Sharpe's Waterloo Part 29

"It's a matter of honour." Lord John was staring into the darkening street.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tomorrow", Lord John said, "has become a rather desperate matter of honour." He was very slightly drunk, and his voice held a hint of hysteria. "I never realized before today how very simple battle is. There's no compromise, is there? It's victory or defeat, and nothing in between, while real life is so d.a.m.ned complicated. Perhaps that's why the best soldiers are such very simple souls." He turned in the porch to stare at his friend. "You see, if I want to keep the woman then I have to kill a man, and I don't have the nerve to face him. And he's done nothing to deserve death! It is his money! But if I do the honest thing to the man, then I lose the woman, and I don't think I can live with that loss - ,

"I'm sure you can - , Christopher Manvell interrupted and, in his turn, was cut off.

"No!" Lord John did not even wish to discuss Jane. He frowned in puzzlement at his friend. "Do you think lost honour can be retrieved on a battlefield?"

"I'm sure it's the very best place to retrieve it." Manvell felt a surge of pity for his friend. He had never realized till this moment just how Lord John's honour had been trampled and destroyed.

"So tomorrow's become rather important to me," Lord John said. "Because tomorrow I can take my honour back by fighting well." He smiled as if to soften the overdramatic words. "But to do it I'll need a sword, and my spare blade is in Brussels. I suppose you don't have one you could lend me?"

"With pleasure."

Lord John stared into the drenching twilight. "I wish it was over. The rain, I mean," he added hurriedly.

"I think it's slackening."

Lightning flickered in the west, followed a few seconds later by thunder that crashed across the far sky like the pa.s.sage of a cannon-ball. Laughter and singing sounded from a house further up the street, temporarily drowning the ominous and repet.i.tive sc.r.a.ping noise of a stone putting an edge onto a sword. A dog howled in protest at the thunder and a horse whinnied from the stables behind the Earl of Uxbridge's billet.

Lord John turned back into the house. He could retrieve his honour and he could retrieve Jane by becoming a hero. Tomorrow.

CHAPTER 12.

Captain Harry Price, commander of the first company of the Prince of Wales's Own Volunteers, climbed onto a makes.h.i.+ft platform constructed from spare ammunition boxes. In front of him, standing in the rain-soaked field, were forty or fifty infantry officers who had a.s.sembled 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 s.h.i.+lling!"

"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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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 s.h.i.+llings, while the dead Major's signet ring went for one s.h.i.+lling. 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 wh.o.r.e, then! I want some Christian generosity, gentlemen!"

,I'll give you a guinea for his wh.o.r.e, but sixpence for his spurs!"

Micklewhite's effects made eight pounds, fourteen s.h.i.+llings 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 s.h.i.+vered 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. G.o.d d.a.m.n 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 bal.u.s.trade. "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."