Some of the products of that treasure were now used to barricade the archway where the grasshopper gun stood. A celestial globe was heaped on top of a japanned chest of drawers. A green silk covered chaise-longue made a breastwork, while beneath it an ebony table with a surface of inlaid silver and ivory was stacked as a shield for enemy bullets. Cushions, curtains, rugs and bedclothes were crammed between chairs to make the barricade yet more formidable. Only the heavy green curtain which shielded the deep alcove where the strongbox was hidden was left in its place. Two men crewed the grasshopper gun in its cushioned embrasure, while the other four Dragoons took it in turns to fire through the two loopholed doors. Ducos, his gaudy uniform hanging from him like finery draped on a scarecrow, paced between the three positions and spun a fantasy of imminent Neapolitan rescue.
The two loopholed doors were old and tough. A musket bullet could not penetrate the wood. At first the fire from the corridors was frightening in its intensity, but the Dragoons soon learned they were safe, and soon discovered they could drive the attackers away by firing from the loopholes. They had made a fortress within the villa, and the only entrances into the fortress were through the two doors or across the terrace that would prove a killing ground for the small brass gun. The Dragoons missed Sergeant Challon’s reassuring presence, but they felt safe enough now and even found a grim enjoyment in their successful defiance. Ducos made himself useful by loading every spare musket, carbine and pistol so that any determined attack could be met by an unrelenting fire.
‘Pity about the women,’ one Dragoon muttered.
‘They’ll come back.’ His companion fired through one of the splintered loopholes and his bullet ricocheted down the dark corridor. The attackers had taken cover from the fire, and their answering shots were as ill-aimed as they were infrequent. The man who had fired stepped back and glanced scornfully at Ducos. ‘First time I’ve seen a Marshal of France loading a musket.’
‘We’ll drive these bastards off,’ his companion muttered, ‘then we’ll kill the little runt and take the money home.’ It had only been Sergeant Challon’s stubborn loyalty that had prevented such a desirable solution before, but Challon was now gone. The man fired through the door again, stepped back, then glanced up as an odd sound attracted his attention. He gaped at the high ceiling, then grabbed a loaded musket which he pointed directly overhead and fired. The fortress within a fortress was not quite as safe as it might have seemed.
The musket bullet buried itself in a floorboard beneath Harper’s feet, but struck with such force that the heavy board seemed to quiver beneath him. Dust jarred up along the timber’s formidable length. Harper wrenched at a crack between the boards with his bayonet. ‘I need a bloody axe.’
‘We haven’t got a bloody axe,’ Frederickson said curtly, then jumped back as three more gunshots thumped into the floor. ‘Why don’t we just set the bloody place on fire?’
Neither Sharpe nor Harper answered. Both had stouter blades than Frederickson’s slim sword, and both were levering at the old thick timbers. They had made their way around the villa’s roof to find this dusty attic directly over the enemy’s inner sanctuary. Sharpe had knocked tiles from the roof to get into the dusty space where bat droppings lay thick on the floor.
‘It’s moving!’ Harper alerted Sharpe who went to the other side of the heavy floorboard. Sharpe slid his sword under the wood and levered. Both men were crouching back from their work. Bullets were slamming noisily into the underside of the floor, and Sharpe feared that one would strike the tip of his sword and break the steel. He stood upright, put his foot on the hilt, and shoved downwards so that the timber creaked and heaved along its whole length. The far end of the board was still held fast by ancient nails and the consequent tension threatened to snap the timber back like a spring until Frederickson jammed his rifle beneath to hold the raised end firm. Ducos’s men were shouting below. One musket bullet found the gap and smashed a tile not a foot from Frederickson’s head.
Harper found his seven-barrelled gun, poked it under the raised timber, and fired blindly down. The noise was huge in the confined space, but even so the Riflemen could hear a scream from the room below as the seven bullets ricocheted wildly from its stone walls and floor. Sharpe fired his rifle into the gap, then both men stepped back to reload. Frederickson crouched to fire Harper’s rifle into Ducos’s lair. ‘Like shooting rats in a barrel,’ he said grimly, then suddenly all the Riflemen were deafened and Frederickson, the rifle still unfired, fell back.
The raised board seemed to have exploded and jumped up at him. The attic was filled with a rending and splintering crash, beneath which sound and mixed with it, was the vast echoing report of the small grasshopper cannon. The gun had been placed upright, balanced on its hind legs and breech, then fired upwards. Its roundshot had mangled one of the attic’s floor timbers, then splintered on up through the tiles. Frederickson lay motionless. His face was bleeding from a score of splinters, but Sharpe could find no other wounds. The closeness of the cannonball’s passage must have literally knocked him out. Sharpe had seen men similarly felled by a buffet of a roundshot’s air. Frederickson would live, but within a few hours his face would be one huge bruise.
‘He’ll live,’ Sharpe told Harper, then, vengefully, he picked up the unfired rifle and fired it down through the hole torn by the roundshot. Harper was grimly loading his seven-barrelled gun and, at the same time, counting the seconds it would take for the men below to reload the small cannon. Frederickson groaned woefully. One of the splinters had lodged in his empty eye-socket that was now filling with blood.
‘Mind yourself, sir,’ Harper warned. He was guessing that the grasshopper gun was reloaded. The two Riflemen went very still. If the men below had any wit they would not fire at the same place, but would blast the shot into an unbroken part of the ceiling. Sharpe felt the fear of utter helplessness, knowing that at any second a cannonball could drive up beneath his feet.
‘Fire, you bastards!’ he muttered.
The gun fired. The men below had guessed wrong and the shot smashed through the attic’s far end. Dust and noise billowed about the confined space while broken tiles clattered down the roof and smashed themselves in the courtyard.
As the cannon’s noise still echoed in the attic, Harper moved with the speed of a scalded cat to the first hole. He peered down, rammed the seven barrels through the ragged gap, then pulled the trigger. He had only had time to charge five of the barrels, so much of the gun’s force was wasted through the two empty muzzles, but the grasshopper’s crew was only fifteen feet below him and the five bullets had enough force to kill both men. Sharpe fired his own reloaded rifle through the newer hole, then went to help Harper who was levering at the tensioned floorboard. Frederickson moaned, rolled on to his side, then lay still. The floorboard, weakened by the cannonball’s strike, snapped, and Sharpe and Harper could at last peer down at their enemy.
Two men lay dead beside the fallen grasshopper gun which, because it had been placed on its butt to fire upwards, now had two bent back legs. A third wounded man lay in a puddle of blood by the far door. The other Dragoons had taken shelter in the corners of the room. One of them raised a carbine and both Sharpe and Harper ducked back.
Sharpe reloaded his rifle. Frederickson was breathing hoarsely now. There was silence from below. Ducos and the remaining Dragoons feared the awesome destructive power of the seven-barrelled gun and none of them dared step into the room’s centre to retrieve their small cannon, and so they shrank back into corners and stared in fear at the broken ceiling. They were still staring as Calvet’s men came to the loopholed doors and thrust their muskets through.
‘Non! Non!’ one of the Dragoons shouted.
Sharpe took one of the rifles and worked at the board beside the broken one. It had been loosened by the two cannon blows and came up with surprising ease. He saw the Dragoons with their hands up, and he saw the muskets protruding from the doors, but he could not see Ducos. ‘General!’
he shouted.
‘Major?’ Calvet’s voice was muffled.
‘Wait there! I’ll open up!’
Harper tried to stop Sharpe. ‘You’ll break your bloody legs, sir!’
But Sharpe wanted Ducos alive. Sharpe wanted to capture the small cunning enemy who had dogged his footsteps from the Portuguese border to this broken house in Italy, and Sharpe, this close to his old enemy, would not be denied. He lowered himself through the gaping hole, hung for a second by his hands, then dropped.
The height from ceiling to floor was fifteen feet. Sharpe had shrunk that distance by hanging from the broken boards, but he still dropped the best part of nine feet. The fall jarred him. He spilt sideways on the stone floor and a pain shrieked up from his right ankle to his newly mended thigh. He screamed with the pain, rolled to the right, and snarled at the Dragoons to stay still. He expected a bullet at any second. Harper was above him, threatening the room with his rifle. None of the Dragoons fired. They just stared at the blood-streaked, savagely scarred man who had dropped from the roof and who now struggled to stand upright. There was no sign of Ducos. The room was lit by the pale grey wash of the lightening sky. Sharpe drew his sword and the sound of the scraping blade made one of the Dragoons whimper and shake his head.
‘Where’s Ducos?’ Sharpe asked in French.
One of the Dragoons gestured towards a heavy green curtain.
Sharpe knew he should have unlocked the doors to let Calvet’s men into the room, but he was too close to his enemy now, and he had travelled too far and suffered too much to let this man escape him. He limped towards the curtain, flinching each time the weight went on to his right leg. He stopped a half dozen paces from the heavy green cloth. ‘Ducos! You bastard? It’s Major Sharpe!’
A pistol exploded beyond the curtain and a bullet plucked at the green cloth. The pistol ball tore a ragged hole, went a foot to Sharpe’s right, then buried itself in the ebony and silver inlaid table.
Sharpe stepped two paces closer to the curtain. ‘Ducos! You missed!’
Another bullet twitched the heavy curtain. This one went to Sharpe’s left. The curtain quivered from the bullet’s passing. The new ragged hole had scorched edges. The Dragoons stared at the limping madman who was playing this insane game with death.
Sharpe stepped so close that he could have reached out a hand and touched the green curtain. ‘You missed again!’ He could hear the Frenchman breathing hoarsely beyond the curtain, then he heard the click as another weapon was cocked. Sharpe sensed from the sound that Ducos was standing well back from the green material and must be firing in blind panic at its heavy folds. ‘Ducos? Try again!’ he called.
The third bullet jerked the cloth. It went to Sharpe’s right, but so close that it could not have missed by more than a sword blade’s thickness. Dust sprang from the curtain’s thick weave to drift in the silvery dawn light. Sharpe laughed. ‘You missed!’
‘Open the door!’ Calvet roared angrily through one of the loopholes.
‘Ducos?’ Sharpe called again, and once again the hidden Frenchman fired one of his stock of pistols, but this time the shot was not greeted by Sharpe’s mockery. Instead the Rifleman screamed foully, gasped in awful pain, then moaned like a soul in sobbing torment.
Ducos shouted his triumph aloud. He ran to the curtain and snatched the heavy cloth aside. And there, at the moment of his personal victory, he stopped short.
He stopped because a sword blade flashed up to dig its point into the skin of his throat.
An unwounded Sharpe, with dog-blood lining the scars on his powder-stained face, stared into Ducos’s eyes.
The Frenchman held a last unfired pistol, but the huge sword was sharp in his throat and the eyes that stared into his were like dark ice. ‘Non, non, non.’ Ducos moaned the words, then his gun dropped on to the floor as his bladder gave way and a stain spread on the white silk of his French Marshal’s breeches.
‘Oui, oui, oui,’ Sharpe said, then brought up his left knee in a single, savage kick. The force of it jarred Ducos’s spectacles free, they fell and smashed, and then the Frenchman, clutching the warm stain on his breeches, fell after them and screamed a terrible moaning scream.
And the long chase was done.
Sharpe limped to the door to let in an irate General Calvet. The dawn was full now, flooding the limpid sea with a glitter of silver and gold. The villa was thick with smoke, but oddly silent now that the muskets had stopped firing. It was the silence after battle; the unexpected and oddly disappointing silence when the body still craved excitement and there was nothing now to do but clear up the wounded and dead, and find the plunder. Calvet’s men tramped into the room and disarmed the broken Dragoons. Harper carried Frederickson downstairs and tenderly laid the officer on to a chaise-longue taken from the dismantled barricade. Two of Calvet’s men had been wounded, one of them badly, but none had been killed. The wounded Grenadiers were laid beside Frederickson whose wits were slowly coming back. His face was already blackening and swelling in a vast bruise, but he managed a wry smile when he saw the ludicrously uniformed Pierre Ducos. The Frenchman still gasped from the pain of Sharpe’s kick as Harper tied his wrists and ankles, then pushed him scornfully into a corner of the room to join the captured Dragoons.
General Calvet ripped down the alcove’s curtain. Beyond it, and deep shadowed at the end of an otherwise empty recess, was a great iron box. The keys for the box were found in a pocket of Pierre Ducos’s gaudy uniform. The locks were snapped open, and the lid was lifted on an Emperor’s fortune. Calvet’s men stared in an awed silence. The gems were so bright in the shadowed alcove that it seemed as if they generated their own dazzling light. Sharpe edged past a Grenadier and gazed down at the splendour.
‘It all belongs to the Emperor,’ Calvet warned.
‘I know, but Ducos is mine.’
‘You can have him.’ Calvet stooped to pick up a handful of pearls. He let them trickle through his stubby fingers so that they glittered like scraps of starlight.
‘Sir?’ Patrick Harper’s voice was oddly subdued. He had not gone to see the treasure, but had instead cleared a passage through the barricade and now stood on the terrace, staring southwards. ‘Sir?’ he called more loudly. ‘I think there’s something you should see here, sir.’
Calvet crossed to the terrace with Sharpe. ‘Merde,’ Calvet said.
A battalion of infantry was approaching the villa. Behind them, and still shadowed by a stand of trees, was a squadron of cavalry. The head of the small column was half a mile away, still on the coastal plain, but only a few minutes from the hill on which the captured villa stood. The battalion’s shadow stretched towards the sea, and the dawn’s clear light showed that its marching was a shambles, its demeanour unprepossessing, but it was nevertheless a complete battalion of infantry with at least six hundred muskets, and its arrival explained why the Cardinal had given Calvet his free rein.
Because Calvet and Sharpe had done the Cardinal’s dirty work, and now the Neapolitans had arrived to reap the work’s reward.
‘Merde,’ Sharpe said.
Ducos overcame his pain to crow a vengeful triumph. His friends had come to rescue him, he said, and Sharpe and Calvet would now suffer for their temerity. Harper slapped him to silence.
‘We can escape,’ Calvet said glumly, ‘but not with the fortune.’
‘We can take a good deal of it,’ Sharpe suggested.
‘The Emperor wants it all.’ Calvet scowled at the Neapolitan battalion which now spread itself into a line of three ranks at the foot of the villa’s hill. The cavalrymen behind the battalion spurred their horses past the infantry. Clearly the Neapolitans planned to surround the hill. There would be a few minutes before that manoeuvre was completed, and Calvet had rightly guessed that those moments would just be sufficient for his small band to scramble northwards into the hills, but they would be forced to travel light and they would doubtless be pursued mercilessly through all the long hot day. They would be weighed
down by the treasure they carried, by their wounded, and by their prisoner.
The battalion of Neapolitan infantry waited on the parched grass. So far they had ignored the small village where Calvet’s three men should be guarding a boat, but that did not signify, for the Italian infantry now lay between the villa and Calvet’s seaborne escape. Three of the Neapolitan officers stood their horses a few yards in front of the resting infantry and Sharpe guessed that an envoy would soon be sent up the hill to demand the surrender of the villa’s occupants.
‘Ignore the bastards.’ Calvet, seeing no solution, turned away and ordered his men to fill their packs, cushion covers and any other receptacle they could find with the Emperor’s treasure. Harper joined the Frenchmen and marvelled at the slew of rubies, emeralds, diamonds and pearls. There were a few bags of gold heaped at one end of the iron chest, and a tangle of candlesticks at the other, but most of the great box was bright with gems. They lay a foot deep in the box, which was itself three feet high, suggesting that much of the treasure had already been squandered. ‘How much did you waste?’ Calvet snapped at Ducos, but the thin-faced Frenchman said nothing. He was waiting for his salvation.
Which salvation appeared to be in the hands of the three Neapolitan officers who spurred their horses up the hill’s steep southern flank. Dust drifted from their hooves towards the sea.
‘Bloody hell,’ Harper had rejoined Sharpe on the terrace, ‘the buggers look as if they’re going to their first communion.’ The Irishman spat over the balustrade. His disgust was at the uniforms that the officers wore. Neither he nor Sharpe had ever seen uniforms so splendid or so impractical. All three officers were in pristine and dazzling white. Their elegant cutaway coats were faced with cloth of brightest gold, while their cuffs and epaulettes were similarly arrayed with gold cloth that was dangling with gold chain. They wore black riding boots topped with gold turnovers, and on their heads were tall snow-white bearskins with gold chains looped from the crests to the blood-red plumes. ‘What are we supposed to do,’ Harper said, ‘fight the buggers or kiss them?’
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe’s Revenge, Sharpe’s Waterloo, Sharpe’s Devil Page 30