“When I was in the ranks, Mr Doggett, we had a way of dealing with young gentlemen like His Royal Highness,” Harper said quietly. ”
“You did?”
“We shot the little buggers.” Harper smiled happily.
Doggett stared into the battered and friendly face. “You did?”
“Especially buggers like him.” Harper nodded scornfully towards the Prince. “He’s nothing but a silk stocking full of shit.”
Doggett stared in horror at Harper. Doggett’s sense of propriety, as well as his natural respect for royalty, were outraged by the Irishman’s words. “You can’t say things like that!” he blurted out. “He’s royalty!”
“A silk stocking full of shit with a crown, then.” Harper was quite unmoved by Doggett’s outrage. “And if the little bugger doesn’t watch out, Mr Sharpe will feed his guts to the hogs. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it.”
“Murdered someone?” Doggett blurted out the question.
Harper turned innocent eyes on the Guards Lieutenant. “I know for a fact he’s rid the world of some bad officers. We all have! Don’t be shocked, Mr Doggett! It happens all the time!”
“I can’t believe it!” Doggett protested, but too loudly, for the sound of his voice made the Prince turn irritably in his saddle.
“Is something offending you, Mr Doggett?”
“No, sir.”
“Then get back here, where you belong.” The Prince looked back to the four battalions of Halkett’s brigade which were an itch to his wounded self-esteem. Closest to the crossroads, and just forward of _the Highlanders across the highway was a battalion of Lincolnshire men, the 69th, who were unknown to Sharpe. They had never fought in Spain, instead they had been a part of the disastrous expedition that had failed to free the Netherlands at the end of the previous war. Beyond them was the 30th, the Three Tens, a Cambridgeshire battalion which, like the 33rd next in line, had also been a part of the Dutch debacle. Furthest south was the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers, the only veterans of the Spanish campaign in the brigade.
“So who ordered them to form square?” the Prince demanded petulantly.
No one knew, so Harry Webster was sent to discover the answer and came back after ten minutes to say that Sir Thomas Picton had deployed the brigade.
“But they’re not in Picton’s division!” The Prince’s pique had turned to a real anger that flushed his sallow face.
“Indeed not, sir,” Rebecque said gently, “but- ,
“But nothing, Rebecque! But bloody nothing! Those men are in my corps! Mine! I do not give orders to brigades in Sir Thomas Picton’s division, nor do I expect him to interfere with my corps! Sharpe! My compliments to Sir Colin Halkett, and instruct him to deploy his brigade in line. Their task is to give fire, not cower like schoolboys from non-existent cavalry.” The Prince had taken a sheet of paper from his sabretache and was scribbling the order in pencil.
“But the cavalry – , Sharpe began to protest.
“What cavalry?” The Prince made a great fuss of pretending to stare across the battlefield. “There is no cavalry.”
“In the dead ground over- ,
“You’re frightened of unseen horsemen on the left? But this brigade is on the right! Here, take this.” He thrust the written order at Sharpe.
“No, sir,” Sharpe said.
The bulbous eyes swivelled to stare in amazement at Sharpe. Rebecque hissed a warning at the Rifleman, while the other staff officers held their breath. The Prince licked his lips. “What did you say, Sharpe?” His voice was filled with horror and revulsion.
“I’m not taking that order, sir. You’ll kill every man jack of that brigade if you insist on it.”
For a second the Prince literally shook with rage. “Are you refusing to obey an order?”
“I’m refusing to take that order, sir, yes.”
“Rebecque! Suspend Colonel Sharpe from his duties. Have this order sent immediately.”
“You can’t – , Sharpe began, but Rebecque seized Sharpe’s bridle and tugged his horse out of the Prince’s reach. “Rebecque, for God’s sake!” Sharpe protested.
“He’s entitled!” Rebecque insisted. “Listen, by tomorrow he’ll have forgotten this. Give him an apology tonight and you won’t be suspended. He’s a good-hearted man.”