Sharpe did not even know what an axiom was, but he nodded respectfully. “I will, sir.”
“There are times when any officer may perceive a superior’s decision as being mistaken,” the Prince was clearly alluding to his behaviour at Quatre Bras, but so delicately that Sharpe, in his weariness, hardly noticed, “but such an officer should be grateful that his superior has had the boldness to make any decision at all. Isn’t that so?” The Prince glared at Sharpe, who just nodded.
Rebecque hastened to offer the Prince the required verbal agreement. “It’s very true, sir, very true.”
The Prince, piqued that Sharpe had not responded, stood very close in front of the Rifleman. “I also think that the least I can expect from my staff is loyalty. Isn’t that so? Loyalty?” The word came in a gust of brandy-stinking breath.
“Indeed, sir,” Sharpe said.
Rebecque cleared his throat. “Colonel Sharpe has already expressed to me his deepest regrets for causing Your Highness any unhappiness. He has also assured me of his loyalty towards Your Highness. Isn’t that so, Sharpe?” The question was almost hissed at the Rifleman.
“Indeed, sir.” Sharpe had fallen back into his old Sergeant’s ways, merely saying what an officer wanted to hear. It was always easy to keep bumptious officers happy with a succession of yes, no and indeed.
The Prince, perhaps sensing that he had gained as much victory as he was going to get this night, smiled. “I’m grateful we agree, Sharpe.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Prince went back to his chair and slowly sat down as though the cares of Europe were pressing on his spindly shoulders. “I want you to station yourself on the right flank tomorrow, Sharpe. You’re going to be my eyes. The moment you see any French outflanking movement, you’re to inform me.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Very good. Very good.” The Prince smiled to show that all was forgiven, then looked at Rebecque. “You have a spare Dutch uniform, Rebecque?”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
“Provide it to Colonel Sharpe, if you will. And you’ll wear it tomorrow, Sharpe, do you hear me?”
“Very clearly, sir.”
“Till the morning, then.” The Prince nodded a good-night to both men. “And Rebecque? Send my seamstress in, will you?”
Rebecque dutifully ushered Paulette into the Prince’s room, then took Sharpe down the small landing to his own bedroom where he offered Sharpe a choice of uniforms from a tin travelling trunk.
“Keep them,” Sharpe said.
“My dear Sharpe – ,
“I’ve fought the damned French for ten years in this jacket, Rebecque.” Sharpe’s interruption was bitter. “I wasn’t bloody studying how to fight out of bloody books at bloody Eton, I was killing the bastards. I began killing Frenchmen when that little bastard was still wetting his breeches.” In his frustration and anger Sharpe slammed his fist against the wall, breaking the plaster and laths to leave a ragged hole. “Why the hell does he still want me on his staff anyway? Hasn’t he got enough people to cut up his food?”
Rebecque gave a long-suffering sigh. “You have a reputation, Sharpe, and the Prince needs it. He knows he made a mistake. The whole army knows. Do you think Halkett hasn’t complained bitterly to the Duke? So the Prince needs men to see that you are on his side, that you support him, even that you respect him! That’s why he wants you in his uniform. After all, you’re not on attachment from a British regiment, like Harry or Simon, but you’re his personal choice! Now, please, just take a coat and wear it tomorrow.”
“I’m fighting in Rifle green, Rebecque, or I’m not fighting at all. And what the hell am I doing out on the right flank?”
“You’re staying out of his way, Sharpe. You’re there so you can’t make any trouble. Or would you rather spend the battle tied to His Highness’s coat-tails?”
Sharpe smiled. “No, sir.”
“At least we agree on something. Not that the Prince can do too much damage tomorrow. Wellington’s broken up the corps, so his Highness doesn’t have a real command, though I imagine he’ll find something to do. He usually does.” Rebecque sounded wistful, but then he smiled. “Have you eaten?”