Sharpe hacked again, this time landing a blow on the back of the helmet. The sword ripped the canvas cover to reveal a flash of scarred brass. The Dragoon dropped the carbine and fumbled for his sword which hung from its wrist strap. He was elumsy and could not make his grip. Sharpe lunged, but Nosey had frightened the Frenchman’s horse which twisted away and so carried the Dragoon out of Sharpe’s reach. Sweat was stinging Sharpe’s eyes. Everything seemed awkward. He spurred forward, sword raised, then a shout from his rear made him twist in the saddle. He saw two German troopers spurring at the second Frenchman. There was the clash of sword on sabre and a scream that was abruptly silenced. Sharpe looked again for his own enemy, but the first Dragoon had taken enough and was holding out his sword in meek surrender.
“Nosey! Down! Leave him!”
The second Dragoon was dead, his throat sliced by an Hussar’s sabre. His killer, a toothless Prussian sergeant, grinned at Sharpe, then cleaned his curved blade by running it through a handful of his horse’s mane. The Sergeant wore a silver skull and crossbones on his black shako, a sight that made Sharpe’s prisoner even more nervous. The other Frenchmen were retreating up the slope, unwilling to give battle to the greater number of black-uniformed Hussars. The Hussar officer was ahead of his men, taunting the French officer to a duel, but the Frenchman was too canny to risk his life for such vain heroics.
Sharpe reached over and took the reins of the Dragoon’s horse. “Get down,” he spoke to the man in French.
“The dog, monsieurl`
“Get down! Hurry!”
The prisoner dismounted, then stumbled out of the wood. When he took off his dented helmet he proved to have bristly fair hair above a snub-nosed face. He reminded Sharpe of Jules, the miller’s son from Seleglise, who used to help Sharpe with Lucille’s flock of sheep and who had been so excited when Napoleon returned to France. The captured Dragoon shivered as the German cavalry surrounded him.
The Prussian Captain spoke angrily to Sharpe in German. Sharpe shook his head. “You speak English?”
,Nein. Franqais, peut-etre?”
They spoke in French. The Hussar Captain’s anger had been prompted by the French refusal to fight him. “No one is allowed to fight today! We were ordered out of Charleroi. Why do we even come to the Netherlands? Why don’t we just give Napoleon the keys to Berlin and have done with it? Who are you, monsieur?”
“My name is Sharpe.”
“A Britisher, eh? My name’s Ziegler. Do you know what the hell is happening?”
Ziegler and his men had been driven westwards by a whole regiment of Red Lancers. Like the Dragoons on the pasture, Ziegler had retreated rather than face unequal odds. He and his men had been resting in the farm when they saw Sharpe’s ignominious flight. “At least we killed one of the bastards.”
Sharpe told Ziegler what he knew, which merely confirmed what the Prussian Captain had already discovered for himself. A French force was advancing northwards from Charleroi, probably aiming at the gap between the British and Prussian armies. Ziegler was now cut off on the wrong side of the Brussels road, but that predicament did not worry him. “We’ll just ride north till there are no more damned French, then go east.” He turned baleful eyes on the captured Dragoon. “Do you want the prisoner?” he asked Sharpe.
,I’ll take his horse.”
The terrified young Frenchman tried to answer Sharpe’s questions, but either he knew very little or else he was cleverly hiding what he did know. He said he believed the Emperor was with the troops on the Brussels road, but he had not personally seen him. He knew nothing of any advance further to the west near Mons.
Ziegler did not want to be slowed down by the prisoner, so he ordered the Frenchman to strip offhis boots and coat, then ordered his Sergeant to cut the man’s overall straps. “Go! Be grateful I didn’t kill you!” The Frenchman, in bare feet and clutching his overalls, hurried southwards.
Ziegler gave Sharpe a length of cold sausage, a hard-boiled egg, and a piece of black bread. “Good luck, Englishman!”