‘Ah, ham! Bring us ham, Chatsworth, ham and mustard, with your bread and butter. Did you steal the toasting fork from this mess, Chatsworth?
‘No, sir.’
‘Then find which of your thieving comrades did take it, have them flogged, then bring the fork to me!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Chatsworth grinned as he left the room.
Nairn smiled at Sharpe. ‘I’m a harmless old man, Sharpe, left in charge of this bloody madhouse while the Peer gallivants round half of the bloody Peninsula. I am supposed, God help me, to be running this Headquarters. Me! If I had time, Sharpe, I suppose I could lead the troops on a winter campaign! I could inscribe my name in glory, but I don’t have bloody time! Look at this!’ He picked a paper from the pile beside him. ‘A letter, Sharpe, from the Chaplain General. The Chaplain General, no less! Do you know that he is in receipt of a salary of five hundred and sixty-five pounds a year, Sharpe, and in addition is named advisor on the establishment of semaphore stations for which nonsensical bloody job he receives a further six hundred pounds! Can you believe that? And what does God’s vicar to His Majesty’s Army do with his well-paid time? He writes to me thus!’ Nairn held the letter in front of his face.’ `I require of you to report on the containment of Methodism within the Army.’ Good God Almighty, Sharpe! What’s a man to do with such a letter?’
Sharpe smiled. ‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’
‘I do, Sharpe, I do. That’s why I’m a Major General.’ Nairn leaned forward and threw the letter onto the fire. ‘That’s what you do with letters like that.’ Nairn chuckled happily as the paper caught fire and flared brightly. ‘You want to know why you’re here, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are here, Sharpe, because the Prince of Wales has gone mad. Just like his Father, poor man, stark staring raving mad.’ Nairn leaned back and nodded triumphantly at Sharpe. The letter shrivelled to a black wisp on the logs as Nairn waited for a reaction. ‘Good God, Sharpe! You’re supposed to say something! God bless the Prince of Wales would do at a pinch, but you sit there as though the news means nothing. Comes of being a hero, I suppose, always keeping a straight face. Stern business is it? Being a hero?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe was grinning broadly.
The door opened and Chatsworth edged in with a heavy wooden tray that he put on the floor in front of the fire. ‘Bread and ham, sir, mustard in the small pot. Tea’s well brewed, sir, and I beg to report that the toasting fork was in your room, sir. Here it is, sir.’
‘You’re a rogue and a scoundrel, Chatsworth. You’ll be accusing me of burning correspondence from the Chaplain General next.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Chatsworth grinned contentedly.
‘Are you a Methodist, Chatsworth?’
‘No, sir. Don’t rightly know what a Methodist is, sir.’
‘You are fortunate indeed.’ Nairn was fixing a slice of bread to the toasting fork. A Lieutenant appeared at the open door behind him, knocked hesitantly to attract attention. ‘General Nairn, sir?’
‘Major General Nairn is in Madrid! Negotiating a surrender to the French!’ Nairn pushed the bread close to the logs, wrapping his hand in his handkerchief to keep the scorching heat away.
The Lieutenant did not smile. He hovered at the door. ‘Colonel Greave’s compliments, sir, and what’s he to do with the iron brackets for the pontoons?’
Nairn rolled his eyes to the yellowed ceiling. ‘Who is in charge of the pontoons, Lieutenant?’
‘The Engineers, sir.’
‘And who, pray, is in charge of our gallant Engineers?’
‘Colonel Fletcher, sir.’
‘So what do you tell our good Colonel Greave?’
‘I see, sir. Yes, sir.’ The Lieutenant paused. ‘To ask Colonel Fletcher, sir?’
‘You are a General in the making, Lieutenant. Go and do that thing, and should the Washerwoman General want to see me, tell her I am a married man and cannot accede to her importunings.’
The Lieutenant left and Nairn glared at the orderly. ‘Take that grin off your face, Private Chatsworth! The Prince of Wales has gone mad and all you can do is grin!’