'Indeed, sir.
'I want chicken for dinner.
'Chicken, sir? There's beef left.
'Chicken! Sharpe waved to a woman who watched the men pass and who returned ribald comments as good as she got from the marching ranks. 'White chickens, Mattingley, to the number of sixty.
'Sixty white chickens, sir?
'White chickens taste better. Buy them. Steal them if we haven't enough money, but find me sixty white chickens for dinner.
Mattingley wondered if Sharpe was proving to be just another eccentric officer. 'Yes, sir.
'And Mattingley?
'Sir?
'I want a feather mattress. Keep the feathers.
Mattingley was now convinced that Sharpe, who still wore a fading rose beneath his collar, was touched in the head. Too much fighting, perhaps. 'A feather mattress. Of course, sir.
That night, before a dinner of stewed chicken, Sharpe rehearsed his half Battalion in a manoeuvre which had never, so far as he knew, been performed by any Battalion in the history of war or peace, a manoeuvre that made the men laugh, but which, until they performed it to his satisfaction, he insisted on practising. Some, like Sergeant Lynch, thought he was crazy, others just thought that the whole army was mad, while Harper, who bellowed the strange orders, knew that Sharpe's high spirits meant that they were about to go into action.
And indeed, in the next dawn, which showed the southern sky hazed by a great smoke, Sharpe dressed himself in his old uniform of battle, his scarred, faded, tattered uniform that bore no marks of rank. He made Charlie Weller, who was skilled with a needle, sew the laurel wreath back onto his old sleeve. 'I wore that jacket when we captured the Eagle, Charlie.
'You did, sir? Weller watched wide-eyed as Sharpe pulled the green jacket on, and as he strapped the great sword about his waist. 'Something special today, sir?
'Yes, Charlie. It's Saturday the twenty-first of August. Sharpe drew the sword and turned it so that the rising sun ran its pale light up the blade. 'A very special day.
Weller grinned. 'Special, sir?
'Special, Charlie, because you're going to London to meet a Prince. Sharpe smiled, slammed the sword into its scabbard, then mounted his horse. He was going to a battle.
CHAPTER 18
The crowds gathered early in Hyde Park. The public enclosure was entered from the old Tyburn Lane, now renamed Park Lane to rid it of the odium of public execution. Once through the Grosvenor Gate there was a generous stretch of grass, defined by rope barriers, in front of the Reservoir where Londoners could walk, watch the proceedings, and buy ale, pies and fruit. The best views of the review and pageant would be had either from the top of the Reservoir bank, or else from one of the many tiers of seats that builders were permitted to erect and then hire out to the public. Behind the roped area, between the public enclosure and the Tyburn Lane, there were sacking screens for lavatories, whose owners sat collecting farthings from the more fastidious of the spectators.
There were pickpockets, whores, and more recruiting sergeants than there could possibly be recruits. Every beggar in London who could claim, rightly or wrongly, to be an ex-soldier made his way to Hyde Park in the belief that the day's crowd would be sympathetic to those wounded in Britain's wars.
Opposite the public enclosure, across the three hundred yard review ground that was criss-crossed by the park's public walks, was the Ring. The Theatre was at its centre, and round its perimeter the young bloods of London were accustomed to show off their horses and raise their hats to the ladies who took the air in open carriages. Not this day. Hiding the Ring from the public view was a great covered stand, hung with red, white and blue bunting, surmounted by five flagpoles. Four of the poles, those flanking the bare central staff, were already hung with flags; two union flags and, on the outer poles, the flags of Britain's closest allies, Portugal and Spain. The centre staff waited for the Prince Regent's standard. On the pavilion roof, above its banked, cushioned seats, was the royal crest, flanked to its left by the escutcheon of the Duke of York and, to its right, by the three curling feathers that were the badge of the Duke's elder brother, the Prince of Wales.
On either side of the great reviewing pavilion were two more public areas, roped like the one before the Reservoir, but these were forbidden to the common people. The ropes of the two enclosures were of scarlet weave, tasselled with gold, and into the enclosures came the carriages of the rich. The leather coach hoods were folded down on this day of bright sunlight. In front of the carriages an open space was left where the wealthy could promenade, or ride their well-schooled horses to impress the ladies. There were sacking screens here too, but hidden behind the Ring's trees and tastefully draped with red bunting that quadrupled the price for their use. By ten o'clock the carriages were lined wheel to wheel, their horses unharnessed, and the women eyed their rivals from beneath pretty parasols as the men barked at servants to bring champagne or wine.
The celebrations were not due to begin until eleven, but already the huge open space between the two lines of spectators was busy with soldiers. A troop of Royal Horse Artillery raced spectacularly about the great rectangle, the wheels of their guns throwing up turf as the gun carriages slewed behind the galloping teams. A Guards band played.
In front of the carriage enclosures, where the women paraded in their summer finery, mounted officers showed off their horsemanship. This day such officers were lords of the park and, even though most had not been further from London than Bath, each man this day pretended to have survived the carnage at Vitoria. Their uniforms were thick with looping ropes of gold cloth, bright with chain epaulettes, and gorgeous with lace and silver. They saluted the ladies by touching casual fingers to their helmets, sometimes leaning down to take a glass of champagne, which, like a stirrup cup, was offered by friends. Assignations were made and more than one duel provoked.
The Royal stand filled gradually with senior officers and their wives, ambassadors and men of power from the clubs of St James's and Westminster. Servants brought tea, coffee, and wine. The huge, padded seats in the centre of the stand were still empty. The young officers, walking their beautifully groomed horses past the Royal stand, would salute its tiers and, like German clockwork toys magically in unison, three score of Generals and Admirals returned the honour.
Lord Fenner, as a Minister of State, had a seat in the Royal stand, but, twenty minutes before the Royal party was scheduled to arrive, he walked through the northern carriage enclosure, coldly greeting acquaintances, smiling sometimes at a woman whose favours he desired or had enjoyed, and once slicing with his cane at a servant who clumsily walked in front of him with a tray of glasses.
He saw the carriage he sought, and saw too how Sir Henry Simmerson, noting his approach, ordered a servant to open the door and fold down the carriage steps. Simmerson, the servant dismissed, beckoned Fenner inside. 'My Lord?
'Simmerson. Lord Fenner sat on the leather bench and disdainfully put his heels on the front cushion. He stared with distaste at the public enclosure opposite, then looked down at his immaculately polished boots in which, distorted by the curve of his toecaps, he could see twin reflections of his thin, distinguished face. 'Well?
Sir Henry, sweating in his uniform, smiled beneath the tasselled point of his bicorne hat. 'My Lord. He lifted a leather bag onto the seat between them and opened its flap. Inside were two, big, red-leather bound books. 'I assured you they were safe.
'So I see. Fenner's voice, even though he tried to keep it calm and aloof, betrayed his relief. 'The correspondence is there?
'Everything is safe. Sir Henry, whose bile and phlegm on hearing that Richard Sharpe still lived had not been relieved by three blood-lettings performed by his doctor, pushed the books towards Lord Fenner. 'I can assure you, sir, they're entirely safe in my house.
Lord Fenner closed the flap as if the very sight of the incriminating accounts would harm him. 'Do I have to
