my Lord, I am. We had a laddie on the glacis last night. He did a good job.’ The praise was grudging.
‘Who?’
Fletcher jerked his head towards Hogan. ‘One of Major Hogan’s lads, sir.’
‘Who, Major?’
Hogan stopped fidgeting with his snuffbox. ‘Richard Sharpe, sir, you’ll remember him?’
Wellington leaned back in his chair. ‘Good Lord. Sharpe?’ He smiled. ‘What’s he doing with you? I thought he had a company?’
‘He did, my Lord. His gazette was refused.’
Wellington’s face scowled. ‘By God! They do not let me make a man Corporal in this damned army! So Sharpe was on the glacis last night?’
Hogan nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Outside, sir. I thought you might want to speak to him.’
‘Good Lord, yes.’ Wellington’s tone was dry. ‘He’s the only man in the army who’s been to the top of the glacis. Fetch him in!’
There were Generals of Division, of Brigade, gunners, Engineers and staff officers and they all turned to stare at the tall, green-jacketed man. They had all heard of him, even the Generals newly arrived from England, because this was the man who had captured a French Eagle and who looked as if he could do it again. He looked battered and hard, like the weapons that festooned him, and his limp and scars spoke of a soldier who fought grimly. Wellington smiled at him and looked round the table. ‘Captain Sharpe has shared all my battles, gentlemen. Isn’t that right, Sharpe? From Seringapatam to today?’
‘Since Boxtel, sir.’
‘Good God. I was a Lieutenant-Colonel.’
‘And I a Private, sir.’ The aides-de-camp, the young aristocrats that Wellington liked as his messengers, stared curiously at the scarred face. Not many men fought out of the ranks. Hogan watched the General. He was being genial to Sharpe, not because the Rifleman had once saved his life, but because he suspected that in Sharpe he had found an ally against the Engineers’ caution. Hogan sighed inwardly. Wellington knew this man. The General looked round the room. ‘A chair for Captain Sharpe?’
‘Lieutenant Sharpe, sir.’ Sharpe’s words were almost a challenge, certainly bitter, but the General ignored them.
‘Sit down, sit down. Now, tell us about the breaches.’
Sharpe told them, not awed by the company, but he added little to Fletcher’s account. He had not been able to see clearly, the darkness was relieved only by a very occasional gun-flash from the city’s walls, and much of his account was based on the sounds he had heard as he lay on the glacis lip and listened, not just to the French working parties, but to the British grapeshot smashing through the weeds and rattling on the walls. Wellington let him finish. It had been a concise statement. The General’s eyes held Sharpe’s. ‘One question.’
‘Sir?’
‘Are the breaches practical?’ Wellington’s eyes were unreadable, cold like steel.
Sharpe’s gaze was as hard, as unyielding. ‘Yes.’
A murmur round the table. Wellington leaned back. Colonel Fletcher’s voice rose above the noise. ‘With respect, my Lord, I do not think it within Captain, Lieutenant Sharpe’s competency to pronounce on a breach.’
‘He’s been there.’
Fletcher muttered something about sending a heathen to kirk and not making him a Christian. The quill in his hand bent almost double under the pressure of his fingers, he let it go and the split nib spattered ink across the two bastions. He thumped the pen down. ‘It’s too soon.’
Wellington pushed himself away from the table, stood up. ‘One day, gentlemen, one day.’ He looked round the table. No one challenged him. It was too soon, he knew that, but perhaps any day would be too soon to take on this fortress. Perhaps, as the French claimed, it was impregnable. ‘Tomorrow, gentlemen, Sunday the fifth. We assault Badajoz.’
‘Sir!’ Sharpe spoke and the General, who had been expecting a protest from the Engineers, turned towards him. ‘Sharpe?’
‘One question, sir?’ Sharpe could hardly believe that he was talking, let alone in such challenging tones and in such a company, but he might not get this chance again.
‘Go on.’
‘The Hope, sir. I would like to lead the Hope.’
Wellington’s eyes were cold and glinting. ‘Why?’
What was he to say? That it was a test? The supreme test, perhaps, of a soldier? Or that he wanted his revenge on a system, a system represented by a pox-scarred clerk in Whitehall, that had made him superfluous, unwanted? He suddenly thought of Antonia, his daughter, of Teresa. He thought that he might never see Madrid, Paris, or know how the war would end, but the die was cast. He shrugged, looking for words, unsettled by the impenetrable eyes. ‘I don’t know, sir. I want it.’ He sounded to himself like a petulant child. He could sense the eyes of the senior officers on him, curious eyes, looking at his shabby uniform, his old, irregular sword, and he damned them to hell. Their pride was buttressed by money.
Wellington’s voice was softer. ‘You want your Company?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He felt a fool, a shabby fool in a glittering setting, and he knew that all of them could see his broken pride.
Wellington nodded towards Colonel Fletcher. ‘That Colonel will tell you, Sharpe, and pray God he is wrong, that on Monday morning we’ll be handing Captaincies out with the rations.’
Fletcher said nothing. The room was silent, embarrassed by Sharpe’s request. The Rifleman felt as if all his life, all that had been and all that might never be, was balanced on this silence.
Wellington smiled. ‘God knows, Sharpe, that I think you are a rogue. A useful rogue and, thankfully, a rogue who is on my side.’ He smiled again and Sharpe knew that the General was remembering the gory Indian bayonets reaching for him at Assaye, but that debt had long been paid. Wellington picked up his papers. ‘I don’t think I want you dead, Sharpe. The army would be, somehow, less interesting. Your request is denied.’ He left the room.
Sharpe stood there, quite still as the other officers filed out, and he thought how, in these past few miserable weeks, he had fixed all his hopes and ambitions on that one thing. His Captaincy, his Company, their jackets, rifles and trust; even, because he did not seriously believe he would be killed, the chance to reach the house with the two orange trees before the maniacal horde, before Hakeswill, and all had been fixed on the Hope, the Forlorn Hope. And it had been denied.
He should have felt disappointment, anger even, at the refusal, but he could not. Instead, flooding through him like pure water scouring a foul ditch, was relief; utter, blissful relief. He was ashamed of the feeling.
Hogan came back into the room and smiled up at him. ‘There. You’ve asked, you got the right answer.’
‘No.’ Sharpe’s face was stubborn. ‘There’s
