up to hold her hand. The woman cursed Lord John for making her life so difficult, but she was not unprepared for such unco-operative victims. She carried a ten-inch knife that she used to slaughter the pigs she raised in her back yard. “Lie still!” she told Lord John in French.
“Jane!” he cried desperately, and the woman feared that his noise would bring the sentries so she sawed the knife quick and hard across his moon-whitened throat. Blood jetted black. He choked, jerked once like a landed fish, then was still.
The woman took Lord John’s coat with its precious epaulettes, but left his shirt because it was too drenched in blood. In a pocket of the coat she found a ragged length of dirty rope that she used to bind up her bundle of plundered clothing. Beyond the southern ridge a vixen howled at the sky that was suffused with the smoke of the victors’camp-fires.
The Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers slept on the ridge they had defended. Peter d’Alembord’s leg had been taken off, so he might yet live. Private Clayton was dead; killed by the Imperial Guard at the very moment of victory. Charlie Weller lived, as did Colonel Ford, though the Colonel had been sent back to Brussels and whether he wanted to stay alive any longer was another matter. Harry Price was the next most senior living officer, so Sharpe had made him into a Major and given Simon Doggett a Captaincy, though he had warned both men that the promotions might not stand up to the scrutiny of the civil servants in Whitehall. Men might fight and bleed and write a chapter of history for Britain, but still the evil-minded soft-bummed bastards of Whitehall would have the last say.
Sharpe slept for an hour, then woke to sit beside a fire that he had made from fragments of lance shafts and the broken spokes from a shattered gun wheel. The first light came early; a sickly grey that dispersed the plunderers and brought the black-winged carrion birds to feast on the dead. The air was already humid, promising a day of stifling heat. In the west the fires of the Prussian bivouacs made thin skeins across the wash of high cloud. Somewhere behind the ridge a bugle called the Rouse and other buglers took up the call that seemed to be echoed by the crowing of cockerels from distant villages.
“Orders, sir?” Harry Price looked red-eyed, as though he had been crying, though it was probably just tiredness.
Sharpe felt tired and emptied, so it took an immense effort to think of even the simplest tasks. “I want a proper butcher’s list, Harry.” That was the list of the dead and wounded. “Give Sergeant Huckfield a work party to salvage muskets, and see what other equipment you can filch.” The aftermath of battle was a prime time to stock the battalion’s equipment needs. “We need some food. Remind me who’s guarding the prisoners?”
“Sergeant Ryan.”
“Tell him to march the buggers back to brigade. If they don’t want them, then turn them loose without any boots or belts.”
“We’re going to need more sergeants,” Harry Price warned.
“I’ll think about it.” Sharpe turned to stare at the newly stripped bodies of the dead which lay so white among the charred stalks of rye. “And start digging a grave, Harry. A big one.”
“Yes, sir.”
A soldier brought Sharpe a scorching mug of tea that he drank as he gazed into the valley. Smoke still drifted from the remains of the chateau of Hougoumont and from the farm of La Haye Sainte. The chateau had been burnt right out, leaving nothing but blackened roof beams above a scorched stone shell, while the corridors of La Haye Sainte were still choked with dead. At the foot of the slope beneath Sharpe a horse that had survived the night without its back legs sat on its gory haunches and whinnied pathetically for help.
The first soldiers went down from the ridge. Some went to bury the dead while others searched for loot. A man found a French sword knot, its gilt braid beautiful and intricate, and kept it as a gift for his girl. Another man picked a silver-handled shaving brush from a stiff pool of congealed blood. Flies buzzed above the dead. A redcoat carefully collected a pack of playing cards that had been strewn around the body of a French skirmisher. The pages of a blood-stained book riffled in the small wind. Pistol shots sounded flat as men put horses out of their long misery. A group of cavalry officers, their uniforms oddly bright in the dull dawn, cantered down from the ridge to search the slew of bodies that marked the ride of the British horse from glory to defeat.
The first civilians arrived from Brussels. They parked their carriages near the elm tree and walked in horrified silence into the valley where the working parties searched for the wounded. Crows were ripping at the white-skinned dead. A woman found her husband and vomited. A local priest, come to minister to the injured French, reeled hopelessly towards the road with a hand clapped to his mouth.
Simon Doggett’s work party came back to the battalion with two tubs of salt beef, a sack of bread, and a barrel of rum. He proudly told Sharpe that he had stolen the food from the cavalry. “So what happens now?” Doggett asked.
Sharpe found it hard to think. It was as if the battle had deadened his senses. “We’ll go to Paris, I suppose.” He could not imagine the Emperor recovering from this defeat.
“Paris?” Doggett sounded surprised, as though he had not realized till this moment just what Wellington’s army had achieved in this valley that stank of smoke and blood. “You really think we’ll go to Paris?” he asked excitedly.
But Sharpe did not reply. Instead he was watching a horseman pick his way up the face of the ridge and across the long dark scars of earth that had been gouged by the French cannonade. He recognized Captain Christopher Manvell and walked to meet him. “Morning.” Sharpe’s greeting was curt.
Manvell touched a gloved hand to his hat. “Good morning, sir. I was hoping to find you.” He seemed embarrassed and turned to look at Sharpe’s men who, muddied and tired, stared malevolently back at the elegant cavalryman. “He’s dead,” Manvell said without any more effort at politeness.
“Rossendale?”
“Yes. He’s dead.” Manvell’s face showed sadness as he looked back to Sharpe. “I thought you should know, sir.”
“Why would I need to know?” Sharpe asked brutally.
Manvell seemed nonplussed, but then shrugged. “I believe he gave you a note? I’m afraid it’s worthless, sir. He didn’t have a penny of his own money. And then there’s — „Manvell stopped suddenly.
“There’s what?” Sharpe pressured him.
“There’s Mrs Sharpe, sir.” Manvell summoned the courage to say the words. “Someone will have to tell her.”
Sharpe gave a harsh brief laugh. “Not me, Captain. She’s a Goddamned whore, and she can rot in hell for all I care. Good day to you, Captain.”
“Good day, sir.” Manvell watched Sharpe walk away, then turned his horse towards the road where, unknown to Sharpe, Jane waited in her carriage for news. Manvell sighed, and went to break her heart.
Sharpe went back to the dying fire, took the promissory note from his pocket, and tore it into shreds. There would be no easy way of putting a new roof on the chateau after all. He scattered the paper scraps to the breeze, then turned towards his men. “Mr Price!”
“Sir?”
“We’ve got some bandsmen left alive, don’t we?”
“Indeed, sir! We’ve even got a bandmaster!”
“Then get the idle buggers to play us a tune! We’re supposed to be celebrating a bloody victory!”
Somewhere in the valley a woman screamed and screamed, paused to take breath, then screamed again because her husband was dead. Behind the battle line in the farm at Mont-St-Jean the pile of amputated limbs grew higher than the dungheap. A white-faced surgeon came to take the air by the roadside while upstairs, where the wounded officers had been taken to recuperate or die, d’Alembord twitched in his shallow sleep. Mr Little, the rotund bandmaster of the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers, launched his few musicians into a ragged version of’Over The Hills and Far Away‘. Sharpe ordered the colours, that had been restored to the battalion, to be unfurled and planted above the deepening grave so that the shadows of the silk flags would caress the dead.
A woman wept at the edge of the grave. She was one of the sixty wives who had been allowed to travel with the battalion and, though she was widowed now, she would probably be married again by the month’s end, for a soldier’s woman never lacked for suitors. Another newly widowed wife, Sally Clayton, sat next to Charlie Weller and Sharpe saw the nervousness with which the young man reached for her hand. “Make me a mug of tea, Charlie,” Sharpe said, “and I’ll make you into a sergeant.”
