“Now,” Sharpe said.
The noise was monstrous. The falling poles, planks, and stones crashed and tore, splintered and banged as almost a hundred feet of scaffolding cascaded into the crossing. Blocks of stone ripped through the poles and planks, but what was most useful was the dust. It was thicker than smoke, and amid the tumbling stones and timber it blossomed like a dark gray cloud to dim the small candlelight coming from the cathedral’s chapels. The scaffolding that Sharpe was crossing began to shake as the destruction spread around the crossing. Then he pushed Pumphrey up the ladder. Harper was already at the top, using his volley gun’s butt to smash open the window. “Use your cloak!” Sharpe shouted. He could hear someone screaming below.
Harper laid his cloak over the broken shards of glass in the bottom of the shattered window and then unceremoniously hauled Pumphrey up beside him. “Come on, sir!” He reached for Sharpe’s hand and grabbed it just as the planks slid out from under Sharpe’s feet. The last of the scaffolding tumbled, filling the cathedral with more noise and dust.
They were now balanced precariously on the window’s edge. The crossing behind them was boiling with dust through which the candlelight died, plunging the cathedral into utter darkness. “There’s a drop, sir,” Harper warned. Sharpe jumped, thought the drop would never end, and suddenly sprawled on a flat roof. Pumphrey came next, hissing with pain as he landed, and Harper followed. “God save Ireland, sir,” the sergeant said fervently, “but that was desperate!”
“Have you got the money?”
“Yes,” Pumphrey said.
“I enjoyed that,” Sharpe said. His head hurt like the devil and his hand was bleeding, but there was nothing he could do about either. “I really enjoyed that,” he said. The wind plucked at him. He could hear waves breaking nearby. When he went to the edge of the roof he saw the pale white fret of breakers beyond the seawall. It had begun to rain again, or perhaps it was sea spray driven on the wind. “Scaffolding’s on the other side,” he said.
“I think my ankle’s broken,” Lord Pumphrey said.
“No it’s bloody not,” Sharpe said, who did not know one way or the other, but this was no time for His Lordship to become feeble. “Walk and it’ll get better.”
The monstrous sails beat against the unfinished crown of the dome and above the unbuilt sanctuary. Sharpe blundered into one of the ropes securing them, then felt his way to the roof’s edge. Just enough light came from a lantern in a courtyard below for him to see where the scaffolding was built. He could see other lanterns, bobbing as they were carried through the streets. Someone must have heard the shots in the cathedral despite the noise of the storm, but whoever went to investigate was going to the eastern facade with its three doors. No one was watching the cathedral’s northern flank where Sharpe found the ladders. With Harper now holding the gold, they went down ladder after ladder. Thunder sounded overhead and a flash of lightning lit the intricate pattern of poles and planks down which they climbed. Lord Pumphrey almost kissed the cobblestones when they reached the bottom. “Dear God,” he said. “It’s just sprained, I think.”
“Told you it wasn’t broken,” Sharpe said. He grinned. “It was all a bit hurried at the end, but otherwise it went well.”
“It was a cathedral!” Harper said.
“God will forgive you,” Sharpe said. “He might not forgive those bastards inside, but he’ll forgive you. He loves the Irish, doesn’t he? Isn’t that what you keep telling me?”
It was not far to the embassy. They knocked on the gate and a sleepy doorkeeper pulled it open. “The ambassador’s waiting?” Sharpe asked Pumphrey.
“Of course.”
“Then you can give him His Majesty’s money back,” Sharpe said, “less six guineas.” He opened the valise and found it filled with leather bags. He untied one, counted six guineas, and gave the rest to Pumphrey.
“Six guineas?” Lord Pumphrey asked.
“I might need to bribe someone,” Sharpe said.
“I imagine His Excellency will want to see you in the morning,” Pumphrey said. He sounded dispirited.
“You know where to find me,” Sharpe said. He walked toward the stables, but stopped under the arch and saw that Lord Pumphrey was not going toward the house where the embassy had its offices and Henry Wellesley had his quarters. Instead he went to the courtyard that led to the smaller houses, to his own house. He watched His Lordship disappear, then spat. “They think I’m daft, Pat.”
“They do, sir?”
“They all do. Are you tired?”
“I could sleep for a month, sir, so I could.”
“But not now, Pat. Not now.”
“No, sir?”
“When’s the best time to hit a man?”
“When he’s down?”
“When he’s down,” Sharpe agreed. There was work to do.
SHARPE GAVE each of his riflemen a guinea. They had been fast asleep when he and Harper returned to the stables, but they woke up when Sharpe lit a lantern. “How many of you are drunk?” Sharpe asked.
The faces looked at him resentfully. No one spoke. “I don’t care if you are,” Sharpe said, “I just want to know.”
“I had some,” Slattery said.
“Are you drunk?”
“No, sir.”
“Harris?”
“No, sir. Some red wine, sir, but not much.”
Perkins was frowning at his guinea. He might never have seen one before. “What does m, b, f, et, h, rex, f, d, b, et, l, d, s, r, I, a, t, et, e mean,” he asked. He had read the inscription on the coin and stumbled over the letters, half remembered from some long-ago schooling.
“How the hell would I know?” Sharpe asked.
“King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland,” Harris said. “Defender of the Faith, Duke of Brunswick and Luneburg, Arch-Treasurer and Elector, of course.”
“Bloody hell,” Perkins said, impressed. “So who’s that, then?”
“King George, you idiot,” Harris said.
“Put it away,” Sharpe told Perkins. He was not quite sure why he had given them the guineas, except that on a night when so much money had been treated so lightly he saw no reason why his riflemen should not benefit. “You’re all going to need greatcoats and hats.”
“Jesus,” Harris said, “we’re going out? In this storm?”
“I need the twelve-pounder shells,” Sharpe said, “and the last two smoke balls. Put them in your packs. Did you fill the bottles with lamp oil and brandy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We need those too. And yes, we’re going out.” He did not want to. He wanted to sleep, but the time to strike was when the enemy was off balance. Montseny had taken at least six men, maybe more, to the cathedral, and those men were probably still entangled with the wreckage of the scaffolding and snared in the questions of the troops who had gone to discover the cause of the commotion. Did that mean the newspaper was unguarded? But guarded or not, the storm was a godsend. “We’re going out,” he said again.
“Here, sir.” Hagman brought him a stone bottle.