Bernard Cornwell - Sharpe’s Waterloo - The Waterloo Campaign, 15–18 June, 1815

Nine miles to the south, in the little village of Waterloo, the hugely fat Prussian Major had stopped his plodding horse at a small inn opposite the church. The wine he had taken for lunch, together with the oppressive afternoon heat, had quite tired him out. He asked for a little restorative brandy, then saw a baker’s tray of delicious cakes being carried into the inn’s side-door. ‘And some of those pastries, I think. The ones with the almond paste, if you’d be so kind.’

He slid out of the saddle and gratefully sat on a bench that was shaded by a small chestnut tree. The despatch which would have told Wellington of the loss of Charleroi and the further French advance lay in the Major’s saddlebag.

The Major leaned against the chestnut’s trunk. Nothing much stirred in the village. The paved road ran between wide grass verges where two tethered cows and four goats grazed. A few chickens scratched by the church steps where a dog twitched in its sleep. A small child played tipcat in the archway of the inn’s stableyard. The fat Major, pleased with such a scene of rural innocence, smiled happily, then, as he waited for his snack, dozed.

Sharpe’s horses limped into the Prince of Orange’s head-quarters just ten minutes after the Prince had left for Brussels. Aggressive French patrols had prevented Sharpe getting close to the road a second time, but he had ridden near enough to see the dust clouds drifting away from the boots, hooves and wheels of an army on the march. Now, flinching at the soreness in his thighs, he eased himself out of the saddle. He shouted for an ostler, tied Nosey to a metal ring on the stableyard wall and gave the dog a bowl of water before, carrying his map and weapons, he limped into the silent house. Dust floated in the beams of light that flooded through the fanlight over the front door. He looked into the map room, but no one was there.

‘Duty Officer!’ Sharpe shouted angrily, then, when no one answered, he hammered his rifle butt against the wooden panelling in the hallway. ‘Duty officer!’

A bedroom door opened upstairs and a face appeared over the banister. ‘I hope there’s a good reason for this noise! Oh, it’s you!’

Sharpe peered into the gloom and saw the affable face of the Baron Jean de Constant Rebecque. ‘Who’s on duty?’

‘Colonel Winckler, I think, but he’s probably sleeping. Most of us are. The Prince has gone to Brussels, and he wants you there as well.’ Rebecque yawned. ‘You’re required to dance.’

Sharpe stared upwards. For a few seconds he was too shocked to speak and Rebecque assumed that the silence merely expressed Sharpe’s horror at being ordered to a ball, but then the Rifleman exploded with his news. ‘Haven’t you heard? My God, Rebecque, the bloody French are north of Charleroi! I sent Dornberg a message hours ago!’

The words hung in the hot still air of the stairwell. It was Rebecque’s turn to stare silently. ‘Sweet God,’ he said after a few seconds, then began buttoning his blue coat. ‘Officers!’ His shout echoed through the house. ‘Officers!’ He ran at the stairs, taking them three at a time. ‘Show me.’ He pushed past Sharpe into the map room where he threw back the heavy wooden shutters to flood the tables with sunlight.

‘There.’ Sharpe placed a filthy finger on the map just north of Charleroi. ‘A mixed force; infantry, cavalry and guns. I was there this morning, and I went back this afternoon. The road was crowded both times. I couldn’t see much this afternoon, but there must have been at least one whole corps on that road. A prisoner told me he thought Napoleon was with them, but he wasn’t certain.’

Rebecque looked up into Sharpe’s tired and dust-stained face and wondered just how Sharpe had taken a prisoner, but he knew this was no time for foolish questions. He turned to the other staff officers who were crowding into the room. ‘Winckler! Fetch the Prince back, and hurry! Harry! Go to Dornberg, find out what in God’s name is happening in Mons. Sharpe, you get some food. Then rest.’

‘I can go to Mons.’

‘Rest! But food first! You look exhausted, man.’

Sharpe obeyed. He liked Rebecque, a Dutchman who, like his Prince, had been educated at Eton and Oxford. The Baron had been the Prince’s tutor at Oxford and was living proof to Sharpe that most education was a waste of effort, for none of Rebecque’s modest good sense had rubbed off on the Prince.

Sharpe went through to the deserted kitchens and found some bread, cheese and ale. As he was cutting the bread the Prince’s girl, Paulette, came sleepily into the room. She was dressed in a grey shift that was loosely belted round her waist. ‘All this noise!’ she said irritably. ‘What’s happening?’

‘The Emperor’s crossed the frontier.’ Sharpe spoke in French.

‘Good!’ Paulette said fiercely.

Sharpe laughed as he cut the mould off a piece of cheese.

‘Don’t you want butter on your bread?’ the girl asked.

‘I couldn’t find any.’

‘It’s in the scullery. I’ll fetch it.’ Paulette gave Sharpe a happy smile. She did not know the Rifleman well, yet she thought he was by far the best-looking man on the Prince’s staff. Many of the other officers considered themselves good-looking, but this Englishman had an interestingly scarred face and a reluctant but infectious smile. She brought a muslin-covered bowl of butter from the scullery and good-naturedly pushed Sharpe to one side. ‘You want an apple with your cheese?’

‘Please.’

Paulette made a plate of food for herself, then poured some ale out of Sharpe’s stone bottle into one of the Prince’s Sèvres teacups. She sipped the ale, then grinned. ‘The Prince tells me your woman is French?’

Sharpe was somewhat taken aback by the girl’s directness, but he nodded. ‘From Normandy.’

‘How? Why? What? Tell me. I want to know!’ She smiled in recognition of her own cheekiness. ‘I like to know everything about everyone.’

‘We met at the end of the war,’ Sharpe said as though that explained everything.

‘And you fell in love?’ she asked eagerly.

‘I suppose so, yes.’ He sounded sheepish.

‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of! I was in love once. He was a dragon , but he went off to fight in Russia, poor boy. That was the last I saw of him. He said he would marry me, but I suppose he was eaten by wolves or killed by cossacks.’ She sighed in sad memory of her lost Dragoon. ‘Will you marry your French lady?’

‘I can’t. I’m already married to a lady who lives in England.’

Paulette shrugged that difficulty aside. ‘So divorce her!’

‘It’s impossible. In England a divorce costs more money than you can dream of. I’d have to go to Parliament and bribe them to pass a law specially for my divorce.’

‘The English are stupid. I suppose that’s why the Prince likes them so much. He feels at home there.’ She laughed. She had thick brown hair, slanting eyes, and a cat-like face. ‘Were you living in France with your woman?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why did you leave?’

‘Because the Emperor would have put me in prison if I’d have stayed, and because I needed my half-pay.’

‘Your half-pay?’

Sharpe was both amused and irritated by her questioning, but it was harmless, so he indulged her. ‘I received a pension from the English army. If I’d have stayed in France there would have been no pension.’

Hooves sounded loud in the yard as Colonel Winckler took off after the Prince. Sharpe, glad that he was not having to ride anywhere, began tugging at his tight boots. Paulette pushed his hands away, put his right foot on her lap, tugged off the boot, then did the same for his other foot. ‘My God, you smell!’ She laughingly pushed his feet away. ‘And Madame left France with you?’ Paulette’s questioning had the guileless innocence of a child.