Sharpe's Revenge s-19

by Бернард Корнуэлл

  “I don’t wish to hear unwelcome news,” Frederickson, hearing the despondency in Sharpe’s voice, interrupted brusquely and defensively.

  “It is important news.”

  “You are going to tell me that Madame does not wish to see me again?” Frederickson, anticipating the bad news, was trying to hurry it.

  “I’m sure she would be very happy to renew your acquaintance,” Sharpe said feebly, “but that…“

  “But that she would not be happy if I was to renew my attentions? I do understand.” Frederickson spoke very stiffly. He had interrupted Sharpe again in a desperate attempt to finish the conversation before his pride was lacerated any further. “Will you oblige me by not mentioning this matter again?”

  “I must just say, I insist on saying…”

  “I beg you.” Frederickson spoke very loudly. “Let the matter rest. You, of all people, should understand how I feel,” which, oblique though it was, was Frederickson’s first indication that he had learned the truth about Jane from Harper.

  Thereafter neither Sharpe nor Frederickson spoke of Madame Castineau. Harper, oblivious to either officer’s interest in Lucille, would sometimes speak of her, but he soon realized that the subject was tender and so ceased to mention the widow, just as he never spoke of Jane. The only safe topic of conversation was the Riflemen’s mutual enthusiasm for the pursuit and punishment of Pierre Ducos.

  Which pursuit and punishment at last seemed imminent when, on a hot steamy morning, the merchant ship came to Naples. The first evidence of the city’s proximity arrived before dawn when a southerly wind brought the stench of faecal alleyways across the darkened sea. In the first light Sharpe saw the volcanic smoke smearing a cloudless sky, then there was the hazy outline of hills, and lastly the glory of the city itself, stinking and lovely, heaped on a hill in jumbled confusion. The bay was crowded. Fishing boats, cargo vessels and warships were heading to and from the great harbour into which, creeping against a sulphurous wind, three Riflemen came for vengeance.

  Monsieur Roland had silently cursed the widow Castineau. Why had she not written earlier? Now the Englishmen, with all their precious information, had fled, and Roland himself must move with an unaccustomed alacrity.

  He wrote an urgent message that was placed in the hollow handle of a sword-hilt. The sword belonged to a Swiss doctor who half killed six horses in his haste to reach the Mediterranean coast where a sympathizer carried him in a fast brigantine to Elba. The Royal Naval frigate, ostensibly guarding Elba’s small harbour at Portoferraio, did not search the brigantine, and if she had her crew would merely have discovered that one of the Emperor’s old doctors had arrived to serve his master.

  The message was unrolled in an ante-chamber of an Emperor’s palace that was nothing more than an enlarged gardener’s cottage which stood in a grand position high above the sea. The Emperor himself was somewhere in the island’s interior where he was surveying land that could be used to plant wheat. A messenger was sent to summon him.

  That evening the Emperor walked in the small garden behind his palace. A man had been found among his exiled entourage who both knew Pierre Ducos and, by some fluke of good fortune that could hardly be expected to attend a fallen idol like Napoleon, had even met the two English Riflemen. “You’ll sail for Naples tomorrow, and you will take a dozen soldiers with you,” the Emperor ordered. “I doubt that Murat will want to help me, but we have little time, so you will have to seek his aid.” The Emperor stopped and jabbed a finger into the chest of his companion. “But do not, my dear Calvet, tell him that there is money at stake. Murat’s like a dog smelling a bitch on heat when he scents money.”

  “Then what should I tell the bastard?”

  “You must be clever with him!” The Emperor paced the gravel walk in silence, then, realizing that his companion was not a subtle man, he sighed. “I will tell you what to say.”

  Yet, in the event, Joachim Murat, once an imperial Marshal, but now King of Naples, would not receive General Calvet. Instead, in subtle insult, Napoleon’s envoy was sent to the Cardinal who, enthroned in his perfumed grandeur, was annoyed that this squat and battle-scarred Frenchman had not gone on his knees to kiss the Cardinal’s ring. Yet his Eminence was well accustomed to French arrogance, and it was high time, the Cardinal believed, to punish it. “You come on an errand,” the Cardinal spoke in good French, “from the Emperor of Elba?”

  “On a mission of goodwill,” Calvet replied very grandly. “The Emperor of Elba is eager to live in peace with all his fellow monarchs.”

  “The Emperor always said that,” the Cardinal smiled, “even when he was killing the soldiers of those fellow monarchs.”

  “Your Eminence is kind to correct me,” Calvet said, though in truth he felt the insults of this meeting deeply. Napoleon might now be diminished into being the ruler of a small and insignificant island, but even in his sleep the Emperor had been a greater monarch than the gimcrack ruler of this ramshackle statelet. Joachim Murat, King of Naples and the titular master of this fat Cardinal, had been nothing till Napoleon raised him to his toy throne.

  The Cardinal shifted himself into comfort on his own throne’s tasselled cushion. “I am minded to expel you from the kingdom, General, unless you can persuade me otherwise. Your master has greatly troubled Europe, and I find it disturbing that he should now send armed men, even so few, to our happy kingdom.”

  Calvet doubted the kingdom’s happiness, but had no reason to doubt that the Cardinal would expel him. He made his voice very humble and explained that he and his men had come to Naples to search for an old comrade of the Emperor’s. “His name is Pierre Ducos,” Calvet said, “and the Emperor, mindful of Major Ducos’s past services, only seeks to offer him a post in his private household.”

  The Cardinal pondered the request. His spies had not been idle during the months in which the Count Poniatowski had fortified the Villa Lupighi, and the Cardinal had long ago discovered Ducos’s identity, and learned of the existence of the great strongbox with its seemingly inexhaustible supply of precious gems. Whatever General Calvet might claim about Napoleon wishing to offer Ducos an appointment, the Cardinal well knew that it was money which had brought General Calvet to Naples. The Cardinal smiled innocently. “I know of no Pierre Ducos in the kingdom.”

  Calvet was too wily to accept the bland statement at its face value. “The Emperor,” he said, “would be most grateful for your Eminence’s assistance.”

  The Cardinal smiled. “Elba is a very little island. There are some olives and shellfish, little else. Do mulberries grow there?” He made this enquiry of a long-nosed priest who sat at a side table. The priest offered his master a sycophantic smile. The Cardinal, who was enjoying himself, looked back to Calvet. “What gratitude are we to expect of your master? A cargo of juniper berries, perhaps?”

  “The Emperor will show his gratitude with whatever is in his power to give,” Calvet said stubbornly.

  “Gratitude,” the Cardinal’s voice hardened, “is a disease of dogs.”

  The insult was palpable, but Calvet steeled himself to ignore it. “We merely ask your help, your Eminence.”

  The Cardinal was becoming bored with this unsubtle Frenchman. “If this Pierre Ducos is in the kingdom, General, then he has caused us no trouble, and I see no reason why I should help betray him to your master.”

  Which was the moment when General Calvet played the Emperor’s card, and played it very well. He feigned a look of astonishment. “Betray, your Eminence? We don’t seek Major Ducos for any reason other than to offer him employment! Though, in truth, we do know that the English seek Major Ducos, and are even sending men here to do him harm. Why they should wish that, I cannot tell, but on my master’s life, it is true. The Englishmen may already be here!” Calvet doubted whether Sharpe had yet reached Naples, for Monsieur Roland had moved with an exemplary speed, but Calvet knew it would not be long before the Riflemen did arrive in the city.

  There was a long silence after
Calvet had spoken of the English involvement. The Cardinal might despise the fallen Napoleon, but he disliked the rampantly victorious English far more. He was forced to shelter their Mediterranean fleet and flatter their heretic ambassador, but the Cardinal feared their territorial ambitions. Their troops had taken Malta, and thrown the French from Egypt, and where else would the Redcoats choose to land on the Mediterranean’s shores? Even now, as the Cardinal and the General spoke, there were no less than six British warships in the harbour at Naples. Their fleet used the harbour as if it was their own, and though they claimed they were only present to deter the scum of the Barbary Coast, the Cardinal nevertheless feared the English, though he would not betray those fears to General Calvet. “The English have never expressed any interest in this man,” the Cardinal said instead, though in a much milder tone.

  “Nor will they, your Eminence. They are insolent enough to believe they can ignore you. Nevertheless, on my honour, I do assure you that a party of Englishmen is either in your kingdom or on their way here.” Calvet was certainly not going to reveal that there would only be three Englishmen and that, far from being on official business, they were themselves fugitives.

  “The Emperor has sent you to kill these Englishmen?” The Cardinal was beginning to wonder whether this bluff Frenchman might not, after all, be of some use to him.

  “I am only here to dissuade them, your Eminence. I am not here to use violence, for the Emperor has no wish to disturb the peace of your happy kingdom.”

  “But you are a man accustomed to death, General?”

  “It’s my only trade.” Calvet could not resist the boast. “I learned it against the Austrians, who are easily killed, then perfected it against the Russians, who die very hard indeed.” Calvet had finished the war as a General of Brigade, but had begun it as a common soldier. Calvet, indeed, was one of Napoleon’s beloved mongrels; a veteran brawler and gutter-fighter who had risen from the ranks because of his ability to ram men into battle. He was not clever, but he was lucky, and he was as tough as a battered musket. In campaign after campaign Calvet had savaged the Emperor’s enemies. He had even brought an intact brigade out of Russia because his men feared the peasant General more than they feared the Cossacks or the Muscovite winter. Indeed, Calvet had only known one personal defeat, and that was when his brigade tried to drive Sharpe’s force of Riflemen and Marines from the Teste de Buch fort. It was Calvet’s memory of that defeat which gave his present pursuit of the Riflemen a special piquancy.

  The Cardinal ignored the belligerence. “How will I recognize these Englishmen?”

  Calvet had met both Sharpe and Frederickson once, and he had glimpsed Sharpe amidst the smoke of the Toulouse battlefield. He was not certain he would recognize either man again, but Monsieur Roland had also provided a full description of both Rifle officers. Calvet was too canny to give away the small advantage of those descriptions straightaway. “Details of their appearance are being sent to me, your Eminence.”

  The Cardinal allowed Calvet the point. “And what do the English plan to do here, General?”

  Calvet shrugged. “To kill Major Ducos, but why, I cannot say. Who can explain the spleen of the English?”

  Who indeed? the Cardinal thought, or who could not see through the clumsy lies of a French General? Yet, amidst the deception, the Cardinal could perceive a very real profit for himself and the kingdom. Clearly the English were after the Count Poniatowski’s strongbox, as was the Emperor of Elba, but so, too, was the Cardinal. His spies in the Villa Lupighi had reported that Ducos and his men were planning to leave the kingdom at the end of the year and when they left, the strongbox would leave too. There would be no more lavish bribes from the Villa Lupighi and no more extortionate rents. The golden goose would fly north, but in the arrival of General Calvet the Cardinal saw a heaven-sent way of preventing that flight. He smiled on the General. “Help us find the meddling English, General, and perhaps we might then discover that there is, indeed, a Pierre Ducos hiding in the kingdom.”

  Calvet hesitated. “And what happens when I do find them?”

  “You shall bring them here, and we shall see whether a spell of Neapolitan prison life satisfies their curiosity.”

  “And afterwards,” Calvet insisted, “you will direct me to Major Ducos?”

  “Yes.” The Cardinal spoke as though to an importunate child. “I promise you that.” He sketched a vague blessing, then watched the short squat Frenchman leave. “Do you think,” the Cardinal asked when the door was closed, “that he believed me?” Father Lippi, the long-nosed priest, shrugged to suggest he could not answer the question. The gesture irritated the Cardinal. “Do you believe the Frenchman’s story then?”

  “No, your Eminence.”

  “You’re not entirely a fool. So advise me.”

  Father Lippi, whose whole career depended on the Cardinal’s favour, shrugged. “The Count Poniatowski is a valuable contributor to your Eminence’s treasury.”

  “So?”

  Lippi rubbed long thin hands together as he nervously thought the matter through. “So, your Eminence, the Count Poniatowski should be warned of his enemies. He will doubtless be grateful.”

  The Cardinal laughed. “You must learn cleverness, Father Lippi. The future strength of Mother Church does not always rest upon doing the obvious. What do you think will happen when General Calvet discovers these Englishmen?”

  “He will hand them into our custody?”

  “Of course he will not!” The Cardinal was irritated by Lippi’s stupidity. “The General is a man of war, not of diplomacy. He was not sent here to make peace, but to fight, and when he does find these English, if they exist, he’ll endeavour to discover whether they know how to find Pierre Ducos. And if they do know, and tell him, then Calvet will abandon his promise to hand the Englishmen into our custody, but will attack the villa himself. His master is after money, Lippi, money! And when Calvet does attack the villa, what then?”

  Father Lippi frowned. “There will be bloodshed.”

  “Precisely, and it will be our duty to arrest the malefactors and impound the evidence of their misdeeds. And if, by chance, the Count is killed by these criminals? Why, then, we shall be forced to give his fortune into the safekeeping of the church.” By which the Cardinal meant his own treasury, but it was almost the same thing. “And if, by chance, this General Calvet fails to capture the Count Poniatowski, then we shall still arrest him for affray, which will please the Count and doubtless provoke the gratitude you mentioned. Either way, Father Lippi, the church will be the richer.”

  Lippi bowed in acknowledgement of the Cardinal’s subtlety. “And the English? How do we find them?”

  “By helping the General, of course. He will give us their description, but we shall still let him deal with them.” There would be the most pompous and threatening protests from London if Naples was to kill Englishmen, so it was better to let the foolish General Calvet run that risk. The Cardinal smiled. “And once Calvet has dealt with the English, our forces will deal with General Calvet.”

  Politics were so very simple, the Cardinal thought, just so long as a man believed no one, double-crossed everyone, kept a full treasury, and inveigled others into doing the dirty work. He waddled down from his throne, plucked his cape about him, then went for some supper.

  The optician Joliot had betrayed Ducos’s address to Frederickson, but.the location of the Villa Lupighi still had to be found and it took Frederickson two whole days to discover that the building was not in Naples itself, and another full day to find a carrier who, for the last piece of Harper’s gold, grudgingly offered Frederickson directions. The villa lay a day’s march northwards, close to the sea and secure on a steep hill.

  “It will be guarded.” Sharpe observed.

  “Of course it will be guarded,” Frederickson snapped.

  “So we’ll approach by night,” Sharpe ignored his friend’s short temper.

  “And we leave when?” Harper hated the bitterness
that he detected between the two officers. He spoke mildly, trying to be a peace-maker.

  “Tonight,” Sharpe said. It was already evening. “We should arrive at dawn, we can watch all day, then attack tomorrow night. Do you agree, William?” He asked the question only to placate Frederickson.

  “It seems an obvious course of action. Yes, I agree.”

  They left the tavern at nightfall. There was a nervous moment as they passed the slovenly blue-uniformed guards at the city outskirts, but none of the soldiers gave the three travellers a second’s notice. Nevertheless Sharpe did not feel secure until they had long left the city’s last houses and were alone in a sultry countryside. It was good to be marching again, to feel a flinty road beneath boot-soles and to know that a task awaited at the road’s end. It was not a task confused by the demands of peace, but a soldier’s task; something best done swiftly and brutally. And when the task was over, Sharpe thought, and his enemy was confounded, then he would have the confusing tasks to face. Jane and Lucille. The names echoed in his head to every scrape and crunch of his boots on the road. What if Jane wanted him back? Which woman did he want himself? He had no answers, only questions.

  It was a warm night, cloudless and windless. A bright moon rose above Vesuvius. At first the moon was misted by the volcano’s smoke, but soon it sailed clear across the sea to show the northern road as a white twisting strip against the darker fields. A thousand thousand stars pricked the sky, while a small white surf fretted at the beaches and broke bright about the tree-shrouded headlands. An owl passed close above the three men and Sharpe saw Patrick Harper cross himself. The owl was the bird of death.

  An hour before midnight they left the road and climbed a hundred paces into the shelter of an ilex grove. There, in silence, they undid the bundles they each carried. At long last, after weeks of hiding, they could strip off their civilian clothes and pull on their green jackets, Sharpe had debated whether to make the change now, or to wait till the very eve of his attack, but wearing the green would force them to move as silently as ghosts through this strange countryside. He buckled on his sword, then scraped its blade free of the scabbard’s wooden throat so that the long steel shone in the moonlight.