Sharpe wanted to laugh. He had kept the promise to Lennox, but he knew the real reason he had hacked his way to the French Eagle was to save his own career, and had it all been unnecessary? Denny’s death, the killing of so many others, just so he would not go to the West Indies? The trophy was low at his side, hidden in the press of men, but he dragged it clear so that the gilded statuette suddenly flashed in the light. He handed it up to Lawford. “The Battalion’s missing colour, sir. It was the best Ser-geant Harper and I could do.”
Lawford stared at the two men, at the tiredness beneath the powder stains, at the lines on their faces grooved with blood from scalp wounds, and at the black patches where bayonets had sprung blood into their green jackets. He took the Eagle, disbelieving, knowing it was the one thing that would restore the Battalion’s pride, and hoisted it high into the air. The South Essex, so long scorned by the army, saw it and cheered, slapped each other’s backs, hoisted their muskets triumphantly into the air, and cheered until other Battalions stopped to see what the noise was about.
Above them, on the Medellin, General Hill heard the excitement and trained a telescope onto the Battalion that had so nearly lost the battle. He caught the Eagle in the lens and his mouth dropped open. ,I’ll be damned! Bless my soul! The strangest thing. The South Essex have captured an Eagle!”
There was a dry laugh beside him, and Hill turned to see Sir Arthur Wellesley. “Sir?”
“I’ll be damned too, Hill. That’s only the third time I’ve ever heard you swear.” He took the glass from Hill and looked down the slope. “God damn it! You’re right! Let’s go and see this strange bird.”
EPILOGUE
The wine was dark red in the crystal glasses, the deep polished table shone from a score of candles in their silver holders, the paintings whose ancient varnish reflected the circle of light showed grave and eminent ancestors of the Spanish family in whose Talavera mansion Sir Arthur Wellesley was host to a dinner party. Even the food was fairly equal to the occasion. In the week since the battle the supply situation had worsened, the Spanish promises unfulfilled, and the troops were on meagre half-rations. Wellesley, as befitted a General, had done better than most, and Sharpe had sipped a slightly watered down chicken soup, enjoyed jugged hare, eaten amply of Wellesley’s favourite mutton, and listened to his fellow guests grumble about the diet as they drank unending bottles of wine. “Daddy` Hill was there, rubicund and happy, continually smiling at Sharpe, shaking his head and saying, “Bless me, Sharpe, an Eagle.” Robert Crauford sat opposite Sharpe; Black Bob, whom Sharpe had not seen since the retreat to Corunna. Crauford had missed the Battle of Talavera by one day even though he had marched his crack Light Division forty-two miles in twenty-six hours to catch up with Wellesley. Among the troops he had brought from England were the First Battalion of the 95th Rifles, and Sharpe had already been generously entertained by their mess in celebration of his feat. They had done more than that. They had presented him with a new uniform and he sat at Wellesley’s table resplendent in smart green cloth, black leather, and silver trappings. He had kept his old uniform. Tomorrow, when the army marched again, he would prefer to wear the bloodstained cavalry overalls and the comfortable French boots rather than this immac-ulate uniform and fragile shoes.
Black Bob Crauford was in good form. He was the sternest disciplinarian in the army, a tyrant of excessive rages, loved and hated by his troops. Few Generals asked more of their men, or received it, and if his demands were backed up by savage punishments then at least the men knew Crauford’s justice was even-handed and impartial. Sharpe remembered seeing Crauford catch a company officer being carried piggy-back across an ice cold stream in the northern mountains.
“Drop him, sir! Drop him!” the General shouted from the dry safety of his horse to the astonished private and, to the delight of the suffering troops, the officer was dumped unceremoniously into the waist-high water. Now Crauford fixed Sharpe with a cynical eye and thumped the table, rattling the silverware. “You were lucky, Sharpe, lucky!”