Read Online Sharpe's Waterloo by Bernard Cornwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Bernard Cornwell
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shall nevertheless oblige him to dance for his own good. Everyone should enjoy dancing. I do!â The Prince laughingly trod some capering steps about the bedroom. âWe shall make Colonel Sharpe enjoy dancing! Are you sure you donât want to dance tonight, Rebecque?â
âI shall be Your Highnessâs eyes and ears here.â
âQuite right.â The Prince, reminded that he had military responsibilities, suddenly looked grave, but he had an irrepressibly high-spirited nature and could not help laughing again. âI imagine Sharpe dances like a Belgian heifer! Thump, thump, thump, and all the time with that gloomy expression on his face. We shall cheer him up, Rebecque.â
âIâm sure heâll be grateful for it, sir.â
âAnd tell him heâs to wear Dutch uniform tonight!â
âIndeed I will, sir.â
The Prince left for Brussels an hour and a half later, his carriage escorted by an honour guard of Dutch Carabiniers who had learned their trade in the French Emperorâs service. Paulette, relieved at the Princeâs departure, lay cosily in his bed while Rebecque took a book to his own quarters. The clerks laboriously copied out the orders listing which battalions the Prince would visit in the coming week, and what manoeuvres each battalion should demonstrate for the Princeâs approval.
Clouds heaped higher in the west, but the sun still shone on the village. A cat curled up by the boot-scraper at the front door of the Princeâs headquarters where the sentry, a British redcoat, stooped to fondle the animalâs warm fur. Wheat and rye and barley and oats ripened in the sun. It was a perfect summerâs day, shimmering with heat and silence and all the beauty of peace.
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The first news of French activity reached the Duke of Wellington while he ate his early dinner of roast mutton. The message, which had originated in Charleroi just thirty-two miles away, had first been sent to Marshal Blücher at Namur, then copied and sent on to Brussels, a total journey of seventy miles. The message merely reported that the French had attacked at dawn and that the Prussian outposts had been driven in south of Charleroi.
âHow many French? It doesnât say. And where are the French now? And is the Emperor with them?â the Duke demanded of his staff.
No one could tell. The mutton was abandoned on the table while the Dukeâs staff gathered about a map pinned to the dining-room wall. The French might have advanced into the country south of Charleroi, but the Duke, as ever, brooded over the left-hand side of the map which showed the great sweep of flat country between Mons and Tournai. That was where he feared a French advance that would cut the British off from the North Sea. If the French took Ghent then the Dukeâs army would be denied its supply roads from the North Sea, as well as its route home.
Wellington, had he been in the Emperorâs boots, would have chosen that strategy. First he would have pushed a strong diversionary force at Charleroi, then, when the allies moved to defend Brussels from the south, he would have launched the real attack to the west. It was by just such dazzling manoeuvres that the Emperor had held off the Russian, Prussian and Austrian armies in the spring of 1814. Napoleon, in the weeks before his abdication, had never fought more brilliantly, and no one, least of all Wellington, expected anything but the same cleverness now.
âWeâve heard nothing from Dornberg?â the Duke snapped.
âNothing.â
The Duke looked back at the Prussian message. It did not tell him how many French had crossed the frontier, nor whether Blücher was concentrating his army; all it told him was that a French force had pushed back the Prussian outposts.
He went back to the dinner-table. His own British and Dutch forces were scattered across five hundred square miles of countryside. They had to be thus
âI shall be Your Highnessâs eyes and ears here.â
âQuite right.â The Prince, reminded that he had military responsibilities, suddenly looked grave, but he had an irrepressibly high-spirited nature and could not help laughing again. âI imagine Sharpe dances like a Belgian heifer! Thump, thump, thump, and all the time with that gloomy expression on his face. We shall cheer him up, Rebecque.â
âIâm sure heâll be grateful for it, sir.â
âAnd tell him heâs to wear Dutch uniform tonight!â
âIndeed I will, sir.â
The Prince left for Brussels an hour and a half later, his carriage escorted by an honour guard of Dutch Carabiniers who had learned their trade in the French Emperorâs service. Paulette, relieved at the Princeâs departure, lay cosily in his bed while Rebecque took a book to his own quarters. The clerks laboriously copied out the orders listing which battalions the Prince would visit in the coming week, and what manoeuvres each battalion should demonstrate for the Princeâs approval.
Clouds heaped higher in the west, but the sun still shone on the village. A cat curled up by the boot-scraper at the front door of the Princeâs headquarters where the sentry, a British redcoat, stooped to fondle the animalâs warm fur. Wheat and rye and barley and oats ripened in the sun. It was a perfect summerâs day, shimmering with heat and silence and all the beauty of peace.
Â
The first news of French activity reached the Duke of Wellington while he ate his early dinner of roast mutton. The message, which had originated in Charleroi just thirty-two miles away, had first been sent to Marshal Blücher at Namur, then copied and sent on to Brussels, a total journey of seventy miles. The message merely reported that the French had attacked at dawn and that the Prussian outposts had been driven in south of Charleroi.
âHow many French? It doesnât say. And where are the French now? And is the Emperor with them?â the Duke demanded of his staff.
No one could tell. The mutton was abandoned on the table while the Dukeâs staff gathered about a map pinned to the dining-room wall. The French might have advanced into the country south of Charleroi, but the Duke, as ever, brooded over the left-hand side of the map which showed the great sweep of flat country between Mons and Tournai. That was where he feared a French advance that would cut the British off from the North Sea. If the French took Ghent then the Dukeâs army would be denied its supply roads from the North Sea, as well as its route home.
Wellington, had he been in the Emperorâs boots, would have chosen that strategy. First he would have pushed a strong diversionary force at Charleroi, then, when the allies moved to defend Brussels from the south, he would have launched the real attack to the west. It was by just such dazzling manoeuvres that the Emperor had held off the Russian, Prussian and Austrian armies in the spring of 1814. Napoleon, in the weeks before his abdication, had never fought more brilliantly, and no one, least of all Wellington, expected anything but the same cleverness now.
âWeâve heard nothing from Dornberg?â the Duke snapped.
âNothing.â
The Duke looked back at the Prussian message. It did not tell him how many French had crossed the frontier, nor whether Blücher was concentrating his army; all it told him was that a French force had pushed back the Prussian outposts.
He went back to the dinner-table. His own British and Dutch forces were scattered across five hundred square miles of countryside. They had to be thus
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