Bernard Cornwell – 1807 09 Sharpe’s Prey

“We are waiting, Hawkins, because General Linsingen is marching about their flank,” Captain Dunnett answered.

That, at any rate, was the plan. General Wellesley would pin the enemy down by threatening an attack and Linsingen, of the King’s German Legion, would march around their backside to trap them. Except that a bridge had collapsed and Linsingen’s men were still three miles away on the wrong side of a stream and no message had come and thus no one knew that the plan had already broken down.

A rumbling series of crashes announced the arrival of a battery of British nine-pounders that unlimbered on the road. “Fires out!” a gunner officer snapped at the men crouched about the small campfires. He was worried because he was about to stack powder bags beside his guns.

“Bloody gunners,” a rifleman complained.

A captain of the 43rd, red-eyed and pale, begged a mug of tea from a group of riflemen. The 43rd was a Welsh regiment that had trained with the greenjackets at Shorncliffe barracks and the two battalions were friendly. “I shall give you boys some advice,” the Captain said.

“Sir?”

“Avoid akvavit. Avoid it. The devil brews it and the Danes drink it, God knows how. It looks like water.”

The riflemen grinned and the Captain flinched as a kilted piper from the 92nd began taming his instrument to produce a series of moans, yelps and squeals. “Oh God,” the Captain moaned, “not that, please God, not that.”

Sharpe heard the pipes and his mind flashed back to India, to a dusty field swirling with men, horses and painted guns where the Highlanders had ripped an enemy to ruin. “I don’t know if that noise frightens the Danes,” a voice behind him said, “but it terrifies me.”

Sharpe turned to see that Sir Arthur Wellesley was examining the enemy through his telescope. The General was on horseback and had not been talking to Sharpe, but addressing two of his aides. Wellesley swept the glass left and right, then collapsed the tubes and found himself looking down at a Rifle officer. A look of mingled surprise and embarrassment showed on his face. “Mister Sharpe,” he said flatly, unable to avoid acknowledging Sharpe’s presence.

“Sir.”

“Still with us, I see?”

Sharpe said nothing. He had not seen the General in three years, not since India, and he did not detect the General’s embarrassment, for he was too acutely aware of his disapproval. Grace had been a cousin of Wellesley’s. True, she had been a very distant cousin, but her family’s enmity had spread wide and Sharpe was certain Sir Arthur must share it.

“Enjoying the Rifles, are you, Sharpe?” Wellesley asked. He was looking up the road as he spoke.

“Yes, sir.”

“Thought you would,” Wellesley said, “thought you would. And we shall see how useful your new weapons are today, eh?” The General, like most officers in the British army, had never seen the rifles in action. “Where the devil is Linsingen? Not even a damned message!” He looked at the Danes through his glass. “Would you say they’re readying to move?” He had asked his aides the question and one of them said he thought he could see a baggage cart behind the enemy guns. “Then damn it,” Wellesley said, “we’ll manage without Linsingen. To your regiments, gentlemen.” He was talking to the red-coated infantry officers who had gathered near the guns. “Good day, Sharpe!” He turned his horse and spurred away.

“Know him well, do you?” Captain Dunnett was jealous that the General had spoken to Sharpe and could not resist asking the question.

“Yes,” Sharpe said curtly.

Damn you, Dunnett thought, while Sharpe was thinking he did not really know the General at all. He had spoken to him often enough, he had saved his life once and he had received the telescope as a reward for that favor, but he did not know him. There was something too cold and frightening about Sir Arthur, but Sharpe was still glad he was in charge today. He was good, simple as that, just plain good.

“Stay on the right,” Dunnett ordered him, “with Sergeant Filmer.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dunnett wanted to ask why Sharpe was carrying a rifle, but managed to resist the question. The man probably still thought he was in the ranks. Sharpe, as an officer, should not have carried a longarm, but he liked the Baker rifle and so he had collected one from the regimental surgeon who had a small armory of weapons that belonged to his patients. The rifle was much less cumbersome than a musket, was far more accurate and had a squat, brutal efficiency that appealed to Sharpe.