The provost recoiled from the chamber-pot, then protested when Harper offered to remove the strip of cloth which covered its contents.
“You can’t expect gently-born officers to live in a room with the stench of shit,” Harper said, “so I have to empty it.”
“Go to the yard. Don’t bloody loiter about.” It was the Provost Sergeant who snapped the orders at Harper.
“You’re a grand man, Sergeant.”
“Get the hell out of here. And hurry, man!” The Sergeant watched the big Irishman go down the stairs. “Bloody Irish, and a bloody Rifleman,” he said to no one in particular, “two things I hate most.”
The windowless corridor was lit by two glass-fronted lanterns which threw the shadows of the three guards long across the floorboards. Laughter and loud voices echoed from the prefecture’s ground floor where the highest officials of the Transport Board were giving a dinner. A clock at the foot of the deep stairwell struck half past eight.
More than fifteen minutes passed before Harper came whistling up the stairs. He carried the empty chamber-pot in one hand. Inside the pot were three empty wine glasses, while on his shoulder was a sizeable wooden keg that he first dropped on to the landing, then rolled towards the officers’ doorway with his right foot. He nodded a cheerful greeting to the Provost Sergeant. “A gentleman downstairs sent this up to the officers, Sergeant.”
The Provost Sergeant stepped into the path of the rolling keg which he checked with a boot. “Who sent it?”
“Now how would I be knowing that?” Harper, when it pleased him, could easily play the role of a vague- witted Irishman. That such a role, however it distorted the truth, nevertheless suited the prejudice of men like the Provost Sergeant only made it the more effective. “He didn’t give me his name, nor did he, but he said he had a sympathy for the poor gentlemen. He said he’d never met them, but he was sorry for them. Mind you, Sergeant, the gentleman was more than a little drunk himself, which always makes a man sympathetic. Isn’t that the truth? It’s a pity our wives don’t drink more, so it is.”
“Shut your face.” The Sergeant tipped the cask on to its end, then worked the bung loose. He was rewarded with the rich smell of good brandy. He thrust the bung home. “I’ve got orders not to allow anyone to communicate with the officers.”
“You wouldn’t deny them a wee drink now, would you?”
“Shut your bloody face.” The Sergeant stood, reached for the chamber-pot, and took out the three glasses. “Get inside, and tell your damned officers that if they’re thirsty they should drink water.”
“Yes, Sergeant. Whatever you say, Sergeant. Thank you, Sergeant.” Harper edged past the keg, then darted through the door as though he truly feared the Provost Sergeant’s wrath. Once inside the room he closed the door, then grinned at Sharpe. “As easy as stealing a fleece off a lamb’s back, sir. One keg of brandy safely delivered. The bastards just couldn’t wait to take it off me.”
“Let’s just hope they drink it,” Frederickson said.
“In two hours,” Harper said confidently, “those three will be dancing drunk. I even thought to bring them some glasses.”
“How much did the brandy cost?” Sharpe asked.
“All you gave me, sir, but the fellow in the kitchens said it was the very best.” Harper, properly pleased with himself, went on to deliver the rest of his news. There were only three guards on the top landing, and he had seen no other sentries till he reached the ground floor where he saw a sergeant and two men in the guardroom by the front door. “But they weren’t provosts, sir, so they mayn’t be any trouble to us. I said hello to them, and saw our guns in there.” There were another two sentries in the town square beyond the front door. “They’re giving a grand dinner downstairs, so there’s a fair number of fellows wandering about looking for places to piss. Oh, and there’s a bookcase on the first floor, sir, full of bloody ledgers.”
“Did you look for the stables?” Sharpe asked.
“I did, sir, but they’re already locked tight, and so’s the yard gate.”
“So there’s no chance of stealing horses?”
Harper considered the question, then shrugged. “It’ll be hard, sir.”
“We’re infantry,” Frederickson said dismissively, “so we can damn well walk out of the city.”
“And if they send cavalry after us?”
Frederickson dismissed the fear. “How will they know which way we’ve gone? Besides, the French cavalry never caught us, so what chance would you give our dozy lot?”
“We walk, then.” Sharpe stretched his arms wide as though he prepared for exercise. “But where to?”
“That’s easy,” Frederickson said. “We go to Arcachon.”
“Arcachon?” Sharpe asked with surprise. That was the town closest to the Teste de Buch fort, but otherwise he could think of no special significance attached to the place.
But Frederickson, while Harper had been performing his charade with the chamber-pot, had been deep in thought. There never had been any gold in the fort, Frederickson now explained, at least not when the Riflemen had captured it. If that fact could be proved, then their troubles would be over. “What we need to do,” he went on, “is find Commandant Lassan. I don’t believe he wrote that statement. I believe Ducos made it up.” Frederickson paused as a man laughed outside the door. “I suspect your brandy is being appreciated, Sergeant.”
“Why do you think the Commandant’s statement was faked?” Sharpe asked.
Frederickson paused to strike a flame in his tinderbox and to light one of his small foul cheroots. “Do you remember his quarters?”
Sharpe thought back to the few hectic days he had spent at the Teste de Buch fortress. “I remember the bastard had a lot of books. He couldn’t fight, but he had a lot of bloody books.”
“Do you remember what the books were about?”
“I had better things to do than read.”
“I looked,” Frederickson said, “and I remember that Commandant Lassan had a very civilized library, which made it a great pity when we turned most of it into cartridge paper and cannon-wadding. I recall some very fine editions of essays, and a large, indeed comprehensive, collection of sermons and other devotional literature. A very devout man, our Commandant Lassan.”
“Then no wonder we beat the bastard to jelly,” Harper said happily.
“And if he is devout,” Frederickson ignored Harper’s cheerful comment, “then my guess is that he may also be honest. It doesn’t always follow, of course, I remember a very sanctimonious chaplain of the Goth who stole the mess ragged and then ran off with a Corporal’s rather rancid woman, but I’m willing to think Lassan may be cut from a rather better cloth. Indeed, I seem to recall that the American told us he was a decent man?”
“Yes, he did,” Sharpe remembered.
“So let’s hope he is decent. Let’s hope that he’ll deny that damned statement and ease us all off a bloody sharp hook. The trick of it is simply to find the man, then persuade him to travel to London.”
Frederickson’s calm words made the task sound oddly easy. Sharpe, turning to the window, saw how the darkness was shrouding the city. There was a slender moon, sharp-edged and low above a tangle of dark masts and rigging which showed over the black rooftops. Candles showed in some windows and torches flickered where link-boys escorted pedestrians about the streets. “Why Arcachon, though?” Sharpe turned back from the window. “You think Lassan lives there?”
“I doubt we shall be so fortunate as that,” Frederickson said, “but because he’s an educated man, and a devout one, it’s likely that he and the local priest would have been on friendly terms. It’s hard to find civilized conversation in a small garrison, let alone someone to play chess with, and I recall that we kindled a fire with a very fine chess-set from Lassan’s quarters. So, my suggestion is that we find the priest of Arcachon and hope he can tell us where to find Lassan. Do you agree?”
“I think it’s a brilliant notion,” Sharpe said admiringly.
“I’m just a humble Rifle Captain,” Frederickson said, “and therefore flattered by the praise of a staff officer.”
“But,” Sharpe said, “if Lassan’s an honourable man, why would Ducos falsify a statement of his? He must know that Lassan could deny it.”
“I don’t know the answer to that,” Frederickson admitted, “but we’ll never know unless we find
