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.