Sharpe nodded. “I would if I was in his boots. He needs to beat us before the Prussians come.”
“So they are coming, sir?” The Sergeant’s tone betrayed that even these prime troops realized how precarious was the British predicament.
“They’re coming.” Sharpe had still not heard any official news of the Prussians, but Rebecque had been confident the night before that Blcher would march at dawn.
The Sergeant suddenly whipped round, proving he had eyes in the back of his head. “Not here, George Cullen, you filthy little bastard! Go and do it in the bloody field! We don’t want to be tripping over your dung all day! Move!”
A group of the Greenjackets’ officers had gathered about an empty artillery canister that they had filled with hot water for their morning shave. One of the men, a tall, cadaverous and grey-haired major, looked oddly familiar to Sharpe, but he could neither place the man’s face nor his name.
“That’s Major Dunnett,” the Sergeant told Sharpe. “He was only posted to this battalion last year, sir. Poor gentleman had the misfortune to be a prisoner for most of the last war.”
“I remember now.” Sharpe spurred the mare towards the group of officers and Dunnett, looking up, caught his eye and stared with apparent amazement. Then Dunnett shook the soap off his razor blade and walked to meet Sharpe. They had last met during the disastrous retreat to Corunna when Dunnett had been in charge of a half-battalion of Greenjackets and Lieutenant Sharpe had been his quartermaster. Dunnett had hated Sharpe with an unreasonable and ineradicable hatred. The last glimpse Sharpe had caught of his erstwhile commanding officer had been as French Dragoons captured Dunnett while Sharpe had scrambled to desperate safety with a group of Riflemen. Now, denied promotion by his five years in prison, Dunnett was still a Major while Sharpe, his old quartermaster, outranked him.
“Hello, Dunnett.” Sharpe curbed his horse.
“Lieutenant Sharpe, as I live and breathe.” Dunnett patted his face dry. “I heard that you’d survived and prospered, though I doubt you’re still a lieutenant? Or even a quartermaster?”
“A Dutch Lieutenant-Colonel, which I don’t think counts for very much. It’s good to see you again.”
“It’s good of you to say so.” Dunnett, evidently embarrassed by Sharpe’s compliment, looked away and caught sight of Harper who was still talking with the Sergeant. “Is that Rifleman Harper?” Dunnett asked incredulously.
“Ex-Rifleman Harper. He cheated his way out of the army, and now can’t resist coming back to see it fight a battle.”
“I thought he’d have died long ago. He was always a rogue.” Dunnett was painfully thin, with deep lines carved either side of his grey moustache. He looked back to Sharpe. “So were you, but I was wrong in my opinion of you.”
It was a handsome retraction. Sharpe tried to throw it off by saying how terrible the retreat to Corunna had been; an ordeal that had abraded mens’ tempers and manners till they were snarling at each other like rabid dogs. “It was a bad time,” he concluded.
“And today doesn’t promise to be much better. Is it true that Boney’s whole army is over there?”
“Most of it, anyway.” Sharpe assumed that Napoleon had sent some men to keep the Prussians busy, but the thickness of the camp-fires across the valley was evidence that most of the French army was now assembled in front of Wellington’s men.
“Damn the bastards however many they might be.” Dunnett buttoned his shirt and pulled on his green coat. “I won’t be taken a prisoner again.”
“Was it bad?”
“No, it was even civilized. We had the freedom of Verdun, but if you didn’t have money, that was a dubious privilege. I think I’d rather die than see that damned town again.” Dunnett turned and stared towards the empty slope of the French ridge where the only movement was the ripple of the wind moving the standing patches of damp rye. He stared for a few seconds, then turned back to Sharpe. “It’s oddly good to see you again. There aren’t many of that particular battalion still living. You heard they were at New Orleans?”