Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe's Revenge, Sharpe's Waterloo, Sharpe's Devil (75 page)

He reined in on the ridge above the chateau of Hougoumont. From here he could see far to the south-west, but nothing stirred in the grey morning. A handful of cavalry picquets from the King’s German Legion sat untroubled in the fields, proof that the French had not marched. The château itself buzzed with noise as the Coldstream Guards, who formed its garrison, finished their preparations. Sharpe could hear the sound of pickaxes making yet more loopholes in the thick walls of the barns and house.

A knot of horsemen was galloping along the ridge’s crest. The horses’ hooves flung up great gobs of mud and water from the soaking ground. The leading horseman was the Prince of Orange who, seeing Sharpe, raised a hand in greeting and swerved towards the two Riflemen. The Prince was elegantly dressed in a gold-frogged coat that was trimmed with black fur. ‘You were up early, Sharpe!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Nothing moving on the flank?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

The Prince suddenly spotted that Sharpe still wore his Rifle green under the cloak. He was clearly tempted to say something, but just as clearly feared an act of downright disobedience that would betray his own lack of princely authority, so instead he scowled and stared towards the vulnerable open flank where the German horsemen sat like statues in the waterlogged meadows.

‘The Emperor will come round this way. You can depend on it!’

‘Indeed, sir,’ Sharpe said.

‘An attack around our right will cut us off from the North Sea and take the French away from the Prussians, Sharpe, that’s what it’ll do, and that’s why the Emperor will attack here. A child could work that out! It’s a waste of time putting guns on the ridge. They’ll all have to be moved to this flank and it’ll be a shambles when the orders are given. But at least we’ll be ready for the move!’

‘Are the Prussians coming, sir?’ Sharpe asked.

The Prince frowned as though he found the question aggravating. ‘They’re coming.’ The answer was grudging. ‘Blücher says two of his corps will be here by midday and a third will be hard on their heels. The message came a few minutes ago.’

‘Thank God,’ Sharpe said fervently.

The Prince, already irritated by Sharpe’s refusal to wear Dutch uniform, was galled by the Rifleman’s evident relief. ‘I don’t think we need be too grateful, Colonel Sharpe. I trust we can beat those devils without a few Germans, isn’t that so, Rebecque?’

‘Indeed, Your Highness.’ Rebecque, his horse just behind that of the Prince, said tactfully.

‘We can beat them so long as we hold this flank.’ The Prince turned his horse towards the château. ‘So keep watch here, Sharpe! The future of Europe may depend on your vigilance!’

The Prince shouted the last fine words as he spurred down the farm track, which led off the ridge to the château. Rebecque waited a few seconds until his master’s entourage was out of earshot, then added a few cautionary words. ‘The roads are very heavy, so I wouldn’t expect the Prussians till early afternoon.

‘But at least they’re coming.’

‘Oh, they’re coming, right enough. They’ve promised it. We wouldn’t be fighting here if they weren’t.’ Rebecque smiled to acknowledge his bald contradiction of the Prince’s confidence. ‘May I wish you joy of the day, Sharpe?’

‘And the same to you, sir.’

They shook hands, then Rebecque trotted after his master who had disappeared into Hougoumont’s big courtyard.

Patrick Harper glanced up at the sky to judge the time. ‘The Germans will be here by early afternoon, eh? Where will they come from?’

‘From over there.’ Sharpe pointed to the west, far beyond the elm tree and beyond the left flank of Wellington’s line. ‘And I’ll tell you something else, Patrick. You were right. It’s going to be bloody murder.’ Sharpe turned to glower at the empty enemy ridge. ‘Napoleon’s not going to manoeuvre. He’s going to come straight for us like a battering ram.’

Harper was amused at Sharpe’s sudden grim certainty. ‘With the future of Europe at stake?’

Sharpe did not know why he was suddenly so certain, unless it was an inability to agree with anything the Prince of Orange believed. He attempted a more acceptable justification for his certainty. ‘Boney will want to get it done quickly, so why manoeuvre? And he’s never cared how many of his men die, so long as he wins. And he’s got enough men over there to hammer us bloody, so why shouldn’t he just march straight forward and have the damned business done?’

‘Thank God for the Prussians then,’ Harper said grimly.

‘Thank God, indeed.’

Because the Prussians had promised, and were coming.

 

Marshal Prince Blücher, Commander of the Prussian army, had promised he would march to fight beside Wellington, but Blücher’s Chief of Staff, Gneisenau, did not trust the Englishman. Gneisenau was convinced that Wellington was a knave, a liar and a trickster who, at the first sniff of cannon-fire, would run for the Channel and abandon the Prussians to Napoleon’s vengeance.

Blücher had scorned Gneisenau’s fears and ordered his Chief of Staff to organize the march to Waterloo. Gneisenau would not directly disobey any order, but he was a clever enough man to make sure that his method of obedience was tantamount to disobedience.

He therefore commanded that General Friedrich Wilhelm von Bülow’s Fourth Corps should lead the advance on Waterloo. Of all the Prussian corps the Fourth was the furthest away from the British. Making the Fourth march first would inflict a long delay on the fulfilment of Blücher’s promise, but Gneisenau, fearing that von Bülow might show a soldier’s haste in marching to the expected sound of the guns, further ordered the thirty thousand men of the Fourth Corps to march by a particular road that not only led through the narrow streets of Wavre, but also crossed a peculiarly narrow and inconvenient bridge. The Fourth Corps was also commanded to march through the cantonments of Lieutenant-General Pirch’s Third Corps, which was instructed to leave its guns and heavy supply wagons parked on the road. Once von Bülow’s thirty thousand men had edged past those obstructions, Pirch was permitted to begin his own march in von Bülow’s footsteps. Lieutenant-General Zieten’s Second Corps, which was only twelve miles from Waterloo and the closest of all the Prussian Corps to the British, was firmly ordered to stay in its cantonments until the Fourth and Third had passed it by, and then the Second was to take a circuitous northerly route that would still further delay its arrival on the battlefield.

It needed a masterful piece of staff work to create such chaos, but Gneisenau was a master and, proving that fortune will often favour the competent, an extra delay was imposed when a burning house blocked a street in Wavre so that von Bülow’s men were stalled almost before their march had begun. The soldiers just grounded their muskets and waited.

Somewhere to the south a French Corps was blundering about in search of the Prussian army, but Gneisenau was not worried by that threat. All that mattered was that the precious Prussian army should not be sucked into the huge defeat that the Emperor was about to inflict on the British, and Gneisenau, confident that his skill had averted such a disaster, ordered his breakfast.

 

A single horseman rode to the solitary elm tree. The horseman wore a blue civilian coat over white buckskin breeches and tall black boots. About his neck was a white cravat, while on his cocked hat were four cockades, one each for England, Spain, Portugal and the Netherlands. A blue cloak was rolled on the pommel of his saddle. His staff closed in behind as His Grace the Duke of Wellington stared through a spyglass at the tavern called La Belle Alliance. The military commissioners of Austria, Spain, Russia and Prussia attended the Duke, and like him trained their telescopes at the far ridge. Some civilians had also ridden from Brussels to observe the fighting and they too crowded in behind the Duke.

The Duke snapped his glass shut and looked at his watch. Nine o‘clock. ‘Baggage to the rear,’ he said to no one in particular, but two of his aides turned their horses away to carry the order down the line.

The battalions shrugged off their packs which were piled onto the carts that had brought up the extra ammunition. The men were ordered to keep nothing but their weapons, cartridges and canteens. The carts struggled through fetlock-deep mud to carry the baggage back to the forest’s edge where it joined the carriages of the military commissioners and the artillery wagons and the portable forges and the farriers’ carts, and where the supernumeraries of battle - the shoeing smiths, the wheelwrights, the commissary officers, the clerks, the drivers, the harness makers and the soldiers’ wives - would wait for the day’s decision.

On the northern slope of the ridge the Duke’s infantry waited in columns of companies. The leading battalions were far enough advanced for the men of the forward companies to see over the crest to where a faint and watery glimmer of sunlight shone on the enemy ground. That southern ridge was empty, all but for a few horsemen.

Then, suddenly and gloriously, an army began to show.

The veterans in the Duke’s army had seen an enemy prepare for battle, but never like this. Before, in Spain, the enemy would come as a threat, as a smear of dark uniforms advancing across sunlit ground, but here the Emperor paraded his army as though this day was a holiday and the British redcoats were spectators of his gorgeous display. The French did not advance to battle; instead they spread themselves in an arrogant panoply of overwhelming power.

Infantry, cavalry and gunners appeared. They marched or rode as though they were on the Champ de Mars in Paris. They were not in their combat uniforms, but dressed for the forecourt of a palace. Their coats glistened with gold and silver lace. There were plumes of scarlet, silver, yellow, red, green and white. There were helmets of brass and of steel; helmets trimmed with leopard’s fur or rimmed with sable. There were Cuirassiers, Lancers, Dragoons, Carabiniers, and Hussars. Gunners with dark blue pelisses edged with silver fur ordered their weapons slewed to face the enemy. Trumpeters challenged the valley, their instruments trailing banners of embroidered gold. The red and white Polish swallow-tailed flags of the Lancers made a thicket of colour, while guidons, standards, banners, pennants and gilded Eagles studded the watery sky.

And still they came; regiment after regiment, troop after troop, battery after battery; the might of a resurrected Empire displayed in a massive show of incipient violence. Grecian helmets trailed plumes of horsehair, officers wore sashes thick with gold thread, and the élite of the infantry’s elite wore black bearskins. Those were the men of the Imperial Guard, Napoleon’s beloved
anciens,
each man with a powdered pigtail, gold ear-rings, and the moustache of a veteran. In front of the Emperor’s Guard his
jeunes filles,
his guns, stood wheel to wheel.

Sharpe, watching from the ridge above Hougoumont, stared in utter disbelief. After half an hour the enemy was still filing onto the ridge, the new battalions concealing the first, and those new battalions in turn being hidden by yet more troops who poured from the high road to wheel left or right. The bands were playing while officers with gold and lace-trimmed saddle-cloths galloped bravely in front of the display. It was a sight not seen on a battlefield for a hundred years; a formal display of a glorious threat, overwhelming and dazzling and filling the southern landscape with guns and sabres and lances and swords and muskets.

The British gunners gazed at their targets and knew there was not enough ammunition in all Europe to kill such a horde. The infantry watched the thousands of enemy cavalry who would try and break them as they had broken a brigade at Quatre Bras. The Dutch-Belgian troops just watched the whole vast array and knew that no army in all the world could beat such glory into gore.

‘God save Ireland.’ Even Harper, who had seen most of what war had to offer, was overwhelmed by the sight.

‘God quicken the bloody Prussians,’ Sharpe said. The sound of the French bands came clear across the valley; a cacophony of tunes among which, at intervals, the raucous defiance of the Marseillaise sounded distinct. ‘They’re trying to make the Belgians run away,’ Sharpe guessed, and he twisted in his saddle to stare at the nearest Belgian regiment and saw the fear on their young faces. This was not their fight. They thought of themselves as French, and wished the Emperor was back as their lord, but fate had brought them to this sea of mud to be dazzled by a master of war.

From one end of the far ridge to the other, across two miles of farmland, the French army paraded. The Emperor’s guns seemed wheel to wheel; Sharpe tried to number the enemy’s artillery and lost count at over two hundred barrels. He did not even attempt to number the enemy’s men, for they filled the ridge and hid each other and still they marched from the high road to fill the far fields. The might of France had come to a damp valley, there to obliterate its oldest enemy.

The enemy’s drums and bands faded as a cheer billowed from the line’s centre. A small man on a grey horse had appeared. He wore the undress uniform of a colonel of the Imperial Guard’s
chasseurs àcheval;
a green coat faced with red over a white waistcoat and white breeches. The man wore a grey overcoat loose on his shoulders like a cloak. His bicorne hat had no cockades. His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of France, galloped along the face of his army and was greeted by the cheers of men who knew they were on the brink of victory.

The Duke of Wellington had long turned scornfully away from the display. ‘Tell the men to lie down.’

The British and Dutch obeyed. Men lying flat in the long grass of the ridge’s plateau could not see the overwhelming enemy, nor were they visible to the enemy’s gunners.

The Duke rode along the right of his line. He did not gallop like his opponent, but trotted sedately. No one cheered the Duke. His gunners, posted on the ridge’s crest, watched the Emperor. One gunner captain, his weapon loaded, squinted along its crude sights then called out to the Duke that in a moment the Emperor would gallop directly into the gun’s line. ‘Permission to fire, Your Grace?’