Sharpe's Eagle (16 page)

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 accept-ance 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 con-trolled 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 prom-ised, 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 power-ful. 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 conver-sation 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!"

The boots of the Coldstream Guards rang on the flag-stones, echoing hollowly in the darkness,
fading down the steep street to be replaced by the leading companies of the 3rd Guards. They were
followed by the first Battalion of the 61st, the second of the 83rd, and then by four full
Battalions of the crack King's German Legion. Sharpe, standing in a church porch, watched the
Germans march past.

"They're good troops, sir."

Forrest, shivering despite a greatcoat, peered into the darkness. "What are they?"

"King's German Legion."

Forrest thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. "I've not seen them before."

"You wouldn't have, sir." The Germans were a foreign corps of the army, and the law said they
were allowed no nearer the British mainland than the Isle of Wight. Overhead the church clock
struck three times. Three o'clock on the morning of Monday, 17th July, 1809, and the British army
was leaving Plasencia. A company of the 60th went past, another German unit, with the incongruous
title of the Royal American Rifles. Forrest saw Sharpe staring ruefully at the marching Riflemen
with their green jackets and black belts.

"Homesick, Sharpe?"

Sharpe grinned in the darkness. "I'd rather it was the other Rifle Regiment, sir." He yearned
for the sanity of the 95th rather than the worsening suspicion and moroseness that was infecting
Simmerson's Battalion.

Forrest shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sharpe."

"Don't be, sir. I'm a Captain at last."

Forrest ignored the statement. "He showed me the letter, you know." Sharpe knew. Forrest kept
apologising and had mentioned the letter twice already. Dereliction of duty, gross disobedience,
even the word `treason' had found its place into Simmerson's scathing account of Sharpe's actions
at Valdelacasa; but none of that was surprising. What had disturbed Sharpe was Simmerson's final
request: that Sharpe be posted, as a Lieutenant, to a Battalion in the West Indies. No one ever
purchased a commission in one of those Battalions, even though promotion was quicker there than
anywhere else in the army, and Sharpe had even known men resign rather than go to the
sun-drenched islands with their lazy garrison duty.

"It may not happen, Sharpe." Forrest's tone betrayed that he thought Sharpe's fate was
sealed.

"No, sir." Not if I can help it, thought Sharpe, and he imagined an Eagle in his hands. Only
an Eagle could save him from the islands where fever reduced a man's life expectancy to less than
a year, from the dreadful, sweating disease that made Simmerson's request into a virtual death
warrant unless Sharpe resigned his hard-won commission.