SHARPE’S REGIMENT

Sharpe had marched a flank march, surprised the enemy, and lost. His escort closed about him and hurried from the field. He had not reached the Prince, he had failed.

While across the park, puzzled and hot, the Reverend and Mrs Octavius Godolphin agreed what a pickle the regular army had made of the afternoon! Not nearly so smart as the local Fencibles on parade! And to come all this way just to see muddle and shambolic chaos? Thank God for the Navy, the Reverend Godolphin fervently thought, then took his wife to Mrs Paul’s for tea.

CHAPTER 20

The room was upstairs in the Horse Guards. It was a large room, comfortably furnished, its papered walls hung with maps of fortresses and its chairs upholstered in fine leather. Expensive white candles burned pure, still flames above tables and desks.

Lord Fenner, papers spread before him, sat in the place of honour. At his side stood General Sir Barstan Maxwell, his round face still scarlet with fury at this upstart Rifleman who had destroyed the carefully rehearsed celebrations. At a side table, well lit by the tall candles, a clerk scratched down the records of the proceedings. Behind them all, in a deep, comfortable window, sat Sir Henry Simmerson whose joy at this humiliation of Richard Sharpe was complete. Downstairs, in the courtyard of the Horse Guards, Girdwood guarded Sir Henry’s niece who had been found stranded in the park with a common soldier. This night, Sir Henry had promised her, she would be flogged till her bones were chalk.

Major Richard Sharpe stood in the room’s centre. His sword, rifle and telescope lay on the wide table before Lord Fenner.

He had gained, though it was very cold comfort to him, a partial victory. He had saved the Battalion. He had produced it before the Commander in Chief, indelibly impressed its existence upon the Prince Regent, and there could be no denials now that it was merely a holding Battalion, a paper convenience for the administration. Within the last hour, together with a formal invitation for Major Sharpe to attend Carlton House this evening, there had come a paper, magnificently sealed, which said it was His Royal Highness the Prince Regent’s pleasure that, henceforth, the South Essex Regiment should be known as the Prince of Wales’ Own Volunteers. An accompanying letter thanked Lord Fenner for the moment of pleasure that the donning of the feathers had given to His Royal Highness, and reminded Lord Fenner of the reception that would be held that night at Carlton House. Fenner intended to be present, but, before leaving the Horse Guards, he would destroy this impudent man who had defied him. ‘You had orders to return to Spain, Major Sharpe.’ His nasal, precise voice was quiet. ‘You disobeyed.’

‘You know why.’

Fenner’s long white fingers tapped the papers on his desk. ‘Your insolence is noted.’ The clerk’s pen scratched ominously as Fenner looked at his own notes. ‘You failed to obey an order, Major, that directed you to our army in Spain. That is tantamount to desertion.’

‘And you’re a bloody crimp, and that’s robbery.’

‘Silence!’ General Sir Barstan Maxwell thumped the table with his fist, shaking the tall candles so that their flames shivered. ‘You are an officer! Try to behave like a gentleman!’

Sharpe looked at the General, a Guardsman. ‘These gentlemen, sir, have been disguising a Battalion as a holding unit, crimping the men to their own profit, and stealing their wages.’

Lord Fenner gave an easy, soft laugh. He leaned back in his chair and waved at the clerk who, frightened by the sudden thump on the table, had stopped writing. ‘Write it down, man, write it all down! Write that Major Sharpe is formally accusing His Majesty’s Secretary of State at War of “crimping” – is that the right word, Major?’

‘Thievery will do.’

‘Write that as well! You can, of course, substantiate these accusations, Major?’ Fenner smiled, Sir Henry snorted, and General Sir Barstan Maxwell glared at Sharpe.

Sharpe could not. He had thought that by putting himself under the Prince of Wales’ protection he would be safe from any proceedings such as these, but he had misjudged the situation. He had misjudged it terribly, and he knew that in this lavish, expensive room his career had come to an ignoble end. Not just his career, but that great bubble of happiness that he had experienced with Jane. There could be no marriage now. Sir Henry had crowed that she was in his carriage, that she would return home, that she was not for him. Sharpe, who had worked to disgrace these men so that Girdwood could not marry Jane Gibbons, was to be broken instead.