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 ram-parts. Carriages passed below, smart equipages with uni-formed drivers, carrying veiled Spanish ladies on mysteri-ous 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. “Gentle-men.” 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 Headmas-ter. 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 have 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.