Lord John Rossendale saw the yellow facings. He trained the Prince's spyglass on one of the shakos so that he could see the badge of the chained eagle. 'South Essex, sir. He said it with some astonishment, remembering that Lord Fenner had denied the Battalion's corporeal existence.
'Mine now, eh? Mine! Splendid! Sharpe, his sword held vertically in the salute, could not hear the Prince. Jane Gibbons, sharing the telescope with Charlie Weller, clapped as she saw the feathers on the shakos.
"Talion! Sergeant Harper's voice rode over the protests of the massing marshals. 'Three cheers for His Royal Highness! Hip, hip, hip!
They cheered. Some of the feathers drooped or fell, but it did not matter, the Prince was charmed. 'Major Sharpe!
Sharpe knew his victory was not complete. He must talk to the Prince. He saw the beckoning fat hand and tried to push his horse forward to lay the Eagle before his Prince, but other orders were being shouted, and mounted men were pressing about his horse. A colonel of the Blues snatched the Eagle from him and a major wrestled for his sword. Another hand seized his bridle and pulled him away from the Royal pavilion.
'Major Sharpe! The Prince called again, but the Rifleman was surrounded by marshals and officers, angry mounted men who jostled him away.
'Your Royal Highness? Lord Fenner had hurried along the tier of seats. 'Your Royal Highness?
'Fenner!
'I trust your Royal Highness liked our small display. Lord Fenner, seeing the Prince's happiness, was thinking fast.
'Monstrous good, Fenner! I like it! The men who took the Eagle, eh? Dressed as they were that day. I do like it, indeed, yes. Thank you, Fenner! I like it very much! Rossendale!
'Sir?
The Prince was trying to see Sharpe in the confusion, but there were too many mounted men. 'Tell Major Sharpe I expect him at our reception this night.
'Of course, sir.
The Duke of York, appalled at the shambles that had been made of his display, ignored his elder brother's delight. 'He's under arrest! Maxwell!
A full General of the Guards came close.
'Take him to the Horse Guards now! I'll have his damned head for this, by God I will! He turned to Fenner. 'What the devil's going on, Fenner?
'I think I can explain, your Royal Highness. Lord Fenner smiled pacifically. He watched General Maxwell ordering an escort for Sharpe and, Lord Fenner, seeing the arrest, knew that Sharpe had gambled and lost.
'What is happening, Freddy? the Prince asked plaintively.
'Not a god-damn thing. The Duke of York signalled the marshals to extricate the parade from its sudden chaos and carry on with the battle. He turned and waved his fat hands at the spectators in the Royal stand who, alarmed for their safety, stood in confused worry. 'Nothing to worry you, nothing to worry you at all! Sit! He plumped himself down, face outraged, as an example to the spectators.
Sharpe had marched a flank march, surprised the enemy, and lost. His escort closed about him and hurried from the field. He had not reached the Prince, he had failed.
While across the park, puzzled and hot, the Reverend and Mrs Octavius Godolphin agreed what a pickle the regular army had made of the afternoon! Not nearly so smart as the local Fencibles on parade! And to come all this way just to see muddle and shambolic chaos? Thank God for the Navy, the Reverend Godolphin fervently thought, then took his wife to Mrs Paul's for tea.
CHAPTER 20
The room was upstairs in the Horse Guards. It was a large room, comfortably furnished, its papered walls hung with maps of fortresses and its chairs upholstered in fine leather. Expensive white candles burned pure, still flames above tables and desks.
Lord Fenner, papers spread before him, sat in the place of honour. At his side stood General Sir Barstan Maxwell, his round face still scarlet with fury at this upstart Rifleman who had destroyed the carefully rehearsed celebrations. At a side table, well lit by the tall candles, a clerk scratched down the records of the proceedings. Behind them all, in a deep, comfortable window, sat Sir Henry Simmerson whose joy at this humiliation of Richard Sharpe was complete. Downstairs, in the courtyard of the Horse Guards, Girdwood guarded Sir Henry's niece who had been found stranded in the park with a common soldier. This night, Sir Henry had promised her, she would be flogged till her bones were chalk.
Major Richard Sharpe stood in the room's centre. His sword, rifle and telescope lay on the wide table before Lord Fenner.
He had gained, though it was very cold comfort to him, a partial victory. He had saved the Battalion. He had produced it before the Commander in Chief, indelibly impressed its existence upon the Prince Regent, and there could be no denials now that it was merely a holding Battalion, a paper convenience for the administration. Within the last hour, together with a formal invitation for Major Sharpe to attend Carlton House this evening, there had come a paper, magnificently sealed, which said it was His Royal Highness the Prince Regent's pleasure that, henceforth, the South Essex Regiment should be known as the Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers. An accompanying letter thanked Lord Fenner for the moment of pleasure that the donning of the feathers had given to His Royal Highness, and reminded Lord Fenner of the reception that would be held that night at Carlton House. Fenner intended to be present, but, before leaving the Horse Guards, he would destroy this impudent man who had defied him. 'You had orders to return to Spain, Major Sharpe. His nasal, precise voice was quiet. 'You disobeyed.
'You know why.
Fenner's long white fingers tapped the papers on his desk. 'Your insolence is noted. The clerk's pen scratched ominously as Fenner looked at his own notes. 'You failed to obey an order, Major, that directed you to our army in Spain. That is tantamount to desertion.
'And you're a bloody crimp, and that's robbery.
'Silence! General Sir Barstan Maxwell thumped the table with his fist, shaking the tall candles so that their flames shivered. 'You are an officer! Try to behave like a gentleman!
Sharpe looked at the General, a Guardsman. 'These gentlemen, sir, have been disguising a Battalion as a holding unit, crimping the men to their own profit, and stealing their wages.
Lord Fenner gave an easy, soft laugh. He leaned back in his chair and waved at the clerk who, frightened by the sudden thump on the table, had stopped writing. 'Write it down, man, write it all down! Write that Major Sharpe is formally accusing His Majesty's Secretary of State at War of «crimping» — is that the right word, Major?
'Thievery will do.
'Write that as well! You can, of course, substantiate these accusations, Major? Fenner smiled, Sir Henry snorted, and General Sir Barstan Maxwell glared at Sharpe.
Sharpe could not. He had thought that by putting himself under the Prince of Wales' protection he would be safe from any proceedings such as these, but he had misjudged the situation. He had misjudged it terribly, and he knew that in this lavish, expensive room his career had come to an ignoble end. Not just his career, but that great bubble of happiness that he had experienced with Jane. There could be no marriage now. Sir Henry had crowed that she was in his carriage, that she would return home, that she was not for him. Sharpe, who had worked to disgrace these men so that Girdwood could not marry Jane Gibbons, was to be broken instead.
Another clerk knocked at the door, entered the room and, without looking at Sharpe, just as a jury would not look at a condemned man, carried a leather folder of papers to the desk. He selected one sheet and gave it to Fenner who read it, signed it swiftly, then looked up at Sharpe. 'That letter, Major Sharpe, informs His Royal Highness that you cannot, by my orders, attend on him this night. Nor indeed on any other night. Give me the postings! He took another piece of paper from the clerk, ran his finger down the list, and stabbed with his nail. 'That one.