Sharpe’s Regiment: The Invasion of France, June to November 1813. Bernard Cornwell
to inspect the few men who had been assembled by d’Alembord. Either there were no men in the Second Battalion, in which case there would be no trained replacements for the invasion of France, or, if they did exist, Sharpe would have to find them through Lord Fenner who would, doubtless, not take kindly to an interfering visit from a mere Major.
He stalked through the sleeping huts, wondering how he was to approach the Secretary of State at War, then went to inspect the armoury. The armoury sergeant, a veteran with one leg, was grinning hopefully at him. ‘You remember me, sir?’
Sharpe looked at the leathery, scarred face, and he cursed himself because he could not put a name to it, then Patrick Harper, standing behind him, laughed aloud. ‘Ted Carew!’
‘Carew!’ Sharpe said the name as if he had just remembered it himself. ‘Talavera?’
‘That’s right, sir. Lost the old peg there.’ Carew slapped his right leg that ended in a wooden stump. ‘Good to see you, sir!’
It was good to see Sergeant Carew for, alone in the Chelmsford depot, he knew his job and was doing it well. The weapons were cared for, the armoury tidy, the paperwork exact and depressing. Depressing because, when Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood had marched the Second Battalion away, the records revealed that he had left all their new weapons behind. Those brand-new muskets, greased and muzzlestoppered, were racked beneath oiled and scabbarded bayonets. That fact suggested that the men had been sent to other Battalions who could be expected to provide weapons from their own armouries. ‘He didn’t take any muskets?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Four hundred old ones, sir.’ Sergeant Carew turned the oil-stained pages of his ledger. ‘There, sir.’ He sniffed. ‘Didn’t take no new uniforms neither, sir.’
Non-existent men, Sharpe thought, needed neither weapons nor uniforms, but, just as he was deciding that this quest was hopeless because the Second Battalion had been broken up and scattered throughout the army, Sergeant Carew gave him sudden, extraordinary hope. ‘It’s a funny bloody thing, sir.’ The Sergeant lurched up and down on his wooden leg as he turned to look behind him, fearful that they would be overheard.
‘What’s funny?’
‘We was told, sir, that the Second’s just a holding Battalion. No more recruits? That’s what they said, sir, but three weeks ago, as I live and breathe, sir, I saw one of our parties with a clutch of recruits! Sergeant Havercamp, it was, Horatio Havercamp, and he was marching ’em this way. I said “hello”, I did, and he tells me to bugger off and mind my own business. Me!’ Carew stared indignantly at Sharpe. ‘So I talks to the Captain here and I asks him what’s happening? I mean the recruits never got here, sir, not a one of them. Haven’t seen a lad in six months!’
Sharpe stared at the Sergeant, and the import of what Carew was saying dawned slowly on him. Holding Battalions did not recruit. If there were recruits then there was a Second Battalion, and the seven hundred men did exist, and the Regiment could yet march into France. ‘You saw a recruiting party?’
‘With me own eyes, sir! I told the Captain too!’
‘What did he say?’
‘Told me I was drunk, sir. Told me there were no more recruiting parties, nothing! Told me I was imagining things, but I wasn’t drunk, sir, and sure as you’re standing there and me here I’m telling you I saw Horatio Havercamp with a party of recruits. Now why would they not come here, sir? Can you tell me that?’
‘No, Sergeant, I can’t.’ But he would find out, by God he would find out. ‘You’re certain of what you saw, Sergeant?’
‘I’m certain, sir.’
‘This Sergeant Havercamp wasn’t recruiting for another regiment?’
Carew laughed. ‘Wore our badge, sir! Drummer boys had your eagle on the drums. No, sir. Something funny happening, that’s what I think.’ He was stumping towards the door, his keys jangling on their iron ring. ‘But no one listens to me, sir, not any more. I mean I was a real soldier, sir, smelled the bloody guns, but they don’t want to know. Too high and bloody mighty.’ Carew swung the massive iron door shut, then turned again to make sure none of the depot officers were near. ‘I’ve been in the bloody army since I was a nipper, sir, and I know when things are wrong.’ He looked eagerly up at Sharpe. ‘Do you believe me, sir?’
‘Yes, Ted.’ Sharpe stood in the slanting evening light, and almost wished he did not believe the Sergeant, for, if Ted Carew was right, then a Battalion was not just missing, but deliberately hidden. He went to inspect the stables.
A missing Battalion? Hidden? It sounded to Sharpe like a madman’s fantasy, yet nothing in Chelmsford offered a rational explanation. By noon the next day Sharpe and d’Alembord had searched the paperwork of the depot and found nothing that told them where Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood had gone, or whether the Second Battalion truly existed. Yet Sharpe believed Carew. The Battalion did exist, it was recruiting still, and Sharpe knew he must return to London, though he dreaded the thought.
He dreaded it because he would have to seek an interview with Lord Fenner, and Sharpe did not feel at home among such exalted reaches of society. He suspected, too, that His Lordship would refuse to answer his questions, telling Sharpe, perhaps rightly, that it was none of his business.
Yet to have come this far to fail? He walked onto the parade ground and saw Carline, Merrill and Pierce standing indignantly to attention as Patrick Harper minutely inspected their uniforms. All three officers had shadowed, red-rimmed eyes because they had been up all night. Harper, used to broken nights of war, looked keen and fresh.
‘Halt!’ The sentry at the gate, eager to impress Major Sharpe, bellowed the challenge.
Sharpe turned.
A mounted officer appeared in the archway, glorious and splendid on a superb horse, dazzling in the red, blue and gold uniform of the 1st Life Guards, an officer utterly out of place in this remote, dull barracks square.
‘Bit hard to find, aren’t you?’ The officer laughed as he dismounted close to Sharpe. ‘It is Major Sharpe, yes?’
‘Yes.’
The Captain saluted. ‘Lord John Rossendale, sir! Honoured to meet you!’ Lord John was a tall young man, thin as a reed, with a humorous, handsome face and a lazy, friendly voice. ‘First time I’ve been here. I’m told there’s a decent little pack of hounds up the road?’ He pronounced the word hounds as ‘hinds’.
‘I wouldn’t know.’ Sharpe said it ungraciously. ‘You’re looking for me?’
‘Rather,’ Rossendale beamed happily. ‘Got something for you, sir. Or I did.’ He dug into his sabretache, failed to find whatever he had brought, clicked his fingers, cursed himself for foolishness, then, with a happy and enlightened burst of memory, found what he was looking for in his saddlebag. ‘There you are, sir! Safely delivered.’ He handed Sharpe a thick piece of folded paper, richly sealed. ‘Can I get luncheon here, sir? Your Mess does a decent bite, does it, or would you recommend the town?’
Sharpe did not answer. He had torn the paper open and was reading the ornate script. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘Lord, no!’ Lord John laughed anyway. ‘Bit of a privilege really, yes? He’s always wanted to meet you! He was happy as a drunken bat when the Horse Guards said you’d come home! We heard you’d died this summer, but here you are, eh? Fit as a fiddle? Splendid, eh? Should be quite jolly, really!’
‘Jolly?’
‘Rather!’ Lord John gave Sharpe his friendliest, most charming smile. ‘Best flummery and all that?’
‘Flummery?’
‘Uniform, sir. Get your chap to polish it all up, put on a bit of glitter, yes?’ He glanced at Sharpe’s jacket and laughed. ‘You can’t really wear that one, eh? They’d think you’d come to scour the chimneys.’ He laughed again to show he meant no offence.
Sharpe stared