Then, from behind him, from the north, he heard the thump of heavy drums and the jaunty thin notes of a flute playing. He twisted in the saddle to see a column of infantry at the crossroads of Quatre Bras. For a second Sharpe’s heart leapt, thinking that a battalion of Riflemen had arrived, then he saw the yellow crossbelts over the green coats and he knew he was seeing Prince Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar’s force of Nassauers. The German brigade officers were already spurring down the road towards Sharpe.
Saxe-Weimar had arrived at the very nick of time. On the long slope above Sharpe the French battalion had spread into skirmish order. They were invisible in the tall rye, yet their purposeful advance could be traced by the disturbance of the crop through which they moved. The Nassauers’ battalion was doubling down the road, while their officers spurred towards the stream to mark the place where the infantry would form a line.
Sharpe rode back behind the advancing troops. Some of the men gave him curious looks because of the blood that had sheeted his right side. He uncorked his canteen and took a long drink of water. More Nassauer infantry were running down the road, their heavy boots stirring a thick dust. Small drummer boys, their lips caked with the road’s dust, beat a ragged advance as they ran. The troops seemed eager enough, but the next few seconds would be the acid test of their willingness to fight against their old master, Napoleon.
The first Nassauer battalion was formed in a line of four ranks on the left-hand side of the road. The battalion’s Colonel stared at the thrashing of unseen men in the rye field on the stream’s far bank, then ordered his men to make ready.
The muskets were lifted to the men’s shoulders.
The Colonel paused. “Fire!”
There was a split second’s silence, then the volley crashed hugely loud in the still evening air. The musket-balls slammed across the small stream and bent the rye crop as though a squall of wind had struck the stalks. Rooks protested the disturbance by flapping angrily up from the roadside.
“Reload!” To Sharpe’s eyes the battalion’s musket drill was lamentably slow, but it did not matter; they were fighting.
A few French skirmishers returned the fire, but they were massively outnumbered and their shooting was wild. Another Nassauer battalion had formed a line to the right of the stream. “Fire!” Again a volley hammered at the evening’s perfection. A bank of smoke, thick and vile smelling, rolled across the stream.
“Fire!” That was the first battalion again. Yet more men were coming from the crossroads and deploying left and right beyond the first two units. Staff officers were galloping busily behind the lines where the battalion’s colours were bright in the dusk. The drummers kept up their din.
“How many of them?” The Brigade Major, who spoke English with a thick German accent, reined in beside Sharpe.
“I only saw one battalion of skirmishers.”
“Guns? Cavalry?”
“None that I saw, but they can’t be far behind.”
“We’ll hold them here as long as we can.” The Brigade Major glanced at the sun. It was not long now till nightfall, and the French advance would certainly stop with the darkness.
,I’ll let headquarters know you’re here,” Sharpe said.
“We’ll need help by morning,” the Brigade Major said fervently.
“You’ll get it.” Sharpe hoped he spoke the truth.
Lieutenant Simon Doggett waited at the crossroads and frowned when he saw the blood on Sharpe’s arm. “Are you hurt, sir?”
“That’s someone else’s blood.” Sharpe brushed at the bloodstain, but it was still wet. “You’re to go back to Braine-le-Comte. Tell Rebecque that the crossroads at Quatre Bras are safe, but that the French are bound to attack in greater strength in the morning. Tell him we need men here; as many as possible!”
“And you, sir? Are you staying here?”
“No. I’ll take the spare horse.” Sharpe slid out of the saddle and began unbuckling its gir,th. “You take this horse back to headquarters.”
“Where are you going, sir?” Doggett, seeing the flicker of irritation on Sharpe’s face, justified his question. “The Baron’s bound to ask me, sir.”