Page 257 of The Armor of Light

Sal thought for a minute. There was nothing she could do here for Jarge and the other Kingsbridge men. She might as well do her best to get the potatoes cooked. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll give it a try.’

42

RAIN CLOUDS HID THE MOON. Sal could hardly see anything. She knew she was on the road only by the feel of the cobblestones under the soles of the boots she had taken from the dead officer. When a foot slipped on mud she knew she had wandered off to left or right. Occasionally there was a glimmer showing through the shutters of a cottage, coming from a late candle, perhaps, or a dying fire: country people did not stay up long after dark. Little though it was, it gave her encouragement that somewhere there was light and warmth.

She trudged through the pouring rain, counting her blessings. Kit was still alive, and so was Jarge. She, too, was unhurt, despite the savagery of Quatre Bras. And tomorrow’s battle might be the last, one way or another. If they survived it, she and her family might not be called on to risk their lives in war again.

Or perhaps that was too hopeful.

Anyway, she was carrying fifty pounds of potatoes, and even though they were making her back ache she was glad to have them. She had not eaten since this morning’s breakfast of cheese without bread.

Seeing several gleams of light together, she deduced that she was in a village. She guessed the time was approaching midnight. There was one person sure to be awake and working: the baker. But how to find him?

She continued on the road until the lights became fewer and sheguessed she had gone too far, then she turned around and walked back. She would have to knock on a door, wake someone up, and ask for directions.

Then she smelled smoke. It was not the ashy smell of a dying kitchen fire, but the sharp aroma of a blaze, perhaps from an oven. She spun around, sniffing the air from different directions, and went where the smell was strongest. It took her down a swampy lane to a house where there was a lot of light. Her nose seemed to pick up the aroma of new bread, but perhaps that was her imagination. She banged hard on the door.

A fat middle-aged man opened it. There were white smears on his clothes and white dust in his beard: the white was undoubtedly flour and he was the baker. He spoke irritably, in French, and she did not understand.

She put out a hand and held the door open. The baker seemed surprised by her strength. She said: ‘I don’t want bread.’ Using a few French words she had picked up in Brussels, she said: ‘Cherche pas de pain.’

The baker said something that probably meant that in that case she had come to the wrong shop.

She stepped inside uninvited. It was warm. She untied the strings that held the sack and lowered her burden. Her back hurt more when the weight was lifted. She put the sack down on a table where the baker had been kneading dough.

She pointed at the potatoes and then to the large oven in the corner of the room. ‘Cuire,’ she said, which she thought meant ‘cook’. Then she used a phrase she had learned. ‘Je vous paie.’ I pay you.

‘Combien?’

It was the first French word she had learned when she began to go shopping in Brussels, and meant: ‘How much?’ She reached inside her waistcoat. She had plenty of money: she had made good profits on her trips from the camp to Brussels. She guessed the baker wouldask for five francs, knowing she was desperate, but would accept three. Before leaving Mont St-Jean she had put three francs in a pocket. Now she took them out. Holding them close so that he could not see, she counted out two francs and put them on the table.

He said something negative, shaking his head.

She added another coin.

When he shook his head again she showed him her empty hand.

He shrugged and said: ‘Bien.’

He opened the oven door and pulled out a rack of small loaves that looked just about cooked. He tipped the bread into a big basket and put down the rack.

Sal opened her sack and spread the potatoes on the rack, then pricked the skins with her knife so that they would not burst. Then the baker shoved the rack back into the oven.

He took a swig from a bottle that stood next to his kneading board. Sal smelled gin. Then he resumed kneading. Sal watched him for a minute, wondering whether to ask for some of his gin. She decided she did not need it.

She lay on the floor next to the oven, relishing the heat. Her sodden clothes began to steam. Soon they would be dry.

She closed her eyes and fell asleep.

*

Every night since he joined the army had been the same for Kit: he fell asleep as soon as he lay down and slept until someone woke him. This time, however, he felt as if he had only just closed his eyes when he was shaken vigorously. He wanted to sleep on, then he heard the voice of Henry, earl of Shiring, and he sat upright, saying: ‘What time is it?’

‘Half past two in the morning, and Wellington is about to brief us. Put your boots on quickly.’

He remembered that he was in a barn at the village of Waterloo,and today there would be a big battle. He felt a tremor of the old fear, but it was not as bad as it used to be, and he was able to put it out of his mind. He threw off his blanket and found his boots. A minute later he followed the earl out of the barn.

It was raining hard.