Vincent understood the question’s real meaning and smiled. ‘Thank the good Lord I’ve never got close to one, Sharpe. Nasty things, cannon. They make far too much noise.’
Vincent was one of Wellington’s exploring officers, and that made sense. Sharpe had worked with them before and knew them to be subtle and clever men whose job was to determine the enemy’s dispositions and plans. They rode good horses far behind the enemy lines and always wore uniform so that if they were captured they could claim they were not spies. ‘So what can you tell me about Ham?’ Sharpe asked.
‘It’s a nice little town on the River Somme, Sharpe, with a citadel in a bend of the river. And the citadel is a bloody great stone fortress. Big corner towers, high walls. You’ve seen the Tower of London?’
‘Many times.’
‘Think of the White Tower, only twice the size.’
‘Jesus!’ Sharpe said. ‘And it’s well garrisoned?’
‘Oh, indeed, but usually garrison troops aren’t the best fighting men.’
‘They might have been reinforced, sir,’ Sharpe suggested.
‘Reinforced?’
‘Men fleeing the battle, sir.’
‘I suppose a few might have reached there, yes, but most of the French will be retreating to the east of Ham, and the Prussians will be on their heels.’
‘The Duke suggested the Prussians might reach Ham first, sir.’
‘God, I hope not! The prisoners will be scattered across half of France if they do. No, Sharpe, we get there first, we release them, and we take our fellow back to the Duke.’
‘Our fellow, sir?’
‘Rather an important man. Pity he was captured.’
‘Who is he?’
‘No need for you to know until you meet him.’
Sharpe bridled at that curt response, but did not argue. ‘The garrison will have learned about the battle soon enough,’ he said, ‘so why wouldn’t they just take the prisoners south, out of our way?’
‘Don’t even think about that,’ Vincent said. ‘They should do that, but will the garrison’s Commandant be astute enough to act without orders? My guess is that if we hurry we’ll get there in time.’
‘The Duke should have sent cavalry,’ Sharpe grumbled.
‘Can you imagine cavalry capturing a fortress? The poor darlings wouldn’t know how to begin.’
‘And you think I do?’
‘The Duke has faith in you, Sharpe,’ Vincent said sternly. ‘Will your fellows be ready to march?’
‘They’d better be,’ Sharpe growled, and the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers were indeed ready, drawn up in ranks on the road that led along the ridge where the battle had been fought. The fires in the valley still smoked, their stench of burning flesh carrying up to the road. The wounded were still in their encampment, tended by the bandsmen, all but for the six drummers, who would march with the battalion.
‘What about the women, sir?’ Harry Price accosted Sharpe.
‘What about them, Harry?’
‘Can they come?’
‘Of course not!’ Vincent put in brusquely.
Sharpe leaned down. ‘Listen, Harry, we’re going to be marching fast, really fast. The women will have to keep up. If they don’t? We abandon them. Let them know.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Is that wise, Sharpe?’ Vincent asked.
Sharpe turned to him. ‘You want these men to fight hard, and they’re not going to be happy if their wives are left with the rest of the army. Happy men fight a damn sight better than a battalion of miserable buggers. Besides, the wives will make up their own minds. Some will come, some will stay with the wounded, and some will decide their children can’t stand the pace.’
‘Children too!’ Vincent sounded alarmed.
‘They happen when you put men and women together,’ Sharpe said, then spurred his horse to the centre of the battalion’s line. Harper rode with him. ‘’Talion!’ the Irishman bellowed. ‘’Ten’shun!’
‘Stand easy,’ Sharpe called. ‘Now listen, you rogues! The Duke has given us a special task, and he did that because we’re special! He reckons we’re one of his best battalions! So we’re marching into France, and we’re going on our own.’ He let that idea settle, hearing the murmurs in the ranks. ‘Quiet!’ he called. ‘We’re going on our own and we’re also going fast! If you can’t keep up you’ll be left behind, but the Duke trusts you to march hard and we will not let him down!’ It was not much of a speech, but Sharpe had wanted to warn them that they faced a hard slog. ‘Right, Pat, lead them off.’
‘Where to?’ Harper asked, amused.
‘Centre of the ridge, then turn right. And reverse the company order.’
The battalion had lined up facing north, so the Grenadier Company was on Sharpe’s left, the direction they would march. They were a good company, but the Light Company, on his right, would set a quicker pace and Sharpe intended to march fast. The Grenadiers wouldn’t like it, reckoning that they should always lead the battalion, but a Light Company marching pace would leave them too tired to grumble. ‘Drummers!’ Sharpe bellowed, ‘I want to hear you!’
He rode to the head of the column, accompanied by Harper and Vincent. They marched along the ridge, past the corpses of the French horses that had charged so gallantly and been cut down ruthlessly by canister fire from the cannons and by the relentless volley fire from the British squares. A little further on Sharpe passed the spot where his rifle bullet had struck the Prince of Orange’s shoulder and he felt a pulse of pleasure in the memory, along with a wish that the bullet has struck a hand’s breadth lower. Then they were at the crossroads where the farm track joined the main road, and Sharpe turned right, leading his battalion past the walled farmyard of La Haye Sainte where the King’s German Legion had fought and died. Dead horses lined the road and there were still dead men who had not yet been collected for burial or burning. Among them were too many green-jacketed Riflemen. ‘God,’ he said to Harper, ‘this was a bloody slaughter.’
‘Worst I’ve been in,’ the Irishman said.
‘Badajoz was worse.’
‘Aye, that was a proper fight too.’
‘You were at Badajoz?’ Vincent asked, then looked at the wreath of oak leaves sewn onto Sharpe’s sleeve. ‘Is that—’ he began, then stopped.
‘That’s Badajoz.’ Sharpe had seen the Major’s glance. ‘We were both there.’ The oak wreath marked a man who had survived a Forlorn Hope, the suicidal group that went first into an enemy breach. Sharpe and Harper had climbed the Santa Maria breach, clawing their way up blood-soaked stones into the fire of the defenders, while behind them the deep ditch had been filled with the dead. There were nights when he still woke in a sweat, dreaming of that fight, wondering how he and Harper had survived, and to this day he did not know by what miracle they had lived, let alone won. ‘And I hope,’ he continued to Vincent, ‘that we never have to fight again.’
‘Amen to that,’ Harper said.
‘The damned Frogs haven’t surrendered yet, Colonel,’ Vincent said.
‘They’re well beaten though.’