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 29th, 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 Blucher 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
