Lord John thought the woman was Jane. He was blind so he did not know it was still the heart of a dark night; instead he thought it was morning and that Jane had found him and he began to sob for joy as he reached up to hold her hand. The woman cursed Lord John for making her life so difficult, but she was not unprepared for such unco-operative victims. She carried a ten-inch knife that she used to slaughter the pigs she raised in her back yard. “Lie still!” she told Lord John in French.
“Jane!” he cried desperately, and the woman feared that his noise would bring the sentries so she sawed the knife quick and hard across his moon-whitened throat. Blood jetted black. He choked, jerked once like a landed fish, then was still.
The woman took Lord John’s coat with its precious epaulettes, but left his shirt because it was too drenched in blood. In a pocket of the coat she found a ragged length of dirty rope that she used to bind up her bundle of plundered clothing. Beyond the southern ridge a vixen howled at the sky that was suffused with the smoke of the victors’camp-fires.
The Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers slept on the ridge they had defended. Peter d’Alembord’s leg had been taken off, so he might yet live. Private Clayton was dead; killed by the Imperial Guard at the very moment of victory. Charlie Weller lived, as did Colonel Ford, though the Colonel had been sent back to Brussels and whether he wanted to stay alive any longer was another matter. Harry Price was the next most senior living officer, so Sharpe had made him into a Major and given Simon Doggett a Captaincy, though he had warned both men that the promotions might not stand up to the scrutiny of the civil servants in Whitehall. Men might fight and bleed and write a chapter of history for Britain, but still the evil-minded soft-bummed bastards of Whitehall would have the last say.
Sharpe slept for an hour, then woke to sit beside a fire that he had made from fragments of lance shafts and the broken spokes from a shattered gun wheel. The first light came early; a sickly grey that dispersed the plunderers and brought the black-winged carrion birds to feast on the dead. The air was already humid, promising a day of stifling heat. In the west the fires of the Prussian bivouacs made thin skeins across the wash of high cloud. Somewhere behind the ridge a bugle called the Rouse and other buglers took up the call that seemed to be echoed by the crowing of cockerels from distant villages.
“Orders, sir?” Harry Price looked red-eyed, as though he had been crying, though it was probably just tiredness.
Sharpe felt tired and emptied, so it took an immense effort to think of even the simplest tasks. “I want a proper butcher’s list, Harry.” That was the list of the dead and wounded. “Give Sergeant Huckfield a work party to salvage muskets, and see what other equipment you can filch.” The aftermath of battle was a prime time to stock the battalion’s equipment needs. “We need some food. Remind me who’s guarding the prisoners?”
“Sergeant Ryan.”
“Tell him to march the buggers back to brigade. If they don’t want them, then turn them loose without any boots or belts.”
“We’re going to need more sergeants,” Harry Price warned.
“I’ll think about it.” Sharpe turned to stare at the newly stripped bodies of the dead which lay so white among the charred stalks of rye. “And start digging a grave, Harry. A big one.”
“Yes, sir.”
A soldier brought Sharpe a scorching mug of tea that he drank as he gazed into the valley. Smoke still drifted from the remains of the chateau of Hougoumont and from the farm of La Haye Sainte. The chateau had been burnt right out, leaving nothing but blackened roof beams above a scorched stone shell, while the corridors of La Haye Sainte were still choked with dead. At the foot of the slope beneath Sharpe a horse that had survived the night without its back legs sat on its gory haunches and whinnied pathetically for help.