“I don’t give a damn for his heart, Rebecque. It’s those men I care about!”
“Rebecque!” The Prince turned petulantly in his saddle. “Has that order gone!”
“Immediately, sir.” Rebecque shrugged at Sharpe, then turned away to find another officer to carry the Prince’s command.
The order was sent. Sir Colin Halkett rode back to the Prince’s command post vehemently to protest the command, but the Prince would not be denied. He insisted that there was no danger of a French cavalry attack and that, by deploying in square, the brigade was sacrificing three-quarters of the firepower that might be needed to rake the-flank of a French infantry attack.
“We mustn’t be cautious!” the Prince lectured the experienced Sir Colin. “Caution won’t win battles! Only daring. You will form line! I insist you form line!”
Sir Colin rode unhappily away while Sharpe, goaded beyond endurance by the Prince’s crowing voice, spurred forward. “Sir,” he said to the Prince.
The Prince ignored him. Instead he looked at Winckler, one of his Dutch aides, and deliberately spoke in English. “I can’t think why the Duke called his men the scum of the earth, Winckler. I think he must have meant his officers, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Winckler, a sycophantic man, smiled.
Sharpe ignored the provocation. “Permission to rejoin my old battalion, sir.”
The Prince gave the smallest, curtest nod.
Sharpe turned his horse away and spurred it forward. Hooves sounded loud behind him, making him twist in his saddle. “I thought you promised Isabella you’d stay out of trouble?”
“There isn’t any trouble yet,” Harper said. “When there is I’ll get the hell out of it, but till then I’ll keep you company.”
Harper followed Sharpe down the bank onto the Nivelles road where Sharpe exploded in rage. “Bastard! What a cretinous dirty-minded little Dutch bastard! I’d like to ram his poxed bloody crown up his royal arse.” Instead Sharpe snatched the tricorne hat off his head and ripped the black, gold and scarlet cockade of the Netherlands from its crown. He hurled the silken scrap into a patch of nettles. “Bastard!”
Harper just laughed.
They scrambled up the bank into the trampled field of rye. To their right the trees were heavy with leaf, though here and there a splintered branch showed where a French cannon-ball or shell had struck high. There was not much litter in this part of the field; merely the corpses of two dead Voltigeurs, a scatter of dead horses, and a discarded and undamaged Cuirassier’s breastplate that Harper dismounted to retrieve. “Useful, that,” he said as he tied the polished piece of armour to the strap of a saddlebag.
Sharpe did not reply. Instead, he watched as Sir Colin Halkett’s brigade staff ordered the four battalions out of square and into line. The regimental bands played behind the brigade. Sharpe saluted the colours of the 69th, the 30th and the 33rd. He felt a particular fondness for the 33rd, the Yorkshire regiment which he had joined as a sullen youth twenty-two years before. He wondered if their recruiters still carried oatcakes pierced on a sword, the curious symbol he’d seen as Sergeant Hakeswill had expounded to the sixteen-year-old Sharpe the benefits of an army life. Hakeswill was long dead, as were almost all the other men Sharpe remembered from the battalion, except for the Lieutenant-Colonel who had led the 33rd when Sharpe had first joined and who was now His Grace the Duke of Wellington.
The six hundred men of the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers were deployed the furthest south, a full half-mile from the crossroads. Peter d’Alembord’s skirmishers were fifty yards in front of the battalion and having a hard time with the greater number of Voltigeurs. It seemed that Ford had not taken Sharpe’s advice to send out extra skirmishers, but was leaving d’Alembord’s men to cope as best they could. Sharpe, not wanting to interfere with Ford, reined in a good thirty yards behind the battalion, close to the tree line where the battalion’s band was playing. Mr Little, the rotund bandmaster, first greeted Sharpe with a cheerful grin, then with a quick and cheerful rendition of `Over The Hills and Far Away’, the marching song of the Rifles. Colonel Ford, who had just finished dressing his newly formed line, turned as the music changed. He blinked with surprise to see the two Riflemen, then nervously took off his spectacles and polished their round lenses on his red sash. “Come to see us fight, Sharpe?”