‘No, Sharpe, no. Carry on!’
Bloody Farthingdale. Major General Nairn, with his engaging indiscretion, had told Sharpe that Farthingdale had hopes of high command. ‘Nothing dangerous, mind you, Christ no! One of those fancy rooms in the Horse Guards with chocolate soldiers saluting him. Thinks if he writes the right book then they’ll give him the whole army to smarten up.’ Nairn had looked gloomy. ‘They probably will, too.’
Patrick Harper appeared from the stables leading two horses. He passed close to Sir Augustus and stopped by Sharpe. ‘Horse, sir.’
‘I see two.’
‘Thought you might like company.’ Harper’s face was tight with annoyance. Sharpe looked at him curiously.
‘What is it?’
‘D’you hear what the man’s saying?’
‘No.’
‘`My victory.’ He’s telling her that he won here, so he is. Telling her that he took the Castle. And did you see her? She didn’t even recognize me! Not so much as the time of day!’
Sharpe grinned, took the reins, and pushed his left foot into a stirrup. ‘She has a fortune to protect, Patrick. Wait till he’s gone, she’ll say hello.’ He pulled himself up. ‘Wait here.’
He hid his annoyance from Harper, but he was affronted just the same. If Sharpe ever wrote a book like ‘Practical Instructions’, which he would not, then there would be one piece of advice repeated page after page. Always give credit where it is due, however tempting to take it for yourself, for the higher a man rises in the army the more he needs the loyalty and support of his inferiors. It was time, Sharpe decided, to puncture Sir Augustus’ self-esteem. He pulled the horse round, walked it to where Farthingdale was pointing up at the Colours and describing the morning as a very satisfying little fight.
‘Sir?’
‘Major Sharpe?’
‘I thought you should have this, sir. For your report.’ Sharpe held out a scruffy, folded scrap of paper.
‘What is it?’
‘The butcher’s bill, sir.’
‘Ah.’ A hand, gloved in fine leather, twitched the paper away and tucked it into his sabretache.
‘Aren’t you going to look at it, sir?’
‘I was with the doctor, Sharpe. I’ve seen our wounded.’
‘I was thinking of the killed, sir. Colonel Kinney, Major Ford, one Captain, and thirty-seven men, sir. Most of those died in the explosion. Wounded, sir. Forty-eight seriously, another twenty-nine not so serious. I’m sorry, sir. Thirty. I’d forgotten yourself.’
Josefina giggled. Sir Augustus looked at Sharpe as though the Major had just crawled out of a particularly malodorous sewer. ‘Thank you, Major.’
‘And my apologies, sir.’
‘Apologies?’
‘I haven’t had time to shave.’
Josefina laughed outright and Sharpe, remembering that she had always liked her men to fight, gave her a look of anger. He was not her man, and he was not fighting for her, and then whatever he might have said was interrupted by a trumpet call, insistent and faraway, the tones of a French cavalry instrument.
‘Sir!’ The Rifleman on the keep. ‘Four froggies, sir! One of ’em’s got a white flag, sir. Coming this way!’
‘Thank you!’ Sharpe was tugging at the slings of his sword. He was not elegant on horseback, not like Sir Augustus, but at least the huge cavalry sword could hang properly at his side instead of being hitched halfway up his ribs by shortened slings. He rebuckled the leather straps and looked about the courtyard. ‘Lieutenant Price!’Sir?’ Harry Price was tired. ‘Look after Lady Farthingdale till we return!’Yes, sir!’ Price seemed suddenly awake. If Sir Augustus was peeved at this usurpation of his authority then Sharpe gave him no time to protest, nor did Sir Augustus choose to countermand the order. He followed Sharpe’s horse through the shadowed sloping cobbles of the gateway, out onto the track and then right onto the grass where Sharpe let his horse have its head.
The trumpet was still calling, demanding a response from the British positions, but at the appearance of the three horsemen the notes died to an echo. In front of the French officers was a Lancer, a white strip of cloth tied beneath his lance-head, and Sharpe remembered the white ribbons that decorated the hornbeam in the Convent and he wondered if the German Lancers who fought for Napoleon also worshipped their old forest Gods at Yuletide; the old pre-Christian name for the winter feast.