Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe's Revenge, Sharpe's Waterloo, Sharpe's Devil (72 page)

The assembled officers stared at the broken sword which lay like a trophy on the supper table.

‘The trick of it’, Lord John said, ‘is to get past the lance point. Once you’re past the spike it’s a bit like killing rabbits. Too easy, really.’

‘So long as your sword doesn’t break?’ Christopher Manvell asked drily.

‘There is that, yes.’

The Earl frowned. ‘So if the fellow ran away, why didn’t you pick up the pistol, Johnny? You said it was expensive.’

‘I could hear more of the scoundrels among the trees. I thought I’d better give them a run.’ Lord John gave a small disarming smile. ‘To tell you the truth, Harry, I was frightened! Whatever, I whipped my damn horse and ran like the devil!’

Christopher Manvell, who had seemed somewhat less impressed by Lord John’s ordeal than the other officers about the table, at least confirmed the story’s ending. ‘He came back to the road white as a sheet.’

‘You did well, Johnny, damned well.’ The Earl of Uxbridge spoke gruffly. ‘You killed a brace of the buggers, eh? Damn good.’ There was a spatter of applause, then Christopher Manvell asked the Earl what news he had gleaned from his conference with the Duke of Wellington.

The truth was that the Earl had gleaned nothing at all. He was second in command to the Duke and had thought that appointment entitled him to know just what the Duke planned for the next day, but his enquiry had met with a very dusty answer indeed. The Duke had said his plans depended entirely on Napoleon, and as Napoleon had not yet confided in the Duke, the Duke could not yet confide in the Earl, and so good-night.

‘I think we’ll just let the bugger attack us, then see him off, eh?’ the Earl said lazily, as though the events of the next day were really not very significant at all.

‘But the Prussians are coming?’ Manvell insisted.

‘I think we can do the business without a few damned Germans, don’t you?’ The Earl pushed a box of cigars into the table’s centre. ‘But one thing’s certain, gentlemen. No doubt our cavalry will make England proud!’

‘Bravo!’ A drunken staff officer pounded the table.

After supper Christopher Manvell found Lord John standing in the open front porch from where he was staring into the wet dusk. ‘I wish I’d been there to help you against those Lancers,’ Manvell said.

For a few seconds it seemed that Lord John would not reply at all, then he just shrugged the subject away. ‘Harry seems very sanguine about our chances tomorrow.’

Manvell blew a stream of cigar smoke into the drizzle. ‘It’s strange, Johnny. I saw you come out of the wood, then not a moment later I saw Colonel Sharpe in the same place. You were lucky not to meet him.’

Again Lord John was silent for a few seconds, then spoke in a rush of quiet bitterness. ‘Of course I met him. And of course there were no bloody Lancers. What was I supposed to do? Admit to Harry and everyone else that I was humiliated by a Rifleman?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Manvell was embarrassed by the tortured admission he had provoked from his friend.

‘I gave him his damned note. Not that it will do me any good. Jane won’t give me the money unless I marry her, but Sharpe doesn’t know that.’ Lord John laughed suddenly. ‘He gave me a length of rope and told me it was a peasant divorce. He says I’m free to marry her.’

Manvell smiled, but said nothing. The gutters either side of the paved high road were gurgling and flooding. Across the street a sentry ran cursing through the puddles to open a gate for a mounted officer. An orderly hung a lantern outside the stable entrance of the house where the Prince of Orange was billeted.

‘It’s a matter of honour.’ Lord John was staring into the darkening street.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Tomorrow’, Lord John said, ‘has become a rather desperate matter of honour.’ He was very slightly drunk, and his voice held a hint of hysteria. ‘I never realized before today how very simple battle is. There’s no compromise, is there? It’s victory or defeat, and nothing in between, while real life is so damned complicated. Perhaps that’s why the best soldiers are such very simple souls.’ He turned in the porch to stare at his friend. ‘You see, if I want to keep the woman then I have to kill a man, and I don’t have the nerve to face him. And he’s done nothing to deserve death! It is his money! But if I do the honest thing to the man, then I lose the woman, and I don’t think I can live with that loss-’

‘I’m sure you can -’ Christopher Manvell interrupted and, in his turn, was cut off.

‘No!’ Lord John did not even wish to discuss Jane. He frowned in puzzlement at his friend. ‘Do you think lost honour can be retrieved on a battlefield?’

‘I’m sure it’s the very best place to retrieve it.’ Manvell felt a surge of pity for his friend. He had never realized till this moment just how Lord John’s honour had been trampled and destroyed.

‘So tomorrow’s become rather important to me,’ Lord John said. ‘Because tomorrow I can take my honour back by fighting well.’ He smiled as if to soften the overdramatic words. ‘But to do it I’ll need a sword, and my spare blade is in Brussels. I suppose you don’t have one you could lend me?’

‘With pleasure.’

Lord John stared into the drenching twilight. ‘I wish it was over. The rain, I mean,’ he added hurriedly.

‘I think it’s slackening.’

Lightning flickered in the west, followed a few seconds later by thunder that crashed across the far sky like the passage of a cannon-ball. Laughter and singing sounded from a house further up the street, temporarily drowning the ominous and repetitive scraping noise of a stone putting an edge onto a sword. A dog howled in protest at the thunder and a horse whinnied from the stables behind the Earl of Uxbridge’s billet.

Lord John turned back into the house. He could retrieve his honour and he could retrieve Jane by becoming a hero. Tomorrow.

Captain Harry Price, commander of the first company of the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers, climbed onto a makeshift platform constructed from spare ammunition boxes. In front of him, standing in the rain-soaked field, were forty or fifty infantry officers who had assembled from the various battalions bivouacked nearby. The last light was draining in the west, while the rain had slackened to a drizzle.

‘Are we ready, gentlemen?’ Price called.

‘Get on with it!’

Price, enjoying himself, bowed to the hecklers, then took the first article from Colour Sergeant Major Huckfield. It was a silver-cased watch that Harry Price held high into the last vestiges of the light. ‘A watch, gentlemen, property of the late Major Micklewhite! The item is only very slightly blood-stained, gentlemen, so a good cleaning will have it ticking in no time. I offer you a very fine fob watch, gentlemen, made by Mastersons of Exeter.’

‘Never heard of them!’ a voice shouted.

‘Your ignorance is of no interest to us. Mastersons are a very old and reputable firm. My father always swore by his Mastersons watch and he was never late for a rogering in his life. Do I hear a pound for Major Micklewhite’s ticker?’

‘A shilling!’

‘Now, come along! Major Micklewhite left a widow and three sweet-natured children. You wouldn’t want your wives and little ones left derelict because some thieving bastards weren’t generous! Let me hear a pound!’

‘A florin!’

‘This isn’t a dolly-shop, gentlemen! A pound? Who’ll offer me a pound?’

No one would. In the end Micklewhite’s watch fetched six shillings, while the dead Major’s signet ring went for one shilling. A fine silver cup that had belonged to Captain Carline went for a pound, while the top price went for Carline’s sword that fetched a full ten guineas. Harry Price had to auction sixty-two articles, all the property of those officers of the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers who had been killed by the French cavalry at Quatre Bras. The prices were low because the French had caused a glut on the market by killing so many officers; at least four other auctions had already taken place this evening, but this night’s glut, Harry Price thought, would be as nothing compared to tomorrow night’s supply of goods.

‘A pair of Captain Carline’s spurs, gentlemen! Gold if I’m not mistaken.’ That claim was greeted by jeers of derision. ‘Do I hear a pound?’

‘Sixpence.’

‘You’re a miserable bloody lot. How would you feel if it was your belongings I was giving away for tuppence? Let us be generous, gentlemen! Think of the widows!’

‘Carline wasn’t married!’ a lieutenant shouted.

‘A guinea for his whore, then! I want some Christian generosity, gentlemen!’

‘I’ll give you a guinea for his whore, but sixpence for his spurs!’

Micklewhite’s effects made eight pounds, fourteen shillings and sixpence. Captain Carline’s belongings fetched a good deal more, though all the items had been knocked down at bargain prices. Harry Price, who had always wanted to look like a cavalry officer, bought the spurs himself for ninepence. He also bought Carline’s fur-edged pelisse; an elegantly impractical garment that high fashion imposed on wealthy officers. A pelisse was a short jacket that was worn from one shoulder like a cloak, and Harry Price took immense satisfaction in draping Carline’s expensively braided foible about his own shabby red coat.

He took the money and the promissory notes to the battalion’s paymaster who, after he had taken his share, would send the balance on to the bereaved families.

Harry Price fixed the spurs onto his boots and splashed back to the hedge where the officers shivered in their miserable shelter. He saw Major d‘Alembord sitting further up the hedge. ‘You didn’t bid, Peter?’

‘Not tonight, Harry, not tonight.’ D’Alembord’s tone was distinctly unfriendly, discouraging conversation.

Price took the hint and walked a few paces up the hedgerow before sitting and admiring his newly decorated heels. The spurs should cut a dash with the ladies of Paris, and that was the best reason Harry Price knew for fighting; because the girls could be so very obliging to a foreign soldier, and especially a soldier with a pelisse and spurs.

Men were singing in the bivouacs. Their voices came strongly through the ever-present sound of the rain that had begun to fall harder again. Peter d‘Alembord, attempting to stir himself from his misery, saw Harry Price’s new spurs and perceived the childish delight which they had evidently given to their new owner. D’Alembord was tempted to start a conversation in the hope that Harry Price’s usual foolery would distract him from his fears, but then the terror surged up again, strong and overwhelming, and d‘Alembord almost sobbed aloud under its impact. Lightning flickered to the north, and d’Alembord touched the pocket where his fiancée’s letters were stored. He was going to die. He knew he was going to die. He closed his eyes so that no tears would show. God damn it, he knew he was going to die, and he was afraid.

 

It was fully dark by the time Sharpe and Harper reached Waterloo and discovered the Prince’s billet. A sentry opened the stable gate and the two Riflemen ducked under the low stone arch which led to the yard.

‘I’ll look after the horses,’ Harper offered when the two men reached the shelter of the stable.

‘I’ll help you.’

‘Go and see your wee Prince. He’s probably missing you.’

‘Missing his bloody mother, more like.’ Sharpe slid down from the saddle and breathed a sigh of relief to be free of it. He tried to remember how much sleep he had had in the last three days, but he was too weary to add the few hours together. He remembered he had promised Lucille that he would see her this night, but the Emperor had changed those plans. He needed to write her a letter. He also needed food and sleep. He wearily rested his head against the saddle and listened to the growing violence of the rain.

‘Leave it to me,’ Harper insisted.

Sharpe obeyed. The kitchen was crammed with officers’ servants and rank with the smell of drying uniforms which were hung on every available shelf or hook. Sharpe edged through the room and into the corridor beyond. He was seeking Rebecque, for he wanted to borrow a pen and some ink.

‘He wants you.’ A girl’s voice spoke from the stairway above Sharpe.

Sharpe was surprised to see Paulette, the Prince’s girl, leaning on the balustrade. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘He wanted me here. But he’s been asking for you all evening. He’s drunk.’

‘Very?’

‘Just happy. The usual.’

‘Bugger him,’ Sharpe said in English. He pushed open a door at random and found himself in a parlour that was crowded with the Prince’s staff. They were embarrassed to see Sharpe, imagining him as a prodigal come home for the Prince’s pardon. Doggett alone offered the Rifleman a welcome, as well as surrendering his chair and volunteering to pour Sharpe a glass of wine. The chair was close to the fire in front of which, as in the kitchen, thick wool coats were hung to dry and were filling the room with a malodorous steam. ‘Where’s Rebecque?’ Sharpe asked the room at large.

‘With His Highness,’ Doggett said. ‘Red wine?’

‘What I would really like,’ Sharpe collapsed into the chair, ‘is a cup of tea.’

Doggett grinned. ‘I shall arrange it, sir.’

Sharpe stretched out his legs, and flinched as the old wound in his thigh shot a stab of agony up to his hip. He wondered if he would ever be dry again. He knew he should beg or borrow some writing paper and pen a swift letter to Lucille, but he was suddenly too tired to move.

‘Sharpe!’ The door had opened and Rebecque’s scholarly face peered into the candle-lit room. ‘You are here! His Highness would like a word with you? Now? If you please?’

Sharpe groaned, flinched, and climbed slowly to his feet. ‘Can I get something to eat, Rebecque?’

‘Royal commands do not wait on hunger.’ Rebecque took Sharpe’s elbow and propelled him towards the staircase. ‘And remember my admonitions, will you? Be tactful!’

Rebecque led Sharpe upstairs where, without ceremony, he ushered Sharpe into the bedroom where the Prince was writing letters at a small table. The Prince was dressed in a thick woollen gown and had a flask of brandy at his right elbow. He did not acknowledge Sharpe’s arrival, but instead concentrated on dripping a puddle of sealing wax onto one of his letters. He carefully centred his signet ring, then pressed it down into the wax. ‘I always seem to burn my fingers on sealing wax.’