‘They will if they can. If it goes wrong, Patrick, get the hell out of it.’
‘Run all over bloody Hyde Park with the Household Cavalry chasing me?’ Harper laughed. ‘Here.’ He handed the discharge back.
‘Keep it, and good luck.’
Sharpe reviewed his troops, his tattered, march-soiled troops, and, as the sun rose higher in a cloudless sky, he marched them south, through the leafy lanes from Hampstead towards London, and towards failure or the invasion of France.
The bands thumped and jangled, crashing out the good tunes of the army, and the troops marched in columns of half Companies past the Prince who, delighted by it all, raised a plump, gloved hand to answer their salutes. The swords of mounted officers flashed up as they rode past him, the Household Cavalry went by in a splendid jingle of curb chains with plumes tossing above their burnished helmets.
In front of the Royal stand, in three ranks, stood two Companies of Foot Guards; the Royal bodyguard. Eight mounted officers flanked the line, carefully placed where their height would not obstruct the royal view.
The Horse Artillery went past at such a pace that the earth seemed to thunder with their passing. Behind them, at a far more sedate trot, came a troop of Rocket Cavalry, the sticks of their curious weapons jutting up like sheafs of lances. The sight of them reminded the Prince that it had been Major Sharpe who had first proved their use against the French army, a use that the Prince had forecast and supported, and he twisted heavily in his chair to look for Lord John Rossendale. ‘Sharpe here?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Deuced odd!’ The Prince looked at his brother, the Commander in Chief of the Army. ‘Got any of those fireworks in Spain, Freddy?’
The Duke of York did, but only at his brother’s insistence. Like the rest of the army, he believed rockets to be a dangerous, mad invention. ‘A few,’ he grunted.
‘Wish we could fire one now.’
‘You can’t. London’s too valuable.’
The Prince laughed. He was having a fine time, dressed in his uniform and imagining that he was about to lead these splendid men into battle. He sometimes dreamed that Napoleon invaded England and no general was conveniently at hand, and so, mounted on his horse, the Prince himself led the Household troops to meet the Tyrant. He won, of course, and brought Napoleon caged to London. It was a fine dream. The cheers would ring in his head. ‘Who’s this?’ He waved towards a Battalion of infantry that came behind the Rocket Troop.
Lord John Rossendale bent forward. ’87th, sir, First Battalion. One of yours.’
‘Mine?’
‘Prince of Wales’ Own Irish, sir.’
‘Splendid!’ He waved at them. ‘Well done! Well done!’ He turned back to Rossendale. ‘How many Regiments do I have?’
‘One of Dragoon guards, sir, two of Light Dragoons, and three Regiments of the line.’
The Prince heaved himself closer to his aide and dropped his voice so that he could only be heard five tiers away. ‘And how many has he got?’ He stuck a thumb towards his brother.
‘Just one Irish regiment, sir. The 101st.’
The Prince laughed and turned to his brother, the Duke of York. ‘Hear that, Freddy?’
‘I’ve got the whole damned army. And you’re supposed to salute it.’
The Prince was enjoying himself. It was a splendid summer day and the crowd was remarkably friendly. For a change not a single jeer had greeted him, and the troops looked marvellous. He called for a glass of champagne, and waited for the parade of trophies.
Sharpe left the Edgware Road at the Polygon and marched his half Battalion west towards the Queen’s Gate of Hyde Park.
There were few people in the streets, most having been drawn to the entertainment in the park, but a few urchins, shouldering sticks, fell in step with his men.
It was odd, Sharpe thought, how this felt like a wartime action. He had no permission to bring these troops to London, so he was, in effect, on enemy territory. His target lay to the south, but he was hooking round west to sneak up on it and, just as if this was a real surprise attack on an enemy’s flank, he must stay hidden till the very last minutes.