He took the money and the promissory notes to the battalion’s paymaster who, after he had taken his share, would send the balance on to the bereaved families.
Harry Price fixed the spurs onto his boots and splashed back to the hedge where the officers shivered in their miserable shelter.
He saw Major d’Alembord sitting further up the hedge. “You didn’t bid, Peter?”
“Not tonight, Harry, not tonight.” D’Alembord’s tone was distinctly unfriendly, discouraging conversation.
Price took the hint and walked a few paces up the hedgerow before sitting and admiring his newly decorated heels. The spurs should cut a dash with the ladies of Paris, and that was the best reason Harry Price knew for fighting; because the girls could be so very obliging to a foreign soldier, and especially a soldier with a pelisse and spurs.
Men were singing in the bivouacs. Their voices came strongly through the ever-present sound of the rain that had begun to fall harder again. Peter d’Alembord, attempting to stir himself from his misery, saw Harry Price’s new spurs and perceived the childish delight which they had evidently given to their new owner. D’Alembord was tempted to start a conversation in the hope that Harry Price’s usual foolery would distract him from his fears, but then the terror surged up again, strong and overwhelming, and d’Alembord almost sobbed aloud under its impact. Lightning flickered to the north, and d’Alembord touched the pocket where his fiancee’s letters were stored. He was going to die. He knew he was going to die. He closed his eyes so that no tears would show. God damn it, he knew he was going to die, and he was afraid.
It was fully dark by the time Sharpe and Harper reached Waterloo and discovered the Prince’s billet. A sentry opened the stable gate and the two Riflemen ducked under the low stone arch which led to the yard.
“I’ll look after the horses,” Harper offered when the two men reached the shelter of the stable.
,I’ll help you.”
“Go and see your wee Prince. He’s probably missing you.”
“Missing his bloody mother, more like.” Sharpe slid down from the saddle and breathed a sigh of relief to be free of it. He tried to remember how much sleep he had had in the last three days, but he was too weary to add the few hours together. He remembered he had promised Lucille that he would see her this night, but the
Emperor had changed those plans. He needed to write her a letter. He also needed food and sleep. He wearily rested his head against the saddle and listened to the growing violence of the rain.
“Leave it to me,” Harper insisted.
Sharpe obeyed. The kitchen was crammed with officers’ servants and rank with the smell of drying uniforms which were hung on every available shelf or hook. Sharpe edged through the room and into the corridor beyond. He was seeking Rebecque, for he wanted to borrow a pen and some ink.
“He wants you.” A girl’s voice spoke from the stairway above Sharpe.
Sharpe was surprised to see Paulette, the Prince’s girl, leaning on the balustrade. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“He wanted me here. But he’s been asking for you all evening. He’s drunk.”
“Very?”
“Just happy. The usual.”
“Bugger him,” Sharpe said in English. He pushed open a door at random and found himself in a parlour that was crowded with the Prince’s staff. They were embarrassed to see Sharpe, imagining him as a prodigal come home for the Prince’s pardon. Doggett alone offered the Rifleman a welcome, as well as surrendering his chair and volunteering to pour Sharpe a glass of wine. The chair was close to the fire in front of which, as in the kitchen, thick wool coats were hung to dry and were filling the room with a malodorous steam. “Where’s Rebecque?” Sharpe asked the room at large.
“With His Highness,” Doggett said. “Red wine?”
“What I would really like,” Sharpe collapsed into the chair, “is a cup of tea.”
Doggett grinned. “I shall arrange it, sir.”
Sharpe stretched out his legs, and flinched as the old wound in his thigh shot a stab of agony up to his hip. He wondered if he would ever be dry again. He knew he should beg or borrow some writing paper and pen a swift letter to Lucille, but he was suddenly too tired to move.