Sharpe's Regiment Part 25

He laughed, awkward still, then turned. 'Sergeant Major!'

'Sir!' Harper did not walk to Sharpe, he marched. He did it as though the eyes of the guards were on him, as though he came to take the surrender of the Emperor of the French himself. He stamped to attention and his hand snapped into a crisp salute. 'Sir!'

'You remember Miss Gibbons, Sergeant Major."

'I do, sir.' He winked at her, an outrageous gesture.

'We are to be married.'

'Very good, sir.'

'And when we advance, Sergeant Major, I want a good man left with her. Private Weller, perhaps?'

'Very good, sir.'

'Advance?' Jane looked up at him.

Sharpe took a deep breath as he plunged back into this desperation. 'We have no proof of the auctions. I need these men, otherwise a Regiment dies. I have to do something,' he paused, looking for the right word, 'dramatic.'

'He means foolish, Miss,' Harper said helpfully.

'I see,' she smiled.

Sharpe detected an unhealthy alliance developing already between these two, a repartee at his expense, but he ploughed on. 'I need to prove these men exist, that they are not a paper Battalion, and I need a powerful ally against my enemies. You understand?'

'Entirely. What will you do?'

'I intend,' he said grandly, 'to place, the men under the protection of the Prince Regent.'

'He's here?'

Sharpe took out his telescope, extended its tubes, and propped it on the saddle of his horse so that she could see the Prince where he inspected the soldiers who would re-enact the battle.

'He's very fat.' She took her eye away and looked at the telescope itself, a gorgeous instrument encased in a barrel of ivory and gold. She read the French inscription aloud. '"To Joseph, King of Spain and the Indies, from his brother, Napoleon, Emperor of France." Richard!' It was the first time she had used his name. 'Where did you get it?'

It had been a gift from the Marquesa, but Sharpe thought that was better unsaid. 'At Vitoria.'

'It really belonged to King Joseph?'

'It did. Would you like it?'

'Only when I've bought you another. Do you think Napoleon held this?'

'I'm sure.'

A gun fired at the far end of the field, startling pigeons into the sky. The Prince and his entourage were back in the pavilion. A trumpet blared, drumsticks fell onto taut skins, and the militia started forward. Mounted officers with speaking trumpets announced to the separate crowds that they watched the advance of the French army, to which event the spectators in their carriages gave polite applause and the public enclosure l.u.s.ty jeers. The militia had to split in their advance, to pa.s.s either side of the trophies which now were parked in a solid phalanx to the south of the review ground. Seeing them there made Sharpe remember the Colours that Sir Henry had purloined to display in his house. He turned and looked at his men. It would do them good to march beneath a standard.

'Patrick?'

'Sir?'

'If you need me, I'm over there!' He pointed to the trophies. 'Would you look after Miss Gibbons?' He smiled at her, left the telescope in her hands, then pulled himself into his saddle.

Harper looked down on Jane. 'I'm very happy for you, Miss.'

She smiled so beautifully that he truly was. 'What's he doing, Sergeant?'

'There are some times, Miss, when I don't ask, I just pray.'

She laughed, and Harper began to think she might even be a good thing for his officer who now reined in beside the trophies in their chariots.

The "chariots" were mere two wheeled carts that had been tricked out with painted cardboard. They were parked in front of the gleaming French guns, each with its wreathed "N" on the barrel that made Sharpe think of Spain and the number of times he had faced such guns. Some of these captured guns had tried to kill him, perhaps at Badajoz or Salamanca, yet now they stood, polished and docile, in a London park. He shouted to the men with the standards. 'Who's in charge?'

A major frowned at him. 'Who the devil are you?'

'Sharpe. Major Richard Sharpe, and I'll trouble you to be civil. I'm here for that!' He pointed at his Eagle, a green laurel wreath draped about its plinth, its one wing still bent where he had killed a man with it.

'You can't . . .' the major started.

Sharpe produced the embossed, engraved invitation card, unfolded it, and waved it at the Major. 'Orders of His Royal Highness!'

'Who did you say you were?'

Sharpe smiled. It was pleasant, sometimes, to use the prestige that the Eagle had given to him. 'I'm the man who captured it.'

'Sharpe?'

'Yes.' The happiness of Jane's arrival still worked in him. He could not fail now! She was going to marry him, and that was a token of success, of a victory greater than this Eagle.

The major was torn between his orders, which were not to let a single captured trophy out of his sight, and this privilege of meeting the man who had provided the first of these Eagles. Sharpe's uniform disturbed him, but the engraved card seemed impressive. Sharpe smiled again. 'It's all nonsense, of course, but Prinny wants to see us with it.'

Understanding dawned on the major. 'Those are your men?'

'Yes.'

'And you're showing him what they looked like in Spain, eh?'

'Exactly.'

'Splendid.' The major smiled. 'You'll bring it back?'

'I did before, Major.'

The major laughed, gave the order, and the Eagle was handed to Sharpe who, hoisting it up, and almost wishing that it had its magnificent flag attached to the staff, galloped with it to his men. It would go into battle one last time. He smiled at Jane. 'There.' He lowered it so she could touch it. 'Napoleon handled that as well.'

'This is the one you captured?'

'With Patrick.' He tossed the standard to the Irishman. 'Harps! Here!'

The officers from Foulness crowded about it, then Harper paraded it down the ragged ranks, letting men touch it, letting them take from it some of the magic of a far off battle. Only Sergeant Lynch showed an ostentatious disinterest in the trophy, turning his back and walking some yards away from Harper's triumphant progress.

Sharpe watched what happened to his north. The militia had formed a line across the great rectangular arena, and now he heard the bands strike up from the far side of the park, and he knew that the moment was close. Timing now, as in every battle, was everything. 'Jane? You'll have to stay here.'

'You're nervous.'

He smiled. 'Yes. But I'll be back.'

'And afterwards?'

'We go to Spain.' He twisted in the saddle. 'RSM?'

'Sir?'

'Private Weller to his duty, the Eagle to me, and form columns of half Companies!'

'Sir!'

Now he must forget Jane Gibbons. Now, like any married officer in Spain, he must leave her behind and fight his battle. He took the staff of the trophy and propped it on his right boot so that the glittering Eagle was above his head. 'Fix swords!' In his nervousness he gave the old command of the Rifles. He saw the puzzled faces. 'Fix bayonets!' If it was to be done, then let it be done in style.

They made a tight formation, eight half Companies paraded one behind the other, with Sharpe at their head. d'Alembord led the first Company, Price the last, so that Sharpe's loyal officers, the ones most likely to take the wrath of the marshals, were on the outer edges of his formation. He looked once at Jane, then raised his voice again. 'The South Ess.e.x will advance!'

There was a cheer from the crowd which meant that the British forces were marching from the northern a.s.sembly area. The guns fired a powder charge for the last time, their smoke drifting realistically over the gra.s.s, and the militia, their muskets unloaded, pretended to aim and fire at the gorgeous array of men, brilliantly uniformed, polished, and drilled, who advanced with bayonets and muskets beneath their great, splendid flags.

Sharpe gathered the reins of his horse. 'By the right! Quick march!'

The half Battalion of the South Ess.e.x marched.

There were two thousand soldiers in this place, all of them prinked and gleaming, and into their midst, without orders, Sharpe was marching less than three hundred scruffy, dirty men beneath a standard of the enemy.

No one noticed them, except for the major in charge of the trophies who raised a hand in friendly salute.

They marched. Harper called out the step, his voice loud and confident. One of the militia sergeants turned, looked at them, and wondered why the column of men which, though he did not know it, looked like a French attack formation, approached so menacingly from his rear.

Sharpe was leading them to the centre line of the review ground. The militia were falling back, leaving a few men pretending to be dead on the ground. A militia officer noticed Sharpe.

They were well in view of all the stands now, of all the spectators, but all eyes were on the splendid advance of the British troops, Colours flying, whose bands filled the park with the music of triumph. Only the militia, seeing the column coming to their rear, were glancing nervously behind like troops fearing encirclement on a battlefield.

The marshals suddenly saw them. Sharpe saw two coming, saw the turf flung up behind the galloping hooves, and he called back to Harper to speed the march, to close the half Companies, and this was the challenge, this was the moment he had planned. Now, just as in battle, he had to close his ears to everything that might distract him, ignore everything that was not concerned with his victory. He did this for the men in Pasajes, for the men who lay in graves across Spain, for the girl who watched him.

'You! Who are you?' It was a cavalry captain, standing in his stirrups and bellowing the angry challenge.

Sharpe ignored the man. 'Clear ranks! Clear ranks!' He shouted the order at the militia ahead of him, using a voice which had been forged on parade grounds and practised on battlefields.

'Halt!' A colonel was beside him now. 'Halt your men! I order it!'

'Prince's orders! Out the way!' Sharpe snarled it. He hefted the Eagle higher, and the colonel, thinking that the metal trophy was about to strike at him, sheered his horse to one side.

'Who the devil are you?'

'King Joseph of Spain. Now b.u.g.g.e.r off!' Sharpe's voice was vicious, his face a savage mask. The curse astonished the colonel, then Sharpe forced his horse into the widening gap that the splitting militia men were making for him. 'Close up, Sergeant! Close up!'

The field was shouts and music, blank muskets peppering the air with smoke, and Sharpe shouted the order again, the commonest order of all on a battlefield when files have been flung down by cannon-fire and men shuffle towards the centre of the line and load their guns. 'Close up! Close up!'

The colonel was spurring after him, but Sharpe was not looking at the man. He was watching the approaching infantry instead, judging how long it would take them to cover the one hundred yards that separated them from the front of his column. 'Left wheel! Smartly now!' The colonel tried to grab Sharpe's rein, but the Eagle swung at the colonel's horse, striking it over the face so that the beast swerved, reared, and Sharpe was clear. 'Close ranks! Close ranks!' was watching the approaching infantry instead, judging how long it would take them to cover the one hundred yards that separated them from the front of his column. 'Left wheel! Smartly now!' The colonel tried to grab Sharpe's rein, but the Eagle swung at the colonel's horse, striking it over the face so that the beast swerved, reared, and Sharpe was clear. 'Close ranks! Close ranks!'

He had driven a path of destruction through the carefully reconstructed battle. Instead of the minutely rehea.r.s.ed defeat, the "enemy" now seemed to be fighting back, bursting through the centre of the line to advance against the astonished victors.

'Stop!' the colonel shouted. More marshals were spurring towards the small, ragged column that suddenly, to Sharpe's bellowed orders, wheeled left to march directly towards the Royal pavilion. 'March! Heads up! March!' Sharpe put the Eagle, with the horse's reins, into his left hand and, with a surge of excitement because he could see his target now, the object of these days of marching and hiding, he drew his great sword. His horse, unused to such commotion, stepped in small, nervous steps, and Sharpe pressed his knees against its flanks to keep it going steadily towards the Prince Regent.

The Royal bodyguard stared in shock at the men who approached them. The right flank of the British advance, loud with cavalry calls, checked because their way was blocked, while the left flank, un.o.bstructed, kept marching forward to throw the whole practised symmetry of the advance into skewed disorder. Four officers now screamed at Sharpe, one shouted at the South Ess.e.x to halt, but Harper's voice was louder than any of the marshals and, despite the nervous glances of their officers, the men marched on. Sharpe was ahead of them. He could see the Prince now, and a man beside him who could only be the Duke of York, and he half turned and shouted the next order at Harper. 'Deploy!'

They formed line, facing and outflanking the bodyguard, and Sharpe could see the consternation in the Royal stand as men realised that this careful day had been driven into chaos by the dirty, unkempt troops who, with fixed bayonets, now faced the Regent of England, his brother, and the cream of society. The Prince, standing now, was twenty yards from Sharpe, staring at the mounted officer who held the French Eagle high in the air.

'Guards!' An officer on the flank of the bodyguard who feared that a volley of musketry was about to soak the Royal stand in blood, shouted at his men to load their weapons.

Sharpe ignored the threat. He rested the sword on his saddle, took off his shako, and stared at the Prince who, recognition dawning, smiled with sudden delight. Sharpe looked down to Harper. 'RSM? Now!'

This was the manoeuvre they had practised, the manoeuvre never before seen on a battlefield or parade ground, and Sharpe's men did it before the astonished eyes of the Foot Guards whose ramrods were still thrusting down the unnecessary bullets. The Royal stand, Lord Fenner, the whole bright array of the disordered parade watched as the strange, scruffy troops grounded muskets and, to the orders of a ma.s.sive sergeant, removed their shakos.

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 spygla.s.s on one of the shakos so that he could see the badge of the chained eagle. 'South Ess.e.x, 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 ma.s.sing 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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!'