Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe's Revenge, Sharpe's Waterloo, Sharpe's Devil (57 page)

Upstairs, in a room filled with boots and coats, the two Dukes leaned over a map while Sharpe amplified his report. Wellington moved a candle across the map to find the village of Fleurus where the Prussians now faced the French. That had been the first news this night had brought the Duke—that Napoleon’s army had branched off the Brussels road to drive the Prussians eastwards away from the British. That news had been serious, but not disastrous. The Duke had planned to assemble as much of his army as possible, then march at dawn on to the French flank to help Blücher’s Prussians, but now Sharpe had brought much worse news. The French had closed on Quatre Bras, effectively barring the Duke’s planned march. Now, before he could help the Prussians, the Duke must thrust the French aside. The gap between the British and Prussian armies was still very narrow, yet Sharpe’s news proved that the Emperor had his foot between the two doors and, in the morning, he would be heaving damned hard to drive the doors apart.

Wellington bit his lower lip. He had been wrong. Napoleon, far from manoeuvring about the Duke’s right flank, had rammed his troops into the seam between the allied armies. For a second the Duke’s eyes closed, then he straightened up and spoke very quietly. ‘Napoleon has humbugged me, by God! He has gained twenty-four hours!’ He sounded astonished, even hurt.

‘What do you intend doing?’ The Duke of Richmond had gone pale.

‘The army will concentrate on Quatre Bras,’ the Duke of Wellington seemed to be speaking to himself as though he groped towards a solution of the problem Napoleon posed, ‘but we shan’t stop him there, and if so,’ Wellington’s gaze flicked across the map, then settled, ‘I must fight him,’ he paused again to lean over the map for a few final seconds, ‘here.’ He pressed his thumbnail into the map’s thick paper.

Sharpe stepped a pace forward to look down at the map. The Duke’s thumbnail had forced a small scar into the map at another crossroads, this one much closer to Brussels and just south of a village with the odd name of Waterloo.

‘He’s humbugged me!’ the Duke said again, but this time with a grudging admiration for his opponent.

‘Humbugged?’ Richmond was worried.

‘It takes our armies two days to assemble,’ Wellington explained. ‘They’re not assembled, yet the Emperor’s army is already on our doorstep. In brief he has humbugged us. Sharpe.’ The Duke turned abruptly on the Rifleman.

‘Sir?’

‘You might have dressed for the dance.’ It was a gloomy jest, but softened with a smile. ‘I thank you. You’ll report to the Prince of Orange, I assume?’

‘I was going back to Quatre Bras, sir.’

‘Doubtless he’ll meet you there. I thank you again. And good-night to you.’

Sharpe, thus dismissed, made a clumsy bow. ‘Good-night, sir.’

The Duke of Richmond, when Sharpe had gone, grimaced. ‘A menacing creature?’

‘He came up from the ranks. He saved my life once,’ Wellington somehow managed to sound disapproving of both achievements, ‘but if I had ten thousand like him tomorrow then I warrant we’d see Napoleon beat by midday.’ He stared again at the map, seeing with sudden and chilling clarity just how efficiently the Emperor had forced the allied armies apart. ‘My God, but he’s good,’ the Duke spoke softly, ‘very good.’

Outside the dressing-room, Sharpe found himself surrounded by anxious staff officers who waited for Wellington. The Rifleman brushed aside their questions, going instead to the main staircase which led down into the brightly lit chaos of the entrance hall where a throng of officers demanded their horses or carriages. Sharpe, suddenly feeling exhausted, and reluctant to force his way through the crowd, paused on the landing.

And saw Lord John Rossendale. His lordship was standing at the archway that led into the ballroom. Jane was with him.

For a second Sharpe could not believe his eyes. He had never dreamed that his enemy would dare show his face in the army, and Lord John’s presence seemed evidence to Sharpe of just how the cavalryman must despise him. The Rifleman stared at his enemy just as many of the crowd in the entrance hall stared up at the blood-soaked Rifleman. Sharpe translated the crowd’s attention as the derision due to a cuckold and, in that misapprehension, his temper snapped.

He impulsively ran down the last flight of stairs. Jane saw him and screamed. Lord John turned and hurried out of sight. Sharpe tried to save a few seconds by vaulting the banister. He landed heavily on the hall’s marble flagstones, then thrust his way through the press of people.’ ‘Move!’ Sharpe shouted in his best Sergeant’s voice, and the sight and sound of his anger was enough to make the elegant couples shrink away from him.

Lord John had fled. Sharpe had a glimpse of his lordship running through the ballroom. He ran after him, clear of the crowd now. He dodged past the few remaining couples who still danced, then turned into the supper room. Lord John was hurrying round the edge of the room, making for a back entrance, but Sharpe simply took the direct route which meant jumping from table to table straight across the room. His boots smashed china, ripped at the linen, and cascaded silver to the floor. A drunken major, finishing a plate of roast beef, shouted a protest. A woman screamed. A servant ducked as Sharpe jumped between two of the tables. He kicked over a candelabra, upset a tureen of soup, then leaped from the last table to land with a crash in Lord John’s path.

Lord John twisted round, running back towards the ballroom. Sharpe pursued him, kicking aside a spindly gilt chair. A group of scarlet-coated cavalry officers appeared in the supper room entrance and Lord John, evidently encouraged by these reinforcements, turned to face his enemy.

Sharpe slowed to a walk and drew his sword. He dragged the blade slowly through the scabbard’s wooden throat so that the sound of the weapon’s scraping would be as frightening as the sight of the dulled steel. ‘Draw your sword, you bastard.’

‘No!’ Lord John, as white faced as any of the fashionable women at the ball, backed uncertainly towards his friends who hurried towards the confrontation.

Sharpe was just a few paces from his enemy. ‘Where’s my money? You can keep the whore, but where’s the money?’

‘No!’ That was Jane, screaming from the supper room’s entrance.

‘Stop, I say! Stop!’ One of the cavalrymen, a tall captain in Life Guard’s uniform, hurried to Lord John’s side.

Sharpe, though he was still far out of sword’s reach, suddenly lunged and Lord John, in utter fear, stepped hurriedly backwards and tripped on his spurs. He flailed for balance, snatched at the closest tablecloth and dragged a cascade of smashing china and chinking silver to the floor as he fell. There was a second’s silence after the last shard of china had settled.

‘You shit-faced, yellow-bellied bastard,’ Sharpe said to the sprawling Lord John.

‘Enough!’ Lord John’s leading rescuer, the Life Guards Captain, drew his own sword and stood above his lordship.

‘You want to be filleted?’ Sharpe did not care. He kept walking forward, ready to hack down all the high-born, long-nosed bastards.

The Captain held his sword blade upright, almost at the salute, to show that he was neither menacing Sharpe nor trying to defend against him. ‘My name is Manvell. Christopher Manvell. You and I have no quarrel, Colonel Sharpe.’

‘I’ve got a quarrel with that piece of yellow shit at your feet.’

‘Not here!’ Captain Manvell warned. ‘Not in public!’ Duelling had been forbidden to serving officers, which meant that any duel would have to be fought in secret. Two other cavalry officers stood behind the Captain.

Lord John slowly climbed to his feet. ‘I tripped,’ he explained to his friend.

‘Indeed.’ Manvell kept his eyes fixed on Sharpe, half fearing that the Rifleman might still attack.

‘You can keep the whore,’ Sharpe said again to Lord John, but this time loud enough for Jane and the other spectators to hear, ‘but I want my money.’

Lord John licked his lips. He knew that Sharpe’s insults were more than mere anger, but a deliberate provocation to a duel. No man could hear his woman described as a whore and not fight, yet Lord John was truly terrified of the Rifleman and had no doubt who would win a duel, and so, despite the insults and despite the people who witnessed his humiliation, he nodded his acceptance of Sharpe’s demand. ‘I’ll send you a note tomorrow,’ he said humbly.

Captain Manvell was plainly astonished at Lord John’s swift collapse, even disgusted by the cowardice, but had no choice but to accept it. ‘Does that satisfy you, Colonel Sharpe?’

Sharpe was just as surprised at his sudden victory. He felt oddly cheated, but sheathed his sword anyway. ‘You can bring the note to me at the Prince of Orange’s headquarters.’

He had spoken to Lord John, but Manvell chose to answer. ‘I shall act for his lordship in this matter. You have a second to whom I can present the note?’

‘He does!’ Peter d‘Alembord spoke up from the crowd which listened from the supper room’s wide entrance. Lucille, her face paled by fear, held d’Alembord’s arm as he walked a few paces into the room and bowed primly to Christopher Manvell. ‘My name is d’Alembord. I can be found with the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers who are a part of Sir Colin Halkett’s brigade.’

Manvell gave the smallest nod to acknowledge d‘Alembord’s bow. ‘I shall serve you a promissory note tomorrow, Captain d‘Alembord. Is that agreeable?’

‘Entirely.’

Manvell thrust his own sword home, then took Lord John’s elbow and led him away. Jane, watching from the entrance, had a hand over her mouth. Sharpe caught her eye for a second, then turned away as Lucille ran to him.

‘I should have killed the bastard,’ Sharpe growled.

‘You’re a fool.’ Lucille brushed at the blood on his jacket, then touched his cheek.

D‘Alembord, behind Lucille, waited until the spectators had drifted away. ‘What happened?’ he asked Sharpe.

‘You heard for yourself, didn’t you? The bastard collapsed.’

D‘Alembord shook his head. ‘What happened with Wellington? What was the news?’

Sharpe had to drag his thoughts back to the earlier events of the night. ‘Napoleon’s stolen a march on us. His army’s just a day away from here, and ours is still scattered over half Belgium. We’ve been humbugged, Peter.’

D‘Alembord smiled very wanly. ‘Oh, my God.’

‘So it’s time to see how an emperor fights.’ Sharpe said grimly, then he put an arm round Lucille’s shoulders and steered her towards the ballroom where, because the orchestra had been engaged till dawn, the music still played and a few last couples still danced. The Highland dancers had left, taking their swords for other employment. A few girls, their escorts already gone to join their regiments, wept. The windows had been opened wide and a small breeze fluttered the candles. The remaining dancers, holding each other very close, slowly circled the floor, which was littered with discarded flowers and dance-cards and even a pair of silk gloves. A pearl necklace had broken and two liveried servants scrabbled on hands and knees to retrieve the jewels.

The music was winsome. Like the wind that guttered and blew out the candles, a bloodied man had broken through the dancers’ joy to break the glittering ball into dark fragments, yet still some few couples could not bear to relinquish the last moments of peace. A young infantry major danced with his wife of just three weeks. She wept softly, while he held her and believed in the augury that this happiness could not possibly end in death on a battlefield, for such an end would be against all that was good and sweet and lovely in the world. He would live because he was in love. He clung to the thought until, reluctant, and with tears in his eyes, it was time to draw away from his love. She held his hands tight, but he smiled, freed his hands, then reached for the grey ostrich feathers she wore in her hair. The Major plucked one of the grey feathers, kissed his wife’s hand, then went to find his regiment.

The Emperor had humbugged them all, and the killing would begin.

At one in the morning, in the heart of the brief night, Lucille shivered in the courtyard of her Brussels lodging house. Two horses trampled nervously on the cobbles by the yard’s arched entrance. The only light came from a lantern which hung in the stable doorway. Her child slept upstairs.

‘Take this.’ Lucille thrust a bundle towards Sharpe. ‘It belonged to Xavier.’

Sharpe shook the bundle loose to reveal that it was a dark blue woollen cloak lined with scarlet silk, a luxury that had belonged to Lucille’s husband. ‘It’s beautiful.’ He felt awkward, not certain that he was worthy of the gift. He folded the cloak over his arm, then touched Lucille’s cold cheek. ‘I’ll see you late tomorrow.’

‘Maybe.’ Lucille absently brushed at the dried blood on Sharpe’s threadbare jacket. ‘How can you tell?’

‘One day to hold them,’ he said lightly, ‘and one day to beat them.’

‘Maybe,’ she said again, then, looking up into his eyes, ‘and what if you lose?’

‘Take a canal barge to Antwerp. I’ll find you there. If it’s really bad, make your way to Ostend and cross to England.’

Lucille’s despondency was caused by a fear of Sharpe’s death, not a British defeat, but she dared not articulate such a thought. She sensed a difference in her man; there was a remoteness in Sharpe this night which, though he tried to hide it, was very obvious to Lucille. She knew he had killed one of her countrymen the previous evening, and she supposed he was now preparing himself for all the others he would fight. She also detected a certain relief in Sharpe. Instead of wrestling with the imponderables of land and trees and drainage and crops, he was back where his skills gave him a harsh certainty. She glanced through the open gateway, her attention caught by the tramp of boots. A Scottish battalion was marching down the street, its pace dictated by the soft beat of a muffled drum. ‘Maybe I should go home,’ she said almost despairingly, ‘to Normandy.’