Headquarters with a bag of mail for Frederickson’s company. The bag was small, for most of the company could not read or write, and of those who could there were few whose relatives would think to write letters. One letter was for a man who had died at Fuentes d’Onoro, but whose mother, refusing to believe the news, still insisted on writing each month with exhortations for her long dead son to be a good soldier, a fervent Christian, and a credit to his family,
There was also a packet for Major Richard Sharpe, forwarded from London by his Army Agents. The packet had first been sent to the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers, then forwarded to General Headquarters, then to Division, and had thus taken over a month to reach Sharpe.
“So you needn’t have worried/ Frederickson said, ”Jane wrote after ail.“
“Indeed,” Sharpe carried the packet forward to find a patch of privacy in the barge’s bows where he tore off the sealing wafer and, with a quite ridiculous and boyish anticipation, tore open the packet to find two letters.
The first was irom a man in Lancashire who claimed to have invented a chain-shot that could be fired from a standard musket or rifle and which, if fired low, would be fatal against the legs of cavalry horses. He begged Major Sharpe’s help in persuading the Master General of Ordnance to buy the device, which was called Armbruster’s Patent Horse-Leg Breaker. Sharpe screwed the letter into a ball and threw it over the barge’s gunwale.
The second letter was from Sharpe’s Army Agents. They presented their compliments to Major Sharpe, then begged leave to inform him that, in accordance with his written instructions to allow Mrs Jane Sharpe authority over his account, they had sold all his 4 per cent stock and transferred the monies into the charge of Mrs Jane Sharpe of Cork Street, Westminster. They thanked Major Sharpe for the trust and privilege of handling his affairs, and hoped that should he ever need such services again, he would not forget his humble and obedient servants, Messrs Hopkinson and Son, Army Agents, of St Albans Street, London. The humble servants added that the expense of selling the 4 per cent stock and the necessary ledger work for the closure of his account amounted to ?16. 145. 4d, which sum had been deducted from the draft passed to Mrs Jane Sharpe. They wished to remind Major Sharpe that they still held his Presentation sword donated by the Patriotic Fund, and begged to remain, etc.
The bargemen hoisted a clumsy gaff-rigged sail that made the tarred shrouds creak ominously. Sharpe stared uncomprehendingly at the letter, unaware that the barge was moving. A small child on the far bank sucked her thumb and stared solemnly at the strange soldiers who were being carried away from her.
“Good news, I trust?” Frederickson clambered into the bows to interrupt Sharpe’s reverie.
Sharpe wordlessly handed the letter to Frederickson who read it swiftly. “I didn’t know you’d got a Presentation sword?” Frederickson said cheerfully.
“That was for taking the eagle at Talavera. I think it was a fifty guinea sword.”
“A good one?”
“Very ornate.” Sharpe wondered how Frederickson could so completely have misunderstood the importance of the letter, and merely be curious about a blued and gilded sword. “It’s a Rinkfiel-Solingen blade and a Kimbley scabbard. Wouldn’t serve in a fight.”
“Nice to hang on the wall, though.” Frederickson handed the letter back. “I’m glad for you. It’s splendid news.”
“Is it?”
“Jane’s collected the money, so presumably she’s off to buy your house in Dorset. Isn’t that what you wanted to hear?”
“Eighteen thousand guineas?”
Frederickson stared at Sharpe. He blinked. At length he spoke. “Jesus wept.”
“We found diamonds at Vitoria, you see,” Sharpe confessed.
“How many?”
“Hundreds of the bloody things.” Sharpe shrugged. “Sergeant Harper found them really, but he shared them with me.”
Frederickson whistled softly. He had heard that much of the Spanish Crown jewels had disappeared when the French baggage was captured at Vitoria, and he had known that Sharpe and Harper had done well from the plunder, but he had never dared to put the two stories together. Sharpe’s fortune was vast. A man could live like a prince for a hundred years on such a fortune.
“She could buy a splendid house for a hundred guineas,” Sharpe said petulantly, “why does she need eighteen thousand?”
Frederickson sat on the stump of the bowsprit. He was still trying to imagine Sharpe as an immensely wealthy man. “Why did you give her the authority?” he asked after a while.
“It was before the duel.” Sharpe shrugged apologetically. “I thought I was going to die. I wanted her to be secure.”
Frederickson tried to reassure his friend. “She’s probably found a better investment.”
“But why hasn’t she written?” And that was the real rub, the blistering rub that so insidiously attacked Sharpe. Why had Jane not written? Her silence was only made worse by this tantalizing evidence which suggested that his wife was a rich woman living in London’s Cork Street. “Where is Cork Street?”
“Somewhere near Piccadilly, I think. It’s a good address.”
“She can afford it, can’t she?”
Frederickson twisted on his makeshift seat to watch a marsh harrier glide eastwards, then he shrugged. “You’ll be home in three weeks, so what does it matter?”
“I suppose it doesn’t.”
“That’s what women do to you,” Frederickson said philosophically. “They choke up your barrel and chip your flint. Which reminds me. Some of these bastards think that just because we’re at peace they don’t have to clean their rifles. Sergeant Harper! Weapon inspection, now!”
Thus they floated towards home.
Later that day, as the barge wallowed between sunlit meadows, Sergeant Harper sat with Sharpe in the bows. “What will you do now, sir?”
“Resign my commission, I suppose.” Sharpe was staring at two fishermen. They wore white blouses and wide straw hats, and looked very peaceful. It was hard to imagine that a month ago this had been a country at war. “And I suppose you’ll go to Spain to fetch Isabella?”
“If I’m allowed to, sir.”
This was Harper’s rub. He, like Sharpe, was a wealthy man, and a married man, too. There was no longer any need for Patrick Harper to wear the King’s badge, which he had only ever assumed out of poverty and hunger. He wanted his precious discharge papers, and Sharpe had failed to secure them. Sharpe had collected all the requisite forms, but he had needed to secure the signatures of a Staff Medical Officer, a Regimental Surgeon of the Goth, and of a General Officer. He would also have needed the imprint of the regimental seal of the Both. Sharpe had blithely assumed that such things would be easily secured, but the army’s regulations had defeated him. The army was no longer run by men who understood that a favour would be repaid by victory on a battlefield, but instead by men who could only read the small print of the regulations. Those bureaucrats understood only too well how many men would try and leave the ranks, and extraordinary precautions were being taken to stop any such desertions. Harper was thus being forced to stay in the army.
“There is another way,” Sharpe said diffidently.
“Sir?”
“Become my servant.”
Harper frowned, not at the prospect of menial servitude, but because he did not see how it would achieve his ambition.
Sharpe explained. “So long as I’m on the active list, then I’m allowed a servant. That servant can travel at my discretion. So as soon as we’re in England we’ll go to Dorset, I’ll report that you were kicked to death by a horse, and then you just go free. The army will cross you off the list, and we won’t need a Regimental Surgeon to testify that you’re dead because you’ll have died outside of regimental lines. We’ll need a civilian doctor, and maybe even a coroner, but there’s bound to be some drunkards in Dorset who’ll take a bribe.”
Harper thought about it, then nodded. “It sounds good to me, sir.”
