“Ware left!” Harper warned.

Pannizi and three officers were spurring to cut off their retreat. Sharpe dropped to one knee, aimed, and put a bullet across their path. The crack of the Baker Rifle sounded very purposeful and the spurt of dust in front of Pannizi’s small group was more than enough to check their ardour.

Sharpe ran on. One of Calvet’s men was watching the right flank, from where the cavalry might appear, but the hill had hidden those horsemen from the fall of gold and they were still ignorant of what happened to their south. Far off to Sharpe’s left a rabble of infantrymen still rooted through the grass, olive groves and stubble. Some officers and sergeants tried to whip the men back to their duty, but the lure of the gold had turned the battalion into a mob. Some of the lucky Neapolitans were finding more money in five minutes than they could have expected to make in a lifetime.

Sharpe stumbled through a dry watercourse, scrambled up its far bank, and half carried Frederickson through patches of tall, thick leaved plants that had saw-like edges. The village lay to their left, its harbour just beyond. Lieutenant Herguet, who had led Calvet’s small band down to the harbour, jumped up and down on the quay. The cavalry had still not appeared, and Pannizi’s infantry were scattered to uselessness. Sharpe was limping badly, but Frederickson, his one good eye almost closed by the swelling dark bruise, found new strength. Harper kicked Ducos on. Calvet was suddenly enjoying himself; he whooped his men through the village, past the barking dogs, and on to the sharp flinty quay. They ran past drying nets and wicker pots, down to where Herguet guarded a bright-painted boat on which two disconsolate crewmen cowered beneath his men’s two guns.

“Cavalry!” Calvet’s man warned. But the cavalry was too late. They burst over the hill’s shoulder, they drew their swords, they spread out in fine array, but Calvet’s men were already aboard the fishing boat, Harper was slashing at the stern line with his bayonet, and the dirty sail was already catching the dawn’s land breeze to drive the high-prowed craft out into the bay.

Ducos, with his hands still tied, was pushed to the bottom of the fish hold. He stared myopic hatred at Sharpe, but then Sharpe closed the hatch to leave his enemy in a stinking darkness. The Grenadiers were laughing with the pleasure of victory. It might not have been Jena or Wagram or Austerlitz, but it was still a victory for an Emperor who all the world thought was past winning victories.

Calvet embraced Harper, then the foully bruised Frederickson, and lastly Sharpe. “I forgive you for the lime, Englishman, and I will say that, for a man who is not French, you fight with a reasonable skill.”

Sharpe laughed. “Be glad, General, that you will not have to fight me again.”

“Who knows?” Calvet’s voice was mischievous. “If I can bring the Emperor enough gold then perhaps he can raise an army again?”

The mischievous remark reminded Sharpe of Major-General Nairn’s wistful dream of one last great battle, one climactic killing in which the Emperor would be arrayed against the world, but Nairn was dead, his old bones flensing in a French grave. Sharpe smiled. “No, General, there’ll be no more battles.”

“You’re right.” Calvet sounded miserable as he made the admission. “You and I are finished, my riend. The world’s at peace and we’re useless now. We’re the hunting dogs, but rabbits rule the earth now.” Calvet turned to watch the Neapolitan cavalry curb their horses on the far quay. “But I tell you, my friend, that within a year, you and I will be wishing for battle again.”

“I won’t,” Sharpe said fervently.

“You wait.” Calvet turned away from the land, and stared out to sea where two sails showed on the hazy horizon. “So what will you do now, my friend?” he asked Sharpe.

“Take Ducos to Paris and present him to Wellington. After that he will be given to the authorities.”

“Which authorities?”

“The ones who will execute him for the murder of Henri Lassan.”

Calvet offered Sharpe a mocking smile. “That small crime worries you?”

“It worries Madame Castineau.”

Calvet still smiled. “And why should Madame Castineau’s concerns be of any interest to you?”

Sharpe turned away because one of the Neapolitan cavalrymen had fired a carbine at the fishing boat. The ball splashed uselessly a hundred yards astern. None of the boat’s occupants even bothered to raise a weapon in reply.

Calvet fished in his pouch and brought out a handful of gems. He sorted through them with a grimy finger, then selected one flawless, blood-red ruby. “Give that to Madame Castineau, for, even if unwittingly, by writing her letter she did a great service for France.”

Sharpe hesitantly took the jewel. “For France, General? Or for Elba?”

“Napoleon is France, my friend. If you tied him in chains and dropped him to the ocean’s deepest pit, he would still be France.” Calvet folded Sharpe’s hand over the precious jewel. “I will give you nothing more, Englishman. Does that hurt? That you must go empty-handed from a fight where we filled a morning sky with gold?”

“I lived,” Sharpe said simply.

“And you left empty-handed.” Calvet smiled. “So you see, Englishman, the French won after all!”

„Vive I’Empereur, mon General.“

„Vive I’Empereur, mon ami.“

An hour later they accosted a Piedmontese merchant ship which, for a handful of imperial gold and under the threat of a dozen muskets, agreed to take the soldiers on board. Calvet would go to Elba and Sharpe, with his prisoner, would seek a Royal Naval ship. Thereafter they would be unwanted hounds in a kingdom of rabbits, but they had lived when so many had died, and that, at least, was something. Thus, in their separate ways, they sailed towards peace.

EPILOGUE

Pierre Ducos died in a fortress ditch, shot by a firing squad from France’s royalist army. No one mourned him; not even those soldiers in the firing squad who were still secretly loyal to the exiled Emperor. Ducos had betrayed Napoleon, just as he had betrayed France, and thus he was shot like a dog and buried like a suicide in an unmarked grave beyond the fortress glacis.

In London an aide-de-camp to the Prince Regent heard of Ducos’s death and, as a result, suffered sleepless nights. The Frenchman’s execution was a triumph for a Rifleman who had come from ignominy to regain his reputation, and any day now that man would cross the channel. Lord Rossendale contemplated flight to the remnants of his family’s Irish estates, but his pride forced him to stay and show a bravado he did not feel. Each morning he went to a fencing master in Bond Street and each afternoon he shot with long-barrelled duelling pistols at targets in the yard of Clarence House. He claimed he was just honing his military skills, but all society knew he was practising for the ordeal of grass before breakfast. “He’s left Paris,” Rossendale told Jane one autumn morning.

Jane did not need to be told who ‘he’ was. “How do you know?”

“A courier came from the Embassy yesterday. All three of them rode for Calais.”

Jane shivered. Beyond the window rain swept in grey curtains across the park. “What will happen?” she asked, though she well knew the answer.

Rossendale smiled. “It’s called grass before breakfast.”

“No,” Jane protested.

“He’ll call me out, I’ll choose the weapons, and we’ll fight.” Rossendale shrugged. “I imagine I shall lose.”

“No.” Jane remembered the terrible arguments that had preceded Sharpe’s duel with Bampfylde. She had lost those arguments, but now she would lose the man she had come to love.

“I’m not a swordsman,” Rossendale said ruefully, “and I’m a rotten shot with a pistol.”

“Then don’t fight!” Jane said fiercely.