The paper was thick and creamy. A seal was big and red on its wide left margin. Sharpe twisted it towards the windows so he could read the words. The top two lines were printed in decorative copperplate script.
‘George the Third by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith’. The next words were hand written on ruled lines. ‘Trusty and Well-beloved Richard Sharpe, Esq.’ The printing resumed. ‘Greeting: We do by these Presents, Constitute and Appoint you to be’. Sharpe looked up at Nairn.
The Major General was grumbling as he scooped butter from the dish. ‘Waste of time, Sharpe! Throw it on the fire! Man’s mad!’
Sharpe grinned. He tried to control the elation that was growing in him, elation and sheer disbelief, he almost dared not read the next words.
‘Major in Our Army now in Portugal and Spain’. Dear God! Dear, sweet God! A Major! The paper shook in his hands. He leaned back for an instant, letting his head touch the chair behind him, a Major! Nineteen years he had been in this army. He had joined days before his sixteenth birthday and he had marched across India in the ranks, musket and bayonet in his hands, and now he was a Major! Dear God! He had fought so hard for his Captaincy, thinking it would never come, and now, suddenly, out of the blue, from nowhere, this! Major Richard Sharpe!
Nairn smiled at him. ‘It’s only army rank, Sharpe.’ A Brevet Major, then, but still a Major. Regimental rank was a man’s real rank, and if the commission had said ‘a Major in our South Essex Regiment’, then it would have been Regimental rank. Army rank meant that he was a Major as long as he served outside of his own Regiment, paid as a Major, though if he were to retire now his pay would be computed by his Regimental rank and not his new Majority. But who cared? He was a Major!
Nairn looked at the tanned, hard face. He knew he was seeing someone remarkable, someone who had risen this far, this quickly, and Nairn wondered what drove a man like Sharpe. Sitting by the fire, the Commission in his hand, he seemed a quiet, contained man, yet Nairn knew of this soldier. Few people in the army did not know of Sharpe. The Peer called him the best leader of a Light Company in the army and perhaps, Nairn wondered, that was why Wellington had been angered by the Prince of Wales’ interference. Sharpe was a good Captain, but would he be a good Major? Nairn shrugged to himself. This Sharpe, this man who still insisted on wearing the green uniform of the 95th Rifles, had not let the army down yet, and making him into a Major was hardly likely to still the ferocity of his fighting power.
Sharpe read through the Commission to the bottom. He would well discipline both inferior officers and soldiers, he would observe and follow such orders as were given him. Dear God! A Major!
‘Given at Our Court at Carlton House the Fourteenth day of November 1812 in the Fifty-Third Year of Our Reign.’ The words ‘By His Majesty’s Command’ had been crossed out. In their place the Commission read; ‘By the Command of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent, in the Name and on the Behalf of His Majesty.
Nairn smiled at him. ‘Prinny heard about Badajoz, then about Garcia Hernandez, and he insisted. It’s against the rules, of course, absolutely against the rules. The damned man has no business promoting you. Throw it on the fire!’
‘Would you take it hard if I disobeyed that order, sir?’
‘Congratulations, Sharpe! You’re beginning as you mean to go on.’ The last words were hurried as a sneeze gathered in his nose and Nairn grabbed his handkerchief and trumpeted into it. He shook his head, bullied and blew his nose, and smiled again. ‘My real congratulations.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Don’t thank me, Major. Thank all of us by making sure that little Gilliland’s rockets go fizz-plop. D’you know the beggar’s got over a hundred and fifty horses for his toys? A hundred and fifty! We need those horses, Sharpe, but we can’t bloody touch them as long as Prinny thinks we’re going to knock Boney bum over tip with them. Prove him wrong, Sharpe! He’ll listen to you.’