Sixty white chickens had given the men a splendid meal and a fine flock of feathers. Each man had been issued with three white feathers, which now, like Sharpe, they pushed behind the badges of their shakos so that, after a few seconds, when the shakos were back on the mens’ heads, each wore the badge of the Prince of Wales white against their black headgear.
The Prince was charmed by the feathers. The Duke of York stared in fury. Sergeant Harper shouted the command for the general salute.
Sharpe had no proof that this Battalion had been stolen, that its masters were criminals, so now he was trying to put these men under the protection of the Prince Regent, of the fat man who nodded with pleasure as Sharpe lowered the Eagle in submissive homage. Sharpe, who could prove nothing against Lord Fenner, would harness the immense patronage and influence of the Regent of Britain and, even though the Prince Regent had no formal power over the army or the War Office, Sharpe could not see how his enemies could prevail over the Prince’s wishes. Sharpe was presenting these men to the Prince in the hope that the Prince would become their ally and protector, and the Prince was delighted. ‘What Battalion is it, Rossendale?’
Lord John Rossendale saw the yellow facings. He trained the Prince’s spyglass on one of the shakos so that he could see the badge of the chained eagle. ‘South Essex, sir.’ He said it with some astonishment, remembering that Lord Fenner had denied the Battalion’s corporeal existence.
‘Mine now, eh? Mine! Splendid!’ Sharpe, his sword held vertically in the salute, could not hear the Prince. Jane Gibbons, sharing the telescope with Charlie Weller, clapped as she saw the feathers on the shakos.
“Talion!’ Sergeant Harper’s voice rode over the protests of the massing marshals. ‘Three cheers for His Royal Highness! Hip, hip, hip!’
They cheered. Some of the feathers drooped or fell, but it did not matter, the Prince was charmed. ‘Major Sharpe!’
Sharpe knew his victory was not complete. He must talk to the Prince. He saw the beckoning fat hand and tried to push his horse forward to lay the Eagle before his Prince, but other orders were being shouted, and mounted men were pressing about his horse. A colonel of the Blues snatched the Eagle from him and a major wrestled for his sword. Another hand seized his bridle and pulled him away from the Royal pavilion.
‘Major Sharpe!’ The Prince called again, but the Rifleman was surrounded by marshals and officers, angry mounted men who jostled him away.
‘Your Royal Highness?’ Lord Fenner had hurried along the tier of seats. ‘Your Royal Highness?’
‘Fenner!’
‘I trust your Royal Highness liked our small display.’ Lord Fenner, seeing the Prince’s happiness, was thinking fast.
‘Monstrous good, Fenner! I like it! The men who took the Eagle, eh? Dressed as they were that day. I do like it, indeed, yes. Thank you, Fenner! I like it very much! Rossendale!’
‘Sir?’
The Prince was trying to see Sharpe in the confusion, but there were too many mounted men. ‘Tell Major Sharpe I expect him at our reception this night.’
‘Of course, sir.’
The Duke of York, appalled at the shambles that had been made of his display, ignored his elder brother’s delight. ‘He’s under arrest! Maxwell!’
A full General of the Guards came close.
‘Take him to the Horse Guards now! I’ll have his damned head for this, by God I will!’ He turned to Fenner. ‘What the devil’s going on, Fenner?’
‘I think I can explain, your Royal Highness.’ Lord Fenner smiled pacifically. He watched General Maxwell ordering an escort for Sharpe and, Lord Fenner, seeing the arrest, knew that Sharpe had gambled and lost.
‘What is happening, Freddy?’ the Prince asked plaintively.
‘Not a god-damn thing.’ The Duke of York signalled the marshals to extricate the parade from its sudden chaos and carry on with the battle. He turned and waved his fat hands at the spectators in the Royal stand who, alarmed for their safety, stood in confused worry. ‘Nothing to worry you, nothing to worry you at all! Sit!’ He plumped himself down, face outraged, as an example to the spectators.
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