Sharpe’s Regiment

by Bernard Cornwell

  His Lordship had discovered half of the missing Battalion, without their attestations, marooned in the Chelmsford barracks. Yet of the other half, and of Major Sharpe himself, there was no sign. Lord Fenner, on hearing that Sir William Lawford had not kept Sharpe silent and inactive, had lost his temper; swearing at Lawford that he was a traitorous fool, and then, scenting the danger to himself, had begun to hunt for his enemy. Orders had been given for Sharpe's arrest, orders that had not been bruited abroad too loudly, for Fenner did not want to provoke questions from the Prince of Wales. 'What is he doing?'

  Sir Henry, whose hatred for Sharpe had not diminished over the years, frowned. 'Chatham or Portsmouth?'

  'We've looked there. Besides, he can't sail without orders! He must know that, unless he's mad!'

  'He is mad.' Sir Henry ran a finger beneath his stock, then wiped the sweat onto the bench beside him. 'He's also insolent. I recommended his dismissal in '09, but my voice was not heeded.'

  Lord Fenner listened to the complaint, as he had a dozen times before, and ignored it. He now felt that his first burst of temper on discovering that Sharpe still tried to fight him had been unnecessary. He had weighed the risks, and thereby drawn consolation. He had concern for the missing men, but not undue concern. He had always known that the scheme might have to end, and he had insured against it. The official records in the War Office and Horse Guards would show that the Second Battalion of the South Essex was a genuine Holding Battalion, and the only incriminating documents were the two record books which, as he had insisted, were now in his possession.

  Which only left the missing men as an embarrassment, yet what damage could they cause? They knew nothing. The officers might, at risk of punishment, admit to taking money, but not one of them could prove that Lord Fenner was involved, for his Lordship had taken great care to stay deep in the shadows, letting others show themselves and earn the money he craved so badly. No one, apart from Simmerson and Girdwood knew the extent of his involvement. Only Sharpe, outside of Foulness, was a danger to his Lordship, and without these account books Sharpe was helpless.

  And Major Sharpe would be silenced. If the Prince of Wales insisted that he be retained in the army, then Lord Fenner would accept Sir William Lawford's proposal and send Sharpe to the war in America as a Rifle officer. Fenner smiled at the thought. 'We'll let the Americans kill him, eh?'

  Simmerson shrugged. 'The Fever Islands would be a preferable solution, my Lord. Or the Australias.'

  There was even a chance, Lord Fenner thought optimistically, that Sharpe could be quietly arrested, disposed of without public knowledge, and the men sent back to Foulness. The crimping had been more profitable than he had ever dared hope and it would be hard to give up that income. Sir William Lawford, of course, would have to be bribed into silence, but Lord Fenner was confident that Sir William would eagerly snap at office. Lord Fenner, though incommoded by Major Richard Sharpe, felt confident. He picked up the leather bag and pushed the carriage door open. 'I trust you will enjoy the day, Sir Henry.'

  'I wish the same of you, sir.'

  Fenner did not go directly back to the Royal stand. Instead he went to the Ring where his carriage was parked. He gave the bag to his manservant. 'Take it to the house.'

  'Yes, my Lord.'

  'Tell the steward to burn it.' He turned away. The evidence was destroyed, he was safe, and he would endure this tomfoolery in the park before returning to his town house to which, as his Lordship felt the need to prove his mastery of his world, he had summoned the Lady Camoynes to an early supper. And once she was used, he thought, there was the Prince's reception to attend. Lord Fenner, secure from scandal, had much to look forward to, but most of all he relished, with a piquant pleasure, the prospect of punishing Major Richard Sharpe for his damned insolence. He smiled, then took his seat once more in the Royal stand. The Review was about to begin.

  The assembly area for the troops being reviewed and who would, afterwards, perform their careful restaging of the battle of Vitoria, was to the north of the park. They would march past the Royal reviewing stand once, form up to the south by the King's private road, then march back with all bands playing behind the trophies that had been captured in Spain. The Eagles, eight of them, were to be carried in replicas of Roman chariots. They would follow the captured guns, going close to the Prince, circle to the north, then ride past the common folk in their enclosure. Some troops, men of the Middlesex militia, would stay to the south during the parade of trophies. Their task, eventually, was to play the role of the defeated French army.

  At nine o'clock, long before Lord Fenner arrived, a young man in good country clothes had ridden into the assembly area. He looked, for all the world, like a squire's son, down for the season in London, and he cheerfully asked if anyone could direct him to Captain William Frederickson. No one could, for the Captain was in the Pyrenees, but the young man, so impressed by the officers' uniforms, seemed a welcome, if naive, admirer. He brought, too, a fine flask of brandy, and he chatted amiably with the junior officers, wished them joy of the day, and left when he had discovered the answers to all the questions Sharpe had posed to him.

  'Well?' Sharpe greeted Price.

  Lieutenant Price, changing out of a broadcloth coat into his red jacket, described the timetable of the day, the assembly areas, and gave the names of the parade's marshals.

  Sharpe's moment was close now, and the fear was rising in him like vomit. He clung to the desperate, foolish hope that Jane Gibbons might yet have rescued the ledgers, might yet be waiting in the park, but he knew such a hope was desperate. He must do what he had planned, and he must do it as if he knew he would win, for the soldier wins who believes in victory. Yet, victory or not, he would protect one man from defeat.

  He went to Sergeant Major Harper. 'This is for you.'

  Harper took the paper Sharpe gave him. 'What is it, sir?'

  'A discharge. It says you were wounded at Vitoria.'

  Harper frowned. 'What would I want a discharge for?'

  'Because, Patrick, either we're on our way to Spain tomorrow, or I'm in jail.'

  'They won't jail you.'

  'They will if they can. If it goes wrong, Patrick, get the hell out of it.'

  'Run all over bloody Hyde Park with the Household Cavalry chasing me?' Harper laughed. 'Here.' He handed the discharge back.

  'Keep it, and good luck.'

  Sharpe reviewed his troops, his tattered, march-soiled troops, and, as the sun rose higher in a cloudless sky, he marched them south, through the leafy lanes from Hampstead towards London, and towards failure or the invasion of France.

  The bands thumped and jangled, crashing out the good tunes of the army, and the troops marched in columns of half Companies past the Prince who, delighted by it all, raised a plump, gloved hand to answer their salutes. The swords of mounted officers flashed up as they rode past him, the Household Cavalry went by in a splendid jingle of curb chains with plumes tossing above their burnished helmets.

  In front of the Royal stand, in three ranks, stood two Companies of Foot Guards; the Royal bodyguard. Eight mounted officers flanked the line, carefully placed where their height would not obstruct the royal view.

  The Horse Artillery went past at such a pace that the earth seemed to thunder with their passing. Behind them, at a far more sedate trot, came a troop of Rocket Cavalry, the sticks of their curious weapons jutting up like sheafs of lances. The sight of them reminded the Prince that it had been Major Sharpe who had first proved their use against the French army, a use that the Prince had forecast and supported, and he twisted heavily in his chair to look for Lord John Rossendale. 'Sharpe here?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Deuced odd!' The Prince looked at his brother, the Commander in Chief of the Army. 'Got any of those fireworks in Spain, Freddy?'

  The Duke of York did, but only at his brother's insistence. Like the rest of the army, he believed rockets to be a dangerous, mad invention. 'A few,' he grunted.

 
; 'Wish we could fire one now.'

  'You can't. London's too valuable.'

  The Prince laughed. He was having a fine time, dressed in his uniform and imagining that he was about to lead these splendid men into battle. He sometimes dreamed that Napoleon invaded England and no general was conveniently at hand, and so, mounted on his horse, the Prince himself led the Household troops to meet the Tyrant. He won, of course, and brought Napoleon caged to London. It was a fine dream. The cheers would ring in his head. 'Who's this?' He waved towards a Battalion of infantry that came behind the Rocket Troop.

  Lord John Rossendale bent forward. '87th, sir, First Battalion. One of yours.'

  'Mine?'

  'Prince of Wales' Own Irish, sir.'

  'Splendid!' He waved at them. 'Well done! Well done!' He turned back to Rossendale. 'How many Regiments do I have?'

  'One of Dragoon guards, sir, two of Light Dragoons, and three Regiments of the line.'

  The Prince heaved himself closer to his aide and dropped his voice so that he could only be heard five tiers away. 'And how many has he got?' He stuck a thumb towards his brother.

  'Just one Irish regiment, sir. The 101st.'

  The Prince laughed and turned to his brother, the Duke of York. 'Hear that, Freddy?'

  'I've got the whole damned army. And you're supposed to salute it.'

  The Prince was enjoying himself. It was a splendid summer day and the crowd was remarkably friendly. For a change not a single jeer had greeted him, and the troops looked marvellous. He called for a glass of champagne, and waited for the parade of trophies.

  Sharpe left the Edgware Road

  at the Polygon and marched his half Battalion west towards the Queen's Gate of Hyde Park.

  There were few people in the streets, most having been drawn to the entertainment in the park, but a few urchins, shouldering sticks, fell in step with his men.

  It was odd, Sharpe thought, how this felt like a wartime action. He had no permission to bring these troops to London, so he was, in effect, on enemy territory. His target lay to the south, but he was hooking round west to sneak up on it and, just as if this was a real surprise attack on an enemy's flank, he must stay hidden till the very last minutes.

  He was leading his men through the smart, new houses of Polygon Street

  , their facades brilliant white in the sunlight. Maids stared at the men from the black railings that guarded the cellar steps, and sometimes faces would peer from the curtained windows above. Sharpe, mounted on his horse, could see into the parlour windows and, thinking of his action as a secret approach march, he feared that he might lead his men past the house of a senior army officer who, like a French tirailleur, would ambush them.

  They marched without singing. To many of these men, like Charlie Weller, this was their first sight of London. It astonished them. So many rich, high, ornate houses, so many people, so many kitchen chimneys, so much horse-dung, so many carriages, so much to look at and be amazed by. Houses as tall as church spires, rows of them, and never the comforting sight of hills and trees at the end of a street to remind a boy that the country was always a short walk away. Hyde Park, which was sometimes visible through streets to their left, was not countryside. It was a great expanse of rolling lawn, dotted with trees, just like the squire's park which was forbidden territory to any but the most impudent poachers.

  They could hear the bands behind them and, sometimes, a cheer that would grow, swell, and fade on the breeze. A signal gun sounded, a blank charge of powder blasting into the hot, early afternoon air, and to Sharpe the sound was utterly familiar, while, to his men, it was an awesome reminder of what might face them in Spain and France.

  They turned into the Queen's Gate. There was no one to challenge them. The urchins still accompanied the troops, shouting out the steps in imitation of the sergeants. One got too close to Sergeant Lynch and reeled off the road with a well-aimed clip to his ear. At the Serpentine, Sharpe called a halt and ordered the officers to gather round him.

  All the officers were mounted. He trotted with them over the grass, away from the four Companies. He was not sure of what he should say, but, now they were so close to the target, he expected trouble and these men had to know how to deal with it.

  'We're here at the Prince Regent's invitation.' That shook them. It was not true, for the invitation hardly requested Sharpe to bring a stolen half Battalion with him, but the lie might give them confidence. 'However, there's been the usual army buggery so the parade marshals don't know about us. Understand?' They did not, but Sharpe's voice discouraged an exploration of the misunderstanding.

  Captain Smith looked desperately worried, while Captain Carline, who had grumbled all week about the lack of comforts on the march, plucked at his uniform in an attempt to make it look fit for royalty.

  Sharpe felt a sudden terror of what he was about to do. 'If any officer, I don't care how senior, demands to know why you're here, refer them to me. That's all you do! Send them to me. My orders are the only ones you obey. Mine only!'

  'What are our orders, sir?' Captain Smith asked nervously.

  'There is to be a re-enactment of the battle of Vitoria. Our orders are to take part in that. We're to be the French. We stay in close order, you listen for my commands, and you ignore all others! As French troops today we don't obey British officers.' He grinned, and some men grinned with him. d'Alembord and Price, who knew the truth of it, looked solemn.

  'We ignore senior officers, sir?' Captain Smith frowned. 'Can we do that, sir?'

  Sharpe had been offering carrots all week, now, he thought, it was time for a bitterer diet. 'You do what I say, Captain, just what I say. Every god-damned officer from Foulness has deserved worse than you're going to get. Your only chance of survival, of honour, lies in my hands. So don't upset me, or I will recommend your dismissals, trials, and imprisonment.' That, after Sharpe's friendliness of the past days, brought silence.

  None of them, except d'Alembord and Price, knew what he did. Yet the habit of obedience was strong in them so that, until an officer more senior than Sharpe gave them conflicting orders, they would obey him. That was what had brought Sharpe this far with their dubious help, but now he was taking them into a place that teemed with senior officers, with more Generals than Wellington had Battalions, and, for these crucial hours, he had to bind their obedience with something other than mere habit. He used the threat, and he trusted the threat would keep them docile.

  He twisted to stare at the review. He could see the Ring and, flanking it, the two lines of carriages. No one looked his way. He was far from the Hyde Park Gate, but he could see no golden-haired girl in that direction, only a few grooms who exercised horses behind the carriage parks and who thought nothing strange this day about soldiers waiting by the Serpentine. Sharpe stared a long time, looking for Jane Gibbons, but he did not see her. He turned back. 'The main thing, gentlemen, is to enjoy this.'

  'Enjoy it, sir?' Smith asked.

  'Of course, Captain. We're going to win a battle.' Sharpe laughed, though he felt despair too. 'To your Companies, gentlemen!' She had not come. She had not come, and his best hope was gone. Now he must fight.

  Sharpe took his place at the head of his men. He was glad to hear the bands playing for it filled him with the right warlike spirit. The music; heart-stirring martial tunes, came faint over the park's grassland, and the big drums punched the warm air like cannon fire. Regimental Sergeant Major Harper, marching Sharpe's force towards the review, unconsciously called the steps to match the music's rhythm. The men marched in silence, muskets shouldered, and, though they marched in the heart of England itself, they were marching to war.

  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.