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” Sharpe did not want to stay in this cabin where his disappointment had shamed him in front of so many officers. It was a petty motive, pride-born, but a soldier without pride was a soldier doomed for defeat.
“Major Sharpe,” Bampfylde explained with ill-concealed scorn, “has taken a wife, so we must forgo his company.”
“I haven’t taken a wife,” Elphinstone said belligerently, “but I can’t dine either. Your servant, sir.”
The two men, Sharpe and Elphinstone, travelled back to St Jean de Luz in Bampfylde’s barge. Elphinstone, swathed in a vast black cloak, shook his head sadly. “Bloody madness, Sharpe. Utter bloody madness.”
It began to rain. Sharpe wished he was alone with his misery.
“You’re disappointed, aren’t you?” Elphinstone remarked.
“Yes.”
“Wigram’s a bastard,” Elphinstone said savagely, “and you’re to take no bloody notice of him. You’re not going to Bordeaux. Those are orders.”
Sharpe, stirred from his self-pity by Elphinstone’s ferocious words, looked at the big Engineer. “So why are we taking the fort, sir?”
“Because we need the chasse-marees, why else? Or were you dozing through that explanation?”
Sharpe nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The rain fell harder as Elphinstone explained that the whole Arcachon expedition had been planned simply to release the three dozen chasse-marees that were protected behind the fortress guns. ”I need those boats, Sharpe, not to waltz into bloody Bordeaux, but to build a bloody bridge. But for Christ’s sake don’t tell anyone it’s a bridge. I’m telling you, because I won’t have you gallivanting off to Bordeaux, you understand me?“
“Entirely, sir.”
“Wigram thinks we want the boats for a landing, because that’s what the Peer wants everyone to think. But it’s going to be a bridge, Sharpe, a damned great bridge to astonish the bloody Frogs. But I can’t build the bloody bridge unless you capture the bloody fort and get me the boats. After that, enjoy yourself. Go and ambush the high road, then go back to Bampfylde and tell him the Frogs are still loyal to Boney. No rebellion, no farting about, no glory.” Elphinstone stared gloomily at the water which was being pocked by the cold rain into a resemblance of dirty, heaving gunmetal. “It’s Wigram who’s got this bee in his bonnet about Bordeaux. The fool sits behind a bloody desk and believes every rumour he hears.”
“Is it a rumour?”
“Some precious Frenchman pinned his ear back.
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