‘Poetry?’
‘He’s written reams of it, sir, very much of the drums of battle variety. The word rattle comes in frequently as a convenient rhyme,’ d’Alembord smiled. ‘But no papers. He’s also given his word that he won’t leave his quarters tonight.’
‘But no papers, Dally?’
d’Alembord smiled sympathetically at Sharpe’s disappointment. ‘I fear not, sir.’
So Sharpe was still without written proof. He swore softly, told d’Alembord to sit, then, with Smith’s help, went through Girdwood’s charts and training records to determine which men were ready for battle, and which not. That news, at least, was satisfying. Two hundred and forty-three men, including the two guard Companies, were either fully, or close to being fully trained. d’Alembord smiled. ‘It’s enough, sir.’
‘More than.’ Sharpe rubbed his eyes. He had stayed too late in Vauxhall Gardens, and had had small sleep. ‘I want those guard Companies broken up in the morning, Dally.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Form the trained men into four Companies. The rest stay in their squads. You take one Company, Harry another.’ He paused. He needed two more Company commanders. ‘What are those lads at Chelmsford like, Dally?’
‘Carline might do.’ d’Alembord said it grudgingly. ‘Merrill and Pierce are bloody milksops.’
‘We’ll give Carline one Company, the other will have to wait.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sharpe saw the pathetic eagerness on Captain Smith’s face to be given the fourth Company. He ignored it for the moment, drawing to him, instead, the great piles of attestation forms that Price had discovered in this office. There was one for each man and, just as when Sharpe had made his mark on one of these forms in Sleaford, none of them had the name of the Regiment filled in. ‘Dally. Find some clerks. Put the First Battalion, South Essex, on every god-damned form. And lose O’Keefe and Vaughn from the pile, will you?’
d’Alembord looked at the huge pile, and nodded. He knew how important the task was. Once at Chelmsford the Battalion was still not safe from Lord Fenner, but if these forms, above a magistrate’s signature, stated that the men were part of the First Battalion, then they would constitute some kind of proof that the men existed and might confuse whichever officer tried to march away the Second Battalion. Sharpe would guard these forms well, staying with them until his proof had reached Lady Camoynes in London. If the proof ever came.
d’Alembord left with the attestations and Sharpe stood up. He paced up and down the floor, watching the grey-haired captain who sat miserable and ashamed in one of Girdwood’s stiff chairs. He was also, Sharpe could see, eager to please his new master.
‘How much money, Smith, did Girdwood fetch for each man?’
Hamish Smith blushed. He spoke reluctantly. ‘Fifty pounds.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Sharpe did not betray the sudden relief he felt because that answer was the first direct proof he had that the Battalion had been crimping. He had Jane Gibbons’ word, and that of Lady Camoynes, but Smith was the first man of the Battalion to confirm it.
‘Of course it varied.’ Smith was rubbing his hands together, twining his fingers, fidgeting unhappily. ‘Some auctions were more profitable.’
‘Who bought them?’
‘Foreign postings,’ Smith shrugged. ‘West Indies mostly, some in Africa.’
That made sense. The regiments posted to the West Indies lost far more men than the regiments in Spain, most of them to the dreaded yellow fever. Recruits were hard, almost impossible to find, and by selling men to such regiments Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood had made sure that the evidence of his peculation was carried far away to an early grave.
Smith looked sheepishly up at Sharpe. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘You’re sorry! Christ Almighty! What about the men you’ve sent abroad!’ There was no answer. ‘Why did you do it?’
Smith paused, then the words tumbled out. He had been a Lieutenant, passed over for promotion, in debt, unable to buy a Captaincy, and, seemingly like a gift from heaven, Girdwood had offered this chance. Smith, like Finch, had bought his Captaincy and paid off the debt with the crimping profits. He looked up at Sharpe. ‘I’ve been a soldier for twenty-four years, sir!’