The battle had been hard. Now, Blücher was in retreat as the Grand Armeé du Nord flooded through Ligny. Yet he was alive. By God, the General was alive.

Captain William Frederickson surveyed his own troops. They were ragged; they were dirty. But he had most of them, and they stood proudly in line, fallen in for roll call - all of the Lower Rhine battalions were. Along the line in their camp, all captains were counting their men. His battalion was almost complete; like the 95th and 60th rifles, they had survived because they were snipers, picking off the Imperial Guard as they charged in line to the square, cavalry attacking at the rear. Good for rifles; bad for footmen.

Napoleon had taken the town. Even now, on a bright, summer's evening, smoke could be seen in the east as the Emperor fired it.

As he dismissed his men, hearing from his sergeant, Schneider, that most of the Prussian army had survived and, that Pirch had welcomed more Prussians, from Nord-Rhein, two things stuck in his mind.

The General lived. Buonaparte had committed his most loyal, the Old Guard, to the field, which had fired on Blücher. From the ridge above the town, Frederickson had seen the septuganerian General, taking a bullet to the stomach, fall from his horse, which then fell, too, right on top of him.

Yet, he lived. The Graf von Griesenau had done his best, but the jolt in attack by the General's fall had given Field Marshal Soult the edge and the general was now being treated, so he had heard, with schnapps, ginger and rhubarb, and had requested the men to receive any messages sent on for them.

Yet, none had come for him: no letter had arrived for Captain William Frederickson from his intended, Roberta Haycock.

She was gone then.

Frederickson received with thanks from Hans Schneider, the young but capable sergeant he had been assigned a tin bowl of meat stew, and took out his teeth, balancing the bowl between two hands and sipped carefully at the food, two rivulets running down his chin, his broken jaw set again making it difficult for him. If Schneider was repulsed, he did not show it, instead, passed his captain a linen cloth. He dismissed his sergeant and managed the best he could with the stew.

Of course she was gone, Frederickson told himself, once his repast was taken, his hands on his rifle, beginning to strip it down. It had been three months. She had gone to America - who knew what she had discovered there.

He tried to turn his heart away, tell himself to forget her, and focus on the business of soldiering. Yet, a kernel of incongruity still existed in his mind: he knew how she felt about him, and how he had felt about her.

Roberta had not chased him for his prospects, or for status or even protection; he had not sought her for lust or as a defender. Roberta was an excellent soldier, an excellent soldier born of the biggest traitor known to Great Britain, John Haycock, who had committed so many atrocities his enemy, British soldiers fighting in the Americas against those who desired independence. Roberta wore, Frederickson knew, this shame deeply.

While the battle reports came to him, as he oversaw the men washing, eating, cleaning their kit, Roberta's small, determined face dissolved into his mind, and his resolve to hard-heartedness crumbled. There could be any number of reasons she hadn't contacted him. She might be waiting; a letter might lost or delayed. She may even be delayed herself.

He thought about their night together, one almost of equality, rather than the impressing of a man on a woman. The age between them did not matter to him, nor her parentage, which had surprised Frederickson when he had come to rescue her from the livid 60th's intent of murder. They also both knew about life in the army. Despite evidence to the contrary, a feeling deep within him told Captain Frederickson that it would turn out alright.

As long as he survived the battle that was to come. He read the dispatch again. Wellington had requested them to a small village West of Ligny: they were marching in the morning to Quatre Bras.

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"What will you do now?" Kit's innocently penetrating voice broke through Roberta's thoughts. Sitting by the fountain in the centre of Dortmund, Roberta looked back towards William Frederickson's office. He had been very specific about the address, and indeed both the name on the wooden office plaque above the window, and his partner, Brechtold had confirmed it. Yet, no word for her.

And now, her mind considering that very same question her travelling companion had just asked, crystallised the answer for Roberta.

"I am going to enlist," Tom replied, blushing at the honesty of her answer. A boy she was outwardly purporting to be, but she had surprised herself when she found she actually meant it.

She had promised to return to William - but what then? She had sworn to Lord Wellington never to join a British regiment; that didn't bar her from any army that would have her.

Unless...unless the miracle happened: unless Sweet William asked her to be his wife. Yes, he had already. But he didn't know of what she was guilty. Roberta could not blame him if he did.

"Me too," Kit said, jumping up off the stone perimeter of the civic installation, and gave Tom Wright a hyperactive grin. "Come on!"

It had been a strange day. All attempts to shake off the messy haired boy had come to naught. He was personable, laid back, charming. And did seem to need some dirt of guidance. Maybe, as the army had been Roberta's family, it could be Kit's too. Tom Wright jumped down next to her as Kit Marlowe examined the street sign, choosing an avenue.

"How did you come to be in Le Havre?" Tom asked as they felt the cobbles under her feet.

"My father was a trader in Thames. We lived on board. I've run errands since I could walk, spoke to the traders, got the best deals." He slowed, his face falling. Tom stopped too, and listened.

"One say dad thought I had cheated him - I had too - and he came at me with a knife. I ran off, stowed away in a Flemish fishing boat." Kit Marlowe shook his curly, black head. "I can't go back there again. I've got to fight, again." And there it was, back again, the boy's eyes alive with wit and locquacity, with cheek and with humour.

"You've been a soldier too?" Tom looked over at her impish companion, waiting for the denial, or the assertion. "Where?"

"No," said Kit, turning his face to Tom, before dragging her into a small side alley. He ran the silver pieces of from the coin bag through his hands. "Now we can have fun tonight." Tom patted her jerkin. Gone, and in her companion's hands, sparkling as much in the boy's face as the as much as they were sparkling in the sunset."

"No," Tom replied, reaching out for her bag, "I don't," then reiterated, "This is mine, not yours." Kit gave it up, though for a moment, Tom thought he would defy her.

"You owe me at least five coins," Kit protested, "My voice feels hoarse with all the talking. Tom reached into her bag, the silver moonlight glinting on the three of them in her hand before passing them to Kit. His face broke into a grin. "We can have fun tonight!" Kit declared, looking out onto the avenue. His loud exclamation drew the look of two women walking together beside the commercial row. Tom grabbed at his hands as he waved the coins about.

"You could pay me back the coach fate and board at the inn," Tom prompted.

"Aren't we looking for the recruitment office for the Prussian Army?" Kit asked, his eyes holding Tom's stare. He shook Tom's unprotesting hands away. "So you'll need me ". He stepped out onto the cobbles and looked around. Many shops were closing for the evening, people were drawing shutters and fitting large wooden boards to the windows.

"This way," Kit pointed, haring down the street. Tom picked up the pace and hurried after him, as the boy paused every so often, reading notices on walls and doors. Eventually, they got to an office on Zehnte-Eier Strasse, it's hoardings painted in dark blue and red.

"Open, in the morning, at dawn," Kit read, then turned, pointing towards a shop which was still open next door. "You will have to have your own clothes and weapons," Kit added, pointing towards another pasted notice.

Tom sighed. She had promised the Duke of Wellington. Yet, a different army had a different approach, and this army did not supply equipment. Perhaps that was why Blücher had few of the poorest in his ranks; perhaps that was why discipline was tight and obedience was absolute: a certain level of wealth and education was necessary to be even a private in Prussian blue. Tom found her had had dropped to her own rifle.

"It looks like they are just about to close," Kit chivvied, as he stuck his foot into the door being closed by a heavy-built shopkeeper, irrepressibly delivering a reply in Deutsch to the man's protestations.

Half an hour later they had clothing, a knapsack, and Kit was looking at the firearms, neatly laid out on velvet cloths around the walls of the shop. He picked up a flintlock pistol.

"Wieviel?" Kit's look was that of a born trader, and he held out the pistol to the man.

"Einundzwanzig schilling," the man declared, looking between Kit and the gun.

"You can use one?" Kit gave her a withering look.

"I can use one." He turned to the shopkeeper, pointing out it's features. "It's a good one. British-made. Brimmegam." He held it up to Tom. "Issued from Deptford."

"Like you?" Kit looked startled for a moment. "Yes."

"So, you will I buy it?" Kit pulled out the coins Tom had let him have. Whatever shillings were worth in Westphalia, he could see Kit hadn't enough.

"No.". The boy put down the musket carefully, darting his eye to the door. The shopkeeper cleared his throat, and slowly folded his arms. If he was thinking what Ton was, Kit was about to run off with it.

Sighing deeply, he reached into his jerkin and into his reward money given to her by the Duke of Wellington. She saw the shopkeeper's eye light on her Baker rifle.

"Here, will that do?"

Lightning could not have struck as fast as Kit taking the money from Tom's hand and, after a furiously fast negotiation, he handed over four of the coins Tom had given him, the other three still conspicuous by their absence, secreted around the boy's clothing as Tom coughed up for their uniforms.

Behind them, a few minutes later, the shopkeeper finished putting up the boards. Kit cast a glance at the recruiting office, tapping the musket he had just bought.

"Where will we stay tonight?" the boy asked, looking up the street. Tom said nothing: she'd rather hoped she would be free of this garrulous young man that day, that she would be in Frederickson's arms, with him, as she had promised.

"There's an inn we passed when the carriage drew in," Tom said, vaguely. "Back there, near the square. Kit gave her a grin, and held up the final coin.

"Great. Then I'm getting drunk!"

As the sun began to sink, the two potentially new recruits to the Prussian army opened a thick, oak door to an inn. Not too different to the one in Le Havre, Tom noticed, nor any other pub she had ever been in, for that matter. Wooden tables and benches lined the walls, men drinking sat on them, ladies with almost indecent clothing waited on them.

The inn was not too full, and Kit and Tom easily made it to the bar, approving nods from those using the bar as their place for the night, presumably because of their uniform, Tom thought.

A few exchanged words and, to Tom's amazement, payment with the final coin, got both new recruits pewter tankards of beer. Kit looked at the pale liquid, so unlike the ale in English pubs.

"Go on," Kit encouraged, as they sat down, on a table next to two old men who were looking approvingly at them, "Then you won't feel all those aches and pains." Kit tipped back his flagon, and Tom was about to do the same, when she noticed both men staring at her. Or, more accurately, at her neck.

The scar had never healed properly. When she washed, Tom could always feel the mark around it from the rope where the 60th rifles had tried to hang her - where they had done so for several seconds, for they believed she had been responsible for the raid on their camp and death of the women and children, in Catalunya. Hanged for presumed guilt, because of her father.

And William Frederickson, her captain, who had suffered the most terrible injuries because of John Haycock, who had the most reason to hate her, had shot down the rope, had freed her. If ever there was a greater reason to love Captain Frederickson, with his cool justice and exemplary standards, Tom could not think of one.

Yet he wasn't in Dortmund, and Tom could not now beg forgiveness for what she had done in Jamestown. She wore her longer now, the fashion for this convenient to hide the welt most of the time.

Tom glanced at Kit, who had seen too, then ignored them all, and drank the beer.

It tasted light, and was apparently called a "Pilzen", which Kit also said was similar to the German word for mushrooms. It didn't taste like mushrooms

As they waited for a a pie each to arrive, Kit asked, "Is the Prussian army good money?". Tom stopped to think for a moment, as their food arrived. Hot was the best word to describe it.

"A shilling a day in the British army as a private, less stoppages for uniform."

"We have uniform," Kit pointed out, between bites.

"It'll be similar, I'm sure," Tom replied, drinking the Pilsner. "But I am a Lance-Corporal - Wellington made me so." Kit's face cracked I to a huge grin.

"Of course he did!" The boy grinned back, happily. "So, a shilling a day less stoppages.". And they discussed the army, and drank while discussing the army, before Kit booked them a room for the night, weaving to the bar and slurring some words to the innkeeper. Were they German words? Tom had no idea. But it got them the key to a small box bedroom with one big bed in it, a basin and a box which was meant to act as a dressing table.

The Roberta in Tom looked across to the now probe figure of Kit Marlowe, who had thrown himself onto one side of the bed, hands under his messy black hair, and suddenly felt a little bashful. She had been in the army since she was eleven; slept next to her comrades, are, washed beside them with never a hint of the squirming feeling that was going on in her stomach.

Rather more carefully, Tom took off her boots - a luxury in the army, when you had to be ready at all times - and pulled back the linen, which was, thankfully, clean. Kit turned his head to her, his mirthful grin still on his face.

"You definitely want to join the army?" he asked, as if what they had done that afternoon was a lark, a laugh, an adventure. Tom turned her head towards the boy.

"I'm going to Brussels, Kit That's where the Prussians will be - stands to reason. More Prussians will join them, so the most efficient way of finding - my friend - is to join his army."

"How?"

"Because, if Napoleon is planning to do what he started, he'll have begun in Paris, probably standing outside the Bastille prison and reminding them why they are free. Then, he will have choices." Tom turned away and stared at the darkening ceiling.

"He won't head south: the Spanish and the French in and around Tolouse are in an alliance. West, and he will meet the Royalists. So, " she folded her arms, tightly, "he will want to hold Belgium as a foothold east again, and as a bulwark against the Dutch."

Tom turned to the small window, where a cornflower blue sky was yielding to a darker hue. A fly bizz'd languidly at the glass.

"Yours are in Brussels," Roberta Haycock said softly, to William Frederickson, as she tapped her under rifle case. "Wellington knows it will end there." She turned back to look at Kit. "And the Prussians will be on their way, too." Kit stared at her in amazement.

"How do you know all this?"

"I don't, for sure. It's strategy: chancing what the enemy side will do and taking risks to see if it's true."

"Like what I do?" Kit asked. Tom raised her eyebrows.

"What do you do?"

"I take risks to get on.". Kit raised his eyebrows and put his hand out towards Tom. The dusklight was playing tricks on him, yet her mind took in Kit's good looks, his thick, black hair, pale, soft blue eyes,, mischievous mouth...

"Night," Tom said, hurriedly, and turned with her back to Kit. But he was too quick, and leaned over her, trying to kiss her.

This was buggery! Tom"s mind screamed. She'd once been tied to a tree for the mere suspicion she had done this. She broke away and scrambled to her feet.

"No, Kit!" Tom put her hands out, defensively, "I'm promised to another!" Another, whose life in well off domesticity I want to join, she thought. But the shrug-off was just a pause in the boy's pursuit, and Kit Marlowe trod towards her.

"I'm sure I know what you are! That's why I say you ain't never been in the army!" He reached up for Tom's chest, then grinned. "Yep, funny shape to be a boy!"

"We'll beg to differ, Tom replied, coldly, folding her arms over her breasts. "My father taught me to fight. And the man I seek has gone to fight, and I must find him!"

Kit stared at her for a few minutes, before stepping back, in acceptance.

"Your lover, eh?

"My husband," said Tom, sagging now the adrenaline was wearing off, "when I can find him to tell him yes." And what a dowry I have for him now, she added, realising it was the first time she had admitted it to herself.

But he hadn't been there; he had gone away. The army was in town. Tom did not have to stretch her imagination far to guess where he may have gone, especially if he thought she was going back. And Roberta had been longer than they were expecting her to be.

And, hadn't Sharpe told her he had his heart broken before? Jacquetta had been her name. So to Frederickson, it looked as if Roberta had never come back to him, and Tom and Kit had been searching his town in vain.

A bang on her head from the inn's beams brought her back to the present. Kit was lying happily on his side of the bed, hands under his hair.

"So you're going to join up tomorrow?" he asked, his eyes closed.

"Yes," agreed Tom, testing out the idea of sleeping next to the young boy again. Question was, could she find that same regiment he had enlisted into?

"I'm going to look for him, and tell him I love him." There was a long, thoughtful pause, as Tom closed her eyes.

"Then I'll join too." Kit yawned lazily, then added, "I could use less than a shilling a day."