“Actually, Richard, I was posted here to astonish the natives,” Lord Pumphrey said languidly.
“At which you’re bloody successful,” Sir Thomas said.
“You are too kind, Sir Thomas,” Lord Pumphrey said, giving the Scotsman an inclination of his head, “altogether too kind.”
Henry Wellesley sat and pushed a dish toward Sharpe. “Do try the crab claws,” he urged. “They’re a local delicacy, collected from the marshes. You crack them and suck the flesh out.”
“I’m sorry I’m late, sir,” Sharpe said. It was plain from the wreckage on the table that the dinner was over, and equally obvious that Henry Wellesley had eaten nothing. He saw Sharpe glance at his clean plate.
“I have a formal dinner to attend, Sharpe,” the ambassador explained, “and Spanish dinners start extraordinarily late, and I really can’t eat two dinners every night. Still, that crab does tempt me.” He took a claw and used a nutcracker to open the shell. Sharpe realized that the ambassador had only split the claw to show him how it was done, and he gratefully picked up a pair of nutcrackers himself. “So how is your head, Sharpe?” Henry Wellesley asked.
“Mending, sir, thank you.”
“Nasty things, head wounds,” the ambassador said. “I had an assistant in India who cracked his head open and I thought the poor fellow was dead. But he was up and about, quite cured, in a week.”
“You were in India, sir?” Sharpe asked.
“Twice,” Henry Wellesley said. “On the civil side, of course. I liked the place.”
“I did too, sir,” Sharpe said. He was ravenous and cracked open another claw, which he dipped into a bowl of melted butter. Lord William Russell, thankfully, was just as hungry and the two of them shared the dish as the other men took cigars.
It was February, but warm enough for the windows to be open. Brigadier Moon said nothing, content to glower at Sharpe while Sir Thomas Graham complained bitterly about his Spanish allies. “The extra ships haven’t come from the Balearics,” he grumbled, “and I’ve not seen any of the maps they promised.”
“I’m sure both will come,” Henry Wellesley said.
“And the ships we’ve already got are threatened by fire rafts. The French are building five of the things.”
“I’m certain you and Admiral Keats will be delighted to deal with the fire rafts,” Henry Wellesley said firmly, then changed the topic by looking at Sharpe. “Brigadier Moon tells me you got rid of the bridge over the Guadiana?”
“We did, sir.”
“That’s a relief. All in all, Sir Barnaby”—Wellesley looked at the brigadier—“a most successful operation.”
Moon shifted in his chair, then winced as pain stabbed at his leg. “It could have gone better, Your Excellency.”
“How so?”
“You’d need to be a soldier to understand,” Moon said abruptly. Sir Thomas frowned in disapproval of the brigadier’s rudeness, but Moon would not yield an inch. “At best,” he went on, “it was only a flawed success. A very flawed success.”
“I served in the 40th Foot,” Henry Wellesley said. “It was not, perhaps, my finest hour, but I am not ignorant of soldiering. So tell me why it was flawed, Sir Barnaby?”
“Things could have gone better,” Moon said as though that closed the matter.
The ambassador took a cut cigar from a servant, then bent to light it from the proffered taper. “And there I was,” he said, “inviting you to tell us of your triumph. You’re as reticent as my brother, Sir Barnaby.”
“I’m flattered to be compared with Lord Wellington, Your Excellency,” Moon said stiffly.
“Mind you, Arthur did once tell me of an exploit of his,” Henry Wellesley said, “and it’s not one from which he emerges with very much credit.” The ambassador blew a plume of smoke toward the crystal chandelier. Sir Thomas and Lord Pumphrey were sitting very still, as if they knew something was brewing in the room, while Sharpe, sensing the strained atmosphere, left the crab claws alone. “He was unhorsed at Assaye,” the ambassador went on. “I think that’s the name of the place. Whatever, he was pitched into the enemy ranks, and everyone else had galloped on and Arthur told me he knew he was going to die. He was surrounded by the enemy, all of them fierce as thieves, and then from nowhere a British sergeant appears. From nowhere, he says!” Henry Wellesley waved the cigar as though he were a magician who had suddenly made it appear. “And what followed, Arthur says, was the finest piece of soldiering he ever witnessed. He reckons that sergeant put down five men. At least five men, he told me. The fellow slaughtered them! All on his own.”
“Five men!” Lord Pumphrey said in unfeigned admiration.
“At least five,” the ambassador said.
“Recollection of battle,” Moon said, “can be very confusing.”
“Oh! You think Arthur embellished the tale?” Henry Wellesley asked with exaggerated politeness.
“One man against five?” Moon suggested. “I’d be very surprised, Your Excellency.”
“Then let us ask the sergeant who fought against them,” Henry Wellesley said, springing his trap. “How many men do you remember, Sharpe?”
Moon looked as if he had been stung by a wasp while Sharpe, embarrassed again, just shrugged.
“Well, Sharpe?” Sir Thomas Graham prompted him.
“There were a few, sir,” Sharpe said uncomfortably. “But of course the general was fighting beside me, sir.”
“Arthur told me he was dazed,” Henry Wellesley said. “He told me he was quite incapable of defending himself.”
“Fighting away, sir, he was,” Sharpe said. In truth Sharpe had pushed a dizzied Sir Arthur Wellesley under one of the Indian cannons and had sheltered him there. Was it truly five men? He could not remember. “And help came very fast, sir,” he went on hurriedly, “very fast.”
“But as you say, Sir Barnaby”—Henry Wellesley’s voice was silky now—“recollections of battle can be very confusing. I would take it as a favor if you would permit me to see the report on your great triumph at Fort Joseph.”
“Of course, Your Excellency,” Moon said, and Sharpe understood then what had happened. His Majesty’s Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary had intervened on Sharpe’s behalf, letting Moon know that Lord Wellington was beholden to Sharpe and that it would be sensible if the brigadier were to change his report accordingly. That was a favor, and it was a generous one, but Sharpe knew that favors were given so that other favors could be returned.
A clock on the mantelpiece struck ten and Henry Wellesley sighed. “I must put on fancy dress for our allies,” he said. There was a scraping of chairs as the guests stood. “Do finish the port and the cigars,” the ambassador said as he moved toward the door where he paused. “Mister Sharpe? Might I have a word?”
Sharpe followed Henry Wellesley down the passage and into a small room lit by candles. A coal fire burned in the hearth, books lined the walls, and a leather-topped desk stood under the window that the ambassador pushed open. “The Spanish servants insist on keeping me warm,” he said. “I tell them I prefer cold air, but they don’t believe me. Did I embarrass you back there?”
“No, sir.”
“It was for Brigadier Moon’s benefit. He told me you had let him down, which I somehow doubt. He is a man who is unable to share credit, I think.” The ambassador opened a cupboard and took out a dark bottle. “Port, Sharpe. It’s Taylor’s best and you won’t get finer this side of paradise. May I pour you a glass?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And there are cigars in the silver box. You should have one. My doctor says they’re good for the wind.” Henry Wellesley poured a single glass of port, which he handed to Sharpe. Then he walked to an elegant round table that served as a chess board. He stared at the pieces, which were in midgame. “I think I’m in trouble,” he said. “Do you play?”
“No, sir.”
“I play with Duff. He was consul here and he’s rather good.” The ambassador touched a black castle with a tentative finger, then abandoned the game to sit behind his desk from where he gave the rifleman a shrewd inspection. “I doubt my brother ever thanked you adequately for saving his life.” He waited for an answer, but Sharpe was silent. “Obviously not. That sounds like Arthur.”