were very real, unemployment and poverty, while the promises of peace were more tenuous and, for most men in the army, nonexistent. An officer could resign his commission, take his half pay, and chance his arm at civilian life, but most of the soldiers had enlisted for life, and peace for them would simply mean their dispersal to garrisons across the world. A few would be discharged, but without pension and with a bleak future in a world where other men had learned useful skills.
‘You’ll get me papers?’ Harper nevertheless asked Sharpe one night.
‘I’ll get you papers, Patrick, I promise.’ The ‘papers’ were the certificate of discharge that would guarantee that Sergeant Patrick Harper had been retired because of wounds. ‘What will you do then?’ Sharpe asked.
Harper had no doubts. ‘Fetch the wife, sir, then go home.’
‘To Donegal?’
‘Where else?’
Sharpe was thinking that Donegal was a long way from Dorset. ‘We’ll miss our friends,’ he said instead.
‘That’s the truth, sir.’
Sharpe was visiting Captain William Frederickson’s company that had taken over a windmill on a shallow hill above a wide, tree-bordered stream. The Riflemen’s supper was roast pork, a dish that Captain Frederickson was very partial to and which meant that no sow or piglet was safe if it was close to his line of march. Sharpe was given a generous helping of the stolen meat, after which Frederickson led him up the dizzying cradle of ladders which climbed to the mill’s cap. There Frederickson opened a small door and the two officers crawled out on to a tiny platform that gave access to the mill’s big axle. A spitting rain was being gusted by an east wind. ‘There,’ Frederickson pointed eastwards.
Beyond the stream, and beyond the dark loom of some further woods, there was a glimmering smear of light in the night sky. Only one thing could make a light such as that: the flames of an army’s bivouac fires reflecting off low clouds. The two Rifle officers were looking towards the French.
‘They’re camped around Toulouse,’ Frederickson said.
‘Toulouse?’ Sharpe repeated vaguely.
‘It’s a French city, though I wouldn’t expect anyone as exalted as a staff officer to know that. It’s also the place where Marshal Soult doubtless hopes to stop us, unless the war ends first.’
‘Perhaps it’s all wishful thinking.’ Sharpe took the bottle of wine that Frederickson offered him. ‘Boney’s escaped from disaster before.’
‘There’ll be peace,’ Frederickson said firmly. ‘Everyone’s tired of the fighting.’ He paused. ‘I wonder what the devil we’ll all do in peacetime?’
‘Rest,’ Sharpe said.
‘In your Dorset home?’ Frederickson, knowing that Jane had gone home to purchase a country property, was amused. ‘And after a month of it you’ll be wishing to hell that you were back here in the rain, wondering just what the bastards are planning, and whether you’ve got enough ammunition for the morning.’
‘Have you?’ Sharpe asked with professional concern.
‘I stole four cartridge boxes from Taplow’s quarter-master.’ Sweet William fell silent as a billow of wind stirred the furled and tethered mill-sails.
Sharpe gazed towards the French encampment. ‘Is it a big city?’
‘Big enough.’
‘Fortified?’
‘I would imagine so.’ Frederickson took the wine bottle back and tipped it to his mouth. ‘And I imagine it will be a bastard of a city to take.’
‘They all are,’ Sharpe said drily. ‘Do you remember Badajoz?’
‘I doubt I’ll ever forget it,’ Frederickson said, though nor would any man who had fought across that ditch of blood.
‘We took that at Eastertime,’ Sharpe said, ‘and next week is Easter.’
‘Is it, by God?’ Frederickson asked. ‘By God, so it is.’
Both men fell silent, both wondering whether this would be their last Easter. If peace was a promise, then it was a promise barred by that great red smear of light for, unless the French surrendered in the next few days, then a battle would have to be fought. One last battle.
‘What will you do, William?’ Sharpe took the bottle and drank.
Frederickson did not need the question explained. ‘Stay in the army. I don’t know another life and I don’t think I’d be a good tradesman.’ He fumbled with flint and steel, struck a spark to his tinder box, then lit a cheroot. ‘I find I have a talent for violence,’ he said with amusement.
‘Is that good?’ Sharpe asked.
Frederickson hooted with laughter at the question. ‘Violence solved your problem with bloody Bampfylde! If you hadn’t fought the bugger then you can be certain he’d even now be making trouble for you in London. Violence may not be good, my friend, but it has a certain efficiency in the resolution of otherwise insoluble problems.’ Frederickson took the bottle. ‘I can’t say I’m enamoured of a peacetime army, but there’ll probably be another war before too long.’
‘You should get married,’ Sharpe said quietly.
Frederickson sneered at that thought. ‘Why do condemned men always encourage others to join them on the gallows?’
‘It isn’t like that.’
‘Marriage is an appetite,’ Frederickson said savagely, ‘and once you’ve enjoyed the flesh, all that’s left is a carcass of dry bones.’
‘No,’ Sharpe protested.
‘I do hope it isn’t true,’ Frederickson toasted Sharpe with the half empty wine bottle, ‘and I especially hope it isn’t true for all of my dear friends who have pinned their hopes of peacetime happiness on something as wilfully frail as a wife.’
‘It isn’t true,’ Sharpe insisted, and he hoped that when he returned to headquarters he would find a letter from Jane.
But there was none, and he remembered their arguments before the duel and he wondered whether his own peacetime happiness had been soured by his stubbornness.
And in the morning the brigade was ordered to advance eastwards. Towards Toulouse.
In finding Sergeant Challon, Major Pierre Ducos had unwittingly found his perfect instrument. Challon liked to have a woman in his bed, meat at his table, and wine in his belly, but most of all Challon liked to have his decisions made for him and he was ready to reward the decision maker with a dogged loyalty.
It was not that Challon was a stupid man; far from it, but the Dragoon Sergeant understood that other men were cleverer than himself, and he quickly discovered that Pierre Ducos was among the cleverest he had ever known. That was a comfort to Challon, for if he was to survive his treachery to the Emperor’s cause, then he would need cleverness.
The nine horsemen had travelled eastwards from Bordeaux. Their route took them far to the north of where Marshal Soult retreated in front of the British army, and far to the south of where the Emperor protected Paris with a dazzling display of defensive manoeuvres. Ducos and his men rode into the deserted uplands of central France. They lived well on their journey. There was money for an inn room each night, and money for those men who wanted whores, and money for food, and money for spare horses, and money for good civilian clothes to replace the Dragoons’ uniforms, though Ducos noted that each man saved his green uniform coat. That was pride; the same pride that made the Dragoons wear their hair long so that, one day, they might again plait it into the distinctive cadenettes. Their possession of money also made the nine men ride circumspectly, for the forests were full of dangers, yet by avoiding the main roads they travelled safely around the places where hungry brigands laid desperate ambushes.
Ducos,