“Amen to that,” Sharpe said.»
The howitzer-fire ceased, one last shell leaving a wavering trail of smoke from its burning fuse that crashed the charge apart inside the wood. The French attack had failed, leaving the space between the wood and chateau sifted with smoke above a sprawl of blue-coated bodies. Some of those bodies cried for help. The failed attack had left an overpowering smell of rotten eggs, which was the familiar stench of exploded gunpowder. The smell of blood would follow, mingling with the sweeter scent of crushed grasses and crops.
British skirmishers advanced into the wood again, preparing to challenge the next attack‘. Beyond the chateau, in the wide valley that was now hidden from Sharpe, the noise of the French cannonade rumbled and cracked. Sharpe, his ears tuned to the familiar sounds of a battlefield, could tell that nothing there had changed. In battle, once the smoke had shrouded the field, the ears were often more useful than the eyes.
“I do believe“, Witherspoon said, ”that we should be departing hence.“ He gestured right, to where a battery of French eight-pounder guns was being dragged into the upper end of the hayfield. Other French troops, skirmishers, were filing from the woods into the rows of cut hay. Clearly these troops were destined for the chateau’s next ordeal, and just as clearly it was time to yield the hayfield to them.
Sharpe, Harper and Witherspoon trotted briskly out of the hayfield and up the earthen track to the ridge top. The battery of five-and-a-half-inch howitzers that had caused such damage to the French skirmishers stood with their stubby and blackened barrels elevated steeply upwards. Sharpe congratulated the battery’s commander, the same man who had fidgeted with his watch waiting for the battle to begin and who was now clearly pleased by the Rifleman’s compliment. A few more scraps of French shell casing smoked in the damp crops, and a few more infantry casualties caused by the shells were being helped back to the regimental surgeons, but otherwise there was no new threat to the ridge. It seemed as if the Emperor was content to keep up his cannonade on the main British line while his infantry struggled to capture the bastion of Hougoumont.
Reinforcements from the and Guards Brigade were posted to the ridge close behind the chateau. The Guardsmen were a part of the Prince of Orange’s dispersed corps and the Prince could not resist galloping forward to watch the battalions deploy in column of companies. They looked a brave sight as they advanced beneath their huge colours and with their bands playing. The Prince returned their salutes and called out his best wishes for a brave day. The Young Frog was in high spirits, elated by the music of the fifes and drums that mingled with the fizzing sound of French shell-fuses and the crash of their explosions. His gloom of the previous night seemed to have been dissipated by battle. He spoke cheerfully with the commander of the Guards, then saw Sharpe waiting higher on the ridge. “What are you doing there?” he shouted.
“Obeying your orders, sir. Watching the right flank.”
“I think we can abandon that idea, Sharpe!” The Prince’s tone implied utter scorn for anyone who seriously believed the French might attempt a flanking march. “It’s going to be a straightforward mill. You can tell that from their gun placements. From now on it will be toes on the scratch and heavy thumping!” The Prince feinted a punch at Sharpe to illustrate his prize-fighting metaphor, then pointed at the chateau. “I want you in Hougoumont.”
“To do what, sir?” Sharpe had ridden close to the Prince whose horse skittered sideways as a shell exploded higher up the slope.
„To report to me, of course. I’ll need to know when to send the reserves in.“
Sharpe had assumed that the chateau’s defenders were quite capable of deciding that for themselves, but he recalled Rebecque’s lecture on the need for tact, so just nodded. “Very good, sir.”
The Prince suddenly looked past Sharpe. “Witherspoon! Is that really you? My dear Witherspoon! We haven’t met since Eton! I thought you were destined for the Church, not the army! Or are you a vicar in disguise today? Isn’t this a splendid day? Such good sport!”
Sharpe left the happy reunion behind as he spurred towards the chateau. Harper, despite his sworn promise that he would not expose himself to danger, followed. The two Riflemen could hear the splintering crackle of musketry from the woods beyond the chateau, evidence that a new attack was gathering force. They galloped past the huge haystack that was built close to the northern entrance and Sharpe shouted at the defenders to open the gates. A startled Coldstreamer sergeant poked his head over the farmyard wall, saw the two men galloping towards him, and hastily shouted for the huge double gates to be unbarred. Once inside the farmyard Sharpe slid out of his saddle and unsheathed his rifle. Harper took the reins of both horses and tied them to a metal ring embedded in the stable wall.
A Coldstreamer captain, alarmed by the Rifleman’s sudden arrival, ran from the farmhouse to greet Sharpe. “You bring orders?”
“Ignore us.”
“Gladly!” The Captain ran back to the house which faced towards the woods where the French infantry was massing for their next rush.
A French roundshot crashed into the farmhouse roof, showering slates and splinters into the yard. Sharpe looked up at the damaged rafters and grimaced. “God knows what we’re doing here.”
“You’re keeping the wee boy happy, sir.” Harper looked at the nearest defenders. “My God, but we’re in high and mighty company, so we are. I’ve never fought with the Coldstreamers before. I’d better polish my boots.”
“You’d better stay out of bloody trouble.” Sharpe rammed the charge down his rifle barrel, then slotted the ramrod back into place. The cobbled yard was long and thin, surrounded by sturdy farm buildings amongst which was a small chapel where the wounded from the first attack were being tended. A dungheap was piled against the chapel’s wall, while barrels of unripe apples lay beside a pigsty that had lost its inhabitants, presumably to the Coldstreamers’ cooking pots. A cat, clearly sensing that the troubled times could only get worse, was carrying her kittens one by one from a huge barn to the main house. Three bandaged Guardsmen sat outside the chapel. The only other Guardsmen in sight were a lieutenant and his squad of men who were evidently the garrison’s reserve, and thus ready to reinforce any part of the chateau’s perimeter that was dangerously threatened by the imminent French attack.
“It’s a grand place, so it is.” Harper looked approvingly round the farm buildings. Men had started to fire from the upper rooms of the farmhouse, while a volley of musketry sounded loud from the walled garden beyond the barn. The noise of the fighting forced
Harper to raise his voice. “They must own a lot of land to fill all these barns!”
“It’s good land, too!” Sharpe agreed.
Muskets crashed close behind them, coming from the stables which formed the western defences. Sharpe ran into the stables to see Guardsmen taking their turns at the loopholes. Other men were awkwardly perched on the roof beams, firing through holes they had made in the slates. Smoke from the muskets was thick among the empty stalls.
Sharpe climbed onto a manger, then hauled himself to a vacant beam where he punched a hole in the slates. French skirmishers were flooding past the stables, running through the hayfield from where he and Harper had watched the first attack. He levelled his rifle through his makeshift loophole, tracked a man carrying an officer’s sword, led him by a few inches, then fired.
The rifle’s smoke prevented him seeing whether he had done any damage. He ducked as a deafening crash announced the strike of an eight-pound cannon-ball that splintered viciously through the stable rafters and struck two Guardsmen down in gouts of blood. Another cannon-ball smacked against the stable’s outer wall, ringing like a sledgehammer but doing no damage to the thick masonry. Sharpe, too cramped in the roof space to reload his rifle, shouted for Harper to give him his.