“I don’t even like him,” Sharpe said bitterly.
Rebecque sighed. “I do. And he does want to be liked. You’ll find him much easier if you flatter him. But if you cross him, or make him feel foolish, he’ll just become petulant.” Rebecque offered a ghost of a smile. “And royalty is very good at being petulant. It is, perhaps, its major talent.”
Sharpe waited while a cart of wounded rumbled noisily past, then looked into Rebecque’s eyes. “So now you want me to apologize to the little bastard?”
“I’m astonished how swiftly you learn our courtly ways,” Rebecque smiled. “No. I shall apologize for you. I shall say that you deeply regret having caused his Highness any perturbation and wish only to be at his side as an adviser and friend.”
Sharpe began to laugh. “It’s a bloody odd world, Rebecque.”
“So you’ll report for duty?”
Sharpe wondered just how much duty would be left in the war now that the Emperor was beaten, but he nodded his acceptance anyway. “I need the money, Rebecque. Of course I’ll report back.”
Rebecque seemed relieved. He offered his snuffbox to Sharpe, who refused the offer. Rebecque, as though he was not sneezing enough already, put a pinch of the powder on his left hand, sniffed it vigorously, sneezed three times, then wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. A file of shirt-sleeved cavalry troopers walked past with canvas buckets of water for their horses.
“So where is the Prince?” Sharpe asked. He supposed the bullet would have to be bitten and he would need to face the bloody boy.
Rebecque gestured northwards, suggesting that the Young Frog was many miles up the road. “I’m keeping him well out of harm’s way. It would be politically disastrous if he was taken prisoner today.”
Sharpe stared with surprise at the kindly middle-aged Dutchman. “What does that mean? Wasn’t there the same danger yesterday?”
“Yesterday,” Rebecque said mildly, “we weren’t retreating. Any minute now, Sharpe, and this whole army could be surrounded and fighting for its very existence.”
“Its existence? I thought we were pursuing the bloody French today!”
It was Rebecque’s turn to look surprised. “Didn’t you know? Blcher got beaten. His army wasn’t destroyed, thank God, but they took a thrashing and have been forced to retreat.” Rebecque sounded very calm as he delivered the appalling news. “It seems that their Chief of Staff preferred us to think that they had won. That way, our army stayed here as a temptation for Napoleon. He might prefer to attack us, you see, and let the Prussians escape. It’s really quite a clever Prussian ploy, when you think about it, but likely to be damned uncomfortable for us.”
“The Prussians are retreating?” Sharpe sounded disbelieving.
“They went late last night, which means we’re stranded here on our own. Marshal Ney is still in front of us and at any minute the rest of the French army will attack our left flank.”
Sharpe instinctively looked to the east, but nothing moved in the cloud shadowed landscape of woods and fields. He tried to understand this new reality. Yesterday’s victory at Quatre Bras was all for nothing, because Napoleon had kicked the two doors wide apart and the allies were separated. The Prussians had fled in the night and the British had been left isolated to face the full power of the Emperor’s whole army.
“So very soon,” Rebecque continued placidly, “we’re going to retreat. The Duke’s not making too much fuss, because he doesn’t want to start any panic. There’s only this one road we can use, you see, and once the rain starts it’s likely to be difficult going.”
Sharpe remembered Wellington leaning over the map in the Duke of Richmond’s dressing-room. “Are we going to Waterloo?” he asked Rebecque.
The Dutchman seemed surprised that Sharpe had even heard of the village, but nodded. “We’re going just to the south of Waterloo, to a place called Mont-St-Jean. We march there today, make a stand there tomorrow, and pray that the Prussians will rescue us.”
“Rescue?” Sharpe bridled at the word.
“Of course.” Rebecque, as ever, was imperturbable. “Blcher has promised that if we make a stand he’ll march to our aid. That’s so long as the French don’t stop him, of course, and undoubtedly they’ll be trying. Yesterday we failed to reach him, so we can only pray that tomorrow he doesn’t repay the compliment. We certainly can’t beat Napoleon on our own, so if Blcher lets us down we’re all beaten.” Rebecque smiled at his catalogue of bad news. “All in all, Sharpe, things are not good. Are you sure you still wish to serve on His Highness’s staff?”