Lebecque nodded. “So you tell them, Corporal,” Sharpe went on, “who came to Naples with me.” Lebecque’s nose was running and his hands were tied behind his back, so all he could do was sniff. “Soldiers,” he said miserably. “What sort of soldiers?” “French.” “And what uniform were they wearing?” Sharpe demanded. Lebecque looked sullen, then shrugged. “The Imperial Guard,” he said. “Louder,” Sharpe demanded. “Head up, man! Back straight! Let’s hear you!” Lebecque instinctively stood up straight. “The Imperial Guard!” he snapped, and Sharpe saw that Jacques Malan had heard. He had wanted Jacques Malan to hear, for Malan had been an Imperial Guardsman himself and he still wore one of the great moustaches that Napoleon’s picked warriors had sported.
“The Imperial Guard,” Sharpe said, staring at Malan, “and I fought alongside them. I fought under the orders of General Jean Calvet.” He saw that name register on Malan’s suspicious face. “I was not fighting for Britain,” Sharpe said, “but for France. And when we had taken back the gold, we did not keep it. It went to Elba!” That statement did not go down quite as well as he had hoped, for most of the villagers, far from being impressed by his honesty, plainly thought he was daft for having allowed such a fine treasure to escape.
“But these men,” Sharpe indicated Lebecque and the other two prisoners, “believe I still possess the gold. So they came here. Seven of them. And four are still in the chateau where they are holding Madame, our child and Marie as hostages.” A murmur ran through the church. “And I have come here,” Sharpe finished, “because you are my neighbours, and because I need help.” He pushed Lebecque back to the other prisoners, then turned to Father Defoy and shrugged as though he had nothing more to say. There was silence in the church for a few seconds, then an urgent muttering. One man demanded to know why they should help Sharpe at all, and Sharpe spread his hands as if to suggest he could think of no reason. “But you all know Madame,” he said, “and Marie has lived here all her life. Would you abandon two of your women to these thieves?” Father Defoy shook his head. “But we’re not soldiers! We should call the gendarmes from Caen!” “And at nightfall,” Sharpe said, “Lucille will die while the gendarmes are still looking for their boots.” “But what do you want us to do?” another asked plaintively. “He wants us to fight his battles for him,” Jacques Malan growled from the back of the small church. “It’s the English way. They let the Germans fight for them, the Spanish, the Portuguese, the Scots, the Irish, anyone but the English.”
A MURMUR of agreement sounded from Malan’s supporters, then Malan looked momentarily alarmed as Sharpe strode down the aisle. The big man hefted his cudgel. “Outside,” Sharpe said, pulling open the church door. “I don’t obey you,” Malan said stubbornly. “Lost your courage, have you?” Sharpe sneered as he walked out into the snow. “All words, no action?”
Malan came through the door like a charging bull, only to find Sharpe sitting on the church’s low wall. “Stand up,” Malan demanded. “Just get it over,”
Sharpe said. “Hit me.” He saw the puzzlement on Malan’s face. “That’s what you’ve been wanting to do all year, isn’t it?” he asked. “Hit me? So do it.”
“Stand up!” Malan said again, and his supporters, who had followed Malan out of the church, growled their support. “I’m not going to fight you, Jacques,”
Sharpe said, “I don’t need to. I’ve been in as many battles as you have, so I don’t have to prove a thing. But you do. You don’t like me. In fact you don’t seem to like anyone. You do nothing all day except make trouble. You were supposed to deliver firewood to the church-house, weren’t you? But you haven’t done it. You’d rather sit in the tavern spending your mother’s money. Why don’t you make yourself useful? I could use you! I’ve got a rusted-up mill that needs rebuilding, and a mill channel that needs clearing, and next month I’ve got a load of stone coming from Caen to repave the yard. I could do with a strong man. But right now I need a soldier. A good soldier, not some fat drunk who lives off his poor mother’s purse.” Malan stepped forward and raised the cudgel. “Get up,” he insisted. “Why bother?” Sharpe asked, “if you’re just going to knock me down again?” “You’re frightened!” Malan jeered. “Of a drunk?” Sharpe asked scornfully. “You dare call me a drunk?” Malan shouted.