Sharpe swore viciously and at length. Hogan let him finish. “I know, Sharpe, I know. It’s just plain stupid. It’s all because we refused to let your Riflemen form a skirmish line, remember?”
“He thinks that would have saved him?”
“He has to blame someone. He won’t blame himself, so you and I are the scapegoats.” Hogan took off his hat and scratched his balding pate. “I couldn’t give a damn, Richard. It’ll just mean enduring the man’s spleen till we get back to the army. After that we’ll hear no more about it. The General will tear him apart! Don’t worry yourself!”
It seemed ridiculous to be discussing their mutual arrest in shouts across the gap where the water broke white on the shattered stonework. Sharpe waved his hand at the wounded.
“What about this lot? We’ve got dozens of wounded and the French are coming back soon. We need help. What’s he doing?”
“Doing?” Hogan shook his head. “He’s like a chicken with its head chopped off. He’s drilling the men, that’s what he’s doing. Any poor sod who doesn’t have a musket will be lucky if he only gets three dozen lashes. The bastard doesn’t know what to do!”
“But for Christ’s sake!”
Hogan held up his hand. “I know, I know. I’ve told him he’s got to get timber and ropes.” He pointed at the forty-foot gap. “I can’t hope to get timber to bridge this, but we can make rafts and float them across. But there’s no timber here. He’ll have to send back for it!”
“Has he done it?”
“No.” Hogan said no more. Sharpe could imagine the argument he had had with Simmerson, and he knew the Engineer would have done his best. For a moment they discussed names, who was dead, who was wounded. Hogan asked after Lennox but Sharpe had no news, and he wondered whether the Scotsman was lying dead on the field. Then there was the clatter of hooves and Sharpe saw Lieutenant Christian Gibbons ride onto the bridge behind Hogan. The blond lieutenant stared down at the Engineer.
“I thought you were under arrest, Captain, and con-fined?”
Hogan looked up at the arrogant Lieutenant. “I needed a piss.”
Sharpe laughed. Hogan waved, wished him luck, and turned back to the convent leaving Sharpe facing Gibbons across the water. The Lieutenant’s uniform was clean and pristine.
“You’re under arrest, Sharpe, and I am ordered to tell you that Sir Henry will request a General Court Martial.”
Sharpe laughed. It was the only possible response, and it enraged the Lieutenant. “It’s no laughing matter! You are ordered to surrender your sword to me.”
Sharpe looked at the water. “Will you fetch it, Gibbons? Or shall I bring it to you?”
Gibbons ignored the comment. He had been given a message to deliver and was determined to reach the end, whatever the difficulties. “And you are ordered to return the Regimental Colour.”
It was unbelievable. Sharpe could scarcely credit his ears. He stood on the shattered bridge in the searing heat while behind him were rows of wounded men whose cries could clearly be heard, yet Simmerson had sent his nephew to demand that Sharpe surrender his sword and hand over the colour.
“Why was the bridge blown up?”
“It is not your business, Sharpe.”
“It damn well is, Gibbons, I’m on the wrong bloody side of it.” He looked at the elegant Lieutenant, whose uniform was quite unstained by any blood or earth. He suspected Simmerson’s uniform would be the same. “Were you going to abandon the wounded, Gibbons? Was that it?”
The Lieutenant looked at Sharpe with distaste. “Will you please fetch the colour, Sharpe, and throw it to this side of the bridge?”
“Go away, Gibbons.” Sharpe spoke with an equal disdain. “Get your precious uncle to talk with me, not his lapdog. As for the colour? It stays here. You deserted it and I fought for it. My men fought for it and it stays with us till you get us back across the river. Do you understand?” His voice was rising with anger. “So tell that to your fat windbag! He gets his colour with us. And tell him the French are coming back for another attack. They want that colour and that’s why I’m keeping my sword, Gibbons, so that I can fight for it!” He drew the thirty-five inches of steel. There had been no time to clean the blade, and Gibbons could scarcely take his eyes off the crusted blood. “And Gibbons. If you want this you can bloody well come and get it yourself.” He turned away from the Lieutenant, back to the wounded and dead, back to where Harper was waiting with a distressed face.