'But I do, sir. Sharpe wondered how Lawford could have so misjudged him. Did Sir William really believe that Sharpe would abandon men for a promotion? The thought hurt, but he would not show it. He smiled instead. 'I want a service from you, and perhaps I can offer you one in return.
Lawford, with a politician's distrust, frowned at the thought of a bargain not of his own invention. 'What can you offer me, Richard?
Sharpe was awkward for this was not his territory. 'It occurs to me, sir, if you'll forgive me, but if you talk with Lady Camoynes, you might find that she has sudden influence in the Horse Guards and War Office. I should do it swiftly, sir, say tonight? I suspect there will be promotions, sir, within the government. Lawford, who hardly expected to receive that kind of advice from a man who had once been his Sergeant, stared with some pique at Sharpe.
'You know the Lady Camoynes?
'Not well," Sharpe said hastily. 'She was kind enough to speak to me once or twice.
Lawford grunted. 'I hope you were polite, Richard.
'Indeed, sir, Sharpe smiled. 'I was very humble.
'Good. Lawford looked at the dreadful, battle-stained green jacket. 'Because you do sometimes seem to have difficulty in knowing your proper place.
'Yes, sir.
'And what favour can I do for you?
'I think, sir, that Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood will be trying to resign his commission and I would be grateful, sir, if it could be put to him that unless he accepts command of the First Battalion in Spain then criminal charges might be brought? Would that be possible?
Lawford blew a long stream of cigar smoke as he watched Sharpe. 'And why, in the name of God, do you want to serve under Girdwood?
'I don't intend to serve under him, sir.
Sir William smiled very slowly, understanding. 'I think I know the right ear, yes. May I say I'm glad that I am not your enemy, Richard?
'I'm glad of that too, sir.
He took Jane Gibbons away from the court. He was going back to Spain, and there were a hundred things he wanted to do before the Battalion left. They walked down the massive staircase towards the octagon room, and Jane suddenly gasped and gripped his arm. 'Major!
'You can call me Richard now.
She was not listening. She stared fearfully towards the bottom of the staircase.
The defeated, knowing that the next day they would buy themselves out of scandal, and eager to stop the smallest rumours from sullying their reputation, had decided to brazen this night out. They had come to Carlton House. Lord Fenner saw Sharpe and stepped back so that he would not be forced to recognise his enemy.
But Sir Henry Simmerson, who had just handed his cloak to a servant, did not have the same sense. He stared in outraged anger. His niece, dressed in her simple blue country dress, was coming down the Prince Regent's stairs on the arm of the man Sir Henry hated most in all the world. 'Jane! I ordered you home! I'll have the skin off you!
'Sir Henry! It was Sharpe who replied. His voice, echoing in the marbled splendour of the hall, seemed unnaturally loud. He put his right hand over Jane's to calm her fears.
Sir Henry stared at them, and Sharpe, in the same loud voice, spoke two brief words that, though much used in Britain's army, were rarely heard in Carlton House. Then, with his bride on his arm and his sword at his side, he went into the night. He was going to Spain.
EPILOGUE FRANCE, November 1813
Dawn showed a landscape whitened by frost and slashed by dark valleys. Smoke, like wisps of morning mist, drifted from the steep hillsides where troops brewed tea or cleared their muskets of an overnight charge. Men, stamping their boots and slapping their mittened hands against the cold, stared northwards at the heaped hills that were rocky, precipitous, and held by the enemy.
Sergeant Major Harper laughed. 'You look disappointed, Charlie. What is it? You thought they had horns and tails?
Private Charles Weller, now in d'Alembord's Light Company, was staring in awe at a small group of men who, a good half mile away from where Weller stood, struggled uphill with buckets of water to their rock-embrasured trenches at the hill's top. 'They're French?
'The real article, Charlie. Old Trousers, frogs, me-sewers, whatever you want to call the buggers. And just like us.
'Like us? Weller had been raised in a country that spoke of Frenchmen as monkeys, as devils, as anything but humans.
'Just like us. Harper sipped his tea and thought about it. 'Bit slower with their muskets and a bit nippier on their feet, but that's all. Christ, it's cold!
It was November in the mountains. The Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers had marched through high, rocky passes, shrouded in sudden fogs, the moss-grown precipices dripping with water that soaked the thin, spongy turf of the high valleys. Goats and eagles shared the rocks, wolves howled in the darkness. A storm had greeted the Battalion one night, the lightning slashing down to whiten the cliffs and crack at rocks like the whip of doom.
Somewhere in that land of fogs and rains and lightning and night-howling cold, they had crossed into France. No one was certain exactly where. One moment they were in Spain, and the next the word went through the ranks that they had entered the land of the enemy. No one cheered. They were in an army that had fought and struggled since 1793 to cross this frontier, but they were too tired to raise a cheer. The straps of their packs had chafed through the wet uniforms, their boots were filled with water, and the sergeants had threatened to crucify any man who let his powder get wet.
'Remember one thing, Charlie. Harper tossed the dregs of his tea away. 'Get yourself a French pack soon as you bloody can. More comfortable. It was possible to tell the veterans of the Regiment, not just by their faded uniforms that were patched with brown Spanish cloth, but by their good French packs. Weller grinned. His red coat, which had been so bright in Chelmsford, had turned a strange pink, the cheap dye washed by the rain to drip onto his grey trousers which were now reddened about the thighs. 'Will we fight today?
'That's what we're here for. Harper stared down at the French-held hills. The British held the higher ground, but between them and the southern plains of France was this last range of enemy-held hills, hills protected by fortifications, trenches, and marshy, treacherous ground in the valleys. Wellington, whose men had prised the French from the higher peaks in weeks of hard, confused fighting, wanted to be out of these hills before the snows came. No army could winter here. If the forts that had been hacked out of the rocks on the last foothills were not taken, then the British would have to slink back into Spain. Harper turned round. 'Private Clayton!
'Sarge?
'Look after this little bugger. Harper cuffed Weller. 'Don't want him dying in his first battle. And, Charlie?
'Sarge?
'Keep your bloody dog away from the Portuguese. They eat them when they get hungry.
Weller, landing at Pasajes in early October, had adopted the first stray dog that he found. It was a mongrel of startling ugliness, with one ear missing and a tail shortened by a fight. It proved to be a coward against all other dogs, but devoted to its new master, who had tried to christen it Buttons. The name did not stick. The rest of the Light Company, because of its ugliness and cowardice, called the dog Boney.
Major Richard Sharpe had let it be known throughout the Battalion that dogs would make suitable pets for soldiers. As a result of Sharpe's encouragement, the Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers looked, at times, as if they had collected every stray mongrel and flighty bitch in Europe.
Major General Nairn had greeted Sharpe like a long lost friend. During the three weeks that the Battalion was given to re-order its Companies and train the new men to fight in the way of the veterans, Nairn often rode over to share an evening meal with Sharpe and listen to the stories brought from England. He met Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood briefly. 'Is he mad, Sharpe? They were sitting in the wine-shop that was the officers' Mess.