He held Sharpe’s gazette as if the document might re-infect him with smallpox. ‘You were given a Captaincy in 1809?’
‘By Lord Wellington. ‘
The name cut no ice in Whitehall. ‘Who should have known better. Dear me, Mr. Sharpe, he should have known better! It’s irregular. ‘
‘But not unknown, surely?’ Sharpe had suppressed his urge to vent his irritation on the clerk. ‘I thought it was your job to approve these documents. ‘
‘Or disapprove them!’ The clerk laughed again and the half-pay officers grinned. ‘Approve, Mr. Sharpe, or disapprove!’ Rain fell down the chimney and hissed on the meager coal fire. The clerk, his thin shoulders heaving with silent laughter, tugged a pair of spectacles from the recesses of his clothing and clipped them on to his nose as if the gazette, seen through smeared glass, might reveal new cause for merriment. ‘We disapprove them, sir, most of the time. You allow one and you allow all. It upsets the system, you know. There are rules, regulations, standing orders!’ And the clerk shook his head because it was obvious Sharpe understood nothing of the army.
Sharpe waited for the head-shaking to cease. ‘It seems to have taken you a long time to make any decision on this gazette. ‘
‘And still not made!’ The clerk said it proudly, making it seem that the length of time proved the gravity of the Horse Guards’ wisdom. Then he seemed to relent and offered Sharpe a rueful smile. ‘The truth is, Mr. Sharpe, that there was a mistake. A regrettable mistake and your visit has happily rectified the mistake. ‘ He peered over his glasses at the tall Rifleman. ‘We are really most grateful to you for drawing it to our attention. ‘
‘Mistake?’
‘It was filed wrongly. ‘ The clerk plucked another piece of paper from his left hand. ‘Under Lieutenant Robert Sharp, no “e”, who died of the fever in 1810. His papers were, otherwise, in perfect order. ‘
‘Which mine are not?’
‘Indeed, no, but you are still alive. ‘ The clerk looked peevishly at Sharpe. ‘We do have a chance of tidying up when an officer is translated to glory. ‘ He took off his glasses and cleaned them with Sharpe’s folded gazette. ‘It will be attended to, Mr. Sharpe, with expedition. I promise you. With expedition!’
‘Soon?’
‘That’s what I said, isn’t it? It would be wrong to say more. ‘ The clerk pushed his spectacles back into place. ‘Now, if you’ll pardon me, there is a war on and I have other duties!’
It had been a mistake, Sharpe realized afterwards, to visit Whitehall, but it was done and he could only go on waiting. Surely, he told himself a dozen times each day, they could not disapprove the gazette. Not after he had taken the Eagle? After he had brought the gold out of the burning Almeida, and after he had savaged the finest French troops in the deathtraps of Fuentes de Onoro? He stared gloomily across the snow at the scar in Ciudad Rodrigo’s defences. He knew he should have volunteered for the Forlorn Hope. If he had led it, and survived, then no one could have denied him the Captaincy. He would have proved himself, captured the rank, and the pox-scarred bureaucrats of Whitehall could scratch themselves into a well-ordered eternity because nothing they could do, nothing, could have taken the Captaincy away from him. A pox on the bloody lot of them!
‘Richard Sharpe!’ A quiet voice behind him, full of pleasure, and Sharpe twisted round.
‘Sir!’
‘I could feel a pricking in my thumbs! I knew you had to be back with the army. ‘ Major Michael Hogan slithered on the snow towards him. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m well. ‘ Sharpe scrambled to his feet. He beat the snow off his greatcoat and shook Hogan’s gloved hand.
The Engineer laughed at him. ‘You look like a drowned tinker, so you do, but it’s good to see you. ‘ The Irish voice was rich and warm. ‘And how was England?’
‘Cold and wet. ‘
‘Ah well, it’s a Protestant country. ” Hogan conveniently ignored the freezing dampness of the Spanish countryside around them. ‘And how is Sergeant Harper? Did he enjoy England?’