unsuitable.’
The Prince was beginning to regret his sally on Sharpe’s behalf, but he gallantly persisted with the attack. ‘And the Second Battalion’s missing, eh? Tell me about that, Fenner!’
‘Missing, sir?’ Lord Fenner glanced at Sharpe, then back to the Prince. ‘Not missing, sir. Gone.’
‘Gone? Gone! Vanished into thin air, yes?’
Fenner gave a smile that subtly mixed boredom with sycophancy. ‘It exists on paper, sir.’ He made the subject sound trivial. ‘It’s a normal bureaucratic procedure. It enables us to assign stray men who would not otherwise be paid until they can be found a proper billet. I’m sure if Major Sharpe is fascinated by our paperwork I can arrange for a clerk to explain it to him. Or indeed to your Royal Highness.’ The last statement verged on rudeness, hinting that the Prince Regent, despite being Britain’s monarch while his father was ill, had no authority over the army or War Office.
No authority, but influence. The Prince’s brother, the Duke of York, commanded the army, while the War Office was run by politicians. The Prince Regent commanded nothing, though he had the massive power of patronage. Sharpe had tried, indeed had succeeded, in harnessing that influence, but Lord Fenner seemed untroubled by it. He smiled. ‘Your brother, sir, would doubtless welcome your interest?’
‘Oh Lord!’ the Prince laughed. Everyone knew of the bad blood that existed between the Prince and the Duke of York, the army Commander in Chief. ‘Freddie thinks the army belongs to him!’ The prospect of speaking to his brother was obviously hateful. ‘So, Fenner, there’s no missing Battalion, eh?’
‘I fear not, sir.’
The Prince turned his face that, extraordinarily, was thick with cream and powder, towards Sharpe. ‘You hear that, Major? Lost in a welter of paperwork, eh?’
Lord Fenner was watching Sharpe. He gave a smile so thin-lipped that it seemed like a threat. ‘Of course, sir, we shall do all we can to find Major Sharpe a new Regiment.’
‘Of course!’ The Prince beamed at Sharpe, then at Fenner. ‘And quickly, Fenner! Sharply, even!’
Fenner smiled politely at the jest. ‘You are in London, Major?’ ‘At the Rose Tavern.’
‘You will receive fresh orders tomorrow.’ Major Sharpe had tried to outflank Lord Fenner and had failed. The Prince of Wales would not be allowed to interfere with the War Office or Horse Guards, and Lord Fenner’s tone suggested that the orders would be a harsh revenge for Sharpe’s temerity.
‘Send him to Spain, you hear me!’ The Prince waved peremptorily at Fenner, gobbled delightedly as a servant poured more wine, then put a fat hand on Sharpe’s arm. ‘A vain journey, eh Major? But it gives us a chance to meet again, yes?’ Sharpe was startled by the word “again”, but a warning look from Lord John Rossendale, who sat across the table, made him give a noncommittal answer.
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘Tell me, Major, was it not hot on the day we took the Eagle?’
Lord John was making furious signs at Sharpe not to protest the word “we”. Sharpe nodded. ‘Very hot, sir.’
‘I do believe I remember it! Indeed, yes! Very hot!’ The Prince nodded at his companions. ‘Very hot!’
Sharpe wondered if the man, like his father, had lost his wits. He was speaking as if he had been there, in that valley of the Portina where the wounded sobbed for mercy. There had been small black snakes, Sharpe remembered, wriggling away from the grassfires. His mind seemed a whirl of black snakes, memories, and sudden shock because his journey had been useless. Lord Fenner would order him away tomorrow; there would be no replacements for the South Essex, and a Regiment would die.
The Prince nudged Sharpe and smiled again. ‘We shocked them, Major, yes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What a day, what a day!’ The Prince shook his head, sifting white powder from his hair into Sharpe’s wine. ‘Ah! A syllabub! Splendid! Serve the
The Prince was beginning to regret his sally on Sharpe’s behalf, but he gallantly persisted with the attack. ‘And the Second Battalion’s missing, eh? Tell me about that, Fenner!’
‘Missing, sir?’ Lord Fenner glanced at Sharpe, then back to the Prince. ‘Not missing, sir. Gone.’
‘Gone? Gone! Vanished into thin air, yes?’
Fenner gave a smile that subtly mixed boredom with sycophancy. ‘It exists on paper, sir.’ He made the subject sound trivial. ‘It’s a normal bureaucratic procedure. It enables us to assign stray men who would not otherwise be paid until they can be found a proper billet. I’m sure if Major Sharpe is fascinated by our paperwork I can arrange for a clerk to explain it to him. Or indeed to your Royal Highness.’ The last statement verged on rudeness, hinting that the Prince Regent, despite being Britain’s monarch while his father was ill, had no authority over the army or War Office.
No authority, but influence. The Prince’s brother, the Duke of York, commanded the army, while the War Office was run by politicians. The Prince Regent commanded nothing, though he had the massive power of patronage. Sharpe had tried, indeed had succeeded, in harnessing that influence, but Lord Fenner seemed untroubled by it. He smiled. ‘Your brother, sir, would doubtless welcome your interest?’
‘Oh Lord!’ the Prince laughed. Everyone knew of the bad blood that existed between the Prince and the Duke of York, the army Commander in Chief. ‘Freddie thinks the army belongs to him!’ The prospect of speaking to his brother was obviously hateful. ‘So, Fenner, there’s no missing Battalion, eh?’
‘I fear not, sir.’
The Prince turned his face that, extraordinarily, was thick with cream and powder, towards Sharpe. ‘You hear that, Major? Lost in a welter of paperwork, eh?’
Lord Fenner was watching Sharpe. He gave a smile so thin-lipped that it seemed like a threat. ‘Of course, sir, we shall do all we can to find Major Sharpe a new Regiment.’
‘Of course!’ The Prince beamed at Sharpe, then at Fenner. ‘And quickly, Fenner! Sharply, even!’
Fenner smiled politely at the jest. ‘You are in London, Major?’ ‘At the Rose Tavern.’
‘You will receive fresh orders tomorrow.’ Major Sharpe had tried to outflank Lord Fenner and had failed. The Prince of Wales would not be allowed to interfere with the War Office or Horse Guards, and Lord Fenner’s tone suggested that the orders would be a harsh revenge for Sharpe’s temerity.
‘Send him to Spain, you hear me!’ The Prince waved peremptorily at Fenner, gobbled delightedly as a servant poured more wine, then put a fat hand on Sharpe’s arm. ‘A vain journey, eh Major? But it gives us a chance to meet again, yes?’ Sharpe was startled by the word “again”, but a warning look from Lord John Rossendale, who sat across the table, made him give a noncommittal answer.
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘Tell me, Major, was it not hot on the day we took the Eagle?’
Lord John was making furious signs at Sharpe not to protest the word “we”. Sharpe nodded. ‘Very hot, sir.’
‘I do believe I remember it! Indeed, yes! Very hot!’ The Prince nodded at his companions. ‘Very hot!’
Sharpe wondered if the man, like his father, had lost his wits. He was speaking as if he had been there, in that valley of the Portina where the wounded sobbed for mercy. There had been small black snakes, Sharpe remembered, wriggling away from the grassfires. His mind seemed a whirl of black snakes, memories, and sudden shock because his journey had been useless. Lord Fenner would order him away tomorrow; there would be no replacements for the South Essex, and a Regiment would die.
The Prince nudged Sharpe and smiled again. ‘We shocked them, Major, yes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What a day, what a day!’ The Prince shook his head, sifting white powder from his hair into Sharpe’s wine. ‘Ah! A syllabub! Splendid! Serve the
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