There were pickpockets, whores, and more recruiting sergeants than there could possibly be recruits. Every beggar in London who could claim, rightly or wrongly, to be an ex-soldier made his way to Hyde Park in the belief that the day’s crowd would be sympathetic to those wounded in Britain’s wars.
Opposite the public enclosure, across the three hundred yard review ground that was criss-crossed by the park’s public walks, was the Ring. The Theatre was at its centre, and round its perimeter the young bloods of London were accustomed to show off their horses and raise their hats to the ladies who took the air in open carriages. Not this day. Hiding the Ring from the public view was a great covered stand, hung with red, white and blue bunting, surmounted by five flagpoles. Four of the poles, those flanking the bare central staff, were already hung with flags; two union flags and, on the outer poles, the flags of Britain’s closest allies, Portugal and Spain. The centre staff waited for the Prince Regent’s standard. On the pavilion roof, above its banked, cushioned seats, was the royal crest, flanked to its left by the escutcheon of the Duke of York and, to its right, by the three curling feathers that were the badge of the Duke’s elder brother, the Prince of Wales.
On either side of the great reviewing pavilion were two more public areas, roped like the one before the Reservoir, but these were forbidden to the common people. The ropes of the two enclosures were of scarlet weave, tasselled with gold, and into the enclosures came the carriages of the rich. The leather coach hoods were folded down on this day of bright sunlight. In front of the carriages an open space was left where the wealthy could promenade, or ride their well-schooled horses to impress the ladies. There were sacking screens here too, but hidden behind the Ring’s trees and tastefully draped with red bunting that quadrupled the price for their use. By ten o‘clock the carriages were lined wheel to wheel, their horses unharnessed, and the women eyed their rivals from beneath pretty parasols as the men barked at servants to bring champagne or wine.
The celebrations were not due to begin until eleven, but already the huge open space between the two lines of spectators was busy with soldiers. A troop of Royal Horse Artillery raced spectacularly about the great rectangle, the wheels of their guns throwing up turf as the gun carriages slewed behind the galloping teams. A Guards band played.
In front of the carriage enclosures, where the women paraded in their summer finery, mounted officers showed off their horseman-ship. This day such officers were lords of the park and, even though most had not been further from London than Bath, each man this day pretended to have survived the carnage at Vitoria. Their uniforms were thick with looping ropes of gold cloth, bright with chain epaulettes, and gorgeous with lace and silver. They saluted the ladies by touching casual fingers to their helmets, sometimes leaning down to take a glass of champagne, which, like a stirrup cup, was offered by friends. Assignations were made and more than one duel provoked.
The Royal stand filled gradually with senior officers and their wives, ambassadors and men of power from the clubs of St James’s and Westminster. Servants brought tea, coffee, and wine. The huge, padded seats in the centre of the stand were still empty. The young officers, walking their beautifully groomed horses past the Royal stand, would salute its tiers and, like German clockwork toys magically in unison, three score of Generals and Admirals returned the honour.
Lord Fenner, as a Minister of State, had a seat in the Royal stand, but, twenty minutes before the Royal party was scheduled to arrive, he walked through the northern carriage enclosure, coldly greeting acquaintances, smiling sometimes at a woman whose favours he desired or had enjoyed, and once slicing with his cane at a servant who clumsily walked in front of him with a tray of glasses.
He saw the carriage he sought, and saw too how Sir Henry Simmerson, noting his approach, ordered a servant to open the door and fold down the carriage steps. Simmerson, the servant dismissed, beckoned Fenner inside. ‘My Lord?’
‘Simmerson.’ Lord Fenner sat on the leather bench and disdainfully put his heels on the front cushion. He stared with distaste at the public enclosure opposite, then looked down at his immaculately polished boots in which, distorted by the curve of his toecaps, he could see twin reflections of his thin, distinguished face. ‘Well?’
Sir Henry, sweating in his uniform, smiled beneath the tasselled point of his bicorne hat. ‘My Lord.’ He lifted a leather bag onto the seat between them and opened its flap. Inside were two, big, red-leather bound books. ‘I assured you they were safe.’
‘So I see.’ Fenner’s voice, even though he tried to keep it calm and aloof, betrayed his relief. ‘The correspondence is there?’
‘Everything is safe.’ Sir Henry, whose bile and phlegm on hearing that Richard Sharpe still lived had not been relieved by three blood-lettings performed by his doctor, pushed the books towards Lord Fenner. ‘I can assure you, sir, they’re entirely safe in my house.’
Lord Fenner closed the flap as if the very sight of the incriminating accounts would harm him. ‘Do I have to remind you, Simmerson, that I have more to lose than you?’ Simmerson, insulted, said nothing. Fenner growled. ‘Where is Girdwood?’
‘He’s joining me here, my Lord.’
Fenner shrugged, as if he did not care. ‘And Sharpe?’ Lord Fenner asked the question without hope of an answer. He stared from beneath the brim of his silk hat at a Household officer, plumes lifting elegantly to the rhythm of his trotting horse. ‘Where, in God’s name, is Sharpe?’
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.
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe's Honour, Sharpe's Regiment, Sharpe's Siege Page 57