‘Cease fire! Reload!’ the officers and sergeants called to the British squares. The regimental bands played on, while in the squares the colours hung heavy in the humid and smoke-stained air. The enemy cavalry, bloodied and beaten, pulled back to the stream. From the east came the sound of cannon, proof that the Prussians still fought their battle.
Then the French skirmishers crept forward and opened their galling fire again, and from beyond Gemioncourt the French twelve-pounder cannons opened fire on the British ranks. The enemy cavalry was still in sight, and not so very far off, and so the infantry was forced to stay in their squares as prime targets for the heavy French cannon.
It was time for the infantry to suffer.
On the roads leading to Quatre Bras from the west and north the hurrying British troops saw the growing canopy of smoke, and heard the incessant punch of the heavy guns. Carts were already travelling back to Brussels carrying wounded men who groaned in the afternoon heat while their blood dripped through the bottom-boards to stain the white road red. Other wounded men walked away from the battle, staggering in the sun towards their old bivouac areas. In Nivelles the townspeople huddled at their doors, listened to the noise of battle, and stared wide-eyed at the foully wounded soldiers who limped past. Some unwounded Belgian soldiers spread the news that the British were already beaten and that the Emperor was already on his way to Brussels.
The clouds thickened in the west, climbing ever higher and darker.
Twelve miles to the north of Quatre Bras, in the orchard of a farm called Hougoumont which, in turn, was close to the small village of Waterloo, some men were busy thinning the apple crop. They plucked the unripe fruit and tossed it into baskets, thus ensuring that the remaining apples would grow big and juicy. The discarded fruit would be fed to the pigs that lived in the yard of the château of Hougoumont.
It was a hot day, and as the men worked they could hear the percussive thumping of the guns to the south. From the top of their ladders they could see the growing cloud of dirty smoke that climbed over the battlefield. They chuckled at the sight, relieved that it was not they who were being shot at, nor their homes being invaded by soldiers, and not their land being ridden ragged by cavalry.
The château windows were open and white curtains stirred in the small breeze that offered a slight measure of relief from the stifling heat. A plump woman came to one of the upstairs windows where she rested her arms on the sill and stared at the strange conical smoke canopy that grew in the far southern sky. On the main highway that ran through the valley east of the château she could see a stream of soldiers marching south. The men wore red, and even at this distance she could see they were hurrying. ‘Better them than us, eh, ma’am?’ one of the apple pickers shouted.
‘Better them than us,’ the woman agreed, then crossed herself.
‘We’ll get rain tomorrow,’ one of the men remarked, but the others took no notice. They were too busy picking apples. Tomorrow, if it did not rain, they were supposed to finish the haymaking down in the valley’s bottom, and there was a flock of sheep to be sheared as well, while the day after tomorrow, thank the good Lord, they would have a day off because it was Sunday.
More British troops arrived at Quatre Bras, but they had to be sent to the flanks which were under increasing pressure from the French. Sharpe, after scraping home in front of the French cavalry, had been sent through the wood to find Prince Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar. The Prince, a dour tough man, had been holding his position, but his ammunition was running low and his men were being killed by the ever-present skirmishers. Newly arrived British infantry were sent to support him, while yet more redcoats were sent to help the Rifles on the left flank who were also under heavy attack from a brigade of French infantry.
‘Why don’t they attack our centre with infantry?’ Doggett asked Sharpe, who had rejoined Harper behind the crossroads.
‘Because they’re being led by a cavalryman.’ An Hussar prisoner had revealed that it was Marshal Ney who led the French troops at Quatre Bras. Ney was called ‘the bravest of the brave’, a red-haired cavalryman who would have ridden through the pits of hell without a murmur, but who had yet to launch an infantry attack against the battered defenders at the crossroads.
‘You have to understand something about cavalrymen, Mr Doggett,’ Harper explained. ‘They look very fine, so they do, and they usually take all the credit for any victory, but the only brains they’ve got are the ones they keep in their horses’ heads.’
Doggett blushed. ‘I wanted to be a cavalryman, but my father insisted I joined the Guards.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Harper said cheerfully, ‘the Guards aren’t our brightest lads either. God save Ireland, but just look at those poor boys.’
The poor boys were the Highlanders beyond the crossroads who could only stand and be slaughtered by the French guns. They were in square, which made them a tempting target for the French artillerymen, and they dared not relinquish the formation for fear of the French cavalry that watched them like hawks. The Scotsmen could only stand while the roundshot slammed into the files, and each shot that struck home killed two or three men, sometimes more. Once Harper saw a roundshot strike the flanking face of a square and ten men went down in a single bloody smear. The British artillery at the crossroads was being saved for any French infantry attack, though once in a while a gun would try to hit a French cannon. Such counter-battery fire was almost always wasted, but as the infantry’s suffering dragged on the Duke ordered more of it simply to help the morale of the redcoats.
‘Why don’t we do something?’ Doggett asked plaintively.
‘What’s to do?’ Harper asked. ‘The bloody Belgians won’t fight, so we haven’t got any cavalry. It’s called being an infantryman, Mr Doggett. Your job is to stand there and get slaughtered.’
‘Patrick?’ Sharpe had been staring up the Nivelles road. ‘Do you see what I see?’
Harper twisted in his saddle. ‘Bloody hell, sir, you’re right!’ A further brigade of British infantry was arriving, and among the troops was the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers. Sharpe and Harper spurred towards their old battalion.
Sharpe stood his horse beside the road and took off his hat as the leading company came abreast. It was his old company, the light, led by Peter d‘Alembord. The men’s faces were pale with dust, through which the rivulets of sweat had driven dark trails. Daniel Hagman raised a cheer as Sharpe tossed them a full canteen of water. D’Alembord, his white dancing breeches stained from the wax with which his saddle had been polished, reined in beside the two Riflemen and looked dubiously towards the smear of smoke that marked the battlefield. ‘How is it?’
‘It’s stiff work, Peter,’ Sharpe admitted.
‘Is Boney here?’ It was the same question that nearly every newly arriving officer had asked, as though the presence of the Emperor would dignify the day’s death and dismemberment.
‘Not so far as we know.’ Sharpe saw that his answer disappointed d’Alembord.
The brigade halted while Sir Colin Halkett, its commander, discovered where his four battalions were wanted. Lieutenant-Colonel Ford and his two Majors, Vine and Micklewhite, walked their horses up the road until they came close to where Sharpe, d’Alembord and Harper chatted. Ford, myopically peering towards the cannon smoke, realized too late that he had come close to Sharpe, whose presence made him feel so uncomfortable and inadequate, but he put a brave face on the chance meeting.
‘It sounds brisk, Sharpe, does it not?’
‘It’s certainly hard work, Ford,’ Sharpe said mildly.
No one seemed to be able to find anything else to say. Ford smiled with a general benignity which he thought fitting to a colonel, while Major Vine scowled at the men of the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers who had slumped on the roadside, and Major Micklewhite pretended to be enthralled by the enamel picture on the lid of his snuffbox. A sudden explosion was loud enough to penetrate the half-deaf ears of Major Vine who twisted round to see that a Br
itish gun limber, crammed with ready ammunition, had been struck by a French shell and was now spewing a thick skein of smoke and flames into the sky.
Colonel Ford had jumped at the sudden violence of the explosion, and now he gazed through his thick spectacles at the rest of the battlefield, which appeared as a threatening blur of trampled corn, blood, smoke, and the lumped bodies of the dead. Cannon-balls were ploughing through the slurry of rye and soil, spewing gouts of earth before bouncing into the bloody lines of Highlanders. ‘Dear God,’ Ford said with rather more feeling than he had intended.
‘Watch out for their skirmishers,’ Sharpe advised drily. ‘They seem to have more of the bastards than usual.’
‘More?’ The tone to Ford’s voice betrayed the Colonel’s fear of taking his battalion into the cauldron beyond the crossroads.
‘You might like to think about deploying an extra company as skirmishers,’ Sharpe, well aware of Ford’s uncertainty, offered the advice as forcefully as he could without sounding patronizing, ‘but warn the lads to keep an eye open for the cavalry. They’re never very far away.’ Sharpe pointed across the highway to where the stream fed a small lake behind Gemioncourt farm. ‘There’s a fold in the ground over there and it’s swarming with the evil buggers.’
‘Quite so, quite so.’ Ford took off his spectacles, cleaned them on the tasselled end of his red sash, then hooked the earpieces back into place. He stared through the newly cleaned glass but could see neither a fold in the ground nor any cavalry. He wondered whether Sharpe was deliberately trying to frighten him, and so, to show that he was quite equal to the prospect of fighting, Ford straightened his shoulders and turned his horse away. Vine and Micklewhite, like obedient hounds, followed their Colonel.
‘He won’t take a blind bit of notice,’ d’Alembord sighed.
‘Then you watch out for the cavalry, Peter. They’re in something of a murderous bloody mood. There’s about three thousand of the bastards: Hussars, Lancers, and the Heavies.’
‘You do cheer me up, Sharpe, you really do.’ D‘Alembord superstitiously touched the breast pocket which bulged with his fiancée’s letters. ‘Have you had your note from that bloody man yet?’
It took Sharpe a second or two to realize that d‘Alembord was talking about Lord John Rossendale. He shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘Oh, God. I suppose that means we’ll have to arrange a duel in the morning?’
‘No. I’ll just find the bugger and cut his balls off.’
‘Oh, splendid!’ d‘Alembord said in mock seriousness. ‘That should satisfy everyone’s honour.’
Orders came back to the battalion. The newly arrived brigade was to take up positions in the wedge of field in front of Saxe-Weimar’s wood, from where their musket-fire could rake across the flank of any French attack down the road. Sir Thomas Picton’s staff brought the orders which insisted that the four battalions were to form square in the rye.
Sharpe shook d‘Alembord’s hand. ‘Watch those skirmishers, Peter!’ He waved to Captain Harry Price who had once been his Lieutenant. ‘It’s hot work, Harry!’
‘I’m thinking of resigning, sir.’ Harry Price, too poor to own a horse, was sweating from the exertions of his long day’s march. ‘My father always wanted me to take holy orders, and I’m beginning to think I rejected his views too quickly. Good God, it’s Mr Harper!’
Harper grinned. ‘Good to see you, Mr Price.’
‘I thought the army had discharged you.’
‘It did.’
‘You’re as mad as a bloody bishop! What are you doing here?’ Harry Price was genuinely puzzled. ‘You could get hurt, you damned fool!’
‘I’m staying well out of any trouble, so I am.’
Price shook his head at Harper’s foolishness, then had to hurry away as the battalion was ordered into the wood. The companies filed through the trees and so out into the sunlit rye field where, like the other three battalions in Halkett’s brigade, they formed square.
Sharpe and Harper walked their horses back to the crossroads where the Prince of Orange was fidgeting with the ivory hilt of his sabre. He was frustrated by the day’s setbacks. He had seen his infantry crumple at the first French attack, then watched his cavalry flee at the drop of a lance point, yet he blamed the day’s lack of success on anyone but himself or his countrymen. ‘Look at those men, for instance!’ He pointed towards the four battalions of Halkett’s brigade which had just formed their squares on the flank of the wood. ‘It’s a nonsense to form those men in square! A nonsense!’ The Prince turned irritably, looking for a British staff officer. ‘Sharpe! You explain it to me! Why are those men in square?’
‘Too many cavalry, sir,’ Sharpe explained gently.
‘I see no cavalry!’ The Prince stared across the smoke-shrouded battlefield. ‘Where are the cavalry?’
‘Over there, sir.’ Sharpe pointed across the field. ‘There’s a lake to the left of the farm and they’re hidden there. They’ve probably dismounted so we can’t see them, but they’re there, sure enough.’
‘You’re imagining it.’ Since losing his Belgian cavalry the Prince had been given nothing to do, and he felt slighted. The Duke of Wellington was ignoring him, reducing the Prince to the status of an honoured spectator. Well, damn that! There was no glory to be had in just watching a battle from behind a crossroads! He looked back at the newly deployed brigade that stood in its four battalion squares. ‘What brigade is that?’ he asked his staff.
Rebecque raised an eyebrow at Sharpe, who answered. ‘Fifth Brigade, sir.’
‘Halkett’s, you mean?’ The Prince frowned at Sharpe.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘They’re in my Corps, aren’t they?’ the Prince demanded.
There was a brief silence, then Rebecque nodded. ‘Indeed they are, sir.’
The Prince’s face showed outrage. ‘Then why wasn’t I consulted about their placement?’
No one wanted to answer, at least not with the truth which was that the Duke of Wellington did not trust the Prince’s judgement. Rebecque just shrugged while Sharpe stared at the smoke of the French guns. Harry Webster, beyond Rebecque, looked at his watch, while Simon Doggett slowly moved his horse back till he had left the group of embarrassed staff officers and was next to Harper’s horse. The Prince drew his sabre a few inches then rammed it back into its scabbard. ‘No one gives orders to my brigades without my permission!’
‘When I was in the ranks, Mr Doggett, we had a way of dealing with young gentlemen like His Royal Highness,’ Harper said quietly.
‘You did?’
‘We shot the little buggers.’ Harper smiled happily.
Doggett stared into the battered and friendly face. ‘You did?’
‘Especially buggers like him.’ Harper nodded scornfully towards the Prince. ‘He’s nothing but a silk stocking full of shit.’
Doggett stared in horror at Harper. Doggett’s sense of propriety, as well as his natural respect for royalty, were outraged by the Irishman’s words. ‘You can’t say things like that!’ he blurted out. ‘He’s royalty!’
‘A silk stocking full of shit with a crown, then.’ Harper was quite unmoved by Doggett’s outrage. ‘And if the little bugger doesn’t watch out, Mr Sharpe will feed his guts to the hogs. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it.’
‘Murdered someone?’ Doggett blurted out the question.
Harper turned innocent eyes on the Guards Lieutenant. ‘I know for a fact he’s rid the world of some bad officers. We all have! Don’t be shocked, Mr Doggett! It happens all the time!’
‘I can’t believe it!’ Doggett protested, but too loudly, for the sound of his voice made the Prince turn irritably in his saddle.
‘Is something offending you, Mr Doggett?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then get back here, where you belong.’ The Prince looked back to the four battalions of Halkett’s brigade which were an itch to his wounded self-esteem. Closest to the crossroads, and just forwa
rd of the Highlanders across the highway was a battalion of Lincolnshire men, the 69th, who were unknown to Sharpe. They had never fought in Spain, instead they had been a part of the disastrous expedition that had failed to free the Netherlands at the end of the previous war. Beyond them was the 30th, the Three Tens, a Cambridgeshire battalion which, like the 33rd next in line, had also been a part of the Dutch débâcle. Furthest south was the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers, the only veterans of the Spanish campaign in the brigade.
‘So who ordered them to form square?’ the Prince demanded petulantly.
No one knew, so Harry Webster was sent to discover the answer and came back after ten minutes to say that Sir Thomas Picton had deployed the brigade.
‘But they’re not in Picton’s division!’ The Prince’s pique had turned to a real anger that flushed his sallow face.
‘Indeed not, sir,’ Rebecque said gently, ‘but—’
‘But nothing, Rebecque! But bloody nothing! Those men are in my corps! Mine! I do not give orders to brigades in Sir Thomas Picton’s division, nor do I expect him to interfere with my corps! Sharpe! My compliments to Sir Colin Halkett, and instruct him to deploy his brigade in line. Their task is to give fire, not cower like schoolboys from non-existent cavalry.’ The Prince had taken a sheet of paper from his sabretache and was scribbling the order in pencil.
‘But the cavalry—’ Sharpe began to protest.
‘What cavalry?’ The Prince made a great fuss of pretending to stare across the battlefield. ‘There is no cavalry.’
‘In the dead ground over—’
‘You’re frightened of unseen horsemen on the left? But this brigade is on the right! Here, take this.’ He thrust the written order at Sharpe.
Sharpe's Waterloo Page 15
