That evening Sal stood with Kit outside the farmstead of Mont St-Jean, at the summit of the ridge, looking out over the landscape to the south. The storm seemed to be breaking up: the sun came through in a few patches even while rain continued. Swags and ribbons of vapour floated up as the sun heated the sodden wheat. The woods at the eastern end of the ridge, to their left, were dark.
The coal road bisecting the valley was one long mass of men, horses and wheeled artillery, as the survivors of Quatre Bras arrived. Officers holding written orders directed them to sections of the upslope according to a plan worked out at Quatre Bras by Wellington and De Lancey.
Sal wondered how far behind them Bonaparte was.
She and Kit stood near a tree that had already been stripped of its leafy branches, which were being used by Kingsbridge men to construct makeshift shelters. Jarge and some others were making a shelter in a different way, by standing several muskets upright with their bayonets stuck in the ground and draping blankets over them to form a tent. Neither type of construction would be waterproof, but both were better than nothing.
She noticed that men were being deployed in each of two farmsteads in the valley, and pointed it out to Kit.
‘The one on the right is called Hougoumont,’ he said, ‘and the other is La Haye Sainte.’
‘Why do we care about defending farmhouses?’
‘They’ll create an obstacle in Bonaparte’s way when he wants to attack us.’
‘They won’t be able to stop his whole army.’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘So those men will be sacrificed.’
‘It’s not certain, but quite likely.’
Sal was profoundly grateful that the 107th Foot had not been chosen for that duty. Not that her own prospects were very good. She said: ‘I wonder how many of us will die here tomorrow. Ten thousand? Twenty thousand?’
‘More, probably.’
‘Is this Wellington’s last stand?’
Kit nodded. ‘If we’re defeated here, there’s nothing to keep Bonaparte from Brussels – and victory. And then the French will dominate Europe for many years ahead.’
It was what Spade had said, Sal recalled. She said: ‘The French can have Europe, as far as I’m concerned. I just want my family back home and alive and well.’
‘It’s make-or-break for Bonaparte as well,’ said Kit. ‘If we can destroy his army here, we’ll go all the way to Paris. It will be the end for him.’
‘And I suppose then we’ll give the French back their fat king.’
The corpulent Louis XVIII was neither competent nor popular, but the allies were determined to restore the French monarchy and prove that the republican revolution had been a failure.
Sal said: ‘And twenty thousand men are going to die tomorrow for that. I don’t understand it. Tell me, my clever son, am I stupid? Or is it the government that’s stupid?’
Jarge emerged from the improvised tent, his trousers soggy with mud, and stood up. ‘There’s no food,’ he said to Kit. His tone suggested he blamed officers in general and Kit in particular.
Kit said: ‘Most of the supplies were thrown away in the panic at Genappe.’
Sal remembered seeing the food wagons emptied. ‘Our dinner is in a ditch,’ she said.
‘We could cook them taters,’ said Jarge.
Sal still had the sack of potatoes on her back. She had got so used to the ache that she had not troubled to put the burden down. She said: ‘What are we going to cook the taters on? Everything’s too wet to burn. Even if you could light a fire you’d get smoke, not flame.’
‘Are we going to eat them raw?’
Kit said: ‘You could take them to the village of Waterloo, Ma. It’s about three miles north of here. There’s bound to be someone there with an oven.’
‘You just want me away from the battlefield.’
‘I plead guilty,’ said Kit. ‘But what have you got to lose?’
