LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘And tell him he’s to wear Dutch uniform tonight!’

      ‘Indeed I will, sir.’

      The Prince left for Brussels an hour and a half later, his carriage escorted by an honour guard of Dutch Carabiniers who had learned their trade in the French Emperor’s service. Paulette, relieved at the Prince’s departure, lay cosily in his bed while Rebecque took a book to his own quarters. The clerks laboriously copied out the orders listing which battalions the Prince would visit in the coming week, and what manoeuvres each battalion should demonstrate for the Prince’s approval.

      Clouds heaped higher in the west, but the sun still shone on the village. A cat curled up by the boot-scraper at the front door of the Prince’s headquarters where the sentry, a British redcoat, stooped to fondle the animal’s warm fur. Wheat and rye and barley and oats ripened in the sun. It was a perfect summer’s day, shimmering with heat and silence and all the beauty of peace.

      The first news of French activity reached the Duke of Wellington while he ate his early dinner of roast mutton. The message, which had originated in Charleroi just thirty-two miles away, had first been sent to Marshal Blücher at Namur, then copied and sent on to Brussels, a total journey of seventy miles. The message merely reported that the French had attacked at dawn and that the Prussian outposts had been driven in south of Charleroi.

      ‘How many French? It doesn’t say. And where are the French now? And is the Emperor with them?’ the Duke demanded of his staff.

      No one could tell. The mutton was abandoned on the table while the Duke’s staff gathered about a map pinned to the dining-room wall. The French might have advanced into the country south of Charleroi, but the Duke, as ever, brooded over the left-hand side of the map which showed the great sweep of flat country between Mons and Tournai. That was where he feared a French advance that would cut the British off from the North Sea. If the French took Ghent then the Duke’s army would be denied its supply roads from the North Sea, as well as its route home.

      Wellington, had he been in the Emperor’s boots, would have chosen that strategy. First he would have pushed a strong diversionary force at Charleroi, then, when the allies moved to defend Brussels from the south, he would have launched the real attack to the west. It was by just such dazzling manoeuvres that the Emperor had held off the Russian, Prussian and Austrian armies in the spring of 1814. Napoleon, in the weeks before his abdication, had never fought more brilliantly, and no one, least of all Wellington, expected anything but the same cleverness now.

      ‘We’ve heard nothing from Dornberg?’ the Duke snapped.

      ‘Nothing.’

      The Duke looked back at the Prussian message. It did not tell him how many French had crossed the frontier, nor whether Blücher was concentrating his army; all it told him was that a French force had pushed back the Prussian outposts.

      He went back to the dinner-table. His own British and Dutch forces were scattered across five hundred square miles of countryside. They had to be thus dispersed, not only to guard every possible French invasion route, but also so that the mass of men and horses did not strip any one locality of food and grazing. Now, however, he knew the army must begin to shrink towards its battle order. ‘We’ll concentrate,’ the Duke said. Every division of the army had a prearranged town or village where it would gather and wait for further orders. ‘And send a good man to Dornberg to find out what’s happening in front of him.’

      The Duke frowned again at Blücher’s message, wondering whether he had over-reacted to its small news. Surely, if the French incursion was serious, the Prussians would have sent a more urgent messenger? No matter. If it turned out to be a false alarm then the army’s concentration could be reversed next day.

      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

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