regiment's reputation. The officers were Frenchmen loyal to the ancien regime, while its men were deserters from the French Army and all unmitigated scoundrels. They could fight when the mood took them, but it was not a regiment Sharpe would want on his flank in battle.
“Captain Frederickson! Four men to get the Frenchman's baggage on board! Quick now!”
De Maquerre tugged at his buttoned, kidskin gloves. “You have quarters for my horse? And the packhorse.”
“No horses,” Sharpe said sourly, which only tossed the Comte de Maquerre into a sulky fit of protests in which the name of the Due d'Angouleme, Louis XVIII, and the Lord Wellington featured prominently. In the meantime an angry message came from the Scylla demanding to know why the Amelie had not slipped her moorings at the flood tide, and finally Sharpe had to give way.
Which meant another delay as the Comte's two horses were coaxed aboard and a section of Frederickson's Riflemen were moved out of the forward hold to make way for the beasts. Trunks and cases were carried up the gangplank.
“I cannot, of course,” the Comte de Maquerre said, “travel in this ship.”
“Why not?” Sharpe asked.
A wrinkle of the nostril was the only answer and a further delay ensued while a message was sent to the Scylla which demanded that His Excellency the Comte de Maquerre be allowed quarters on board the frigate or, preferably, the Vengeance.
Captain Grant of the Scylla, doubtless under pressure from the Vengeance, returned a short answer. The Comte, disgusted, went below to the cabin he would now have to share with Frederickson.
The light was full now, dissipated by clouds and showing the filth that floated yellow and black in the grey harbour. A dead dog bumped against the Amelias hull as the forward cables were released, then the aft splashed free, and from overhead came the menacing sound of great sails unleashing to the wind's power. A gull gave its lonely, harsh cry that sailors believed was the sound of a drowned soul in agony.
Sharpe stared at the golden-haired girl in the cloak of silver-blue and he blamed the wind for the tears in his eyes. Jane had a handkerchief to her face and Sharpe prayed that he had not seen the first symptoms of the fever in her. He tried to convince himself that Jane was right, and that she merely suffered from eating bad fish the night before, but goddamn it, he thought, why did she have to visit Hogan?
“Go home!” he shouted across the widening gap.
Jane shivered, but stayed. She watched the Amelie claw clumsily out beyond the bar and Sharpe, staring back to the harbour, saw the tiny signal of her white-waving handkerchief get smaller and smaller and finally disappear as a rain-squall seethed and hissed over the broken sea.
The Vengeance loomed over the other ships. The Amelie, pumps already working, took station astern while the Scylla, fast and impatient, leaped ahead into the squalls. The brig-sloops closed behind the Amelie, and the shore of France was nothing but a dark smear on a grey sea.
A buoy, tarred black and marking God alone knew what hazard in this empty waste, slipped astern and thus the expedition to Arcachon, amidst chaos and uncertainty, was under way.
CHAPTER 4
All day Commandant Henri Lassan watched the ships pass. He watched from within one of the fort's covered citadels and with the help of a brass-barrelled telescope that had belonged to his grandfather.
No flag flew from the fort. One of the local fishermen, trusted by Lassan, had taken his small boat to the Lacanau shoals where the British brig had taken the smack's wind and invited the captain aboard. Rum had been served, gold paid for fish, and the fisherman had solemnly informed the enemy that the fort was deserted entirely of its old garrison. They had gone north, he said, to serve the Emperor, and only a few local militia now patrolled the ramparts. If the lie was believed then Lassan might entice the British into the range of his heavy
“Captain Frederickson! Four men to get the Frenchman's baggage on board! Quick now!”
De Maquerre tugged at his buttoned, kidskin gloves. “You have quarters for my horse? And the packhorse.”
“No horses,” Sharpe said sourly, which only tossed the Comte de Maquerre into a sulky fit of protests in which the name of the Due d'Angouleme, Louis XVIII, and the Lord Wellington featured prominently. In the meantime an angry message came from the Scylla demanding to know why the Amelie had not slipped her moorings at the flood tide, and finally Sharpe had to give way.
Which meant another delay as the Comte's two horses were coaxed aboard and a section of Frederickson's Riflemen were moved out of the forward hold to make way for the beasts. Trunks and cases were carried up the gangplank.
“I cannot, of course,” the Comte de Maquerre said, “travel in this ship.”
“Why not?” Sharpe asked.
A wrinkle of the nostril was the only answer and a further delay ensued while a message was sent to the Scylla which demanded that His Excellency the Comte de Maquerre be allowed quarters on board the frigate or, preferably, the Vengeance.
Captain Grant of the Scylla, doubtless under pressure from the Vengeance, returned a short answer. The Comte, disgusted, went below to the cabin he would now have to share with Frederickson.
The light was full now, dissipated by clouds and showing the filth that floated yellow and black in the grey harbour. A dead dog bumped against the Amelias hull as the forward cables were released, then the aft splashed free, and from overhead came the menacing sound of great sails unleashing to the wind's power. A gull gave its lonely, harsh cry that sailors believed was the sound of a drowned soul in agony.
Sharpe stared at the golden-haired girl in the cloak of silver-blue and he blamed the wind for the tears in his eyes. Jane had a handkerchief to her face and Sharpe prayed that he had not seen the first symptoms of the fever in her. He tried to convince himself that Jane was right, and that she merely suffered from eating bad fish the night before, but goddamn it, he thought, why did she have to visit Hogan?
“Go home!” he shouted across the widening gap.
Jane shivered, but stayed. She watched the Amelie claw clumsily out beyond the bar and Sharpe, staring back to the harbour, saw the tiny signal of her white-waving handkerchief get smaller and smaller and finally disappear as a rain-squall seethed and hissed over the broken sea.
The Vengeance loomed over the other ships. The Amelie, pumps already working, took station astern while the Scylla, fast and impatient, leaped ahead into the squalls. The brig-sloops closed behind the Amelie, and the shore of France was nothing but a dark smear on a grey sea.
A buoy, tarred black and marking God alone knew what hazard in this empty waste, slipped astern and thus the expedition to Arcachon, amidst chaos and uncertainty, was under way.
CHAPTER 4
All day Commandant Henri Lassan watched the ships pass. He watched from within one of the fort's covered citadels and with the help of a brass-barrelled telescope that had belonged to his grandfather.
No flag flew from the fort. One of the local fishermen, trusted by Lassan, had taken his small boat to the Lacanau shoals where the British brig had taken the smack's wind and invited the captain aboard. Rum had been served, gold paid for fish, and the fisherman had solemnly informed the enemy that the fort was deserted entirely of its old garrison. They had gone north, he said, to serve the Emperor, and only a few local militia now patrolled the ramparts. If the lie was believed then Lassan might entice the British into the range of his heavy
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