“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 power-ful. 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!”
Sharpe nodded wearily. “What you’re saying is that pressure will be applied for me to be sacrificed so that Simmerson can survive?”
Lawford nodded. “I’m afraid so. And Sir Arthur’s defence of you will be seen as mere party politics.”
“But for God’s sake! I was in no way responsible!”
“I know, I know.” Lawford spoke soothingly. “It makes no difference. He has chosen you as his scapegoat.”
Sharpe knew he spoke the truth. For a few weeks he was safe, safe while Wellesley marched further into Spain and brought the French to battle, but after that a letter would come from the Horse Guards, a short and simple letter that would mean the end of his career in the army. He was sure he would be looked after. Wellesley himself might need an estate manager or would recommend him to someone who did. But he would still eke out his years under a cloud as the man named officially responsible for losing Simmerson’s colour. He thought of his last conver-sation with Lennox. Had the Scotsman foreseen it all?
“There is another way.” He spoke quietly.
Lawford looked at him. “What?”
“When I saw the colour being lost, I made a resolution. I also made a promise to a dying man.” It sounded desper-ately melodramatic but it was the truth. “I promised to replace that colour with an Eagle.”
There was a moment of silence. Lawford whistled softly. “It’s never been done.”
“There’s no difference between that and them taking a colour.” That was easily said, but he knew that the French would not make the job as easy for him as Simmerson had for them. In the last six years the French had appeared on the battlefield with new standards. In place of the old colours they now carried gilded eagles mounted on poles. It was said that each Eagle was personally presented to the Regiment by the Emperor himself, and the standards were therefore more than just a symbol of the Regiment, they were a symbol of all France’s pride in their new order. To take an Eagle was to make Bonaparte wince in person. Sharpe felt the anger rise in him.
“I don’t mind replacing Simmerson’s flag with an Eagle. But I’m bloody angry that I have to carve my way through a company of French Grenadiers just to stay in the army.”
Lawford said nothing. He knew that Sharpe spoke the truth; the only thing that could stop the officials in Whitehall singling out Sharpe for punishment was if the Rifleman performed a deed of such undoubted merit that they would look foolish to make him a scapegoat. Privately Lawford thought Sharpe had done more than enough, he had regained a colour, captured a gun, but the account of his deeds would be muddied in London by Simmerson’s telling. No, he had to do more, go further, risk his life in an attempt to keep his job.
Sharpe laughed ironically. He slapped his empty scab-bard. “Someone once said that in this job you’re only as good as your last battle.” He paused. “Unless of course you have money or influence.”