Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe's Revenge, Sharpe's Waterloo, Sharpe's Devil (74 page)

Sharpe and Harper were among the first to leave. The Prince was not even out of his bed when Sharpe wearily hauled himself into his saddle and shoved his rifle into its bucket holster. He was wearing his green Rifleman’s jacket beneath Lucille’s cloak and riding the mare which had recovered from her long day’s reconnaissance about Charleroi. His clothes were clammy and his thighs sore from the long days in the saddle. The wind whipped droplets of water from the roofs and trees as he and Harper turned south into the village street. ‘You’ll keep your promise today?’ Sharpe asked Harper.

‘You’re as bad as Isabella! God save Ireland, but if I wanted someone else to be my conscience I’d have found a wife out here to nag me.’

Sharpe grinned. ‘I’m the one who’ll have to give her the news of your death, so are you going to keep your promise?’

‘I’m not planning on being a dead man just yet, so I’ll keep my promise.’ Harper was nevertheless dressed and equipped for a fight. He wore his Rifleman’s jacket and had his seven-barrelled gun on one shoulder and his rifle on the other. Both men had left their packs at the Prince’s billet, and neither man had shaved. They rode to battle looking like brigands.

As they neared Mont-St-Jean they heard a sound like the sucking of a great sea on a shelving beach. It was the sound of thousands of men talking, the sound of damp twigs burning, the noise of squibbed muskets popping, and the sound of the wind rustling in the stiff damp stalks of rye. It was also a strangely ominous sound. The air smelt of wet grass and dank smoke, but at least the clouds of the previous day had thinned enough so that the sun was visible as a pale pewter glow beyond a cloudy vapour that was being thickened by the smoke of the camp-fires.

There was one ritual for Sharpe to perform. Before riding on to the ridge’s crest he found a cavalry armourer close to the forest’s edge and handed down his big sword. ‘Make it into a razor,’ he ordered.

The armourer treadled his wheel, then kissed the blade onto the stone so that sparks flowed like crushed diamonds from the steel. Some of the nicks in the sword’s fore edge were so deep that successive sharpenings had failed to obliterate them. Sharpe, watching the sparks, could not even remember which enemies had driven those nicks so far into the steel. The armourer turned the blade to sharpen the point. British cavalrymen were taught to cut and slash rather than lunge, but wisdom said that the point always beat the edge. The armourer honed the top few inches of the backblade, then stropped the work on his thick leather apron.

‘Good as new, sir.’

Sharpe gave the man a shilling, then carefully slid the sharpened sword into its scabbard. With any luck, he thought, he would not even need to draw the weapon this day.

The two Riflemen rode on through the encampment. The battalions’ supply wagons had not arrived so it would be a hungry day, though not a dry one, for the quartermasters had evidently arranged for rum to be fetched from the depot at Brussels. Men cheered as the barrels were rolled through the mud. Equally to the day’s purpose were the wagons of extra musket ammunition that were being hauled laboriously across the soaking ground.

A drummer boy tightened the damp skin of his drum and gave it an exploratory tap. Next to him a bugler shook the rain out of his instrument. Neither boy was more than twelve years old. They grinned as Harper spoke to them in Gaelic, and the drummer boy offered a reply in the same language. They were Irish lads from the 27th, the Inniskillings. ‘They look good, don’t they?’ Harper gestured proudly at his coutrymen who, in truth, looked more like mud-smeared devils, but, like all the Irish battalions, they could fight like demons.

‘They look good,’ Sharpe agreed fervently.

They reined in at the highest point of the ridge, where the elm tree stood beside the cutting in which the highway ran north and south. Just to Sharpe’s left a battery of five nine-pounder guns and one howitzer was being prepared for the day. The charges for the ready ammunition lay on canvas sheets close to the guns; each charge a grey fabric bag containing enough powder to propel a roundshot or shell. Near the charges were the projectiles, either roundshot or shells, which were strapped to wooden sabots that crushed down onto the fabric bags inside the gun barrels. Gunners were filling canisters, which were nothing but tubular tins crammed with musket-balls. When fired the thin tin canisters split apart to scatter the musket-balls like giant blasts of duckshot. Beside the guns were the tools of the artillerymen’s trade: drag-chains, relievers, rammers, sponges, buckets, searchers, rammers, wormhooks, portfires and handspikes. The guns looked grimly reassuring until Sharpe remembered that the French guns would look just as businesslike and were probably present on the field in even greater numbers.

The smoke of the enemy’s camp-fires lay like a low dirty mist over the southern horizon. Sharpe could see a knot of horsemen close to the inn, but otherwise the enemy was hidden. In the valley itself patches of the tall rye had been beaten flat by the night’s rain, leaving the fields looking as though they suffered from some strange and scabrous disease.

There were Riflemen positioned some two hundred paces down the road in the valley, just opposite the farm of La Haye Sainte. Sharpe and Harper trotted towards those Greenjackets, who were occupying a sandpit on the road’s left, while the farm on the right was garrisoned by men of the King’s German Legion.

‘A bad night?’ Sharpe asked a Greenjacket sergeant.

‘We’ve known worse, sir. It’s Mr Sharpe, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nice to know you’re here, sir. Cup of tea?’

‘The usual smouch?’

‘It never changes, sir.’ Smouch was a cheap tea which was rumoured to be made from ash leaves steeped in sheep’s dung. It tasted even worse than its alleged recipe sounded, but any hot liquid was welcome on this damp cold morning. The Sergeant handed Sharpe and Harper a tin mug each, then stared through the dawn gloom at the enemy-held ridge. ‘I suppose Monsewer will start the ball early?’

Sharpe nodded. ‘I would if I was in his boots. He needs to beat us before the Prussians come.’

‘So they are coming, sir?’ The Sergeant’s tone betrayed that even these prime troops realized how precarious was the British predicament.

‘They’re coming.’ Sharpe had still not heard any official news of the Prussians, but Rebecque had been confident the night before that Blücher would march at dawn.

The Sergeant suddenly whipped round, proving he had eyes in the back of his head. ‘Not here, George Cullen, you filthy little bastard! Go and do it in the bloody field! We don’t want to be tripping over your dung all day! Move!’

A group of the Greenjackets’ officers had gathered about an empty artillery canister that they had filled with hot water for their morning shave. One of the men, a tall, cadaverous and grey-haired major, looked oddly familiar to Sharpe, but he could neither place the man’s face nor his name.

‘That’s Major Dunnett,’ the Sergeant told Sharpe. ‘He was only posted to this battalion last year, sir. Poor gentleman had the misfortune to be a prisoner for most of the last war.’

‘I remember now.’ Sharpe spurred the mare towards the group of officers and Dunnett, looking up, caught his eye and stared with apparent amazement. Then Dunnett shook the soap off his razor blade and walked to meet Sharpe. They had last met during the disastrous retreat to Corunna when Dunnett had been in charge of a half-battalion of Greenjackets and Lieutenant Sharpe had been his quartermaster. Dunnett had hated Sharpe with an unreasonable and ineradicable hatred. The last glimpse Sharpe had caught of his erstwhile commanding officer had been as French Dragoons captured Dunnett while Sharpe had scrambled to desperate safety with a group of Riflemen. Now, denied promotion by his five years in prison, Dunnett was still a Major while Sharpe, his old quartermaster, outranked him.

‘Hello, Dunnett.’ Sharpe curbed his horse.

‘Lieutenant Sharpe, as I live and breathe.’ Dunnett patted his face dry. ‘I heard that you’d survived and prospered, though I doubt you’re still a lieutenant? Or even a quartermaster?’

‘A Dutch Lieutenant-Colonel, which I don’t think counts for very much. It’s good to see you again.’

‘It’s good of you to say so.’ Dunnett, evidently embarrassed by Sharpe’s compliment, looked away and caught sight of Harper who was still talking with the Sergeant. ‘Is that Rifleman Harper?’ Dunnett asked incredulously.

‘Ex-Rifleman Harper. He cheated his way out of the army, and now can’t resist coming back to see it fight a battle.’

‘I thought he’d have died long ago. He was always a rogue.’ Dunnett was painfully thin, with deep lines carved either side of his grey moustache. He looked back to Sharpe. ‘So were you, but I was wrong in my opinion of you.’

It was a handsome retraction. Sharpe tried to throw it off by saying how terrible the retreat to Corunna had been; an ordeal that had abraded mens’ tempers and manners till they were snarling at each other like rabid dogs. ‘It was a bad time,’ he concluded.

‘And today doesn’t promise to be much better. Is it true that Boney’s whole army is over there?’

‘Most of it, anyway.’ Sharpe assumed that Napoleon had sent some men to keep the Prussians busy, but the thickness of the camp-fires across the valley was evidence that most of the French army was now assembled in front of Wellington’s men.

‘Damn the bastards however many they might be.’ Dunnett buttoned his shirt and pulled on his green coat. ‘I won’t be taken a prisoner again.’

‘Was it bad?’

‘No, it was even civilized. We had the freedom of Verdun, but if you didn’t have money, that was a dubious privilege. I think I’d rather die than see that damned town again.’ Dunnett turned and stared towards the empty slope of the French ridge where the only movement was the ripple of the wind moving the standing patches of damp rye. He stared for a few seconds, then turned back to Sharpe. ‘It’s oddly good to see you again. There aren’t many of that particular battalion still living. You heard they were at New Orleans?’

‘Yes.’

‘Butchered,’ Dunnett said bitterly. ‘Why do they make fools into generals?’

Sharpe smiled. ‘I think you’ll find the Duke’s no fool.’

‘So everyone tells me, and let’s hope it’s true. I want the chance of killing some Crapauds today. I’ve scores to settle with the bloody French.’ Dunnett laughed as if to dilute the hatred he had betrayed, then offered his hand. ‘Allow me to wish you well of this day, Sharpe.’

Sharpe reached down and took his old enemy’s hand. ‘And you, Dunnett.’ He thought how odd it was that men made peace before they went to war, and it seemed odder still as Dunnett, with apparent pride, introduced Sharpe to the other officers. These Riflemen were cruelly exposed, so far forward of the ridge, but so long as the Germans held the farm buildings then the Greenjackets were assured of their supporting fire. ‘Better here than over there.’ A captain pointed towards the left flank where the British ridge was pierced and flattened by a shallow re-entrant and where a battalion of Dutch-Belgian troops was in full view of the enemy. The rest of Wellington’s infantry were concealed behind the ridge or sheltered behind thick farm walls, but the one Dutch-Belgian battalion was horribly exposed. Doubtless some troops had to be stationed to block the dangerous re-entrant, but, after Quatre Bras, it seemed futile to expect the Belgians to stand and fight.

‘Perhaps the Duke wants the buggers to run away early? No point in feeding the scum if they won’t fight.’ Five years of imprisonment had done nothing to dull Dunnett’s tongue.

Sharpe made his farewells, then he and Harper rode back towards the ridge. ‘Strange to meet Dunnett again,’ Sharpe said, then he twisted to look at the empty French ridge as he thought of the men he knew in that far army. One or two of those men he counted as friends, yet today he would have to fight them.

Once at the crest of the ridge Sharpe and Harper turned west towards the British right flank which the Prince of Orange had judged to be vulnerable. Some battalions were already formed up behind the ridge’s crest. The Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers were paraded in a hollow square that faced inwards towards a chaplain who was trying to make himself heard above the sound of the wind and the buzz of other battalions’ voices. Sharpe saw d‘Alembord’s head bowed, apparently in prayer, though more probably in reverie. Just beyond the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers an infantry battalion of the King’s German Legion was singing a psalm. The Hanoverian voices were strong and full of emotion so that Sharpe had the sudden guilty impression that he eavesdropped upon a very private moment. ‘It’s Sunday, so it is,’ Harper said with a note of surprise, then made the sign of the cross on his uniform jacket.

On the ridge’s crest a cheerful and rubicund gunner officer was riding from gun battery to gun battery. ‘You will not indulge in counter-battery fire. You will save your powder for the infantry and the cavalry! You will not fire at the enemy guns, but at their infantry and cavalry alone! Good morning, Freddy!’ He raised his hat to a friend who evidently commanded one of the batteries.

‘Thank God it’s stopped raining, eh? Give my compliments to your lovely wife when you write home. You will not indulge in counter-battery fire, but you will save your powder ...’ His voice faded behind as Sharpe and Harper rode further west.

‘I’ve never seen so many guns,’ Harper commented. Every few yards there was another battery of nine-pounders while, behind the ridge, the lethal short-barrelled howitzers waited in reserve.

‘You can bet your last ha’pence that Napoleon’s got more guns than us,’ Sharpe said grimly.

‘All the same, it’ll be bloody slaughter if the Crapauds march straight across the valley.’

‘Maybe they won’t. The little Dutch boy thinks they might hook round this end of our line.’ Sharpe spoke sourly, though in truth the Prince’s fear was a genuine and intelligent concern, and Sharpe, suddenly fearing that the Emperor might already have marched and that the French might already be threatening to spring a surprise attack on the British right flank, spurred his mare forward.