“A man wrote to me. A settler in Chile. He is one of your countrymen, and was an officer in your army, but in the years since the wars he has come to hold some small admiration for myself.” The Emperor smiled as though apologizing for such immodesty. “He asked that I would send him a keepsake, and I am minded to agree to his request. Would you deliver the gift for me?”
“Of course, sir.” Sharpe felt a small relief that the favor was of such a trifling nature, though another part of him was so much under the thrall of the Emperor’s genius that he might have agreed to hack a bloody path down Saint Helena’s hillside to the sea and freedom. Harper, sitting beside Sharpe, had the same look of adoration on his face.
“I understand that this man, I can’t recall his name, is presently living in the rebel part of the country,” the Emperor elaborated on the favor he was asking, “but he tells me that packages given to the American consul in Valdivia always reach him. I gather they were friends. No one else in Valdivia, just the American consul. You do not mind helping me?”
“Of course not, sir.”
The Emperor smiled his thanks. “The gift will take some time to choose, and to prepare, but if you can wait two hours, monsieur?” Sharpe said he could wait and there was a flurry of orders as an aide was dispatched to find the right gift. Then Napoleon turned to Sharpe again. “No doubt, monsieur, you were at Waterloo?”
“Yes, sir. I was.”
“So tell me,” the Emperor began, and thus they talked, while the Spaniards waited and the rain fell and the sun sank and the redcoat guards tightened their nighttime ring about the walls of Longwood, while inside those walls, as old soldiers do, old soldiers talked.
It was almost full dark as Sharpe and Harper, soaked to the skin, reached the quayside in Jamestown where the Espiritu Santos longboats waited to take the passengers back to Ardiles’s ship.
At the quayside a British officer waited in the rain. “Mister Sharpe?” He stepped up to Sharpe as soon as the Rifleman dismounted from his mule.
“Lieutenant Colonel Sharpe,” Sharpe answered, irritated by the man’s tone.
“Of course, sir. And a moment of your time, if you would be so very kind?” The man, a tall and thin Major, smiled and guided Sharpe a few paces away from the curious Spanish officers. “Is it true, sir, that General Bonaparte favored you with a gift?”
“He favored each of us with a gift.” Each of the Spaniards, except for Ardiles who had received nothing, had been given a silver teaspoon engraved with Napoleon’s cipher, while Harper had received a silver thimble inscribed with Napoleon’s symbol, a honeybee. Sharpe, having struck an evident note of affection in the Emperor, had been privileged with a silver locket containing a curl of the Emperor’s hair.
“But you, sir, forgive me, have a particular gift?” the Major insisted.
“Do I?” Sharpe challenged the Major, and wondered which of the Emperor’s servants was the spy.
“Sir Hudson Lowe, sir, would appreciate it mightily if you were to allow him to see the gift.” Behind the Major stood an impassive file of redcoats.
Sharpe took the locket from out of his pocket and pressed the button that snapped open the silver lid. He showed the Major the lock of hair. “Tell Sir Hudson Lowe, with my compliments, that his dog, his wife or his barber can provide him with an infinite supply of such gifts.”
The Major glanced at the Spanish officers who, in turn, glowered back. Their displeasure was caused simply by the fact that the Major’s presence delayed their departure, and every second’s delay kept them from the comforts of the Espiritu Santa’s saloon, but the tall Major translated their enmity as something that might lead to an international incident. “You’re carrying no other gifts from the General?” he asked Sharpe.
“No others,” Sharpe lied. In his pocket he had a framed portrait of Bonaparte, which the Emperor had inscribed to his admirer, whose name was Lieutenant Colonel Charles, but that portrait, Sharpe decided, was none of Sir Hudson Lowe’s business.