Nairn had another piece of bread by the fire. 'You're wondering why you were chosen, is that right? Out of all the brave officers and gentlemen, we chose you, yes?
'I was wondering, sir. Yes.
'Because you're a nuisance, Sharpe. Because you do not fit into the Peer's well ordered scheme of things. Sharpe ate his toast and ham, saving himself the need to answer. Nairn seemed to have forgotten the toasting fork, that lay on the hearth, and instead had plucked another piece of paper from the table. 'I told you, Sharpe, that Prinny has gone mad. Not only has he foisted the dreadful Gilliland on us with his dreadful Congreve rockets, but he has foisted this on us as well.’This' was the piece of paper that Nairn dangled between finger and thumb as if contagious. 'Appalling! I suppose you'd better read it, though God only knows why I don't just put it on the fire with that bloody man's letter. Here. He held the paper to Sharpe, then returned to his toast.
The paper was thick and creamy. A seal was big and red on its wide left margin. Sharpe twisted it towards the windows so he could read the words. The top two lines were printed in decorative copperplate script.
'George the Third by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith'. The next words were hand written on ruled lines.
The Major General was grumbling as he scooped butter from the dish. 'Waste of time, Sharpe! Throw it on the fire! Man's mad!
Sharpe grinned. He tried to control the elation that was growing in him, elation and sheer disbelief, he almost dared not read the next words.
Nairn smiled at him. 'It's only army rank, Sharpe. A Brevet Major, then, but still a Major. Regimental rank was a man's real rank, and if the commission had said 'a Major in our South Essex Regiment', then it would have been Regimental rank. Army rank meant that he was a Major as long as he served outside of his own Regiment, paid as a Major, though if he were to retire now his pay would be computed by his Regimental rank and not his new Majority. But who cared? He was a Major!
Nairn looked at the tanned, hard face. He knew he was seeing someone remarkable, someone who had risen this far, this quickly, and Nairn wondered what drove a man like Sharpe. Sitting by the fire, the Commission in his hand, he seemed a quiet, contained man, yet Nairn knew of this soldier. Few people in the army did not know of Sharpe. The Peer called him the best leader of a Light Company in the army and perhaps, Nairn wondered, that was why Wellington had been angered by the Prince of Wales' interference. Sharpe was a good Captain, but would he be a good Major? Nairn shrugged to himself. This Sharpe, this man who still insisted on wearing the green uniform of the 95th Rifles, had not let the army down yet, and making him into a Major was hardly likely to still the ferocity of his fighting power.
Sharpe read through the Commission to the bottom. He would well discipline both inferior officers and soldiers, he would observe and follow such orders as were given him. Dear God! A Major!
Nairn smiled at him. 'Prinny heard about Badajoz, then about Garcia Hernandez, and he insisted. It's against the rules, of course, absolutely against the rules. The damned man has no business promoting you. Throw it on the fire!
'Would you take it hard if I disobeyed that order, sir?
'Congratulations, Sharpe! You're beginning as you mean to go on. The last words were hurried as a sneeze gathered in his nose and Nairn grabbed his handkerchief and trumpeted into it. He shook his head, bullied and blew his nose, and smiled again. 'My real congratulations.
'Thank you, sir.
'Don't thank me, Major. Thank all of us by making sure that little Gilliland's rockets go fizz-plop. D'you know the beggar's got over a hundred and fifty horses for his toys? A hundred and fifty! We need those horses, Sharpe, but we can't bloody touch them as long as Prinny thinks we're going to knock Boney bum over tip with them. Prove him wrong, Sharpe! He'll listen to you.
Sharpe smiled. 'So that's why I was chosen?
'Good! You're not a fool. Of course that's why you were chosen, and as a punishment, of course.
'Punishment?
'For being promoted before your time. If you'd have had the grace to wait for one of your own Majors to die in the South Essex you'd have landed Regimental rank. It'll come, Sharpe, it'll come. If 1813 is anything like this year we'll all be Field Marshals by next Christmas. He pulled the dressing gown tight round his chest. 'If we live to see next Christmas, which I doubt. Nairn stood up. 'Off you go, Sharpe! You'll find Gilliland playing fireworks on the Guarda road. Here's your orders. He knows you're coming, poor lamb. Pack him back to Prinny, Sharpe, but keep the bloody horses!
'Yes, sir. Sharpe stood up, took the proffered orders, and felt the elation again. A Major!
Bells suddenly clanged from the church, jangling the still air, frightening birds into hurried flight. Nairn flinched at the sound and crossed to the window. 'Get rid of Gilliland, then we can all have a quiet Christmas! Nairn rubbed his hands together. 'Except for those bloody bells, Major, there's nothing, thank the Good Lord, that is disturbing His Majesty's Army in Portugal and Spain.
'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. God! The 'Major' sounded good in his ears.
The bells rang on, marking the feastday, while, fifty miles north and east, the first English soldiers, red coats untidy, filed into the quiet village of Adrados.
CHAPTER 2
The rumour reached Frenada soon enough, yet in its passing through the Portuguese countryside the story twisted and curled in the same manner that Congreve's rockets tangled their smoke trails above the shallow valley where Sharpe tested them.
Sergeant Patrick Harper was the first man of Sharpe's Company to hear the story. He heard it from his woman, Isabella, who had heard it from the pulpit of Frenada's Church. Indignation in the town flared, an indignation that Harper shared. English troops, not just English, but Protestants to boot, had gone to a remote village which they had looted, killed, raped, and defiled on a holy day.
Patrick Harper told Sharpe. They were sitting with Lieutenant Price and the Company's two other Sergeants in the winter sunlight of the valley. Sharpe heard his Sergeant out, then shook his head. 'I don't believe it.
'Swear to God, sir. The priest talked of it, so he did, right there in the church!
'You heard it?
'Isabella heard it! Harper's eyes, beneath the sandy-brown eyebrows, were belligerent. His indignation had thickened the Ulster accent. 'Your man is hardly going to lie in his own pulpit! What's the point of that?
Sharpe shook his head. He had fought with Harper on a dozen battlefields, he would count the Sergeant as a friend, yet he was not used to this bitterness. Harper had the calm confidence of a strong man. He had an unconquerable humour that saw him through battlefields, bivouacs, and the malevolent fate that had forced him, an Irishman, into England's army. Yet Donegal was never far from Harper's mind and there was something in this rumour that had touched the patriotic nerve that smarted whenever Harper thought of how England had treated Ireland. Protestants raping and killing Catholics, a holy place defiled, the ingredients were seething in Harper's
