“No, sir.”
“You look all in.” Rebecque, evidently realizing that the Englishman would not yield on the battle of the uniform, closed the travelling trunk. “Come on, I’ll find you some food.”
The clock in the hallway struck eleven. Sharpe, knowing that he must be at the ridge before dawn, left orders that he was to be called at half-past two, then carried Rebecque’s gift of bread and cold lamb out to the stables where Harper had sequestered a patch of comparatively dry straw for a bed.
“So how was His Highness?” the Irishman asked.
“As full of shit as an egg’s got meat.”
Harper laughed. “And tomorrow?”
“God knows, Patrick. I suppose tomorrow we meet the Emperor.”
“There’s a thought for you.”
“But you’re to stay out of trouble, Patrick.”
“I will!” Harper said indignantly, as though Sharpe’s nagging reminded him of his wife’s.
“You didn’t stay clear yesterday.”
“Yesterday! None of the bastards got near me yesterday! But I’ll stay out of harm’s way tomorrow, never you mind.”
They fell silent. Sharpe pulled the damp cloak over his wet uniform and listened to the rain smash down on the yard’s cobbles. He thought of Peter d’Alembord’s awful fears and remembered his own terror at Toulouse and he wondered why this battle was not affecting him in the same way. That very thought raised its own fears; that such a lack of dread was in itself a harbinger of disaster, yet, in the darkness and listening to the horses move heavily behind his bed, Sharpe could not feel any horror of the next day. He was curious about fighting the Emperor, and he was as apprehensive as any man, yet he was not suffering the gut-loosening terror that racked d’Alembord.
He listened to the rain, wondering how the next day would end.
Tomorrow night, he thought, he would either be in full retreat to the coast, or else a prisoner, or perhaps even marching southwards to pursue a defeated enemy. He remembered the victory at Vitoria that had broken the French in Spain, and how he and Harper had ridden after the battle into the field of gold and jewels. That had been an answer to the soldier’s prayer; God send a rich enemy and no surgeon’s knife.
Lucille would be worrying for news. Sharpe closed his eyes, trying to sleep, but sleep would not come. His shoulder and leg ached foully. Harper was already sleeping, snoring loud by the door. Under the stableyard’s archway the sentry stamped his feet. The smoke of his clay pipe came fragrant to the stable, helping to fend off the stench of the wet dungheap piled at the back of the yard. Upstairs, in the Prince’s room, a candle was blown out, plunging the house into darkness. Lightning flickered silent over the rooftops where the rain crashed and bounced and poured from the tiles.
On the twin ridges, three miles to the south, two armies tried to sleep in the downpour. They wrapped themselves in greatcoats for a little warmth, but the comfort was illusory for the rain had long soaked into their last stitches of clothing. Most of the fires had died and what small fuel might have fed them was being hoarded to heat the water for the morning’s drink of tea.
Few men really slept, though many pretended. Some sat in the small hedges, clutching their misery close through the hours of darkness. The picquets on the forward slopes of the ridges shivered, while on the reverse slopes, where the crops had already been trampled into quagmire, men lay in furrows that had become torrents of water. A few men, abjuring sleep, sat on their packs and talked softly- Some British horses, their pickets loosened from the wet ground, broke free and, scared by the ice-blue streaks of far lightning, galloped madly through the bivouacs. Men cursed and ran from the threat of the panicked hooves, then the horses crashed out into the wide valley which was dark and empty under the thrashing rainstorm.
In the three farms forward of the British ridge the garrisons slept under the shelter of solid roofs. Sentries peered from the farm windows at the storm. A few men, eager for superstitions that would tell what the future held, remembered the tradition of British victories following great thunderstorms. The outnumbered men at Agincourt, faced by a vast and mighty French army, had similarly crouched like beasts beneath a storm that had crashed across the night sky before their dawn of battle, and now a new generation of old enemies listened to the thunder rack and thrash across a night sky that was split asunder by the demonic shafts of searing light.