“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 accept-ance 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 con-trolled 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 prom-ised, 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.