, thanks to the great gallantry of Major Sharpe,’ here Roland bowed slightly towards the angry Sharpe, ‘was captured shortly after the baggage had been conveyed thither. The baggage consisted of four large wooden crates that had been concealed inside the fortress.’

  ‘How were the crates concealed?’ Frederickson asked, but in such a respectful tone that no one reprimanded him for interrupting.

  ‘I have here Major Ducos’s report,’ Roland held up the sheets of paper, ‘which reveals that the four wooden crates were bricked up in the fort’s main magazine. The work was done by men entirely loyal to the Emperor. None of the fort’s garrison was present when the work was done, and only the fort’s commandant was apprised of the existence of the baggage. The tribunal already has copies of the commandant’s report, and that of Major Ducos, but I now submit those officers’ original documents.’

  The papers were duly handed across, and again there was silence as the tribunal perused them. It was the Adjutant-General’s lawyer who broke the silence with a petulant complaint that the Commandant’s handwriting was almost illegible.

  ‘Commandant Lassan explains in the final paragraph of his report that he lost two fingers of his right hand during the defence of the fort,’ Roland excused the almost indecipherable scrawl, ‘but you will nevertheless discover that your copy is an exact transcription of his words.’

  ‘I assume,’ the Adjutant-General’s lawyer aligned the edges of the papers in front of him, ‘that, if it should prove necessary, these officers can give evidence?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Roland bowed acknowledgement of the point, ‘but they were unwilling to travel into British-held territory at this moment.’

  ‘We are fortunate,’ Wigram said fulsomely, ‘that you yourself showed no such reluctance, Monsieur Roland.’

  Roland bowed at the compliment, then explained that he had travelled with a party of British officers to London where he had taken this matter to the Judge Advocate General in Whitehall. That official had ordered the Adjutant-General to establish an investigative tribunal, and ordered the Royal Navy to bring Monsieur Roland to Bordeaux. The Frenchman picked up his papers again. ‘You will notice, gentlemen, that on the final page of Commandant Lassan’s account, he states that when the fortress was finally reoccupied by the French, the baggage was gone.’ Roland paused to look at his copy of the report. ‘You will further note from Commandant Lassan’s testimony that before the fort was evacuated by the British he saw heavy objects being transported from the seaward bastions to the American’s vessel.’

  The Adjutant-General’s lawyer frowned. ‘Do we have any other evidence which confirms that the baggage was hidden in the fortress? What about this General,’ he leafed through his papers, ‘Calvet. He eventually reoccupied the fort, so wouldn’t he have known about it?’

  ‘General Calvet was never informed of its presence,’ Roland said, ‘the Emperor’s instructions were adamant that as few men as possible were to know of his preparations for exile. France was still fighting, gentlemen, and it would not have served the Emperor well if men had thought he was already contemplating defeat and flight.’

  ‘But Calvet’s evidence would be instructive,’ the English lawyer insisted. ‘He could, for instance, confirm whether baggage was indeed removed to the American’s ship?’

  Roland paused, then shrugged. ‘General Calvet, gentlemen, has proclaimed an unswerving loyalty to the deposed Emperor. I doubt whether he would co-operate with this tribunal.’

  ‘I would have thought we had quite sufficient evidence anyway,’ Wigram said.

  Roland smiled his thanks for Wigram’s help, then continued. ‘The inference of Commandant Lassan’s report, gentlemen, is that the Emperor’s baggage was taken by the British forces under Major Sharpe’s command. They had every right to do so, of course, for the baggage was properly a seizure of war.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ the Provost officer asked in a pained voice.

  Roland smiled. ‘Permit me to remind you that I am here on behalf of his Most Christian Majesty, Louis XVIII. It is the opinion of His Majesty’s legal advisers, myself among them, that if the seizure of the imperial baggage was a legitimate act of war, and as such was duly reported to the proper authorities, then it now belongs to the government of Great Britain. If, however,’ and here Roland turned to look at the two Riflemen, ‘the seizure was for private gain, and was never so reported, then our opinion holds that the said baggage is now the property of the Emperor’s political successor, which is the French Crown, and that the French Crown would be justified in any attempts to recover it.’

  Lieutenant-Colonel Wigram dipped a quill in ink. ‘Perhaps it would help the tribunal, Monsieur Roland, if you were to tell us the contents of the Emperor’s baggage?’

  ‘With the greatest pleasure, Colonel.’ Roland picked up another sheet of paper. ‘There were some personal items. These were not inventoried properly, for they were packed in great haste, but we know there were some uniforms, decorations, portraits, snuff boxes, swords, candlesticks, and other keepsakes of a sentimental nature. There was also a valise of monogrammed small clothes.’ He mentioned the last item with a deprecating smile, and was rewarded with appreciative laughter. Roland was making his revelations with a lawyer’s innate skill, though in truth the clumsiest of speakers could have held the room spellbound. For years the Emperor Napoleon had been an apparently superhuman enemy endowed with an exotic and fascinating evil, yet now, in this magnificent room, the tribunal was hearing from a man who could provide them with an intimate glimpse of that extraordinary being. ‘Some of these possessions,’ Roland went on, ‘belonged to Joseph Bonaparte, but the bulk of the baggage belonged to the Emperor, and the greatest part of that baggage was coin. There were twenty wooden boxes, five in each crate, and each box contained ten thousand gold francs.’

  Roland paused to let each man work out the fabulous sum. ‘As I said earlier,’ he went on blandly, ‘His Most Christian Majesty will have no claim upon this property if it should transpire that it was a seizure of war. If, however, the baggage is still unaccounted for, we shall take a most strenuous interest in its recovery.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Frederickson hissed. He had written the sum of two hundred thousand francs under his drawing of the beleaguered Riflemen, and now, beside it, he wrote its crude equivalent in English pounds, £89,000, os, od. It was a fabulous sum, even dwarfing Sharpe’s fortune. Frederickson seemed dissatisfied with that simple total, for he went on feverishly totting up other figures.

  Wigram’s twin lenses turned on Sharpe. ‘I believe I am correct in saying that you reported no capture of money on your return from the Teste de Buch expedition, Major?’

  ‘I did not, because there was none.’

  ‘If there had been,’ the provost Lieutenant-Colonel broke in, ‘you would agree that it would have been your duty to hand it over to the competent authorities?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sharpe said, though he had never known a single soldier actually to surrender such windfalls of enemy gold. Neither Sharpe nor Harper had declared the fortunes they had taken from the French baggage at Vitoria.

  ‘But you are insisting that you did not discover any money in the fort?’ the provost pressed Sharpe.

  ‘We found no money,’ Sharpe said firmly.

  ‘And you would deny,’ the Lieutenant-Colonel’s tone was sharper now, ‘that you divided such a spoil with the American, Killick, and that, indeed, your only motive for delaying your departure from the fort, which delay, I must say, occasioned many deaths among your men, was solely so that you could make arrangements to remove the gold?’<
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  ‘That’s a lie.’ Sharpe was standing now.

  Frederickson touched a hand to Sharpe’s arm, as if to calm him. ‘By my reckonings,’ Frederickson said calmly, ‘that amount of gold would weigh somewhat over six tons. Are you suggesting that two companies of Riflemen and a handful of Marines somehow managed to remove six tons of gold, their own wounded men, and all their personal baggage while they were under enemy fire?’

  ‘That is precisely what is being suggested,’ the provost said icily.

  ‘Have you ever been under fire?’ Frederickson enquired just as icily.

  Wigram, disliking the twist that the questions were taking, slapped the table and stared at Frederickson. ‘Did you enrich yourself with captured gold at the Teste de Buch fort, Captain?’

  ‘I emphatically deny doing any such thing, sir,’ Frederickson spoke with dignity, ‘and can state with certain knowledge that Major Sharpe is equally innocent.’

  ‘Are you, Major?’ Wigram asked Sharpe.

  ‘I took no money.’ Sharpe tried to match Frederickson’s calm dignity.

  Wigram’s face flickered with a smile, as though he was about to make a very telling point. ‘Yet not a month ago, Major, your wife withdrew more than eighteen thousand pounds...’

  ‘God damn you!’ For a second the whole tribunal thought that Sharpe was about to draw his big sword, climb the table, and cause carnage. ‘God damn you!’ Sharpe shouted again. ‘You have the temerity to suggest I’d let men die for greed and you have spied on my wife! If you were a man, Wigram, I’d call you out now and I’d fillet you.’ Such was the force of Sharpe’s words, and such the anger evident on his face, that the tribunal was cowed. Monsieur Roland frowned, not with disapproval, but at the thought of facing a man like Sharpe in battle. Frederickson, sitting beside Sharpe, watched the faces of the aghast tribunal and believed that his friend had entirely pricked the ridiculous charges with his blazing anger. Wigram, accustomed to the servility of clerks, could say nothing.

  Then the tall gilded door opened.

  Captain Salmon, oblivious of the room’s charged atmosphere, carried in a white cloth bag that he laid on the table in front of Colonel Wigram. He whispered something to the Colonel, then, with the obsequious step of a servant, left the room.

  Wigram, with hands that almost trembled, opened the white bag. Out of it he drew Sharpe’s telescope. He peered myopically at the engraved plate, then, steeling himself for the confrontation, looked up at the Rifleman. ‘If you are innocent, Major, then how do you explain your possession of this glass?’

  ‘I’ve owned it for months,’ Sharpe snapped.

  ‘I can vouch for that,’ Frederickson said.

  Wigram handed the telescope to Monsieur Roland. ‘Perhaps, Monsieur, you will translate the inscription for the benefit of the tribunal?’

  The Frenchman took the telescope, peered at the plate inset on the outer barrel, then spoke the translation aloud. ‘To Joseph, King of Spain and the Indies, from his brother, Napoleon, Emperor of France.’

  There was a murmur in the room. Wigram stilled the sound with a further question. ‘Is this the sort of personal belonging, Monsieur, which the Emperor or his brother might have stored in their baggage?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Roland said.

  Wigram paused, then shrugged. ‘The tribunal should be apprised that the glass was discovered in Major Sharpe’s baggage during an authorized search that was done on my orders during the last hour.’ Wigram, buoyed up by the evidence of the telescope, had regained his former confidence and now stared directly at Sharpe. ‘It is not the business of this tribunal to be a judge of the facts, but merely to decide whether a competent court-martial should be given those facts to judge. The tribunal will now make that decision, and will inform you of its findings at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Until that hour you are forbidden to leave this building. You will discover that Captain Salmon has made adequate billeting arrangements.’

  Frederickson collated his sketches and notes. ‘Are we under arrest, sir?’

  Wigram paused. ‘Not yet, Captain. But you are under military discipline, and therefore ordered to remain in confinement until your fate is announced tomorrow morning.’

  The other officers in the room did not look at either Rifleman. It had been the discovery of the telescope that had plunged their certainty of Sharpe’s innocence into an assurance of the Rifleman’s guilt. Sharpe stared at them one by one, but they would not look back.

  Frederickson plucked Sharpe’s arm towards the door. Captain Salmon and a half dozen of his men waited on the landing outside. Sharpe and Frederickson might not be prisoners, but it was clearly only a matter of time before they were formally charged and their swords were taken away.

  Salmon was embarrassed. ‘There’s a room set aside for you, sir,’ he said to Sharpe. ‘Your servant’s waiting there.’

  ‘We’re not under arrest,’ Sharpe challenged him.

  ‘The room’s upstairs, sir,’ Salmon said doggedly, and the presence of his provosts was enough to persuade the two Riflemen to accompany him to the upper floor and into a room that looked out to the city’s main square. A very indignant Patrick Harper waited there. There was also a chamber pot, two wooden chairs, and a table on which was a loaf of bread, a plate of cheese, and a tin jug of water. There was a pile of blankets and a heap of baggage that Harper had fetched from the quayside. There were three packs, three canteens, but no weapons or ammunition. Salmon hesitated, as though he wanted to stay in the room with the three Riflemen, but a glare from Harper made the Captain back abruptly into the corridor.

  ‘That bastard of a provost searched your packs.’ Harper was still smarting under that indignity. ‘I tried to stop him, so I did, but he threatened me with a flogging.’

  ‘They took my rifle?’ Sharpe asked.

  ‘It’s in the bloody guardroom downstairs, sir.’ Harper was incensed that he, like Sharpe, had been disarmed. ‘They’ve got my rifle and gun there as well. Even my bayonet!’ Sharpe and Frederickson, because they had not been officially placed under arrest, had been allowed to keep their swords, but those were now their only weapons.

  ‘I hate provosts,’ Frederickson said mildly.

  ‘So what the hell’s happening, sir?’ Harper asked Sharpe.

  ‘We’re only accused of stealing half the bloody gold in France. Jesus Christ! It’s bloody madness!’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ Frederickson was placidly cutting the loaf into big chunks.

  ‘I’m sorry, William.’

  ‘Why should you apologize to me?’

  ‘Because this is my battle. Goddamn bloody Ducos!’

  Frederickson shrugged. ‘They could hardly ignore me. They must have known I’d testify to your ignorance, which would be embarrassing for the authorities, so it’s much simpler to implicate me in the crime as well. Besides, if there had been that much gold in the fort, I’d have undoubtedly helped you to steal it.’ He cut the cheese with his knife. ‘Pity about the telescope, though. It’s just the corroborative evidence they needed.’

  ‘They need the gold,’ Sharpe said, ‘and it never existed!’

  ‘It existed all right, but not in the fort.’ Frederickson frowned. ‘I’ve no doubt there’ll be a battle-royal between Paris and London as to who the money really belongs to, but the one thing they’ll agree on is that we’ve got a damned good share of it. And who’s to disprove that?’

  ‘Killick?’ Sharpe suggested.

  Frederickson shook his head. ‘The word of a confessed American pirate against a French government lawyer?’

  ‘Ducos, then,’ Sharpe said savagely, ‘and I’ll rip his damned bowels out.’

  ‘Either Ducos,’ Frederickson agreed, ‘or the Commandant,’ he looked at his notes to find the Commandant’s name, ‘Lassan. The problem is that it will be very difficult to find either man if we’re under arrest, and I would suggest to you that we will very soon be placed under arrest.’

  Sharpe went to the window and stared a
t 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.