When the French had been beaten back, he returned to his silver dish.

“Are you the magician?” said someone.

He spun round and was astonished to find a little, round, soft-looking person in civilian clothes who smiled at him. “Who in God’s name are you?” he demanded.

“My name is Pink,” explained the man. “I am a commercial traveller for Welbeck’s Superior Buttons of Birmingham. I have a message from the Duke for you.”

Strange, who was covered in mud and more tired than he had ever been in his life, took a moment to comprehend this. “Where are all the Duke’s aides-de-camp?”

“He says that they are dead.”

“What? Hadley-Bright is dead? What about Colonel Canning?”

“Alas,” smiled Mr Pink, “I can offer no precise information. I came out from Antwerp yesterday to see the battle and when I espied the Duke I took the opportunity to introduce myself and to mention in passing the excellent qualities of Welbeck’s Superior Buttons. He asked me as a particular favour to come and tell you that the Prussian army is on their way here and have reached Paris Wood, but, says his Grace, they are having the devil of a time …” (Mr Pink smiled and blinked to hear himself say such a soldierly word.) “… the devil of a time in the little lanes and the mud, and would you be so good as to make a road for them between the wood and the battlefield?”

“Certainly,” said Strange, rubbing some of the mud from his face.

“I will tell his Grace.” He paused and asked wistfully, “Do you think his Grace would like to order some buttons?”

“I do not see why not. He is as fond of buttons as most men.”

“Then, you know, we could put ‘Supplier of Buttons to his Grace the Duke of Wellington’ in all our advertisements.” Mr Pink beamed happily. “Off I go then!”

“Yes, yes. Off you go.” Strange created the road for the Prussians, but in later times he was always inclined to suppose he must have dreamt Mr Pink of Welbeck’s Superior Buttons.⁶

Events seemed to repeat themselves. Again and again the French cavalry charged and Strange took refuge within the infantry square. Again the deadly horsemen swirled against the sides of the square like waves. Again Strange drew monstrous hands from the earth to pull them down. Whenever the cavalry withdrew the cannonade began again; he returned to his silver dish and made men out of water to put out the flames and succour the dying in ruined, desperate Hougoumont. Everything happened over and over, again and again; it was inconceivable that the fighting would ever end. He began to think it had always been like this.

“There must come a time when the musket-balls and cannon-shot run out,” he thought. “And what will we do then? Hack at each other with sabres and bayonets? And if we all die, every one of us, who will they say has won?”