Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe's Honour, Sharpe's Regiment, Sharpe's Siege (46 page)

He walked forward. Christ! he thought, but he would trip over or faint. His boots suddenly felt as heavy as pig-iron, his scabbard seemed to swing malevolently between his knees, then he frowned because, to his right, applause had begun and the applause grew and someone, a woman, shouted “bravo!”

He was blushing. The applause made him angrier. It was his own god-damned fault. He should have ignored the Royal command, but instead he was walking up this damned carpet, the faces were smiling at him and he was sure that he would become entangled with the huge sword that clanked in its metal scabbard by his side.

The woman who had stared at him, the woman with green eyes, watched him walk to the yellow line. She clapped politely, but without enthusiasm. A dangerous looking man, she thought, and far more handsome than she expected. She had been told only that he came from the gutter, a bastard son of a peasant whore. ‘You won’t want to bed him, Anne.’ She remembered those words, and the mocking tone of the voice that spoke them. ‘Talk to him, though. Find out what he knows.’

‘Maybe he won’t want to talk to me.’

‘Don’t be a fool. A peasant like that will be flattered to speak to a lady.’

Now she watched the bastard son of a common whore bow, and it was plain that Major Richard Sharpe was not accustomed to bowing. She felt a small surge of excitement that surprised her.

The courtier waited for Sharpe’s clumsy bow to be made. ‘Major Richard Sharpe, your Royal Highness, attached to His Majesty’s South Essex Regiment!’

And the courtier’s words provoked more applause which the man sitting in the gilded, red-velvet cushioned throne encouraged by lightly tapping his white gloved fingers into his palm. No one else had received such applause, no one; and Sharpe blushed like a child as he stared into the glaucous eyes and fat face of the Prince of Wales, who, this night, was encased in the full uniform of a British general; a uniform that bulged on his thighs and over his full belly.

The applause died. The Prince of Wales seemed to gobble with delighted laughter. He stared at Sharpe as if the Rifleman was some delicious confection brought for his delight, then he spoke in a fruity, rich voice that was full of surprise. ‘You are dressed as a Rifleman, eh?’

‘Yes, your Majesty.’ Oh Christ, Sharpe thought. He should have called him “Your Royal Highness”.

‘But you’re with the South Essex, yes?’

‘Yes, your Royal Highness.’ Then Sharpe remembered that after the first answer he was supposed to call him “sir”. ‘Sir,’ he added.

‘Yes?’

Sharpe thought he was going to faint because the fat, middle-aged man was leaning forward in the belief that Sharpe wished to say something. Sharpe’s right hand fidgeted, wanting to cross his body and hold the sword handle. ‘Very honoured, your Majesty.’ Sharpe was sure he was going to faint. The room was a thick, indistinct whirl of powder, white faces, music and heat.

‘No, no, no, no! I’m honoured. Yes, indeed! The honour is entirely mine, Major Sharpe!’ The Prince of Wales snapped his fingers, smiled at Sharpe, and the small orchestra abruptly stopped playing the delicate melody that had accompanied Sharpe’s lonely walk up the carpet and, instead, started to play a military tune. The music was accompanied by gasps from the audience, gasps that were followed by more applause that grew and was swelled by cheers that forced the musicians to play even louder.

‘Look!’ The Prince of Wales gestured to Sharpe’s right. ‘Look!’

The clapping continued. Sharpe turned. A passage had been made in the applauding crowd and, through it, marching in the old-fashioned goose-step that Sharpe had not seen in nearly twenty years, were three soldiers in uniforms of such pristine perfection that they must have been sewn onto their upright bodies. They had old fashioned powdered hair, high stocks, but it was not the three soldiers, impressive and impractical though they were, that had started the new applause.

‘Bravo!’ The shouts were louder as Sharpe stared at what the central soldier carried in his hands.

Sharpe had seen that object before, on a hot day in a valley filled with smoke and foul with the stench of roasting flesh. The wounded, he remembered, had been unable to escape the grassfires and so they had burned where they lay on the battlefield, the flames exploding their ammunition pouches and spreading the fire further.

He had seen it before, but not like this. Tonight the staff was oiled and polished, and the gilt ornament shone in the candlelight. Before, on that hot day when the musket wads had burned and the wounded had screamed for Jesus or their mothers, Sharpe had held the battered, bloody staff, and he had scythed it like a halberd, cutting down the enemy, while beside him, screaming in his wild Irish tongue, Sergeant Harper had slaughtered the standard bearers and Sharpe had taken this Eagle, this first French Eagle to be captured by His Majesty’s forces.

Now it was polished. About the base of the Eagle was a laurel wreath. It seemed unfitting. Once those proud eyes and hooked beak and half-spread wings had been on a battlefield, and it still belonged there, not here, not with these fat, sweating, applauding people who stared and smiled and nodded at him as the staff was thrust towards him.

‘Take it! Take it!’ the Prince Regent said.

Sharpe felt like a circus animal. He took it. He lowered the staff and he stared at the Eagle, no bigger than a dinner plate, and he saw the one bent wingtip where he had struck a man’s skull with the standard, and he felt oddly sorry for the Eagle. Like him it was out of place here. It belonged in the smoke of battle. The men who had defended it had been brave, they had fought as well as men could fight, and it was not right that these gloating fools should applaud this humbled trophy.

‘You must remind me of everything that happened! Just exactly!’ The Prince was struggling from the dais, coming towards Sharpe. ‘I insist on everything, everything! Over supper!’ To Sharpe’s horror the Prince, who, during his father’s madness, was the Regent and acting monarch of England, put an arm about his shoulders and led him across the carpet. ‘Every single small detail, Major Sharpe, in utter detail. To supper! Bring your bird! Oh yes, it’s not every day we heroes meet. Come! Come!’

Sharpe went to supper with a Prince.

There were twenty-eight courses in the supper, most of them lukewarm because the distance from the kitchens was so great. There was champagne, wine, and more champagne. The musicians still played.

The Prince of Wales was extraordinarily solicitous of Sharpe. He fed Sharpe’s plate with morsels, encouraged his stories, chided when he thought Sharpe was being modest, and finally asked the Rifleman why he had come to England.

Sharpe took a breath and told him. He felt a small moment of pleasure, for he was doing what he had come to do; saving a Regiment. He saw some frowns about the table when he spoke of the missing Battalion, as if the subject was unfitting for such an evening, but the Prince was delighted. ‘Some of my men are missing, eh? That won’t do? Is Fenner here? Fenner? Find Fenner!’ Sharpe suddenly felt that blaze of victory, like the moment in battle when the enemy’s rear ranks are going back and the front was about to crumple. Here, in the Chinese Dining Room of Carlton House, Sharpe had persuaded the Prince Regent himself to put the question which Sharpe himself had so dreaded taking to Lord Fenner. ‘Ah! Fenner!’

A courtier was conducting the Secretary of State at War towards the Prince’s table.

Lord Fenner was a tall man, in court dress, with a thin, pale face dominated by a prominent, hooked nose. There was, Sharpe thought, a worried expression on Lord Fenner’s face that seemed perpetual, as though he solemnly carried the nation’s burdens on his thin shoulders. He was, Sharpe guessed, in his early fifties. His voice, when he spoke to the Prince, was high and nasal; a voice of effortless aristocracy.

The Prince demanded to know why Lord Fenner wanted to abolish the South Essex. ‘Out with it, man!’

Fenner glanced at Sharpe, the glance of a man measuring an enemy. ‘It’s not our wish, sir, rather the Regiment’s own.’

The Prince turned surprised eyes on Sharpe, then looked again to Lord Fenner. ‘Their own wish?’

‘A paucity of recruits, sir.’

‘There were plenty of recruits!’ Sharpe said.

Lord Fenner smiled a pitying smile. ‘Under-age, under-nourished, and unsuitable.’

The Prince was beginning to regret his sally on Sharpe’s behalf, but he gallantly persisted with the attack. ‘And the Second Battalion’s missing, eh? Tell me about that, Fenner!’

‘Missing, sir?’ Lord Fenner glanced at Sharpe, then back to the Prince. ‘Not missing, sir. Gone.’

‘Gone? Gone! Vanished into thin air, yes?’

Fenner gave a smile that subtly mixed boredom with sycophancy. ‘It exists on paper, sir.’ He made the subject sound trivial. ‘It’s a normal bureaucratic procedure. It enables us to assign stray men who would not otherwise be paid until they can be found a proper billet. I’m sure if Major Sharpe is fascinated by our paperwork I can arrange for a clerk to explain it to him. Or indeed to your Royal Highness.’ The last statement verged on rudeness, hinting that the Prince Regent, despite being Britain’s monarch while his father was ill, had no authority over the army or War Office.

No authority, but influence. The Prince’s brother, the Duke of York, commanded the army, while the War Office was run by politicians. The Prince Regent commanded nothing, though he had the massive power of patronage. Sharpe had tried, indeed had succeeded, in harnessing that influence, but Lord Fenner seemed untroubled by it. He smiled. ‘Your brother, sir, would doubtless welcome your interest?’

‘Oh Lord!’ the Prince laughed. Everyone knew of the bad blood that existed between the Prince and the Duke of York, the army Commander in Chief. ‘Freddie thinks the army belongs to him!’ The prospect of speaking to his brother was obviously hateful. ‘So, Fenner, there’s no missing Battalion, eh?’

‘I fear not, sir.’

The Prince turned his face that, extraordinarily, was thick with cream and powder, towards Sharpe. ‘You hear that, Major? Lost in a welter of paperwork, eh?’

Lord Fenner was watching Sharpe. He gave a smile so thin-lipped that it seemed like a threat. ‘Of course, sir, we shall do all we can to find Major Sharpe a new Regiment.’

‘Of course!’ The Prince beamed at Sharpe, then at Fenner. ‘And quickly, Fenner! Sharply, even!’

Fenner smiled politely at the jest. ‘You are in London, Major?’ ‘At the Rose Tavern.’

‘You will receive fresh orders tomorrow.’ Major Sharpe had tried to outflank Lord Fenner and had failed. The Prince of Wales would not be allowed to interfere with the War Office or Horse Guards, and Lord Fenner’s tone suggested that the orders would be a harsh revenge for Sharpe’s temerity.

‘Send him to Spain, you hear me!’ The Prince waved peremptorily at Fenner, gobbled delightedly as a servant poured more wine, then put a fat hand on Sharpe’s arm. ‘A vain journey, eh Major? But it gives us a chance to meet again, yes?’ Sharpe was startled by the word “again”, but a warning look from Lord John Rossendale, who sat across the table, made him give a noncommittal answer.

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘Tell me, Major, was it not hot on the day we took the Eagle?’

Lord John was making furious signs at Sharpe not to protest the word “we”. Sharpe nodded. ‘Very hot, sir.’

‘I do believe I remember it! Indeed, yes! Very hot!’ The Prince nodded at his companions. ‘Very hot!’

Sharpe wondered if the man, like his father, had lost his wits. He was speaking as if he had been there, in that valley of the Portina where the wounded sobbed for mercy. There had been small black snakes, Sharpe remembered, wriggling away from the grassfires. His mind seemed a whirl of black snakes, memories, and sudden shock because his journey had been useless. Lord Fenner would order him away tomorrow; there would be no replacements for the South Essex, and a Regiment would die.

The Prince nudged Sharpe and smiled again. ‘We shocked them, Major, yes?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What a day, what a day!’ The Prince shook his head, sifting white powder from his hair into Sharpe’s wine. ‘Ah! A syllabub! Splendid! Serve the Major some. We have a French chef, Major. Did you know that?’

It was four in the morning before Sharpe escaped. He had been invited to play whist, refused on the grounds that he did not know how, and he only managed to leave the Prince’s company by promising to attend a levee in two days time.

He stood in the entrance of Carlton House in a mood of angry self-mockery. He had endured the flummery, the foolery, and he had failed. Lord Fenner, even faced with the Prince’s demand, had flicked the questions away as though they were flies. Fenner, Sharpe was sure, had also lied. Either that or Sergeant Carew, at Chelmsford, had not seen the recruiting party, but Sharpe believed Carew, he did not believe Fenner.

Sharpe had come to England for nothing. He stood, dressed in a uniform he had not wanted to buy, his head thick with the fumes of cigar smoke, and he reflected that, far from winning the victory he had anticipated at the moment when the Prince summoned Lord Fenner, he had been effortlessly beaten.