Sharpe's Eagle

CHAPTER 10

“Damn you, Sharpe! I will break you! I will see you never hold rank again! You will go back to the gutter you came from!” Simmerson’s face was contorted with anger; even his jug ears had reddened with fury. He stood with Gibbons and Forrest, and the Major tried ineffectually to stem Sir Henry’s anger. The Colonel shook Forrest’s arm off his elbow. Til have you court-martialled. I’ll write to my cousin. Sharpe, you are finished! Done!“

Sharpe stood on the other side of the room, his own face rigid with the effort of controlling his own anger and scorn. He looked out of the window. They were back in Plasencia, in the Mirabel Palace which was Wellesley’s temporary headquarters, and he stared down the Sancho Polo street at the huddled rooftops of the poorer quarter of the town which were crammed inside the city’s ramparts. Carriages passed below, smart equipages with uniformed drivers, carrying veiled Spanish ladies on mysterious journeys. The Battalion had limped home the night before, its wounded carried in commandeered ox-carts which had solid axles that screeched, Harper said, like the banshees. Mingled with the endless noise was the cries of the wounded. Many had died; many more would die in the slow grip of gangrene in the days ahead. Sharpe had been under arrest, his sword taken from him, marching with his incredulous Riflemen who decided the world had gone mad and swore vengeance for him should Simmerson have his way.

The door opened and Lieutenant Colonel Lawford came into the room. His face had none of the animation Sharpe had seen at their reunion just five days before; he looked coldly on them all; like the rest of the army he felt demeaned and shamed by the loss of the colour. “Gentlemen.” His voice was icily polite. “Sir Arthur will see you now. You have ten minutes.”

Simmerson marched through the open door, Gibbons close behind him. Forrest beckoned Sharpe to precede him but Sharpe hung back. The Major smiled at him, a hopeless smile; Forrest was lost in this web of carnage and blame.

The General sat behind a plain oak table piled with papers and hand-drawn maps. There was nowhere for Simmerson to sit, so the four officers lined up in front of the table like schoolboys hauled in front of the Headmaster. Lawford went and stood behind the General, who ignored all of them, just scratched away with a pen on a piece of paper. Finally the sentence was done. Wellesley’s face was unreadable.

“Well, Sir Henry?”

Sir Henry Simmerson’s eyes darted round the room as though he might find inspiration written on the walls. The General’s tone had been cold. The Colonel licked his lips and cleared his throat.

“We destroyed the bridge, sir.”

“And your Battalion.”

The words were said softly. Sharpe had seen Wellesley like this before, masking a burning anger with an apparent and misleading quietness. Simmerson sniffed and tossed his head.

“The fault was hardly mine, sir.”

“Ah!” The General’s eyebrows went up; he laid down his quill and leaned back in the chair. “Whose then, sir?”

“I regret to say, sir, that Lieutenant Sharpe disobeyed an order even though it was repeated to him. Major Forrest heard me give the order to Lieutenant Gibbons, who then carried it to Sharpe. By his action Lieutenant Sharpe exposed the Battalion and betrayed it.” Simmerson had found his rehearsed theme and he warmed to his task. “I am requesting, sir, that Lieutenant Sharpe be court-martialled… „

Wellesley held up a hand and stopped the flow of words. He looked, almost casually, at Sharpe, and there was something frightening about those blue eyes over the great, hooked nose that looked, judged, and were quite inscrutable. The eyes flicked to Forrest.

“You heard this order, Major?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You, Lieutenant. What happened?”

Gibbons arched his eyebrows and glanced at Sharpe. His tone was bored, supercilious. “I ordered Lieutenant Sharpe to deploy his Riflemen, sir. He refused. Captain Hogan joined in his refusal.” Simmerson looked pleased. The General’s fingers beat a brief tattoo on the table. “Ah, Captain Hogan. I saw him an hour ago.” Wellesley drew out a piece of paper and looked at it. Sharpe knew it was all an act: Wellesley knew precisely what was on the paper but he was drawing out the tension. The blue eyes came up to Simmerson again; the tone of voice was still mild. “I have served with Captain Hogan for many years, Sir Henry. He was in India. I have always found him a most trustworthy man.” He raised his eyebrows in a query, as though inviting Simmerson to put him right. Simmerson, inevitably, accepted the invitation.

“Hogan, sir, is an Engineer. He was not in a position to make decisions about the deployment of troops.” He sounded pleased with himself, even anxious to show Wellesley that he bore the General no ill-will despite their political opposition.

Somewhere in the palace a clock whirred loudly and then chimed ten o’clock. Wellesley sat, his fingers drumming the table, and then jerked his gaze up to Simmerson.

“Your request is denied, Sir Henry. I will not court-martial Lieutenant Sharpe.” He paused for a second, looked at the paper and back to Simmerson. “We have decisions to take about your Battalion, Sir Henry, I think you had better stay.”

Lawford moved to the door. Wellesley’s voice had been hard and cold, the tone final, but Simmerson exploded, his voice rising indignantly.

“He lost my colour! He disobeyed!”

Wellesley’s fist hit the table with a crash. “Sir! I know what order he disobeyed! I would have disobeyed it! You proposed sending skirmishers against cavalry! Is that right, sir?”

Simmerson said nothing. He was aghast at the tumult of anger that had overwhelmed him. Wellesley went on.

“First, Sir Henry, you had no business in taking your Battalion over the bridge. It was unnecessary, time wasting, and damned foolish. Secondly.” He was ticking off on his fingers. “Only a fool, sir, deploys skirmishers against cavalry. Third. You have disgraced this army, which I have spent a year in the making, in the face of our foes and of our allies. Fourthly.” Wellesley’s voice was biting hard. “The only credit gained in this miserable engagement was by Lieutenant Sharpe. I understand, sir, that he regained one of your lost colours and moreover captured a French gun and used it with some effect on your attackers. Is that correct?”

No-one spoke. Sharpe stared rigidly ahead at a picture on the wall behind the General. He heard a rustle of paper. Wellesley had picked up the sheet from the desk. His voice was lower.

“You have lost, sir, as well as your colour, two hundred and forty-two men either killed or injured. You lost a Major, three Captains, five Lieutenants, four Ensigns and ten Sergeants. Are my figures correct?” Again no-one spoke. Wellesley stood up. “Your orders, sir, were those of a fool! The next time, Sir Henry, I suggest you fly a white flag and save the French the trouble of unsheathing their swords! The job you had to do, sir, could have been done by a company; I was forced by diplomacy to commit a Battalion, and I sent yours, sir, so that your men would have a sight and taste of the French. I was wrong! As a result one of our colours is now on its way to Paris to be paraded in front of the mob. Tell me if I malign you?”

Simmerson had blanched white. Sharpe had never seen Wellesley so angry. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of the others and he directed his words at Simmerson with a vengeful force.

“You no longer have a Battalion, Sir Henry. It ceased to exist when you threw away your men and a colour! The South Essex is a single Battalion regiment, is that right?”

Simmerson nodded and muttered assent. “So you can hardly make up your numbers from home. I wish, Sir Henry, I could send you home! But I cannot. My hands are tied, sir, by Parliament and the Horse Guards and by meddling politicians like your cousin. I am declaring your Battalion, Sir Henry, to be a Battalion of Detachments. I will attach new officers myself and draft men into your ranks. You will serve in General Hill’s Division.”

“But, sir. Sir?” Simmerson was overwhelmed by the information. To be called a Battalion of Detachments? It was unthinkable! He stammered a protest. Wellesley interrupted him.

“I will furnish you with a list of officers, sir. Are you telling me you have promised promotion already?”

Simmerson nodded. Wellesley looked at the sheet of paper he was holding. “To whom, Sir Henry, did you give command of the Light Company?”

“To Lieutenant Gibbons, sir.”

“Your nephew?” Wellesley paused to make sure that Simmerson answered. The Colonel nodded bleakly. Wellesley turned to Gibbons.

“You concurred in your uncle’s order to advance a skirmish line against cavalry?”

Gibbons was trapped. He licked his lips, shrugged, and finally agreed. Wellesley shook his head.

“Then you are plainly not a fit person to lead a Light Company. No, Sir Henry, I am giving you one of the finest skirmishers in the British army to lead your Light troops. I have gazetted him Captain.”

Simmerson said nothing. Gibbons was pale with anger. Lawford grinned at Sharpe, and the Rifleman felt the flutter of hope. The General flicked his gaze to Sharpe and back to Simmerson.

“I can think of few men, Sir Henry, who are better leaders of Light Troops in battle than Captain Sharpe.”

He soared, he had done it, he had escaped! It did not matter that it was with Simmerson, he had become a Captain! Captain Sharpe! He could hardly hear the rest of Wellesley’s words, the victory was complete, the enemy routed! He was a Captain. What did it matter that the gazette was an artificial promotion, pending the acceptance of the Horse Guards? It would do for a while. A Captain! Captain Richard Sharpe of the Battalion of Detachments.

Wellesley was bringing the interview to a close. Simmer-son made one final effort. “I shall write—“ Simmerson was indignant, desperately clinging to whatever shreds of dignity he could rescue from the torrent of Wellesley’s disdain. ”I shall write to Whitehall, sir, and they will know the truth of this!“

“You may do what you like, sir, but you will kindly let me get on with waging a war. Good day.”

Lawford opened the door. Simmerson clapped on his cocked hat, and the four officers turned to go. Wellesley spoke.

“Captain Sharpe!”

“Sir?” It was the first time he had been called ‘Captain’. “A word with you.”

Lawford closed the door on the other three. Wellesley looked at Sharpe, his expression still grim. “You disobeyed an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wellesley’s eyes shut. He looked tired. “I have no doubt but that you deserve a Captaincy.” He opened his eyes. “Whether you will keep it, Sharpe, is another matter. I have no power in these things, and it is conceivable, likely, that the Horse Guards will cancel all these dispositions. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Sharpe thought he understood. Wellesley’s enemies had succeeded in dragging him before a board of enquiry only last year, and those same enemies wished only defeat on him now. Sir Henry was numbered among them, and the Colonel would even now be planning the letter that would be sent to London. The letter would blame Sharpe and, because the General had sided with him, would be dangerous for Wellesley too. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me. I’ve probably done you no favour.” He looked up at Sharpe with a kind of wry distaste. “You have a habit, Sharpe, of deserving gratitude by methods that deserve condemnation. Am I plain?”

“Yes, sir.” Was he being told off? Sharpe kept his face expressionless.

Wellesley’s face showed a flash of anger, but he controlled it and, quite suddenly, replaced it with a rueful smile. “I am glad to see you well.” He leaned back in his chair. “Your career is always interesting to watch, Sharpe, though I constantly fear it will end precipitately. Good day, Captain.” The quill pen was picked up and began to scratch on the paper. There were real problems. The Spanish had delivered none of the food they had promised, the army’s pay had not arrived, the cavalry needed horse-shoes and nails, and there was a need for ox-carts, always more ox-carts. On top of that the Spanish hithered and dithered; one day all for charge and glory, the next preaching caution and withdrawal. Sharpe left.

Lawford followed him into the empty ante-room and put out his hand. “Congratulations.”Thank you, sir. A Battalion of Detachments, eh?“ Lawford laughed. ”That won’t please Sir Henry.“ That was true. In every campaign there were small units of men, like Sharpe and his Riflemen, who got separated from their units. They were the flotsam and jetsam of the army, and the simplest solution, when there were enough of them, was for the General to tie them together as a temporary Battalion of Detachments. It gave the General a chance, as well, to promote men, even temporarily, in the new Battalion, but none of that was the reason Simmerson would be displeased. By making the shattered South Essex into a Battalion of Detachments Wellesley was literally wiping the name ‘South Essex’ from his army list; it was a punishment that was aimed at Simmerson’s pride, though Sharpe doubted whether a man who appeared to take the loss of his King’s Colour with such remarkable equanimity would be for long dismayed by the downgrading of his Battalion. His face betrayed his thoughts, and Lawford interrupted.

“You’re worried about Simmerson?“

”Yes.“ These was no point in denying the fact.

”You need to be. Sir Arthur has done what he can for you, he’s given you promotion, you will believe me when I say that he had written home of you in the highest terms.“

Sharpe nodded. “But.”

Lawford shrugged. He walked across to the window and stared past the heavy velvet curtains at the plain beyond the walls, the whole scene doused in the relentless sun. He turned back. “Yes. There’s a but.”

“Go on.”

Lawford looked embarrassed. “Simmerson is too powerful. He has friends in high places.” He shrugged again. “Richard, I am afraid that he will damage you. You’re a pawn in the battle of politicians. He is a fool, agreed, but his friends in London will not want him to look a fool! They will demand a scapegoat. He’s their voice, do you understand that?” Sharpe nodded. “When he writes from Spain and says the war is being conducted wrongly, then people listen to his letter being read in Parliament! It doesn’t matter that the man is as mad as a turkey-cock! He’s their voice from the war, and if they lose him then they lose credibility!”

Sharpe nodded wearily. “What you’re saying is that pressure will be applied for me to be sacrificed so that Simmerson can survive?”

Lawford nodded. “I’m afraid so. And Sir Arthur’s defence of you will be seen as mere party politics.”

“But for God’s sake! I was in no way responsible!”

“I know, I know.” Lawford spoke soothingly. “It makes no difference. He has chosen you as his scapegoat.”

Sharpe knew he spoke the truth. For a few weeks he was safe, safe while Wellesley marched further into Spain and brought the French to battle, but after that a letter would come from the Horse Guards, a short and simple letter that would mean the end of his career in the army. He was sure he would be looked after. Wellesley himself might need an estate manager or would recommend him to someone who did. But he would still eke out his years under a cloud as the man named officially responsible for losing Simmerson’s colour. He thought of his last conversation with Lennox. Had the Scotsman foreseen it all?

“There is another way.” He spoke quietly.

Lawford looked at him. “What?”

“When I saw the colour being lost, I made a resolution. I also made a promise to a dying man.” It sounded desperately melodramatic but it was the truth. “I promised to replace that colour with an Eagle.”

There was a moment of silence. Lawford whistled softly. “It’s never been done.”

“There’s no difference between that and them taking a colour.” That was easily said, but he knew that the French would not make the job as easy for him as Simmerson had for them. In the last six years the French had appeared on the battlefield with new standards. In place of the old colours they now carried gilded eagles mounted on poles. It was said that each Eagle was personally presented to the Regiment by the Emperor himself, and the standards were therefore more than just a symbol of the Regiment, they were a symbol of all France’s pride in their new order. To take an Eagle was to make Bonaparte wince in person. Sharpe felt the anger rise in him.

“I don’t mind replacing Simmerson’s flag with an Eagle. But I’m bloody angry that I have to carve my way through a company of French Grenadiers just to stay in the army.”

Lawford said nothing. He knew that Sharpe spoke the truth; the only thing that could stop the officials in Whitehall singling out Sharpe for punishment was if the Rifleman performed a deed of such undoubted merit that they would look foolish to make him a scapegoat. Privately Lawford thought Sharpe had done more than enough, he had regained a colour, captured a gun, but the account of his deeds would be muddied in London by Simmerson’s telling. No, he had to do more, go further, risk his life in an attempt to keep his job.

Sharpe laughed ironically. He slapped his empty scabbard. “Someone once said that in this job you’re only as good as your last battle.” He paused. “Unless of course you have money or influence.”

“Yes, Richard, unless you have money or influence.”

Sharpe grinned. “Thank you, sir. I’ll go and join the happy throng. I presume my Riflemen come with me?”

Lawford nodded. “Good luck.” He watched Sharpe go. If any man could pluck an Eagle from the French, he thought that the newly made Captain, Richard Sharpe, was that man. Lawford stood in the window and looked down into the street. He saw Sharpe step into the sunlight and put the battered shako on his head; a huge Sergeant was waiting in the shade, the kind of man Lawford would happily wager a hundred guineas on in a bare-fisted prize fight, and he watched as the Sergeant walked up to Sharpe. The two men talked for a moment, and then the big Sergeant clapped the officer’s back and uttered a whoop of joy that Lawford could hear two floors above.

“Lawford!”

“Sir?” Lawford crossed to the other room and took the despatch from Wellesley’s hand. The General rattled the quill in the ink-pot.

“Did you explain to him?”

“Yes, sir.”

Wellesley shook his head. “Poor devil. What did he say?”

“He said he’d take his chance, sir.”

Wellesley grunted. “We all have to do that.” He picked up another piece of paper. “My God! They’ve sent us four cases of gum ammoniac, three of Glauber’s salts, and two hundred assorted stump-caps! They think I’m running a bloody hospital instead of an army!”