‘I will furnish you with a list of officers, sir. Are you telling me you have promised promotion already?’
Simmerson nodded. Wellesley looked at the sheet of paper he was holding. ‘To whom, Sir Henry, did you give command of the Light Company?’
‘To Lieutenant Gibbons, sir.’
‘Your nephew?’ Wellesley paused to make sure that Simmerson answered. The Colonel nodded bleakly. Wellesley turned to Gibbons.
‘You concurred in your uncle’s order to advance a skirmish line against cavalry?’
Gibbons was trapped. He licked his lips, shrugged, and finally agreed. Wellesley shook his head.
‘Then you are plainly not a fit person to lead a Light Company. No, Sir Henry, I am giving you one of the finest skirmishers in the British army to lead your Light troops. I have gazetted him Captain.’
Simmerson said nothing. Gibbons was pale with anger. Lawford grinned at Sharpe, and the Rifleman felt the flutter of hope. The General flicked his gaze to Sharpe and back to Simmerson.
‘I can think of few men, Sir Henry, who are better leaders of Light Troops in battle than Captain Sharpe.’
He soared, he had done it, he had escaped! It did not matter that it was with Simmerson, he had become a Captain! Captain Sharpe! He could hardly hear the rest of Wellesley’s words, the victory was complete, the enemy routed! He was a Captain. What did it matter that the gazette was an artificial promotion, pending the acceptance of the Horse Guards? It would do for a while. A Captain! Captain Richard Sharpe of the Battalion of Detachments.
Wellesley was bringing the interview to a close. Simmerson made one final effort. ‘I shall write—’ Simmerson was indignant, desperately clinging to whatever shreds of dignity he could rescue from the torrent of Wellesley’s disdain. ‘I shall write to Whitehall, sir, and they will know the truth of this!’
‘You may do what you like, sir, but you will kindly let me get on with waging a war. Good day.’
Lawford opened the door. Simmerson clapped on his cocked hat, and the four officers turned to go. Wellesley spoke.
‘Captain Sharpe!’
‘Sir?’ It was the first time he had been called ‘Captain.’ ‘A word with you.’
Lawford closed the door on the other three. Wellesley looked at Sharpe, his expression still grim. ‘You disobeyed an order.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Wellesley’s eyes shut. He looked tired. ‘I have no doubt but that you deserve a Captaincy.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Whether you will keep it, Sharpe, is another matter. I have no power in these things, and it is conceivable, likely, that the Horse Guards will cancel all these dispositions. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe thought he understood. Wellesley’s enemies had succeeded in dragging him before a board of enquiry only last year, and those same enemies wished only defeat on him now. Sir Henry was numbered among them, and the Colonel would even now be planning the letter that would be sent to London. The letter would blame Sharpe and, because the General had sided with him, would be dangerous for Wellesley too. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Don’t thank me. I’ve probably done you no favour.’ He looked up at Sharpe with a kind of wry distaste. ‘You have a habit, Sharpe, of deserving gratitude by methods that deserve condemnation. Am I plain?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Was he being told off? Sharpe kept his face expressionless.
Wellesley’s face showed a flash of anger, but he controlled it and, quite suddenly, replaced it with a rueful smile. ‘I am glad to see you well.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Your career is always interesting to watch, Sharpe, though I constantly fear it will end precipitately. Good day, Captain.’ The quill pen was picked up and began to scratch on the paper. There were real problems. The Spanish had delivered none of the food they had promised, the army’s pay had not arrived, the cavalry needed horse-shoes and nails, and there was a need for ox-carts, always more ox-carts. On top of that the Spanish hithered and dithered; one day all for charge and glory, the next preaching caution and withdrawal. Sharpe left.
Lawford followed him into the empty ante-room and put out his hand. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you, sir. A Battalion of Detachments, eh?’
Lawford laughed. ‘That won’t please Sir Henry.’
That was true. In every campaign there were small units of men, like Sharpe and his Riflemen, who got separated from their units. They were the flotsam and jetsam of the army, and the simplest solution, when there were enough of them, was for the General to tie them together as a temporary Battalion of Detachments. It gave the General a chance, as well, to promote men, even temporarily, in the new Battalion, but none of that was the reason Simmerson would be displeased. By making the shattered South Essex into a Battalion of Detachments Wellesley was literally wiping the name ‘South Essex’ from his army list; it was a punishment that was aimed at Simmerson’s pride, though Sharpe doubted whether a man who appeared to take the loss of his King’s Colour with such remarkable equanimity would be for long dismayed by the downgrading of his Battalion. His face betrayed his thoughts, and Lawford interrupted.
‘You’re worried about Simmerson?’
‘Yes.’ These was no point in denying the fact.
‘You need to be. Sir Arthur has done what he can for you, he’s given you promotion, you will believe me when I say that he had written home of you in the highest terms.’
Sharpe nodded. ‘But.’
Lawford shrugged. He walked across to the window and stared past the heavy velvet curtains at the plain beyond the walls, the whole scene doused in the relentless sun. He turned back. ‘Yes. There’s a but.’
‘Go on.’
Lawford looked embarrassed. ‘Simmerson is too powerful. He has friends in high places.’ He shrugged again. ‘Richard, I am afraid that he will damage you. You’re a pawn in the battle of politicians. He is a fool, agreed, but his friends in London will not want him to look a fool! They will demand a scapegoat. He’s their voice, do you understand that?’ Sharpe nodded. ‘When he writes from Spain and says the war is being conducted wrongly, then people listen to his letter being read in Parliament! It doesn’t matter that the man is as mad as a turkey-cock! He’s their voice from the war, and if they lose him then they lose credibility!’
Sharpe nodded wearily. ‘What you’re saying is that pressure will be applied for me to be sacrificed so that Simmerson can survive?’
Lawford nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. And Sir Arthur’s defence of you will be seen as mere party politics.’
‘But for God’s sake! I was in no way responsible!’
‘I know, I know.’ Lawford spoke soothingly. ‘It makes no difference. He has chosen you as his scapegoat.’
Sharpe knew he spoke the truth. For a few weeks he was safe, safe while Wellesley marched further into Spain and brought the French to battle, but after that a letter would come from the Horse Guards, a short and simple letter that would mean the end of his career in the army. He was sure he would be looked after. Wellesley himself might need an estate manager or would recommend him to someone who did. But he would still eke out his years under a cloud as the man named officially responsible for losing Simmerson’s colour. He thought of his last conversation with Lennox. Had the Scotsman foreseen it all?
‘There is another way.’ He spoke quietly.
Lawford looked at him. ‘What?’
‘When I saw the colour being lost, I made a resolution. I also made a promise to a dying man.’ It sounded desperately melodramatic but it was the truth. ‘I promised to replace that colour with an Eagle.’
There was a moment of silence. Lawford whistled softly. ‘It’s never been done.’
‘There’s no difference between that and them taking a colour.’ That was easily said, but he knew that the French would not make the job as easy for him as Simmerson had for them. In the last six years the French had appeared on the battlefield with new standards. In place of the old colours they now carried gilded eagles mounted on
poles. It was said that each Eagle was personally presented to the Regiment by the Emperor himself, and the standards were therefore more than just a symbol of the Regiment, they were a symbol of all France’s pride in their new order. To take an Eagle was to make Bonaparte wince in person. Sharpe felt the anger rise in him.
‘I don’t mind replacing Simmerson’s flag with an Eagle. But I’m bloody angry that I have to carve my way through a company of French Grenadiers just to stay in the army.’
Lawford said nothing. He knew that Sharpe spoke the truth; the only thing that could stop the officials in Whitehall singling out Sharpe for punishment was if the Rifleman performed a deed of such undoubted merit that they would look foolish to make him a scapegoat. Privately Lawford thought Sharpe had done more than enough, he had regained a colour, captured a gun, but the account of his deeds would be muddied in London by Simmerson’s telling. No, he had to do more, go further, risk his life in an attempt to keep his job.
Sharpe laughed ironically. He slapped his empty scabbard. ‘Someone once said that in this job you’re only as good as your last battle.’ He paused. ‘Unless of course you have money or influence.’
‘Yes, Richard, unless you have money or influence.’
Sharpe grinned. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll go and join the happy throng. I presume my Riflemen come with me?’
Lawford nodded. ‘Good luck.’ He watched Sharpe go. If any man could pluck an Eagle from the French, he thought that the newly made Captain, Richard Sharpe, was that man. Lawford stood in the window and looked down into the street. He saw Sharpe step into the sunlight and put the battered shako on his head; a huge Sergeant was waiting in the shade, the kind of man Lawford would happily wager a hundred guineas on in a bare-fisted prize fight, and he watched as the Sergeant walked up to Sharpe. The two men talked for a moment, and then the big Sergeant clapped the officer’s back and uttered a whoop of joy that Lawford could hear two floors above.
‘Lawford!’
‘Sir?’ Lawford crossed to the other room and took the despatch from Wellesley’s hand. The General rattled the quill in the ink-pot.
‘Did you explain to him?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Wellesley shook his head. ‘Poor devil. What did he say?’
‘He said he’d take his chance, sir.’
Wellesley grunted. ‘We all have to do that.’ He picked up another piece of paper. ‘My God! They’ve sent us four cases of gum ammoniac, three of Glauber’s salts, and two hundred assorted stump-caps! They think I’m running a bloody hospital instead of an army!’
CHAPTER 11
The boots of the Coldstream Guards rang on the flagstones, echoing hollowly in the darkness, fading down the steep street to be replaced by the leading companies of the 3rd Guards. They were followed by the first Battalion of the 61st, the second of the 83rd, and then by four full Battalions of the crack King’s German Legion. Sharpe, standing in a church porch, watched the Germans march past.
‘They’re good troops, sir.’
Forrest, shivering despite a greatcoat, peered into the darkness. ‘What are they?’
‘King’s German Legion.’
Forrest thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. ‘I’ve not seen them before.’
‘You wouldn’t have, sir.’ The Germans were a foreign corps of the army, and the law said they were allowed no nearer the British mainland than the Isle of Wight. Overhead the church clock struck three times. Three o’clock on the morning of Monday, 17th July, 1809, and the British army was leaving Plasencia. A company of the 60th went past, another German unit, with the incongruous title of the Royal American Rifles. Forrest saw Sharpe staring ruefully at the marching Riflemen with their green jackets and black belts.
‘Homesick, Sharpe?’
Sharpe grinned in the darkness. ‘I’d rather it was the other Rifle Regiment, sir.’ He yearned for the sanity of the 95th rather than the worsening suspicion and moroseness that was infecting Simmerson’s Battalion.
Forrest shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Sharpe.’
‘Don’t be, sir. I’m a Captain at last.’
Forrest ignored the statement. ‘He showed me the letter, you know.’ Sharpe knew. Forrest kept apologising and had mentioned the letter twice already. Dereliction of duty, gross disobedience, even the word ‘treason’ had found its place into Simmerson’s scathing account of Sharpe’s actions at Valdelacasa; but none of that was surprising. What had disturbed Sharpe was Simmerson’s final request: that Sharpe be posted, as a Lieutenant, to a Battalion in the West Indies. No one ever purchased a commission in one of those Battalions, even though promotion was quicker there than anywhere else in the army, and Sharpe had even known men resign rather than go to the sun-drenched islands with their lazy garrison duty.
‘It may not happen, Sharpe.’ Forrest’s tone betrayed that he thought Sharpe’s fate was sealed.
‘No, sir.’ Not if I can help it, thought Sharpe, and he imagined an Eagle in his hands. Only an Eagle could save him from the islands where fever reduced a man’s life expectancy to less than a year, from the dreadful, sweating disease that made Simmerson’s request into a virtual death warrant unless Sharpe resigned his hard-won commission.
Almost every unit marched before them. Five Regiments of Dragoons and the Hussars of the Hussars of the King’s German Legion, over three thousand cavalry in all, followed by an army of mules carrying fodder for the precious horses. The cumbersome artillery with their guns, limbers, and portable forges added even more mules, more supplies, but mostly it was infantry who disturbed the quiet streets. Twenty-five Battalions of unglamorous infantry, with stained uniforms and worn boots, the men who had to stand and face the world’s best artillerymen and cavalry; and with them marched even more mules mixed up with the Battalions’ women and children.
The Battalion finally took the road across the river well after sunrise, and if the previous days had been hot, it now seemed as if nature was intent on baking the landscape into one solid expanse of terracotta. The army crept across the vast, arid plain and stirred up a fine dust that hung in the air and lined the mouths and throats of the parched infantry. There was no trace of wind, just the dust, the heat and glare, the sweat that stung the eyes, and the endless sound of boots hitting the white road. In one village there was a pool that had been trampled into foul sticky mud by the cavalry, but even that was welcomed by the men, who had long before emptied their canteens and now skimmed the sour water from the surface of the glutinous mud.
There was not much else to be grateful for. The rest of the army shunned the new Battalion of Detachments as if the men were harbouring a repulsive disease. The loss of the colour had stained the reputation of the whole army, and when the Battalion bivouacked on the first night they were turned away from a capacious farm by a Colonel of Dragoons who wanted nothing to do with a Regiment which had failed so shamefully. The Battalion’s morale was not helped by a shortage of food. The herd of cattle which had left Portugal had long been slaughtered and eaten, the supplies promised by the Spanish had not appeared, and the men were hungry, sullen, and cowed by Simmerson’s brutality. He had found his own reasons for the loss of the colour, the behaviour of Sharpe and the actions of his own men, and if he could not punish the first it was well within his practised power to punish the second. Only the Light Company retained some vestiges of pride. The men were proud of their new Captain. Throughout the Battalion Sharpe was now believed to be a magic man, a lucky one, a man whom enemy swords and bullets could not touch. The Light Company believed, in the way of soldiers, that Sharpe would bring them luck in battle, would keep them alive, and pointed to the action at the bridge as proof. Sharpe’s Riflemen agreed, they had always known their officer was lucky, and they revelled in his new promotion. Sharpe had been embarrassed by their pleasure, blushed when they offered him drinks from hoarded bottles of Spanish brandy, and covered his confusion by pretending to have duties elsewhere. On the first night of the march from Plasencia he lay in a
field, wrapped in his greatcoat, and thought of the boy who had fearfully joined the army sixteen years before. What would that terrified sixteen-year-old, running from justice, have thought if he knew he would one day be a Captain?
On the second night the Battalion was more fortunate. They bivouacked near another nameless village, and the woods were filled with soldiers hacking at branches to build the fires on which they could boil the tea-leaves they carried loose in their pockets. Provosts guarded the olive groves; nothing made the army so unpopular as the French habit of cutting down a village’s olive trees and denying them harvests for years to come, and Wellesley had issued strict orders that the olives were not to be touched. The officers of the South Essex—the Battalion still thought of itself as that—were billeted in the village inn. It was a large building, evidently a way station between Plasencia and Talavera, and behind it was a courtyard with big cypress trees beneath which were tables and benches. The three-sided yard opened onto a stream, and on the far bank the men of the Battalion made fires and beds in a grove of cork trees. There had been pigs in the grove, and as Sharpe stripped off his uniform to search the seams for lice he could smell pork cooking on the myriad small fires that showed through the foliage. Such looting was punishable by instant hanging, but nothing could stop it. The officers, the provosts, everyone was short of food, and the surreptitious offer of some stolen pork would ensure that the provosts would take no action.
The courtyard gradually filled with officers from the dozen Battalions bivouacked in the village. The heat of the day mellowed into a warm, clear evening, and the stars came out like the camp fires of a limitless army seen far away. From the main room of the inn came the sound of music and cheering as the officers egged on the Spanish dancers to twitch their skirts higher.
Sharpe pushed his way through the crowded room and glimpsed Simmerson and his cronies sitting playing cards at a corner table. Gibbons was there, he was now permanently attached to Simmerson’s ‘staff’, and the unpleasant Lieutenant Berry. For a second Sharpe thought about the girl. He had seen her once or twice since the return from the bridge and felt a surge of jealousy. He pushed the thought away; the officers of the Battalion were split enough as it was. There were Simmerson’s supporters, who toadied to the Colonel and assured him that the loss of the colour had been no fault of his, and there were those who had publicly supported Sharpe. It was an uncomfortable situation but there was nothing to be done about it. He passed out of the room into the courtyard and found Forrest, Leroy, and a group of Subalterns sitting beneath one of the cypress trees. Forrest made room for him on the bench.