‘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.
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.
Another clerk knocked at the door, entered the room and, without looking at Sharpe, just as a jury would not look at a condemned man, carried a leather folder of papers to the desk. He selected one sheet and gave it to Fenner who read it, signed it swiftly, then looked up at Sharpe. ‘That letter, Major Sharpe, informs His Royal Highness that you cannot, by my orders, attend on him this night. Nor indeed on any other night. Give me the postings!’ He took another piece of paper from the clerk, ran his finger down the list, and stabbed with his nail. ‘That one.’
‘Very good, my Lord.’
‘Write it now!’
‘Of course, my Lord.’ The clerk withdrew.
A clock chimed eight in the corridor outside. Lord Fenner smiled. ‘The Prince of Wales’ Own Volunteers,’ he said the new name with a sneer, ‘will proceed forthwith to Spain, Major, but not with your presence. They will be commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Bartholomew Girdwood. I am sure that under his command they will acquit themselves nobly.’
‘Indeed so,’ Sir Henry interjected. It had been his idea that Girdwood should be given command of the First Battalion and that he should take to Spain, along with the trained men from Foulness, the officers from the disbanded camp. He and Lord Fenner, reluctantly but sensibly, had agreed that, because the Battalion had surfaced so dramatically, it would be prudent to abandon the business of selling recruits. They would not, they convinced themselves, lose much money thereby. The war could not last long. The northern allies had agreed to fight again, France was beleaguered, and Fenner was certain that peace was within sight. He and Simmerson had made themselves a tidy fortune, and now, thanks to Sharpe’s arrest, they could avoid all scandal.
Sharpe said nothing. There was nothing to say.
‘You, Major Sharpe,’ Fenner stared at him with triumph and distaste, ‘have a new posting. You will leave in two days time, and until then, Major, you are under arrest. You will be captain of a convict guard in Australia.’
Sir Henry Simmerson could not suppress a bark of sudden laughter. ‘There are no tailors in Australia; you should feel most welcome!’
Fenner smiled at the jest and looked at Sir Barstan Maxwell. ‘The Duke will agree?’
‘He will think it far too lenient, my Lord.’ Maxwell sniffed. ‘But if you propose it, he will agree.’
‘I am being lenient,’ Lord Fenner said magnanimously, ‘because it is undeniable that Major Sharpe has served his country well. We must all hope, General, that a sea voyage will restore his wits.’
‘The Duke will be so informed.’ General Sir Barstan Maxwell, who would have preferred to see Sharpe hanged, drawn and quartered, sounded grudging. Nevertheless, a posting to Australia was tantamount to a prison sentence. Sharpe would never return, he would be forgotten.
‘Good.’ Fenner closed the silver lid of an inkpot with a snap. ‘Your orders are being written now, Major. You will wait in the guardroom for t
hem. Ah! It seems they’re here already!’ There had been a discreet knock on the door. ‘Come!’
It was indeed the clerk who had been instructed to draw up Sharpe’s orders, but, instead of bringing them to the desk, he hovered uncertainly at the door. ‘My Lord?’
‘You have the orders?’
‘They’re being written, my Lord. It’s your wife, I fear. I did say your Lordship was not to be disturbed, but she is most insistent.’
‘Very insistent.’ The voice, precise and confident, came from the door. Fenner, who was unmarried, stared in consternation, not at the clerk, but at the woman, tall and green-eyed, smiling sweetly, who walked into the room and imperiously waved the clerk away. The Dowager Countess Camoynes, an evening cloak draped over one arm, waited until the door was shut, glanced at Sharpe, then spoke. ‘I called myself your wife, Simon, to persuade that boring little man to let me in here. Sir Henry? Please don’t stand up.’ She smiled at Simmerson who had made no move to stand, then looked quizzically from Sir Barstan Maxwell to Lord Fenner. ‘Do please present me.’
‘Anne?’ Fenner’s voice was an indignant growl.
‘You do remember me! How very charming of you. Just as I remember Major Sharpe. I trust I find you well, Major?’
Sharpe stared at her. He said nothing. He was trying to work out how he had miscalculated so badly, failed so terribly. He was blaming himself for halting the half Battalion so far from the Royal stand. He should have smashed his way through the ranks of guards to the balustrade behind which the Prince had sat. He could have wept for Jane. They had been like children, thinking love a game that bravery could win, but the bastards had won.
Lord Fenner frowned. ‘My dear Anne, I am engaged on the business of state.’
‘Introduce me, Simon!’
Fenner reluctantly stood. He cleared his throat. ‘General Sir Barstan Maxwell, I have the honour of naming the Dowager Countess Camoynes.’ He made the introduction peremptorily. ‘I presume you can wait, Anne?’ He said it with a bad grace, his confidence returning after the shock of her entry.
‘Of course I can wait, Simon. I merely wanted to be sure you had not forgotten that I was having supper with you tonight?’
‘I had not forgotten.’ Fenner sat down and pulled his chair close to the table. ‘But I am delayed and will be obliged if you would wait outside, my Lady.’
‘As you ask so graciously, my Lord, I will. I am honoured to have made your acquaintance, Sir Barstan.’ She smiled at the Guards officer, then at Sir Henry, and finally gave Sharpe a cold, unfriendly look. ‘Your uniform is a disgrace, Major.’
Sir Henry Simmerson, who had said the same thing at the commencement of the evening’s business, gave a snort of delighted agreement. Lady Camoynes smiled at him, then looked back to Sharpe. ‘You are also most remiss, Major.’
‘Anne!’ Lord Fenner said testily.
‘A moment, Simon.’ She chided him sweetly, then looked imperiously at Sharpe. ‘Most remiss indeed, Major.’
‘Remiss, Ma’am?‘
She brought her left hand from beneath her cloak. ‘You promised me this, hut what is a soldier’s promise? A mere bauble, yes?’ She smiled. She held a red leather-bound book in her gloved hand. ‘I had to find them for myself! Your steward, Simon? He wanted to know what he was to burn, so he was still reading them when I arrived for our little supper. Servants are so curious about us, aren’t they?’ She smiled at Lord Fenner. ‘I have the other one. It’s quite safe, of course, rescued from the flames. It has some letters inside signed by you. How careless of you not to destroy them. Do hold this book for me, Major.’ She turned a chair to face the large table. ‘I think perhaps I’ll stay now, Simon. I am so fascinated by your business of state.’
General Sir Barstan Maxwell thought the world had gone mad. The Rifleman was smiling, leafing through a ledger book at which Lord Fenner and Sir Henry, white-faced and aghast, stared with disbelief. The Dowager Lady Camoynes sat, and on her elegant and disdainful face there came an expression of alert and intelligent anticipation.
The clerk was suddenly no longer needed. His records of the evening’s transactions were taken by Lord Fenner and ripped into two. ‘My Lord!’ General Maxwell protested.
‘Sir Barstan, this is not your business. Go, man!’ This last to the clerk who, flurried by the evening’s strange turn, dropped his pen and fled to the door.
General Sir Barstan Maxwell stared at the torn record. ‘My Lord, I insist this is done properly! I must insist!’
‘It is being done properly, Sir Barstan.’ Lady Camoynes was suddenly dominating the room. ‘Most properly indeed. If it is done any other way, my dear General, there is likely to be a most horrid scandal. Is that not true, Simon?’
The General looked at Lord Fenner, who, under Lady Camoynes’ gaze, nodded weakly in confirmation.
She laughed. ‘A splendid scandal, General. I do think your master of York will want us to keep it a secret, don’t you? Freddie’s had quite enough trouble already.’ There was no one to dispute her words as she looked at Sharpe. ‘Perhaps, Major Sharpe, you have some few requests to make of Lord Fenner?’
‘Requests?’
She made a disappointed face at him. ‘I assume you want a favour of Simon?’ She gestured at Lord Fenner. ‘I do believe this would be an opportune moment to ask. My own small requests,’ she smiled at Lord Fenner, ‘will wait.’ She ruled the room. Sir Henry, who had delivered the books to be burned, felt his heart beating with a dangerous rapidity.
Lady Camoynes sighed. ‘Do hurry, Major.’
Sharpe, torn from the pit of defeat to this sudden, dizzy success, obeyed. He would go to Spain with the trained men of the Prince of Wales’ Own Volunteers. Lord Fenner agreed. His costs over these last weeks would be paid to his account at Messrs Hopkinson and Son of St Alban’s Street. Lord Fenner frowned. ‘How much?’
‘Two hundred guineas,’ Lady Camoynes said. ‘In gold. Is that enough, Major?’
‘Indeed, my Lady.’ It was a huge profit.
‘Then do proceed, Major Sharpe.’
The back pay of the Battalion would be restored. The Second Battalion would be properly established at Chelmsford and given new officers. It was all agreed. The Colours would be taken from Sir Henry’s house to the barracks. Sir Henry, unable to speak nodded. Sir Barstan, outraged that the Colours were in Sir Henry’s house in the first place, snorted angrily. Sharpe smiled. ‘And there will be no changes, none at all, in the officers you have selected to go to Spain.’
Fenner stared as if he had misheard Sharpe. ‘You mean ...’
Sharpe’s voice was loud. ‘I mean that I wish to serve under Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood’s command.’ Sir Henry was frowning.
Fenner, defeated, was still puzzled. ‘If Colonel Girdwood still wishes to command, Major, you will serve under him?’
‘That is my wish.’
Lady Camoynes smiled. ‘You’ve finished, Major?’
‘Indeed, Ma’am.‘ His other request was none of Lord Fenner’s business, no one’s business but Sharpe’s and the girl who waited downstairs.
Lady Camoynes reached out a gloved hand. ‘I would be most grateful for the book, Major. Simon and I will meet tomorrow, won’t we, my Lord?’ Fenner nodded, scenting the humiliation that was to come. Sir Henry Simmerson still gaped at the book she now took from Sharpe. Lady Camoynes opened its pages, showing a spread of ledger columns. ‘You like the book, Sir Henry? I have two for sale.’ She stood. ‘Major? Shall we leave?’
‘Of course, my Lady.’
‘Major Sharpe!’ It was General Sir Barstan Maxwell, making one last effort to serve his master with honesty. ‘You were telling the truth?’
Lady Camoynes held up a hand to stop Sharpe’s reply. She smiled at the General. ‘The truth, dear Sir Barstan, is whatever Lord Fenner and I decide it shall be. And it will prove, dear Simon, a most expensive commodity. Goodnight, gentlemen. Come, Major.’
He took his weapons and telescope from the table, g
ave his rescuer his arm, and left in triumph.
Sharpe pulled open the door of Sir Henry’s coach. ‘Sir?’
Girdwood, seeing Sharpe, gaped. He made a small noise of terror, a shrew-like noise. He saw the sword at Sharpe’s side and the rifle on the tall man’s shoulder, and his voice was tentative as though he saw a ghost of a man meant to be consigned to the Australian wilderness. ‘You want me, Major Sharpe?’
‘In my own time, sir.’ Sharpe smiled. There were men whose flesh had long been flensed from their bones whose last sight on earth had been that smile. ‘But for the moment I have come for Miss Gibbons.’ He held out his hand. ‘Jane?’
Girdwood lifted a weak hand as if to stop her, but there was a scrape, a flash of dusky light on long steel, and Sharpe’s sword was gleaming in the courtyard. ‘Sir?’
Girdwood stayed very still. Sharpe sheathed the sword and handed the girl down to the cobbles. ‘Jane. I have the honour to present the Dowager Countess Camoynes.’ He bowed to the Countess. ‘Jane Gibbons, Ma’am. We are to be married.‘
The Countess looked the girl up and down with a critical eye. ‘Have you agreed to marry him, Miss Gibbons?’
‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘He’s more fortunate than he deserves. He’s an alley-cat, aren’t you, Major?’
‘If your Ladyship says so.’
She looked at him with a humorous, challenging expression. ‘She does. Where do you go to this night, alley-cat? I have a carriage and I’m feeling generous.’
‘Carlton House,’ Sharpe smiled. ‘We are invited.’
‘Dressed like that? I suppose you can say it’s a costume ball. Very well! We shall all go to Prinny’s! Jane and I can turn up on the arm of a hero. Dear Miss Gibbons,‘ and the Countess offered Jane her hand, ’do me the honour of waiting in my carriage.‘
When the Countess had Sharpe alone she stared up at him. ‘You didn’t tell me about her?’
‘There seemed no need.’
She smiled. ‘True. One hardly discusses one’s intended while under Vauxhall’s bushes.’ She laughed. ‘You wouldn’t do that, Major, would you? I would, but not you. You’re too kind. Did anyone ever tell you that you were kind?’
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe's Honour, Sharpe's Regiment, Sharpe's Siege Page 60
