Joining the Prussian Army was easy. An excitable Kit Marlowe had woken Tom Wright up as the sun rose, thrusting bread she had, by all accounts, bought - not purloined - from the inn kitchen and he had waited as Tom got out of bed, pulling on her boots, before smiling widely, and said, "So, are we going to enlist in the army, then?". And they walked to the already popular recruiting office. Same procedure, different city.
What was not so easy was Tom's ability to understand the German language and doubt planted a seed in her mind that what she was about to do was absolutely crazy.
Thankfully, Kit understood, and the recruiting officer's words were translated by Tom's friend, and her replies translated back, although Tom figured, that she could have managed without, by observing the sergeant's gesturing: sign here, stand there. He was impressed with the rifle, it seemed, but her uniform was not acceptable. The dark-haired, bulky officer pointed to the building behind him, grunting towards it.
There was an uneasy eagerness amongst the officers and the new recruits, many of which, though tall and healthy, were very young and, as she signed a paper with the Westphalian white horse at the top, she began to understand why.
The battle of Jena had forced the protectorate into French hands and only two years before, the region had just been liberated by the Russians, after it had been governed by Napleon's brother, Jerome, as King. This had bolstered by he riches of France, had fed it's army and saturated Buonaparte's loyal followers with riches looted from houses and people. It had also brought death and theft and rape to the population, who were now almost jittery with eagerness to inflict their anger at seven years of occupation back upon Buonaparte, and it's people were steeled to fight, and also resolved, it seemed, to send even their youngest sons who might be able to handle a weapon.
It also was the closest Buonaparte had got to invading Britain, for the Protectorate of Hanover had now had its land returned to it - that is, to him, His Majesty, George III. This land then, shared a king. But it, unfortunately, did not share a language that Tom could understand.
When the officer stabbed at the building again, he uttered some more words, which caused Kit to Kit to bolt to the brick-built storeroom ahead of many of other recruits, across a sunlit courtyard at the back of the recruiting office. Tom stood with him, the German schilling coin that she had been given having signed her name under the list of other recruits' names making her feel guilty. She had promised the Duke of Wellington to never be in his army, and now here she was, in the Prussian Army.
The Prussian Army, Tom said to herself, as she and Kit shuffled forward, not King George's army. Then her thoughts were interrupted as the shilling was taken from her hand and a new, deep blue coat was handed to her.
"Come on!" Kit whispered, as they went beyond, into a barrack room, painted with whitewash and tiled with mud-coloured tiles. "They do not think our uniform is good enough - we have to pay for these." He handed over his schilling too. Tom thought to her undergarments, and the gold from Wellington, her reward, which she had carefully wrapped close to her.
"Again?"
"The uniform has been reissued, to reflect the Protectorate," Kit said, although to Tom it looked little different, and she wondered, as a private collected not just Kit's, but other recruits who had similarly been relieved of their schillings, whether they were about to be taken back to the shop next door to sell to today's new recruits and, facing the wall, Tom took off the dark blue coat she had bought and pulled on the one with which she had been issued.
A corporal showed them where to line up before sprinkling their hair with a foul-smelling powder - to keep away lice, Tom knew, and handed them salt and coal dust, which they were to rub on their for teeth. It was a similar approach to cleanliness as in the British regiments.
Then, with little drilling, the recruiting sergeant handed the regiment over to a Sergeant Schulmeister who informed them they were marching, now, due west to where the rest of the Prussian army were.
News had then come to the through they had lost Ligny, but not list Blücher - Prussia's mighty general would be leading his men to meet Buonaparte and would unleash everything.
Would the British be there? Tom thought, as her boots trod on the dirt road which as he had crossed by carriage the day before. Wellington was at Brussels, the last time Tom had heard, and that was also west from here. Were many armies gathering because Napoleon would make a stand there, a push to reconquer Europe?
"Halt!" Shouted the sergeant major, as a horse-drawn carriage crossed their path. Its inhabitants waved at the army, hailing the King and wishing them luck. Tom glanced back at Düsseldorf for a moment when Schulmeister shouted, "Acting! March!", a drummer boy, one of the younger ones sent to the recruiting office that morning and had been given the instrument, keeping the rhythm of their marching feet.
"This is amazing grinned Kit," excitement radiating from his features, taking life as a game, as usual, but then drew his eyes to the front as a corporal glowered in their direction. He patted his musket, though, and grinned across to Tom, as the Prussians marched out to war.
88888888
It had been a long two days. Richard Sharpe had arrived at Brussels under Wellington's orders. Already, he had been invited to Lady Rossendale's ball, already challenged Rossendale for his money, and made the man piss himself. He had already met up with Pat Harper, Dan Hagman and Matt Harris. Already had he seen the preparations for battle. Already witnessed the sheer stupidity of the Prince of Orange.
And tomorrow, his temper was going to be tested to its limit: they would be assembling at a place called Waterloo. The Duke had chosen Quatre Bras , and they were to prepare for he farmhouse at La Haye Sainte.
Sharpe picked up his ale tankard, sipping deeply on the beer. That was tomorrow. Tonight, he was going to get drunk with his men, who may, or may not, make it to the end of tomorrow. Nor might he, and he had charged Harper with taking Lucille across to England for her own safety.
"I wrote to Roberta," Harris said, as the night drew on. "In America.". The girl's determined face crystallised in Sharpe's mind.
"Aye? What did she say?"
"I didn't get an answer," Harris replied, tipsily.
"No reply?" Sharpe felt his pocket. He still had the letter she had written to Frederickson, all those months ago. "That's good," he added.
"If it means she isn't going to fight in this battle, I agree," Harper added. Sharpe caught Harris's expression.
"Don't let her come 'ere," Sharpe petitioned the world in general. "This is going to be a big, terrible battle, and - "
But his plea was interrupted by a scuffling outside, boots scraping and angry protests. Sharpe scraped back his wooden stool and threw open the barrack room door. Between two of the Prince of Orange's guards a young soldier in British uniform. He was struggling under the guards' hold, his face in illuminated by the torches lighting the barracks. Sharpe sighed. Silly Billy"s men.
"What's he done?" He challenged the men. The boy looked terrified, and he struggled again, before one of the men shook him roughly by the shoulder. Neither of the guards answered, either. Sharpe took a step towards them.
"I said, what's ee done, eh?". The last syllable he spat at the nearest guard. The guard mumbled a word.
"What?"
"Nothing," the guard managed. The young private under his grasped struggled.
*Then," Sharpe commanded, "I suggest you let him go." The nearer guard began to loosen his grip. But the further one, black hair plastered to his scalp, gripped the young boy's arm tighter. He was sweating.
"The Prince of Orange has requested this man's ..company..." He trailed off when he saw Sharpe's face, who looked up to the window above them in disgust. An hour ago, a whore had left, angry at having not been paid by the Prince. And now, young soldiers? What was so abhorrent was how openly the royal oaf was going about it his...pleasures. He turned back to the guards.
The one nearer to Sharpe dropped the private's arm immediately. But the other guard did not. Sharpe was not in the mood for this. He took the guard's shoulder and shook him free.
"I said, let him go!" But the guard was stubborn.
"The Prince of Orange - " He began. But he Sharpe had had his fill of stress for one day, and he rounded on him. The private and the other guard fell away.
"Tell - Silly - Billy - " Sharpe shouted, between punches and kicks to the unfortunate man, " - I'll be the one - doing the - buggering - ". He backed off, as the guard sprawled in the mud.
And then, as the private hurried back to his barracks he stepped back towards the barrack room, his men behind him, and drank more ale, wine and whatever else they could find. Because they might never be all together again.
Three hours later, while the near-midsummer sun spread its last weak rays over the western horizon, a brigade of Prussians from Dortmund marched, weary and dirt-covered, into Wellington's Brussels camp.
88888888
There was a delay to Blücher's march west. Instead of packing tents and baggage wagons, the 60th rifles were still at Ligny.
Songs were picking up, cheerful songs, full of victory, and folk songs, recalling happy times, of family, and nation.
William Frederickson sat, listening to them, his heart soft as familiar "liede" drifted over the campsite as he cleaned his rifle. They were waiting for other Prussian regiments to join them, they had been told, so a large force could join with Wellington. They were also waiting for, Frederickson suspected, Blücher to be well. No Graf, no Prussian army. No army, no revenge for the invasion of their Staats all over the German-speaking lands of Europe.
For it was revenge they sought, and a big battle, a decisive one, was the only way to crush Buonaparte and those who supported him.
As a song speaking of summer days with family and food drifted to his ears, Frederickson's thoughts drifted to Roberta.
He's left word for her with Brecholt, should she arrive at Dortmund, should she arrive in Europe now. He hoped she avoided Paris, or many of the cities everywhere, for that matter, for uprisings would be many, streets would be bloody, deaths would be many.
But it would be worth it to have the usurper of French power dead. His father's estate supported many and made a tidy profit. Now, it was no longer under Napoleon's control, the grain these last ten years feeding the French army.
A major passed, saluting the captain. Frederickson rose, and saluted. He had kept on the workers with his army pay and now, when she did come, he had decided to give the land to Roberta. She could not sit around idle; she had lived on her parents' estate, so she would know how it must be run.
But William knew, deep down, there was something else, something he was finding very hard not to let get to him. Of her love, he was never in doubt. But she had to find a way of settling her past. If she had gone to America, was she seeing her father? She was a soldier, and had a score to settle - Frederickson knew how ashamed she was of John Haycock. And she could never return to England: not only would she be destitute, but she would always know that everyone would know she was Haycock's daughter.
All his instinct was to protect her, hold her, love her, as he had loved her, in his tent at Toulouse after the surrender of the French had come. After she had been so brave to vouch for Sharpe like that. He never thought he would find love like that again, since Jacquetta had failed to turn up to their wedding. Yet, Roberta was only a young woman - she still may yet turn down his offer of marriage. And, he had had no word from her.
But he could not think of that now, he must not. Frederickson put back in his false teeth and his horsehair wig as the young officer who was now striding towards him, feeling conspicuous of his appearance, which even now, kept men from his confidence, and company. Receiving the message, Frederick saluted. He could not think of Roberta now. He must, sadly, break up the singing, for they would be marching west to Brussels tomorrow, at dawn.