“Wait, Major, always wait.”
He and Forrest stood beneath the defiant colour. It taunted the French. They spurred towards it, the trumpet rang out its curdling charge, the Chasseurs screamed revenge, raised their sabres, and died.
Sharpe had let them come to forty yards, and the volley destroyed the first line that opposed the British. The second rank of French horsemen clapped spurs to their mounts. They were confident. Had the British not fired their volley? They jumped over the writhing remains of the first rank and to their horror saw that the red-coated ranks were not busy reloading but were calmly aiming their muskets again. Some pulled desperately at their reins, but it was too late. The volley from Sharpe’s second set of muskets piled the horses beside the bodies of the first line.
“Change muskets!”
The rear rank fired, once and twice. Sharpe whirled, but the experienced sergeants had done well. His men were ringed with horses, dead and dying, stunned and wounded Chasseurs struggled from the mess and ran into the wide expanse of the field. The French had lost all cohesion, all chance of a further attack.
“Left turn! Forward!”
He ran on. He could see Harper and Knowles. The young Lieutenant looked calm, and Sharpe could see the ring of French dead that showed he had learnt to hold his fire. The cannon fired again, shrouding the group in smoke, and Sharpe glanced back to see more horsemen fall where they were reforming ranks off to his right. A few horsemen still galloped round them; once Sharpe stopped and fired a volley of twenty muskets to drive off a group of six Chasseurs who came galloping up on the flank. Then his men reached the gun. Sharpe grabbed Harper, pounded him on the back, grinned up at the huge Irishman, and turned to congratulate Knowles. They had done it! Captured the gun, driven off the cavalry, inflicted terrible damage on men and horses, and without a single scratch to themselves.
And that was it. With the gun in his hands Sharpe knew the French dare not attack again. He watched them circle well clear of its range as the British formed a square. Forrest was beaming, looking for all the world like a Bishop who had conducted a particularly pleasing confirmation service. “We did it, Sharpe! We did it!” Sharpe looked up at the colour over the small square. A little honour had been regained, not enough, but a little. A French gun had been captured, the Chasseurs had been mauled, some of the South Essex had learned to fight. But that was not all. Lashed to the trail of the captured gun, festooned on the limber, were ropes. Long, tough, French ropes that could span a broken bridge instead of haul the gun up steep slopes. Ropes, timber from the gun’s carriage; all he needed to start taking the wounded back across the river.
At the bridge Lennox watched as a Chasseur officer walked his horse towards the British square. Negotiating again; but it would be too late for him. He felt cold and numb, the pain had passed, and he knew that there was not long. He gripped the sword; some atavistic memory told him it was his pass into a better heaven, perhaps where his wife waited. He felt content, lazy but content. He had watched Sharpe walk suicidally forward, wondered what he was doing, then heard the distinctive crack of the rifles, seen the figures running on the gun, and watched as the French cavalry broke themselves on the massed volleys of the infantry. Now it was over. The French would pick up their wounded and go, and Sharpe would come back to the bridge. And he would keep the promise, Lennox knew that now; a man who could plan the capture of that gun would have the daring to do what Lennox wanted. That way there could be no shame in this day’s work. The image of the colour, far up the smoke-veiled field, dimmed in the Scotsman’s eyes. The sun was hot but it was damned cold all the same. He gripped the sword and closed his eyes.
Chapter 10
“Damn you, Sharpe! I will break you! I will see you never hold rank again! You will go back to the gutter you came from!” Simmerson’s face was contorted with anger; even his jug ears had reddened with fury. He stood with Gibbons and Forrest, and the Major tried ineffectually to stem Sir Henry’s anger. The Colonel shook Forrest’s arm off his elbow. Til have you court-martialled. I’ll write to my cousin. Sharpe, you are finished! Done!“
Sharpe stood on the other side of the room, his own face rigid with the effort of controlling his own anger and scorn. He looked out of the window. They were back in Plasencia, in the Mirabel Palace which was Wellesley’s temporary headquarters, and he stared down the Sancho Polo street at the huddled rooftops of the poorer quarter of the town which were crammed inside the city’s ramparts. Carriages passed below, smart equipages with uniformed drivers, carrying veiled Spanish ladies on mysterious journeys. The Battalion had limped home the night before, its wounded carried in commandeered ox-carts which had solid axles that screeched, Harper said, like the banshees. Mingled with the endless noise was the cries of the wounded. Many had died; many more would die in the slow grip of gangrene in the days ahead. Sharpe had been under arrest, his sword taken from him, marching with his incredulous Riflemen who decided the world had gone mad and swore vengeance for him should Simmerson have his way.
The door opened and Lieutenant Colonel Lawford came into the room. His face had none of the animation Sharpe had seen at their reunion just five days before; he looked coldly on them all; like the rest of the army he felt demeaned and shamed by the loss of the colour. “Gentlemen.” His voice was icily polite. “Sir Arthur will see you now. You have ten minutes.”
Simmerson marched through the open door, Gibbons close behind him. Forrest beckoned Sharpe to precede him but Sharpe hung back. The Major smiled at him, a hopeless smile; Forrest was lost in this web of carnage and blame.
The General sat behind a plain oak table piled with papers and hand-drawn maps. There was nowhere for Simmerson to sit, so the four officers lined up in front of the table like schoolboys hauled in front of the Headmaster. Lawford went and stood behind the General, who ignored all of them, just scratched away with a pen on a piece of paper. Finally the sentence was done. Wellesley’s face was unreadable.
“Well, Sir Henry?”
Sir Henry Simmerson’s eyes darted round the room as though he might find inspiration written on the walls. The General’s tone had been cold. The Colonel licked his lips and cleared his throat.
“We destroyed the bridge, sir.”
“And your Battalion.”
The words were said softly. Sharpe had seen Wellesley like this before, masking a burning anger with an apparent and misleading quietness. Simmerson sniffed and tossed his head.
“The fault was hardly mine, sir.”
“Ah!” The General’s eyebrows went up; he laid down his quill and leaned back in the chair. “Whose then, sir?”
“I regret to say, sir, that Lieutenant Sharpe disobeyed an order even though it was repeated to him. Major Forrest heard me give the order to Lieutenant Gibbons, who then carried it to Sharpe. By his action Lieutenant Sharpe exposed the Battalion and betrayed it.” Simmerson had found his rehearsed theme and he warmed to his task. “I am requesting, sir, that Lieutenant Sharpe be court-martialled… „
Wellesley held up a hand and stopped the flow of words. He looked, almost casually, at Sharpe, and there was something frightening about those blue eyes over the great, hooked nose that looked, judged, and were quite inscrutable. The eyes flicked to Forrest.
“You heard this order, Major?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You, Lieutenant. What happened?”
Gibbons arched his eyebrows and glanced at Sharpe. His tone was bored, supercilious. “I ordered Lieutenant Sharpe to deploy his Riflemen, sir. He refused. Captain Hogan joined in his refusal.” Simmerson looked pleased. The General’s fingers beat a brief tattoo on the table. “Ah, Captain Hogan. I saw him an hour ago.” Wellesley drew out a piece of paper and looked at it. Sharpe knew it was all an act: Wellesley knew precisely what was on the paper but he was drawing out the tension. The blue eyes came up to Simmerson again; the tone of voice was still mild. “I have served with Captain Hogan for many years, Sir Henry. He was in India. I hav
e always found him a most trustworthy man.” He raised his eyebrows in a query, as though inviting Simmerson to put him right. Simmerson, inevitably, accepted the invitation.
“Hogan, sir, is an Engineer. He was not in a position to make decisions about the deployment of troops.” He sounded pleased with himself, even anxious to show Wellesley that he bore the General no ill-will despite their political opposition.
Somewhere in the palace a clock whirred loudly and then chimed ten o’clock. Wellesley sat, his fingers drumming the table, and then jerked his gaze up to Simmerson.
“Your request is denied, Sir Henry. I will not court-martial Lieutenant Sharpe.” He paused for a second, looked at the paper and back to Simmerson. “We have decisions to take about your Battalion, Sir Henry, I think you had better stay.”
Lawford moved to the door. Wellesley’s voice had been hard and cold, the tone final, but Simmerson exploded, his voice rising indignantly.
“He lost my colour! He disobeyed!”
Wellesley’s fist hit the table with a crash. “Sir! I know what order he disobeyed! I would have disobeyed it! You proposed sending skirmishers against cavalry! Is that right, sir?”
Simmerson said nothing. He was aghast at the tumult of anger that had overwhelmed him. Wellesley went on.
“First, Sir Henry, you had no business in taking your Battalion over the bridge. It was unnecessary, time wasting, and damned foolish. Secondly.” He was ticking off on his fingers. “Only a fool, sir, deploys skirmishers against cavalry. Third. You have disgraced this army, which I have spent a year in the making, in the face of our foes and of our allies. Fourthly.” Wellesley’s voice was biting hard. “The only credit gained in this miserable engagement was by Lieutenant Sharpe. I understand, sir, that he regained one of your lost colours and moreover captured a French gun and used it with some effect on your attackers. Is that correct?”
No-one spoke. Sharpe stared rigidly ahead at a picture on the wall behind the General. He heard a rustle of paper. Wellesley had picked up the sheet from the desk. His voice was lower.
“You have lost, sir, as well as your colour, two hundred and forty-two men either killed or injured. You lost a Major, three Captains, five Lieutenants, four Ensigns and ten Sergeants. Are my figures correct?” Again no-one spoke. Wellesley stood up. “Your orders, sir, were those of a fool! The next time, Sir Henry, I suggest you fly a white flag and save the French the trouble of unsheathing their swords! The job you had to do, sir, could have been done by a company; I was forced by diplomacy to commit a Battalion, and I sent yours, sir, so that your men would have a sight and taste of the French. I was wrong! As a result one of our colours is now on its way to Paris to be paraded in front of the mob. Tell me if I malign you?”
Simmerson had blanched white. Sharpe had never seen Wellesley so angry. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of the others and he directed his words at Simmerson with a vengeful force.
“You no longer have a Battalion, Sir Henry. It ceased to exist when you threw away your men and a colour! The South Essex is a single Battalion regiment, is that right?”
Simmerson nodded and muttered assent. “So you can hardly make up your numbers from home. I wish, Sir Henry, I could send you home! But I cannot. My hands are tied, sir, by Parliament and the Horse Guards and by meddling politicians like your cousin. I am declaring your Battalion, Sir Henry, to be a Battalion of Detachments. I will attach new officers myself and draft men into your ranks. You will serve in General Hill’s Division.”
“But, sir. Sir?” Simmerson was overwhelmed by the information. To be called a Battalion of Detachments? It was unthinkable! He stammered a protest. Wellesley interrupted him.
“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. Simmer-son 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 a
nd 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!”