The three young men, standing rigidly at attention, watched Sharpe as he moved about the room, examining ornaments, picking up a newspaper, once pressing a key of the spinet and letting the plucked note die into ominous silence before he again spoke softly. 'How many men of the First Battalion are here, Carline?'

'Forty-eight, sir.'

'Detail them!'

Carline did. There was himself, three Lieutenants, four sergeants, and the rest were all storekeepers or clerks. Sharpe's face showed nothing, yet he was seething with frustration and anger within. Forty-eight men to revive a wounded First Battalion, and no sign of the Second Battalion!

He stopped by the window and looked at each man in turn. 'You G.o.d-d.a.m.n b.l.o.o.d.y astonish me! No guard mounted, but you've got time to play blind-man's buff and have a little tea-party. What do you do when you exert yourselves, arrange flowers?' All three kept a judicious, embarra.s.sed silence, avoiding his eyes as he looked at them again in turn. 'Starting at six this evening, and thereafter on the hour, every hour, day and night till I'm bored with you, you will report in full regimentals to Sergeant Major Harper, who, you will be glad to hear, has returned from Spain with me. You!' Sharpe pointed at Merrill, whose face showed utter horror at the thought of parading in front of an inferior, 'and you!' The finger moved to Pierce. 'You will find Captain d'Alembord outside. You will request him to parade the men and tell him I am making an inspection in ten minutes, and once I have done that I shall inspect the barracks. Move!'

They moved like hares out of a coursing trap, running out of the room, leaving Carline alone with Sharpe.

Sharpe ate a sandwich. He let the silence stretch. The walls of this comfortable room were bright with hunting pictures, red-coated hors.e.m.e.n in full cry across gra.s.s. Sharpe's sudden question made Carline jump. 'Where's Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood?'

'Don't know, sir.' Captain Carline now sounded plaintive, like a small boy hauled up in front of a fearsome headmaster.

Sharpe stared with distaste at the thin, petulant man. 'Colonel Girdwood does command the Second Battalion?'

'Yes, sir.'

'So where the h.e.l.l is he? And where in Christ's name is the Second Battalion?'

'I don't know, sir.'

Sharpe stepped close to him, close enough to smell the tea on Carline's breath and the pomade in his carefully waved hair. 'Captain.' Sharpe, taller than Carline, looked down into the pale eyes and made his voice conversational. 'You've heard men speak, presumably, of Regimental Sergeant Major MacLaird?'

Carline gave the smallest nod. 'I've heard the name, sir.'

'Less than one month ago, Carline, I saw his guts in blood. His belly was slit open. It was not a pretty sight, Captain. It would have spoilt your tea. But I'll show it to you, Captain Carline. I'll rip your b.l.o.o.d.y guts out with my own hands unless you answer me some G.o.d-d.a.m.ned questions! I'll pull your spine out of your throat! You hear me?'

Carline looked as if he might faint. 'Sir?'

'Where is the Second Battalion?'

'I don't know, sir.' He said it pleadingly, with naked fear in his eyes, and Sharpe believed him.

'Then what the h.e.l.l do you know, Captain Carline?'

Slowly, haltingly, Carline told his story. The Second Battalion, he said, had been stood down six months before, converted into a Holding Battalion. All recruiting had been stopped. Then, abruptly, the Second Battalion had marched away.

'Just like that?' Sharpe snarled the question. 'They simply vanished?'

'Yes, sir.' Carline said it plaintively.

'No explanations?'

Carline shrugged. 'Colonel Girdwood said they were going to other units, sir.' He paused. 'He said the war's coming to an end, sir, and the army was being pruned. We were to send our last draft out to the First Battalion and then just keep the depot tidy.' He shrugged again, a gesture of helplessness.

'The French are pruning the b.l.o.o.d.y army, Carline, and we need recruits! Are you recruiting for the First Battalion?'

'No, sir. We were ordered not to!'

Sharpe saw Patrick Harper dressing a feeble Company into ranks on the parade ground. He turned back to Carline. 'Colonel Girdwood said the men were being taken to other units?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Would it surprise you, Carline, to know that the Second Battalion still draws pay and rations for seven hundred men?'

Carline said nothing. He was doubtless thinking what Sharpe was thinking, that the seven hundred were non-existent and their pay was being appropriated by Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood. It was a scandal as old as the army; drawing the pay of men who did not exist. Sharpe, in a gesture of irritation, swatted a fly with his hand and ground it into the carpet with his boot. 'So what do you do with the Second Battalion's mail? Its paperwork? I presume some of it still comes here?'

'We send it on to the War Office, sir.'

'The War Office!' Sharpe's astonishment made his voice suddenly loud. The War Office was supposed to conduct war, and Sharpe would have expected the paperwork to go to the Horse Guards that administered the army.

'To Lord Fenner's secretary, sir.' Carline spoke with more confidence, as if the mention of the politician's name would awe Sharpe.

It did. Lord Fenner, the Secretary of State at War, had suggested in his despatch to Wellington that the First Battalion be broken up and now, it seemed, he was the man responsible for the disappearance of the Second Battalion, a disappearance that must obviously have the highest official backing. Or else, and it seemed unthinkable, Lord Fenner was an accomplice with Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood in peculation; stealing money through a forged payroll.

Footsteps were loud in the hallway, and Patrick Harper loomed huge in the doorway of the Mess. He slammed to attention. 'Men on parade, sir. What there are of them.'

Sharpe turned. 'Regimental Sergeant Major Harper? This is Captain Carline.'

'Sir!' Harper looked at Carline rather as a tiger would look at a goat. Carline, in his dancing shoes and with one hand on the spinet, seemed incapable of speaking. To think of himself as a soldier in the presence of these two tall, implacable men was ridiculous.

'Sergeant Major,' Sharpe's voice was conversational, 'do you think the war has addled my wits?'

There was a flicker of temptation on the broad face, then a respectful, 'No, sir!'

'Then listen to this story, RSM. The South Ess.e.x raises a Second Battalion whose job is to find men, train men, then send them to our First Battalion in Spain. Is that correct, Captain Carline?'

'Yes, sir.'

'So it recruits. It did recruit, Captain?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And six months ago, RSM,' Sharpe swung back, 'it is made into a Holding Battalion. No more recruiting, of course, it is merely a convenient dung heap for the army's refuse.' He stared at Carline. 'No one knows why. We poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are dying in Spain, but some clodpole decides we don't need recruits.' He looked back at Harper. 'I am told, RSM, that the Holding Battalion has been broken up, it has disappeared, it has vanished! Its mail goes to the War Office, yet it still draws rations for seven hundred men. Sergeant Major Harper?'

'Sir?'

'What do you think of that story?'

Harper frowned. 'It's a real b.a.s.t.a.r.d, sir, so it is.' He smiled. 'Perhaps if we break some heads, sir, some b.a.s.t.a.r.ds will stop lying.'

'I like that thought, Sergeant Major.' Sharpe stared at Carline, and his voice was conversational no longer. 'If you've lied to me, Captain, I'll tear you to tatters.'

'I haven't lied, sir.'

Sharpe believed him, but it made no difference. He was in a fog of deception, and the hopelessness of it made him furious as he went into the sunlight to inspect the few men who had been a.s.sembled 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 muzzle-stoppered, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 "h.e.l.lo", I did, and he tells me to b.u.g.g.e.r 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 G.o.d 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 b.l.o.o.d.y guns, but they don't want to know. Too high and b.l.o.o.d.y mighty.' Carew swung the ma.s.sive iron door shut, then turned again to make sure none of the depot officers were near. 'I've been in the b.l.o.o.d.y 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 at the invitation, and knew that his luck had turned. A moment ago he had been apprehensive, rightly so, about seeing Lord Fenner, for what mere Major could demand answers of a Secretary of State at War? Now, suddenly, the answer had been delivered by this elegant, smiling messenger who had brought an invitation, a command, for Sharpe to go to London and there meet a man who, within the last year, had insisted that Sharpe was promoted, and a man whom even Lord Fenner dared not offend. The Prince of Wales, Prince Regent of England, demanded Major Richard Sharpe's attendance at court, and Sharpe, if he was clever enough, would let that eminent Royal gentleman demand to know where the Second Battalion had been hidden. Sharpe laughed aloud. He would go over Lord Fenner's head, and, with Royalty's help, would march the Colours of his regiment into France.

CHAPTER 2.

"There is a yellow line on the carpet. Observe it.'

'Yes,' said Major Richard Sharpe.

'It is there that you stop.' The chamberlain gave a small, fanciful gesture with his white-gloved fingers as if ill.u.s.trating how to come to a halt. 'You bow.' Another curlicue of the fingers. 'You answer briefly, addressing His Royal Highness as "Your Royal Highness". You then bow again.'

Sharpe had been watching people approach the throne for ten tedious minutes. He doubted that, after seeing so many examples, he needed to be given such minute instructions, but the courtier insisted on saying it all again. Every elaborate gesture of the man's white-gloved hand wafted perfume to Sharpe's nose.

'And when you have bowed the second time, Major, you back away. Do it slowly. You may cease the backward motion when you reach the lion's tail.' He pointed with his staff at the rampant lion embroidered onto the lavish red carpet. The courtier, with eyes that seemed to be made of ice, looked Sharpe up and down. 'Some of our military gentlemen, Major Sharpe, become entangled with their swords during the backwards progression. Might I suggest you hold the scabbard away from your body?'

'Thank you.'

A group of musicians, lavishly dressed in court uniform, with powdered wigs, plucked eyebrows, and intent, busy expressions, played violins, cellos, and flutes. The tunes meant nothing to Sharpe, not one of them a stirring, heart-thumping march that could take a man into battle. These tunes were frivolous and tinkling; mincing, delicate things suitable for a Royal Court. He felt foolish. He was grateful that none of his men could see him now; d'Alembord and Price were safely in Chelmsford, putting some snap into the half-deserted depot, while Harper, though in London, was with Isabella in Southwark.

Above Sharpe was a ceiling painted with supercilious G.o.ds who stared down with apparent boredom on the huge room. A great chandelier, its crystal drops breaking the candlelight into a million shards of light, hung at the room's centre. A fire, an unnecessary luxury this warm night, burned in a vast grate, adding to an already overheated room that stank of women's powder, sweat, and the cigar smoke that drifted in from the next chamber.

An Admiral was being presented. There was a spatter of light, bored applause from the courtiers who crowded about the dais. The Admiral bowed for a second time, backed away, and Sharpe saw how the man held his slim sword away from his body as he bobbingly reversed over the snarling lion.