Sharpe's Regiment

CHAPTER 19

Jane Gibbons' journey to London had not been hard, a carter from Great Wakering had carried her to Rochford, and from there she had paid to travel in a stage that dropped her at Charing Cross, but London filled her with dread. She had visited it before, but never on her own, and she knew no one. She had money, eight of the guineas were left of those that, in a dew-wet dawn, she had rescued from the table in the pergola.

She carried two bags, a reticule, a parasol, and Rascal was on a leash. She was glad of the small white dog. The smells of the city were strange, the people frightening, and the noise overwhelming. She had never seen so many cripples. On her previous visits, insulated from the misery by the glass windows of her uncle's coach, she had not realised how much horror stirred and shuffled on London's pavements. She stooped to pat the dog. 'It's all right, Rascal, it's all right. She wondered how she was to find him food, let alone shelter for herself.

'Missy!

She looked up to see a well-dressed man tipping his hat to her. 'Sir?

'You look lost, Missy. From out of town?

'Yes, sir.

'And in need of lodgings, I warrant? He smiled, and because three of his teeth were missing and the others so blackened that it was hard to see them, she shuddered. He stooped for her large bag. 'You'll allow me to carry it?

'Leave it!

'Now, Miss, I can tell. .

'No! Her voice attracted curious glances. She turned away from the man, struggling with her ungainly luggage and wondering whether it had been truly necessary to pack so many dresses, as well as the silver backed hair-brushes and the picture of the boats she liked so much. She had her jewellery, those small few pieces of her mother's that Sir Henry had not taken, and she had her parents' portraits. She had the first two cantos of Childe Harold, her paints, and a vast iron flintlock pistol taken from her uncle's library wall which she was not sure would work, and for which she had no ammunition, but which she thought might frighten away any assailants. She lugged it all west, past the Royal Mews where, it was said, a great space would be made to commemorate Nelson and Trafalgar. She turned into Whitehall.

Twice again men offered her lodgings. Clean lodgings, they said, respectable, run by a gentlewoman, but Jane Gibbons was not so foolish as to accept. Other men smiled at her, struck by her innocence and beauty, and it was those errant looks, as much as the bolder approach of the pimps, that drove her to seek refuge.

She chose sensibly. She picked her helpers as carefully as Richard Sharpe chose his battlegrounds, and the chosen pair was a gaitered cleric, red-faced and amiable, and his middle-aged wife who, like her husband, gaped at the London sights.

Jane explained that she had been sent to London by her mother, there to meet her father, but he had not been on the Portsmouth stage and she feared he might not now come until the next day. She had money, she explained, and wished no charity, but merely to be directed to a clean, safe place where she might sleep.

The Reverend and Mrs Octavius Godolphin were staying in Tothill Street, at Mrs Paul's Lodgings, a most respectable house that ministered to the visiting clergy, and the Reverend and Mrs Godolphin, whose children were grown and gone from home, were delighted to offer their sheltering wings to Miss Gibbons. A cab was summoned, Mrs Paul was introduced, and nothing would suffice but that Miss Gibbons should accompany them to evensong and then share a shoulder of lamb for which they would not dream of taking payment. She went safe to bed, secured from an evil world by the multiplicity of bolts and bars on Mrs Paul's front door, and the Reverend Godolphin reminded her to say her prayers for her father's safe journey on the morrow. It all seemed, to Jane, like a great adventure.

The next morning, Saturday morning, when prayers had been said around Mrs Paul's great table, Jane persuaded the Reverend and Mrs Godolphin that she had no need of their company to wait at Charing Cross. The persuasion was hard, but she achieved it and, leaving her luggage and Rascal under the watchful eye of Mrs Paul, she took a cab to her uncle's house.

She watched the house from the street corner, half hidden by plane trees, and after a half-hour she saw her uncle leave in his open carriage. Her heart was thumping as she walked down Devonshire Terrace and as she pulled the shiny knob that rang a bell deep in the house. She saw soldiers marching at the end of the street, going towards the Queen's Gate of the park, then the door behind her opened. 'Miss Jane!

'Good morning. She smiled at Cross, her uncle's London butler. 'My uncle sent me to fetch some books for him.

'This is a surprise! Cross, a timid man, smiled as he beckoned her inside. 'He did not mention that you were in London.

'We're with Mrs Grey's sister. Isn't the weather lovely?

'It won't last, Miss Jane. Some books, you said?

'Big red account books. I expect they're in the study, Cross.

'Leather books?

'Yes. The ones he brings to Paglesham every month.

'But I distinctly remember the master took them with him. Just now!

She stared at him, feeling all her hopes crumble. She had so wanted to do this thing for Major Sharpe, a man who had given her hope and pleasure if only because of her uncle's enmity towards him. 'He took them? Her voice was faint.

'Indeed, Miss Jane!

'Cross! A voice barked. 'My boots, Cross! Where the devil are my boots? Lieutenant Colonel Bartholomew Girdwood opened the parlour door and stared into the hall. His eyes widened. 'Jane?

But she had gone. She snatched open the heavy door, threw herself down the steps, and ran as if every pimp in London chased her.

'Jane! Girdwood shouted from the top step, but she had gone. Far away, from the park, he heard the music which reminded him that he was late for the Review. Damned strange, he thought, but he had never truly understood women. Women, dogs and the Irish. All unnecessary things that got in the way. 'God-damn it, where are my boots? Is the cab coming?

'It's been sent for, Colonel, it's been sent for. Cross brought the boots and helped the Colonel dress for the great celebration of the battle of Vitoria which, this fine day, would grace the Royal park.

The massed bands played the inevitable "Rule Britannia" as the French trophies were paraded about Hyde Park. Enemy guns, a mere fraction of the artillery that Wellington had captured, led the procession that was bright with the flags and guidons that were the lesser standards of the French. The flags were serried in colourful abundance, but it was the eight Eagles, brightly polished and held erect in gaudy chariots, that fetched the warmest applause.

Each French Regiment was given an Eagle standard. Not all of those on display had been taken in battle. Two, Sharpe knew, had been found in a captured French fortress, neither of them incised with their regimental numbers, obviously stored against the day when they might be needed for fresh units. One had been thrown from a high bridge by a trapped French unit, and it had taken days of diving by Spanish peasants to bring the trophy up from the river bed. They had presented it to Wellington and now, as if it had been taken in battle, it was solemnly paraded past the Prince of Wales.

The others had been fought for. There was the Eagle of Barossa, captured by the Irish 87th, which, like the Talavera Eagle, had been taken by a sergeant and an officer together. Harper stared at the distant procession. 'Which one's ours, sir?

'The first one.

Captain Hamish Smith, seeing for the first time the distant gleam of a French Eagle, looked in some awe at the two Riflemen. They had actually done that most splendid thing, brought an enemy Colour from a battlefield, and no soldier, however grubby his career, could fail to be moved.

'We've captured more than eight, Harper said cheerfully.

'More, RSM? Smith asked.

'There was two taken at Sally-manker, sir, but the lads broke one of them up, so they did. Thought it was gold! I heard of another one sold to an officer. Be murder if anyone found out!

Sharpe laughed. He had heard the rumours, but had never known if they were true.

He had marched the half Battalion across the Serpentine bridge, then turned eastwards along the King's private road. He had stared towards the Hyde Park Gate, but Jane Gibbons was not there. He told himself that he had not expected to see her, which was true, but he was disappointed just the same. Now the men were at the southern assembly field, deserted by all the troops except some disconsolate militia who today had to pretend to be the French. They wore grubby blue fatigue jackets and carried red, white and blue tricolours; miserable thin flags run up for the day and which were doubtless destined to be captured before the afternoon was done.

The rest of the parade troops were at the northern assembly area, drawing themselves up for the magnificent advance, with artillery flanking, which was supposed to represent the final stage of Vitoria when Wellington's army, stretched across a river plain, had swept the French in chaos from Spain.

The trophies were at the northern end of the review ground. They had gone past the Prince, the Duke, the carriage parks, and now they were carried by the Battalions of the Review before turning back to be displayed to the packed public enclosure.

'Sir? Harper's voice was a warning.

An infantry captain, harassed and hot, was trotting his horse towards them. He carried a sheaf of papers. Sharpe kicked his heels to meet the man halfway. 'Fine day!

The captain could not distinguish Sharpe's rank. He frowned at the South Essex's yellow facings and looked with shock at the faded, tattered uniform Sharpe wore.

'You're. .?

'Major Richard Sharpe. You?

'Sir? Mellors, sir. The captain threw a hasty salute. 'Sharpe, sir? He sounded uncertain.

'Yes. All going well, Mellors?

'Absolutely, sir. You're. . The captain hesitated.

'What's the news from Spain?

'Spain, sir? Captain Mellors was understandably confused. 'Wellington threw them back, sir. Over the Pyrenees.

'Splendid! We in France yet?

'Not that I've heard.

Thank God for that, Sharpe thought. He wanted to be back in Pasajes before the British marched north. 'Carry on, Captain! Well done!

Mellors blinked. 'You're sure you're supposed to be here, sir?

He was staring at the South Essex. Without their stocks, and with their uniforms stained by the week's marching, they looked an unlikely unit to be brought to this Royal Review.

'Absolutely! Sharpe smiled. 'Colonel Blount's orders. Someone has to clear up after this lot.

'Of course, sir. The explanation made Captain Mellors much happier. Blount, as Harry Price had discovered, was in charge of the day's arrangements, and it made sense to the Captain that some troops had to have the fatigue of clearing the equipment from the park. 'You'll excuse me, sir, but you are the. .?

'Yes. Sharpe interrupted him, and nodded towards the gaudy chariot that led the parade of captured standards down the line of cheering public. 'That's mine.

Mellors beamed. 'Might I shake your hand, sir?"

Sharpe shook hands. 'You don't mind if my men watch from here, do you?

'Of course not, sir. Mellors was only too eager to please a man who had actually captured one of the trophies.

'Warn your fellows that we're here.

'Of course, sir. Mellors saluted again. 'It's an honour to have met you, sir. But Sharpe was not listening. He was staring eastwards and his face was suddenly lit with a pleasure so great that Mellors twisted in his saddle. 'My word, sir!

She was dishevelled, hot, worn out by running, but she could still elicit admiration. She was beautiful. Sharpe kicked his heels back. 'Jane!

'Suffering Christ have mercy on us. Regimental Sergeant Major Harper saw his officer swing from the saddle to clasp the girl into his arms. 'Bloody hell!

'Sergeant Major? Captain Smith was nervous.

Harper sniffed. 'Not my place to criticise officers, sir, which he usually said when he did, 'but you'll notice there's a woman here, sir, and women and Mr Sharpe are not the gentlest mixture in the world. Trouble, sir! Trouble!

'It's Sir Henry's girl!

'That's what I said. Trouble. Harper swivelled to face the half Battalion. 'Take your bloody heathen eyes off her! You've seen women before! Eyes front!

She was panting, exhausted by her journey through London, and she was in his arms. She struggled to speak through her laboured breath. 'He's got them.

'You came.

'He's got them!

'He's got what?

'The books!

'It doesn't matter. Nothing mattered at this moment except that she was here, where the cut grass was fragrant, where he almost trembled as he stared at her. 'You came! He had not known such happiness could exist, something insane and blossoming, something to fill a world.

'I had to. He was there, you see. He's put tar on it again. It's so horrid. She laughed, as filled with stupid, bubbling happiness as he was. 'My uncle's got the books.

'It doesn't matter.

She looked at his jacket, torn and patched, still marked with his dried blood and the blood of enemies. 'That's terrible!

'It's the jacket I fight in.

She fingered a rent. 'I can see why you want a wife.

He held her still, his arms on her shoulders, and for a few seconds he thought he could not speak.

'You mean? She said nothing, and he could hear nothing but her breath, feel nothing but her body, see nothing but her eyes.

'Jane?

'I can't go back. Ever.

'I don't want you to.

'I mean we shouldn't.

'No.

'I don't know you.

'No.

'But I will marry you. She looked so solemnly at him, he blinked, and for this glorious moment there was no war, and no crimping, and no bands playing, just her eyes and a happiness that was greater than he thought he could manage. He swallowed. 'I would be most honoured.

'And I, Mr Sharpe.

There was an awkward silence. He smiled. 'I thought I had offended you.

'It was sudden, I was frightened. She bit her lower lip. 'But I did hope you'd ask.

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 lusty jeers. The militia had to split in their advance, to pass 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 Essex will advance!

There was a cheer from the crowd which meant that the British forces were marching from the northern assembly area. The guns fired a powder charge for the last time, their smoke drifting realistically over the grass, 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 Essex 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 bugger 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!

He had driven a path of destruction through the carefully reconstructed battle. Instead of the minutely rehearsed 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, unobstructed, 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 Essex 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 massive 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 spyglass on one of the shakos so that he could see the badge of the chained eagle. 'South Essex, 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 massing 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 snatched 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!

'Sir?

The Prince was trying to see Sharpe in the confusion, but there were too many mounted men. 'Tell Major Sharpe I expect him at our reception this night.

'Of course, sir.

The Duke of York, appalled at the shambles that had been made of his display, ignored his elder brother's delight. 'He's under arrest! Maxwell!

A full General of the Guards came close.

'Take him to the Horse Guards now! I'll have his damned head for this, by God I will! He turned to Fenner. 'What the devil's going on, Fenner?

'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.