Major eased himself out of the saddle, slid heavily to the ground, and tied his horse to the inn’s signpost. He spoke passably good French and enjoyed discussing food with the pretty young serving girl who came out to the table by the roadside, which the Major had adopted as his vantage point. He decided on roast chicken and vegetables, with apple pie and cheese to follow. He requested a bottle of red wine, but not of the common kind.
The sun shone on the long road to the south. Haymakers scythed steadily in a meadow a half-mile away, while much further off, far beyond the blur of fields and woods, dust whitened the sky. That was the artificial cloud kicked up by an army, but no troops threatened the Major’s peaceful rest and so he saw no reason to make undue haste, especially as the roast chicken proved to be excellent. The chicken’s skin was crisped nicely and its yellow flesh was succulent. When the girl brought the Major his pie, she asked him if Napoleon was coming.
‘Don’t you worry, my dear! Don’t you worry.’
Far to the Major’s north, in Brussels, a detachment of Highland soldiers had been ordered to the Duke of Richmond’s house, where they were shown into the dazzling ballroom hung with the Belgian colours. Before supper was served the Highlanders would offer the guests a display of their dancing.
The Highlander Lieutenant asked that one of the unlit chandeliers be raised from floor level so he could make certain there would be adequate room for his dancers’ crossed swords. The Duchess, intent that every particular of her ball should be arranged to perfection, insisted on a demonstration. ‘You are bringing pipers tonight?’ the Duchess demanded.
‘Indeed, Your Grace.’
Which only gave the Duchess a new detail to worry over: how would the orchestra leader know when to stop his men playing so that the pipers could begin?
Her husband averred that doubtless the orchestra and the pipers would arrange things to their own satisfaction, and further opined that the Duchess should leave the ball’s arrangements to those who were paid to worry about the details, but the Duchess was insistent on voicing her concerns this afternoon. She earnestly asked her husband whether she should request the Prince of Orange not to bring Lieutenant-Colonel Sharpe?
‘Who’s Sharpe?’ the Duke asked from behind his copy of The Times.
‘He’s the husband of Johnny Rossendale’s girl. She’s coming, I’m afraid. I tried to stop him bringing her, but he’s clearly besotted.’
‘And this Sharpe is her husband?’
‘I just told you that, Charles. He’s also an aide to Slender Billy.’
The Duke grunted. ‘Sharpe’s clearly a fool if he lets an idiot like Johnny Rossendale cuckold him.’
‘That’s precisely why I think I should talk to the Prince. I’m told this Sharpe is an extremely uncouth man and is more than likely to fillet Johnny.’
‘If he’s uncouth, my dear, then doubtless he won’t wish to attend your ball. And I certainly wouldn’t mention the matter to Orange. That bloody young fool will only bring Sharpe if he thinks it’ll cause trouble. It’s a sleeping dog, my dear, so let it lie.’
But it was not in the Duchess’s nature to let anything remain undisturbed if it was amenable to her interference. ‘Perhaps I should mention it to Arthur?’
The Duke snapped his newspaper down to the table. ‘You will not trouble Wellington about two damned fools and their silly strumpet.’
‘If you say so, Charles.’
‘I do say so.’ The rampart of newspaper was thrown up, inviting silence.
The other English Duke in Brussels, Wellington, would have been grateful had he known that Richmond had spared him the Duchess’s worries, for the Commander-in-Chief of the British and Dutch armies already had more than enough worries of his own. One of those worries, the smallest of them, was the prospect of hunger. Wellington knew from bitter experience that he would be required to make so much conversation at the Duchess’s ball that his supper would inevitably congeal on its plate. He therefore ordered an early dinner of roast mutton to be served in his quarters at three o’clock that afternoon.
Then, noting that clouds were building to the west, he took his afternoon walk about the fashionable quarter of Brussels. He took care to appear blithely unworried as he strolled with his staff, for he knew only too well how the French sympathizers in the city were looking for any sign of allied defeatism that they could turn into an argument to demoralize the Dutch-Belgian troops.
The quality of those troops was at the heart of the Duke’s real worries. On paper his army was ninety thousand strong, but only half of that paper force was reliable.
The core of the Duke’s army was his infantry. He had thirty battalions of redcoats, but only half of those had fought in his Spanish campaigns and the quality of the other half was unknown. He had some excellent infantry battalions of the King’s German Legion, and some enthusiastic troops from Hanover, but together the German and British infantry totalled less than forty thousand men. To make up the numbers he had the Dutch-Belgian army, over thirty thousand infantrymen in all, which he did not trust at all. Most of the Dutch-Belgians had fought for the Emperor and still wore the Emperor’s uniforms. The Duke was assured by the King of the Netherlands that the Belgians would fight, but, Wellington wondered, for whom?
The Duke had cavalry too, but the Duke had no faith in horsemen, whether Dutch or English. His German cavalry was first class, but sadly few in numbers, while the Duke’s English cavalrymen were mere fools on horseback; expensive and touchy, prone to insanity, and utter strangers to discipline. The Dutch-Belgian horsemen, for all the Duke cared, could have packed their bags and ridden home right now.
He had ninety thousand men, of whom half might fight well, and he knew he would likely face a hundred thousand of Napoleon’s veterans. The Emperor’s veterans, fretting against the injustices of Bourbon France, had welcomed Napoleon’s return and flocked to the Eagles. The French army, which the Duke still thought was massing south of the border, was probably the finest instrument that Napoleon had ever commanded. Every man in it had fought before, it was freshly equipped, and it sought vengeance against the countries that had humbled France in 1814. The Duke had cause for worry, yet as he strolled down the rue Royale he was forced to put a brave face on the desperate odds lest his enemies took courage from his despair. The Duke could also cling to one strong hope, namely that his scratch army would not fight Napoleon alone, but alongside Prince Blücher’s Prussians. So long as the British and Prussian armies joined forces, they must win; separately, the Duke feared, they must be destroyed.
Yet twenty-five miles to the south the French were already pushing the Prussian forces eastwards, away from the British. No one in Brussels knew that the French had invaded; instead they prepared for a duchess’s ball while a fat Prussian major paid for his roast chicken, finished his wine, then ambled slowly northwards.
At one o’clock in the afternoon, eight hours after the first shots had been fired south of Charleroi, Sharpe met more cavalrymen; this time a patrol in red-faced dark blue coats who thundered eagerly across a pasture to surround Sharpe and his two horses. They were men from Hanover, exiles who formed the King’s German Legion that had fought so hard and well in Spain. Now the German soldiers stared suspiciously at Sharpe’s strange uniform until one of the troopers saw the Imperial ‘N’ on the horse’s saddle-cloth and the sabres rasped out of their metal scabbards as the horsemen shouted at Sharpe to surrender.
‘Bugger off,’ Sharpe snarled.
