20 Sharpe's Waterloo by Bernard Cornwell

Author:Bernard Cornwell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction
ISBN: 9780006510420
Publisher: HarperCollins

CHAPTER 11

“Not a day for crick­et, eh, Sharpe?” Lieu­tenant-​Colonel Ford shout­ed the joc­ular greet­ing, though his ex­pres­sion was hard­ly wel­com­ing. The Colonel, with Ma­jor Vine be­side him, crouched in the thin shel­ter of a strag­gly hedge, which they had re­in­forced against the wet and gust­ing wind with three bro­ken um­brel­las.

Sharpe sup­posed the greet­ing ex­pressed for­give­ness for his usurpa­tion of com­mand the pre­vi­ous day. Sharpe had brusque­ly or­dered the bat­tal­ion to run while Ford had still been de­lib­er­at­ing what to do, but it seemed the Colonel had no de­sire to make an is­sue of the afi­air. Vine, hud­dled in the roots of the hedge, scowled with dark un­friend­ly eyes at the Ri­fle­man.

“I was tak­ing some food to my old com­pa­ny. You don't mind, Ford?” Sharpe still had the cold beef and bread that Re­becque had giv­en him that morn­ing. He did not need Ford's per­mis­sion to vis­it the Prince of Wales's Own Vol­un­teer's bivouac, but it seemed po­lite to ask, es­pe­cial­ly on a day dur­ing which Re­becque had lec­tured him about the need for tact. Sharpe had sent Lieu­tenant Doggett on to the vil­lage of Wa­ter­loo where the Gen­er­als had their quar­ters, but Sharpe had no wish to join the Prince yet. He pre­ferred the com­pa­ny of his old bat­tal­ion.

Sharpe and Harp­er found the men of their old light com­pa­ny squat­ted about some mis­er­able fires made from damp straw and green twigs col­lect­ed from the hedge. Ma­jor d'Alem­bord was col­lect­ing let­ters from those few men who could write and who want­ed to leaVe a mes­sage for their fam­ilies should any­thing hap­pen to them the next day.

It had be­gun to rain again. The men were cold and mis­er­able, though the vet­er­ans of the war in Spain pre­tend­ed that this was a par­adise com­pared to the or­deals they had suf­fered in their ear­li­er cam­paigns. The new men, not want­ing to ap­pear less tough than the vet­er­ans, kept silent.

The vet­er­ans of the com­pa­ny made space for Sharpe and Harp­er near a fire and Sharpe not­ed how these ex­pe­ri­enced sol­diers were as­sem­bled around one blaze and the new­com­ers about the oth­er fee­bler camp­fires. It was as if the old sol­diers drew to­geth­er as an elite against which the new­com­ers would have to mea­sure them­selves, yet even the vet­er­ans were be­tray­ing a ner­vous­ness this rainy night. Sharpe con­firmed to them that the Prus­sians had been beat­en, but he promised that Mar­shal Blcher's army was with­draw­ing on roads par­al­lel to the British re­treat and that the Mar­shal had promised to march at first light to Welling­ton's aid,

“Where are the Prus­sians ex­act­ly, sir?” Colour Sergeant Ma­jor Huck­field want­ed to know.

“Over there.” Sharpe point­ed to the left flank. The Prince of Wales's Own Vol­un­teers were on the right side of the British po­si­tion, al­most mid­way be­tween the elm tree and the track which led down to Hougoumont.

“How far away are they, sir?” Huck­field, an in­tel­li­gent and earnest man, per­sist­ed.

Sharpe shrugged. “Not far.” In truth he did not know where the Prus­sians were bivouacked, nor was he even cer­tain that

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