‘I lived,’ Sharpe said simply.
‘And you left empty-handed.’ Calvet smiled. ‘So you see, Englishman, the French won after all!’
‘Vive l’Empereur, mon General.’
‘Vive l’Empereur, mon ami.’
An hour later they accosted a Piedmontese merchant ship which, for a handful of imperial gold and under the threat of a dozen muskets, agreed to take the soldiers on board. Calvet would go to Elba and Sharpe, with his prisoner, would seek a Royal Naval ship. Thereafter they would be unwanted hounds in a kingdom of rabbits, but they had lived when so many had died, and that, at least, was something. Thus, in their separate ways, they sailed towards peace.
EPILOGUE
Pierre Ducos died in a fortress ditch, shot by a firing squad from France’s royalist army. No one mourned him; not even those soldiers in the firing squad who were still secretly loyal to the exiled Emperor. Ducos had betrayed Napoleon, just as he had betrayed France, and thus he was shot like a dog and buried like a suicide in an unmarked grave beyond the fortress glacis.
In London an aide-de-camp to the Prince Regent heard of Ducos’s death and, as a result, suffered sleepless nights. The Frenchman’s execution was a triumph for a Rifleman who had come from ignominy to regain his reputation, and any day now that man would cross the channel. Lord Rossendale contemplated flight to the remnants of his family’s Irish estates, but his pride forced him to stay and show a bravado he did not feel. Each morning he went to a fencing master in Bond Street and each afternoon he shot with long-barrelled duelling pistols at targets in the yard of Clarence House. He claimed he was just honing his military skills, but all society knew he was practising for the ordeal of grass before breakfast. ‘He’s left Paris,’ Rossendale told Jane one autumn morning.
Jane did not need to be told who ‘he’ was. ‘How do you know?’
‘A courier came from the Embassy yesterday. All three of them rode for Calais.’
Jane shivered. Beyond the window rain swept in grey curtains across the park. ‘What will happen?’ she asked, though she well knew the answer.
Rossendale smiled. ‘It’s called grass before breakfast.’
‘No,’ Jane protested.
‘He’ll call me out, I’ll choose the weapons, and we’ll fight.’ Rossendale shrugged. ‘I imagine I shall lose.’
‘No.’ Jane remembered the terrible arguments that had preceded Sharpe’s duel with Bampfylde. She had lost those arguments, but now she would lose the man she had come to love.
‘I’m not a swordsman,’ Rossendale said ruefully, ‘and I’m a rotten shot with a pistol.’
‘Then don’t fight!’ Jane said fiercely.
He smiled. ‘There’s no choice, my love. None. It’s called honour.’
‘Then I’ll go to him!’ Jane said defiantly. ‘I’ll plead with him!’
‘And where’s the honour in that?’ Rossendale shook his head. ‘You can’t cheat honour,’ he added, though he had done little else for months, which only proved that honour could be cheated, but that the price of it would still have to be paid before breakfast one wet, drab morning.
Thus Lord Rossendale and Jane could only wait, for honour would not let them run away, while the man for whom they waited came to Calais.
Sharpe and Frederickson had been reinstated, then reassured that their honour was still bright and their ranks inviolate. Apologies had been made, and now, in Calais, they breakfasted in the private room of a harbour tavern. Their plates were heaped with mutton chops, eggs, garlic sausage and black bread. ‘You’ll go to London first, of course?’ Frederickson poured coffee.
‘Will I?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Unfinished business,’ Frederickson said grimly. ‘Or shouldn’t I mention it?’
‘You mean Lord Rossendale.’ Sharpe sipped the newly poured coffee. ‘I’m to kill him?’
‘Stop being obtuse. Of course you’re to kill him. I’ll be your second, if you’ll let me have that honour? Naturally the duel will have to be secret. We both have our careers to think of now.’ Frederickson smiled. His face was still darkened by the bruise, though the swelling had long subsided. ‘I assume you’re no longer contemplating a Dorset retirement?’
Sharpe leaned back in his chair. Through the window he could see the packet boat loading by the quay. The ship would leave on the tide in two hours time, and, if he chose, it would take him to the foul mess of an unfaithful wife and pistols at dawn. ‘And Jane?’ he asked Frederickson. ‘What am I to do with Jane?’
‘Give her a damned good thrashing, of course, then cast her off. If you can’t bear to face her, then I’ll gladly tell her myself. You can give her a pittance, if you must, but don’t be too generous. She can become a governess or a companion.’
Or a whore, Sharpe thought sadly, but he did not say as much. ‘You’re very kind, William.’
Frederickson shrugged away the compliment, then mopped up his egg yolk with a hunk of bread. ‘You’re surely not still thinking of retiring to Dorset, are you?’
‘The countryside has a certain appeal.’
‘For God’s sake, Sharpe! You heard the Duke! There’s restitution to be made. My God, man, you could have a battalion!’
‘In peacetime?’
Frederickson grimaced. ‘We don’t have much choice, do we? We can hardly order another war for our own convenience.’
‘No.’ And indeed the Duke of Wellington was going from his Paris Embassy to a great congress at Vienna to ensure that there would not be another war. The Duke, Sharpe allowed, had been kindness itself in Paris, even after his Embassy had been invaded by three fugitive Riflemen bearing the bruised and terrified Pierre Ducos. The French royalist authorities had been perturbed that General Calvet had taken a fortune to Elba, and the Neapolitan Embassy had made a stiff protest about uniformed thieves disturbing their kingdom’s peace, but the Duke had scornfully ridden down such diplomatic carping. All was forgiven. There was even an implicit promise of promotion for Sharpe and Frederickson, though it was difficult to see how such a promise was to be kept with no battles to create vacancies.
‘So London first,’ Frederickson planned their joint future with relish, ‘then we’ll demand a battalion of our own. You’ll be in command, of course, though I shall be senior Major and can assure you I’ll be demanding a spate of leave just as soon as we’re settled.’
‘Leave?’ Sharpe smiled. ‘So soon?’
Frederickson looked very coy. ‘You know very well why I want leave. You might be despairing of marriage, but I haven’t abandoned all hope. Far from it! I’ll establish myself first, of course. Promotion perhaps, a spot of money, and a new uniform.’ He smiled, as though the accretion of those things would guarantee the success of his courtship. ‘I know you’re not fond of Madame Castineau, but in many ways she’s ideal for me. A widow, you see, so I don’t suppose she’ll expect too much from marriage, and once I can persuade her to live in England I’m sure she’ll be very happy. Mind you, I can’t say I’m averse to her property. That’ll be worth a tidy sum in the future.’
‘No,’ Sharpe said brutally.
Frederickson frowned. ‘No?’
‘No,’ Sharpe said again. He had somehow persuaded himself that Frederickson had abandoned his hopes of Madame Castineau in the excitement of these last days, but instead his friend was betraying these hopeless dreams which would now have to be cruelly shattered. It was time for Sharpe to say the thing that should have been said weeks before. It was time to break a friendship, and Sharpe flinched from the deed, but knew he could not hold back. ‘I’m not going to England.’ Sharpe looked up at his friend. ‘Patrick took my luggage off the boat an hour ago. I’m only here to see you safe on your way, William, but I’m not going with you. I’m staying here.’
‘In Calais? That’s a very bleak choice, if you’ll forgive me.’ Frederickson frowned suddenly. ‘My God! It’s your damned pride, isn’t it? You fear to go to England because ofjane and that wretched man? You think you’ll be
mocked because you’ve been cuckolded?’ Frederickson scorned the fear with a dismissive flick of his napkin. ‘My dear Sharpe! Kill the man in a duel and no one will dare mock you!’
‘No.’ Sharpe hated saying it, but it had to be said. ‘It’s nothing to do with Jane, and I’m not staying in Calais. I’m going back to Normandy.’
Frederickson stared at Sharpe for a long long time. And, for a long long time, he said nothing, but then, and as though it took a great effort, he finally found his voice. ‘To Lucille?’
‘To Lucille,’ Sharpe confirmed.
‘And she?’ Frederickson hesitated. There was real pain on his bruised face, evidence of just how hard his dreams were breaking into misery. ‘And she will consent to your arrival at the chateau?’
‘I believe she will.’
Frederickson briefly closed his one eye. ‘And may I ask whether you have grounds for this belief?’
‘Yes,’ Sharpe spoke very quietly, ‘I do.’
‘Oh, God.’ Now it seemed there was nothing but hatred in Frederickson’s gaze. Or else he felt a pain so deep that it could only show on his face as hatred.
Sharpe tried to explain. He heard himself stammering as he told the old story; of how a dislike of the woman had turned into a friendship, and then how the friendship had turned into love, and he remembered, but did not tell Frederickson, how on that black night of sky-breaking thunder he and Lucille had met in the passageway and not a word had been said, but she had come to his room and afterwards, as she slept, and as Sharpe had listened to the rain pouring from the gutters, he had thought that never before had he known such peace. ‘I should have told you weeks ago,’ he said miserably, ‘but somehow...’
Frederickson broke Sharpe’s words off by abruptly standing and turning away. He walked to the fireplace and stared down at the coal fire which sputtered damply in the grate. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’
‘I didn’t want to hurt you,’ Sharpe said lamely.
‘God damn you!’ Frederickson turned on Sharpe in a sudden blind fury.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t need your bloody pity! God damn you! How many damned women do you want?’
‘William...’
‘Damn you! Damn you! Damn you! I hope she breaks your bloody heart like the last one did!’ Frederickson was still holding his napkin which, in petulant anger, he threw towards Sharpe. Then, saying nothing more, he snatched up his greatcoat and sword, then stormed from the room.
Sharpe stooped, retrieved the crumpled napkin, and smoothed it on the table. He thought of following Frederickson outside, but he knew it would do no good. Instead he sat for a long time, empty-eyed, watching the sea.
Harper came very quietly into the room, looked at Sharpe, then held his hands towards the feeble fire. ‘So you told him, sir?’
‘I told him.’
‘God save Ireland,’ Harper said of nothing in particular, then he stooped and shoved at the coals with a poker made from an old French bayonet. ‘It wouldn’t have worked, of course,’ he said after a while, ‘but I suppose he’d never be convinced of that.’
‘What wouldn’t have worked, Patrick?’
‘Mr Frederickson and Madame. He doesn’t like the women, you see. I mean he likes them well enough, but he’d never make a woman into a friend now, would he? It isn’t enough to take them to your bed. You have to actually like them, too.’
Sharpe smiled. ‘Is that so, Mr Harper?’
‘It is Mr Harper now, isn’t it?’ Harper laughed. In his pocket the Irishman had his discharge papers, signed by the Duke of Wellington himself. Mr Harper was a free man now, going to England where he would catch a fast ship for Spain, after which, with Isabella and the baby, he would go home to Ireland. Home for good, he said, home to where the rain fell on thin fields from which a poor people scratched their daily bread.
Sharpe stood and led the Irishman out to the quayside. There was no sign of Frederickson on the packet’s deck, though his luggage, along with Harper’s heavy pack, lay stacked beside an open hatchway. Sharpe turned away from the gangplank and walked with Harper to where the packet boat’s bowsprit reared tar-black against the sullen clouds. ‘I don’t know what to say, Patrick.’
‘Nor me, sir,’ Harper spoke softly, ‘but we’ve had some good times, sir, so we have.’
‘We’ve had some bloody terrible ones, too,’ Sharpe laughed. ‘You remember that day you fought me in the snow?’
‘You cheated, sir, or else I’d have split your skull wide open.’
‘I’d never have beaten you without cheating.’
They fell silent. A slew of gulls shrieked and tumbled above the fish quay. Rain fell in a sharp stinging slant.
‘If you’re ever in Normandy?’ Sharpe suggested.
‘Of course, sir. And if you ever take yourself to Donegal then you’ll know there’s a rare welcome for you. Go to Derry, keep going west, and someone will know where the big fellow back from the wars will be.’
‘Of course I’ll come. You know I’ll come.’
Harper thrust his hand deep into the pocket of his fine civilian greatcoat. ‘You’re all right for the money, are you now?’
‘You know I am.’ Sharpe had pocketed some of the gold coins as he had loaded the small grasshopper gun, just as Harper had filched a few handfuls of gems from the big strongbox. ‘I owe you money anyway,’ Sharpe said.
‘Pay it when you come to Ireland,’ Harper said.
The packet’s bosun shouted for the last passengers. A headsail was already being hoisted, and it was time for Harper to leave. He looked at Sharpe and neither man could find anything to say. They had marched all the soldiers’ miles together, and now their ways parted. They would promise reunion, but such promises were so rarely kept. Sharpe tried to say what he felt, but it would not come, so he gave his friend an embrace instead. ‘Look after yourself, Patrick.’
‘I’ll do that.’ Harper paused. ‘It is the right thing you’re doing, sir?’
‘Not for Mr Frederickson, it isn’t.’ Sharpe shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Patrick. I wish I did.’ Going back to Normandy was like the roll of a dice, or the whim of an action in battle. There was no rationality to it, but life did not yield to reason, only to instinct. ‘I think it’s the right thing. I want it very much, if that’s any answer. And I’m not certain I want to live in England. They’ll never accept me there. To them I’m just a bastard upstart who can use a sword, but in peacetime they’ll spit me out like a speck of rotten meat.’
‘And if they want your sword again?’ Harper asked.
Sharpe shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’ Then the bosun bellowed his impatient summons again, and the last passengers broke from their farewell embraces and hurried towards the gangplank. Sharpe gripped Harper’s hands. ‘I’ll miss you, Patrick. You were an awkward bugger, but by God I’ll miss you.’
‘Aye.’ Harper could not find the proper words either, so he just shrugged. ‘God bless you, sir.’
Sharpe smiled. ‘God save Ireland.’
Harper laughed at Sharpe’s mimicry. ‘I’ll come and find you, sir, if you don’t come and find me.’
‘I hope you do. Maybe we’ll meet halfway.’
Harper turned and walked away. Sharpe watched the Irishman board the packet, he waved once, but then Sharpe turned away so that the parting would not be prolonged. He heard the flogging sound of the wind catching the great mainsail as it was hoisted.
Sharpe hurried back to the inn and paid his bill. He strapped the saddlebags on to his new horse, paid the ostler, and swung himself into the saddle. He wore a coat of brown homespun over black breeches, but at his side there hung a long trooper’s sword and on his back there hung a rifle. He touched the spurs on his new plain boots to the animal’s flanks. The packet boat was clearing the harbour, but Sharpe did not turn back to watch. He rode away from the sea, away from England, going into the enemy’s country to where a woman watched an empty road. It was there, Sharpe decided, that hi
s future lay; not in Dorset, not in a peacetime army, but with work on a Norman farm and perhaps, one day, there would be a French-speaking son to whom he and Lucille would bequeath an old English sword and a ruby stolen from an Emperor.
He clicked his tongue and urged the horse into a trot. He felt dazed. There was no more war, no more soldiers, no more fear. No more Emperor, no more Harper, no more gunsmoke skeined above a field of blood. No more closing of ranks, no more miles of pain, no more skirmish chain. No more cavalry in the dawn and no more picquets in the dusk. There was only Lucille and what Sharpe thought was a love sufficient for both their lives. He rode on into France, his back turned on all he had fought for, for now it was all gone; the wars, a marriage, a friendship, and an enemy; all gone in Sharpe’s revenge.
HISTORICAL NOTE
Napoleon’s baggage was lost, though not in Bordeaux. The loss of that baggage was just a small part of the chaos that engulfed France after the Emperor’s surrender. The battle of Toulouse was fought after that surrender, but such was the speed of travel that the news did not reach Wellington till two days after he had trounced Soult.
The battle happened much as described in the novel. Today it is chiefly remembered for the tragic Spanish assault which, launched early and unsupported, was bloodily repulsed. The battlefield is now entirely built over, just an anonymous part of the city’s sprawl.
In northern and southern France the Imperial armies were disbanded, ejecting on to the roads of Europe a startling number of vagabonds and highwaymen. The era of the soldiers, it seemed, was over, for the long, long war was finished. Wellington’s army, perhaps the best that Britain has ever possessed, had won the Peninsular Campaign and now, in the spring of 1814, that army was no longer wanted. Its men were dispersed about the globe, while its women, who had so loyally supported their men, were callously sent home to Spain or Portugal. The fate of those abandoned women is accurately recorded here. They disappear from the history books, and their anguish can only be surmised. A few British soldiers did successfully evade the provosts to go back to Spain with their wives, but they were very few.
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