Sharpe's Waterloo

CHAPTER 12

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 fiancee’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.”

“Your Highness could buy gummed wafers,” Rebecque suggested.

“I hate common things.” The Prince dropped his ring and turned his glaucous eyes on Sharpe. “I thought I ordered you to dress in Dutch uniform?”

Tact, Sharpe told himself, tact. “It’s drying out, sir.”

“I think our men have a right to see their officers dressed properly. Don’t you agree, Rebecque?”

“Entirely, Your Highness.”

The Prince poured himself brandy. He seemed to hesitate, as though debating whether to offer his Chief of Staff and Sharpe a glass each, but then decided his own need was more pressing and so confined himself to the one glass. “You’ve seen tomorrow’s battlefield, Sharpe?”

Sharpe had been expecting some reference to their altercation at Quatre Bras and had to hide his surprise at the question. “Yes, sir.”

“And?” the Prince demanded with an arrogant tilt of his strangely small head.

“It’ll do,” Sharpe said laconically.

“Do? It’s a ridiculous place to fight! A nonsense. It won’t be my fault if there’s disaster tomorrow.” The Prince stood and began pacing the floorboards. A wooden pail stood in one corner of the room to catch the drips where the roof leaked. The rain seethed and beat on the windows. The Prince, frowning with thought, suddenly turned accusingly on Sharpe. “Did you look at the open flank on the right?”

“No, sir.”

“Wide open! Wide open! Napoleon will be round that corner in a trice tomorrow, then we’ll all be tumbled backwards like skittles. I’ve told the Duke! Haven’t I told the Duke?” The Prince glared at Rebecque.

“Your views have been most strongly conveyed to His Grace, sir.”

“And are doubtless being ignored.” The Prince offered a very hollow laugh as though to suggest that, like ill genius, he was accustomed to his advice being ignored. “Tomorrow, Sharpe, we will prevent that tragedy.”

“Very good, sir.” Sharpe was suddenly aware that his soaking uniform was dripping water onto the Prince’s floor. He was chilled to the bone and edged slightly closer to the small coal fire which warmed the Prince’s bedroom.

The Prince, evidently forgetting the threat to the battlefield’s right flank, stopped his pacing and pointed with his brandy glass at Sharpe. “Do you know why I particularly desired your presence on my staff?”

“No, sir.”

“Because you have a reputation for boldness. I like that in a man, Sharpe, I relish it! I value it.” The Prince began pacing again, his small head bobbing on his long and ludicrously thin neck. “I’ve been educated as a soldier, isn’t that so, Rebecque?”

“Indeed, Your Highness.”

“Educated, Sharpe! Think of that! My whole lifetime has been devoted to the study of warfare, and shall I tell you what is the one lesson I have learned above all others?”

“I should like to know, sir.” Sharpe admired his own tactful restraint, especially as the Prince was just twenty-three years old and Sharpe had beena-fighting soldier for twenty-two.

“Boldness wins.” The Prince confided the advice as though it was a secret that had been hidden from generations of military men. “Boldness wins, Sharpe. Boldness, boldness, boldness!”

All Sharpe wanted to do was get dry, eat, lie down, and sleep, but he dutifully nodded instead. “Indeed, sir.”

“Frederick the Great once said that the greatest crime in war is not to make the wrong decision, but to make no decision.” Again the Prince gestured at Sharpe with the brandy glass. “You should remember that axiom, Sharpe!”

Sharpe did not even know what an axiom was, but he nodded respectfully. “I will, sir.”

“There are times when any officer may perceive a superior’s decision as being mistaken,” the Prince was clearly alluding to his behaviour at Quatre Bras, but so delicately that Sharpe, in his weariness, hardly noticed, “but such an officer should be grateful that his superior has had the boldness to make any decision at all. Isn’t that so?” The Prince glared at Sharpe, who just nodded.

Rebecque hastened to offer the Prince the required verbal agreement. “It’s very true, sir, very true.”

The Prince, piqued that Sharpe had not responded, stood very close in front of the Rifleman. “I also think that the least I can expect from my staff is loyalty. Isn’t that so? Loyalty?” The word came in a gust of brandy-stinking breath.

“Indeed, sir,” Sharpe said.

Rebecque cleared his throat. “Colonel Sharpe has already expressed to me his deepest regrets for causing Your Highness any unhappiness. He has also assured me of his loyalty towards Your Highness. Isn’t that so, Sharpe?” The question was almost hissed at the Rifleman.

“Indeed, sir.” Sharpe had fallen back into his old Sergeant’s ways, merely saying what an officer wanted to hear. It was always easy to keep bumptious officers happy with a succession of yes, no and indeed.

The Prince, perhaps sensing that he had gained as much victory as he was going to get this night, smiled. “I’m grateful we agree, Sharpe.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Prince went back to his chair and slowly sat down as though the cares of Europe were pressing on his spindly shoulders. “I want you to station yourself on the right flank tomorrow, Sharpe. You’re going to be my eyes. The moment you see any French outflanking movement, you’re to inform me.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Very good. Very good.” The Prince smiled to show that all was forgiven, then looked at Rebecque. “You have a spare Dutch uniform, Rebecque?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“Provide it to Colonel Sharpe, if you will. And you’ll wear it tomorrow, Sharpe, do you hear me?”

“Very clearly, sir.”

“Till the morning, then.” The Prince nodded a good-night to both men. “And Rebecque? Send my seamstress in, will you?”

Rebecque dutifully ushered Paulette into the Prince’s room, then took Sharpe down the small landing to his own bedroom where he offered Sharpe a choice of uniforms from a tin travelling trunk.

“Keep them,” Sharpe said.

“My dear Sharpe — „

“I’ve fought the damned French for ten years in this jacket, Rebecque.” Sharpe’s interruption was bitter. “I wasn’t bloody studying how to fight out of bloody books at bloody Eton, I was killing the bastards. I began killing Frenchmen when that little bastard was still wetting his breeches.” In his frustration and anger Sharpe slammed his fist against the wall, breaking the plaster and laths to leave a ragged hole. “Why the hell does he still want me on his staff anyway? Hasn’t he got enough people to cut up his food?”

Rebecque gave a long-suffering sigh. “You have a reputation, Sharpe, and the Prince needs it. He knows he made a mistake. The whole army knows. Do you think Halkett hasn’t complained bitterly to the Duke? So the Prince needs men to see that you are on his side, that you support him, even that you respect him! That’s why he wants you in his uniform. After all, you’re not on attachment from a British regiment, like Harry or Simon, but you’re his personal choice! Now, please, just take a coat and wear it tomorrow.”

“I’m fighting in Rifle green, Rebecque, or I’m not fighting at all. And what the hell am I doing out on the right flank?”

“You’re staying out of his way, Sharpe. You’re there so you can’t make any trouble. Or would you rather spend the battle tied to His Highness’s coat-tails?”

Sharpe smiled. “No, sir.”

“At least we agree on something. Not that the Prince can do too much damage tomorrow. Wellington’s broken up the corps, so his Highness doesn’t have a real command, though I imagine he’ll find something to do. He usually does.” Rebecque sounded wistful, but then he smiled. “Have you eaten?”

“No, sir.”

“You look all in.” Rebecque, evidently realizing that the Englishman would not yield on the battle of the uniform, closed the travelling trunk. “Come on, I’ll find you some food.”

The clock in the hallway struck eleven. Sharpe, knowing that he must be at the ridge before dawn, left orders that he was to be called at half-past two, then carried Rebecque’s gift of bread and cold lamb out to the stables where Harper had sequestered a patch of comparatively dry straw for a bed.

“So how was His Highness?” the Irishman asked.

“As full of shit as an egg’s got meat.”

Harper laughed. “And tomorrow?”

“God knows, Patrick. I suppose tomorrow we meet the Emperor.”

“There’s a thought for you.”

“But you’re to stay out of trouble, Patrick.”

“I will!” Harper said indignantly, as though Sharpe’s nagging reminded him of his wife’s.

“You didn’t stay clear yesterday.”

“Yesterday! None of the bastards got near me yesterday! But I’ll stay out of harm’s way tomorrow, never you mind.”

They fell silent. Sharpe pulled the damp cloak over his wet uniform and listened to the rain smash down on the yard’s cobbles. He thought of Peter d’Alembord’s awful fears and remembered his own terror at Toulouse and he wondered why this battle was not affecting him in the same way. That very thought raised its own fears; that such a lack of dread was in itself a harbinger of disaster, yet, in the darkness and listening to the horses move heavily behind his bed, Sharpe could not feel any horror of the next day. He was curious about fighting the Emperor, and he was as apprehensive as any man, yet he was not suffering the gut-loosening terror that racked d’Alembord.

He listened to the rain, wondering how the next day would end.

Tomorrow night, he thought, he would either be in full retreat to the coast, or else a prisoner, or perhaps even marching southwards to pursue a defeated enemy. He remembered the victory at Vitoria that had broken the French in Spain, and how he and Harper had ridden after the battle into the field of gold and jewels. That had been an answer to the soldier’s prayer; God send a rich enemy and no surgeon’s knife.

Lucille would be worrying for news. Sharpe closed his eyes, trying to sleep, but sleep would not come. His shoulder and leg ached foully. Harper was already sleeping, snoring loud by the door. Under the stableyard’s archway the sentry stamped his feet. The smoke of his clay pipe came fragrant to the stable, helping to fend off the stench of the wet dungheap piled at the back of the yard. Upstairs, in the Prince’s room, a candle was blown out, plunging the house into darkness. Lightning flickered silent over the rooftops where the rain crashed and bounced and poured from the tiles.

On the twin ridges, three miles to the south, two armies tried to sleep in the downpour. They wrapped themselves in greatcoats for a little warmth, but the comfort was illusory for the rain had long soaked into their last stitches of clothing. Most of the fires had died and what small fuel might have fed them was being hoarded to heat the water for the morning’s drink of tea.

Few men really slept, though many pretended. Some sat in the small hedges, clutching their misery close through the hours of darkness. The picquets on the forward slopes of the ridges shivered, while on the reverse slopes, where the crops had already been trampled into quagmire, men lay in furrows that had become torrents of water. A few men, abjuring sleep, sat on their packs and talked softly- Some British horses, their pickets loosened from the wet ground, broke free and, scared by the ice-blue streaks of far lightning, galloped madly through the bivouacs. Men cursed and ran from the threat of the panicked hooves, then the horses crashed out into the wide valley which was dark and empty under the thrashing rainstorm.

In the three farms forward of the British ridge the garrisons slept under the shelter of solid roofs. Sentries peered from the farm windows at the storm. A few men, eager for superstitions that would tell what the future held, remembered the tradition of British victories following great thunderstorms. The outnumbered men at Agincourt, faced by a vast and mighty French army, had similarly crouched like beasts beneath a storm that had crashed across the night sky before their dawn of battle, and now a new generation of old enemies listened to the thunder rack and thrash across a night sky that was split asunder by the demonic shafts of searing light.

The British picquets shivered. The French army was camped by the southern ridge, yet the enemy’s fires had long been extinguished and the only lights in the enemy’s line were two dim yellow smears which marked the candle-lit windows of the tavern. Even those lights were dulled and sometimes hidden by the sheer volume of rain. It seemed to the picquets that the rain would never stop. It was a deluge fit for a world’s ending; a rain that hammered and swept before the wind to drench the fields and slop through the plough furrows and drown the ditches and crush the crops and flood the farm tracks. It was a madness of wind and water, beating through the darkness to bring misery to a field which, because it lay between two ridges, was marked for yet more misery in the morning.