‘Sergeants!’
No-one moved. There had to be Sergeants in the yard. He shouted again.
‘Sergeants! On the double! Here!’
Still no-one moved, but in the corner of his eye he had the impression of a group of men, in shirts and trousers, stir uneasily. He pointed at them.
‘Come on. Hurry! Put your equipment on!’
They hesitated. For a moment he wondered if the Sergeants were the ringleaders but then realised that they were probably afraid of the men. But they picked up jackets and belts. There was some shouting at them but no-one made a move to stop them. Sharpe began to relax.
‘No!’ A man stood up to the left. There was a hush, all movement stopped; the Sergeants looked at the man who had spoken. He was a big man with an intelligent face. He turned to the men in the yard and spoke in a reasonable voice.
‘We’re not going. We decided that and we must keep to it!’ His voice, like the dead Ibbotson’s, was educated. He turned to Sharpe. ‘The Sergeants can go, sir, but we’re not. It isn’t fair.’
Sharpe ignored him. This was not the time to discuss whether Simmerson’s discipline was fair or unfair. Discipline, at moments like this, was not open to discussion. It existed, and that was that. He turned back to the Sergeants.
‘Come on! Move yourselves!’
The Sergeants, a dozen of them, came sheepishly to the fire. Sharpe was suddenly aware of the scorching heat of the blaze; added to the sun it was breaking his back into a prickly sweat. The Sergeants shuffled to a halt. Sharpe spoke loudly. ‘You’ve got two minutes. I want everyone on parade, in this yard, properly dressed. The men to be flogged wearing shirts and trousers only. Grenadier Company by the gate, the rest formed on them. Move!’
They hesitated. Sharpe took a step towards them and they suddenly snapped into action. He turned and walked into the crowded men. ‘On your feet! You’re on parade! Hurry up!’
The burly man tried one last protest, and Sharpe whipped round on him. ‘You want more bloody executions? Move!’
It was all over. Some of the drunker men needed kicking onto their feet but the little fight had gone out of them. Leroy joined Sharpe and, with the Sergeants, they dressed the companies. The men looked a mess. Their uniforms were unbrushed, spotted with sawdust, their belts stained and muskets dirty. Some of the men were pale with drink. Sharpe had rarely seen a Battalion in worse parade order, but that was better than a mutinous rabble being chased by the efficient German cavalry.
Leroy swung open the gates, Sharpe gave the order, and the Battalion marched out in formation to line up on the Light Company. Forrest was outside. His mouth dropped as the First company emerged. He had a handful of officers and other Sergeants with him, and they ran to their companies and shouted orders. The Battalion began to march crisply; the Sergeant Major hammered them into place, stood them at ease, stood the ranks easy. Sharpe marched up to Forrest’s horse, snapped to attention, and saluted.
‘Battalion on parade, sir!’
Forrest looked down on him. ‘What happened?’
‘Happened, sir? Nothing.’
‘But I was told they refused to parade.’
Sharpe pointed at the Battalion. The men were pulling their uniforms into shape, brushing the worst dirt off their jackets, punching their shakoes into shape. Forrest stared at them and back to Sharpe. ‘He’s not going to like this.’
‘The Colonel, sir?’
Forrest grinned. ‘He’s coming here with the cavalry, Sharpe. And General Hill.’ Forrest checked his grin; it was unseemly, but Sharpe understood his amusement. Simmerson would be furious; he had disturbed a General, roused a Regiment of cavalry, and all for a mutiny that had not happened. The thought pleased Sharpe.
The Battalion stood in the heat, the bells in the town marked five o’clock and quarter past; they dusted their uniforms as well as they could. Perhaps half the officers were present, they dribbled in from the town, but the rest were with Simmerson. As the clock struck the half hour there was the thunder of hooves, a cloud of dust, and in a display of force calculated to demoralise the supposedly mutinying troops the blue-uniformed Dragoons of the King’s German Legion galloped onto the market square. They were splendidly turned out in their blue jackets, fur-trimmed pelisses and, on their heads, brown fur colbacks. Their sabres were drawn and they rode straight for the timber yard. Slowly it dawned on them that it was empty and that the heads they had been sent to break were on parade. Orders were shouted, horses turned, the cavalry subsided into an embarrassed silence and watched the gaggle of redcoated horsemen follow them onto the market place: Colonel Sir Henry Simmerson with Major General Rowland Hill, aides de camp, officers of the Battalion like Gibbons and Berry, and behind them a gaggle of other mounted officers who had come to see the excitement. They all stopped and stared. Simmerson peered into the timber yard, looked back at the parade, and then once more into the yard. The Sergeant Major took his cue from Forrest.
‘’Talion! ’Shun!’
The Battalion of Detachments snapped to attention. The Sergeant Major filled his chest.
‘’Talion! Shoulder arms!’
The three movements were perfectly timed. There was only the sound of six hundred palms slapping six hundred muskets in unison.
‘’Talion will make the General Salute!’ There was a General present. ‘Present arms!’
Sharpe swept his sword into the salute. Behind him the companies slammed the ground with their feet, the muskets dipped in glorious precision, the parade quivered with pride. ‘Daddy’ Hill saluted back. The Sergeant Major shouldered the Battalion’s arms, ordered them, and stood the men at ease. Sharpe watched Forrest ride his horse to Simmerson and salute. He could see gesticulations but could hear nothing. Hill seemed to be asking the questions and Sharpe saw Forrest turn in his saddle and point in the direction of the Light Company. The pointed arm turned into a beckoning one. ‘Captain Sharpe!’
Sharpe marched across the parade ground as though he were the Regimental Sergeant Major on a Royal parade. Damn Simmerson. He might as well have his face rubbed in the dirt. He cracked to a halt, saluted, and waited. Hill looked down on him, his round face shadowed by his large cocked hat.
‘Captain Sharpe?’
‘Sir!’
‘You paraded the Battalion? Is that correct?’
‘Sir!’ Sharpe had learned as a Sergeant that repeating the word ‘sir’ with enough fore and precision could get a man through most meetings with senior officers. Hill realised it too. He looked at his watch and then back at Sharpe. ‘The parade is thirty minutes early. Why?’
‘The men seemed bored, sir. I thought some drill would do them good, so Captain Leroy and myself brought them out.’
Hill smiled; he liked the answer. He looked at the ranks standing immobile in the sunlight. ‘Tell me, Captain, did anyone refuse to parade?’
‘Refuse, sir?’ Sharpe sounded surprised. ‘No, sir.’
Hill looked at him keenly. ‘Not one man, Captain?’
‘No, sir. Not one man.’ Sharpe dared not look at Simmerson. Once more the Colonel was looking foolish. He had cried ‘mutiny’ to a General of Division only to find that a junior Captain had paraded the men. Sharpe sensed Simmerson shifting uneasily on his saddle as Hill looked down shrewdly. ‘You surprise me, Captain.’
‘Surprise, sir?’
Hill smiled. He had dealt with enough Sergeants in his life to know the game Sharpe was playing. ‘Yes, Captain. You see your Colonel received a letter saying that the men were refusing to parade. That’s called mutiny.’
Sharpe turned innocent eyes on Simmerson. ‘A letter, sir? Refusing to parade?’ Simmerson glared at him; he would have killed Sharpe on the spot if he had dared. Sharpe looked back to Hill and let his expression change from innocent surprise to slow dawning of awareness. ‘I think that must be a prank, sir. You know how playful the lads get when they’re ready for battle.’
Hill laughed. He’d been beaten by enough Sergeants to know when
to stop playing the game. ‘Good! Well, what a to-do about nothing! Today seems to be the South Essex’s day! This is the second parade I’ve attended in twelve hours. I think it’s time I inspected your men, Sir Henry.’ Simmerson said nothing. Hill turned back to Sharpe. ‘Thank you, Captain. 95th, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve heard of you, haven’t I? Sharpe. Let me think.’ He peered down at the Rifleman then snapped his fingers. ‘Of course! I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, Sharpe! Did you know the Rifles are on their way back?’
Sharpe felt his heart leap in excitement. ‘Here, sir?’
‘They might even be in Lisbon by now. Can’t manage without the Rifles, eh, Simmerson?’ There was no reply. ‘Which Battalion are you, Sharpe?’
‘Second, sir.’
‘You’ll be disappointed, then. The first are coming. Still, it’ll be good to see old friends again, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hill seemed genuinely happy to be chatting away. Over the General’s shoulder Sharpe caught a glimpse of Gibbons sitting disconsolate on his horse. The General slapped away a fly. ‘What do they say about the Rifles, eh Captain?’
‘First on the field and last off it, sir.’
Hill nodded. ‘That’s the spirit! So you’re attached to the South Essex, are you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re in my division, Sharpe, very glad. Carry on!’
‘Thank you, sir.’ He saluted, about turned, and marched back towards the Light Company. As he went he heard Hill call out to the cavalry’s commanding officer. ‘You can go home! No business today!’
The General walked his horse down the ranks of the Battalion and talked affably with the men. Sharpe had heard much about ‘Daddy’ Hill and understood now why he had been given the nickname. The General had the knack of making every man think that he was cared for, seemed genuinely concerned about them, wanted them to be happy. There was no way in which he could not have seen the state of the Battalion. Even allowing for three weeks’ marching and the fight at the bridge, the men looked hastily turned out and sloppily dressed, but Hill turned a blind eye. When he reached the Light Company he nodded familiarly to Sharpe, joked about Harper’s height, made the men laugh. He left the company grinning and rode with Simmerson and his entourage to the centre of the parade ground.
‘You’ve been bad lads! I was disappointed in you this morning!’ He spoke slowly and distinctly so that the flank companies, like Sharpe’s, could hear him clearly. ‘You deserve the punishment that Sir Henry ordered!’ He paused. ‘But really you’ve done very well this afternoon! Early on parade!’ There was a rustle of laughter in the ranks. ‘You seem very keen to get your punishment!’ The laughter died. ‘Well, you’re going to be disappointed. Because of your behaviour this afternoon Sir Henry has asked me to cancel the punishment parade. I don’t think I agree with him but I’m going to let him have his way. So there will be no floggings.’ There was a sigh of relief. Hill took another deep breath. ‘Tomorrow we march with our Spanish allies towards the French! We’re going to Talavera and there’s going to be a battle! I’m proud to have you in my division. Together we’re going to show the French just what being a soldier means!’ He waved a benign hand at them. ‘Good luck, lads, good luck!’
They cheered him till they were hoarse, took off their shakoes and waved them at the General, who beamed back at them like an indulgent parent. When the noise died down he turned to Simmerson.
‘Dismiss them, Colonel, dismiss them. They’ve done well!’
Simmerson had no alternative but to obey. The parade was dismissed; the men streamed off the field in a buzz of talk and laughter. Hill trotted back towards the castle and Sharpe watched Simmerson and his group of officers ride after him. The man had been made to look foolish and he, Sharpe, would be blamed. The tall Rifleman walked slowly back towards the town, head down to discourage conversation. It was true that he had enjoyed discomfiting Simmerson, but the Colonel had asked for the treatment; he had not even bothered to check whether the men would refuse an order, he had simply screamed for the cavalry. Sharpe knew he had heaped too many insults on the Colonel and his nephew. Sharpe doubted now that Simmerson would be content with the letter that would be in Lisbon by now, waiting for a ship and a fair wind to carry the mail to London. The letter would blight Sharpe’s career, and unless he could perform a miracle in the battle that was coming nearer by the hour, then Simmerson would have the satisfaction of seeing Sharpe broken. But there was more to it now. There was honour and pride and a woman. He doubted if Gibbons would seek an honourable solution, he doubted if the Lieutenant would be satisfied by the letter his uncle had written, and he felt a shiver of apprehension at what might happen. The girl would be Gibbons’ target.
A man ran up behind him. ‘Sir?’
Sharpe turned. It was the burly man who had tried to stop the Battalion parading in the timber yard. ‘Yes?’
‘I wanted to thank you, sir.’
‘Thank me? For what?’ Sharpe spoke harshly. The man was embarrassed. ‘We would have been shot, sir.’
‘I would happily have given the order myself.’
‘Then thank you, sir.’
Sharpe was impressed. The man could have kept silent. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Huckfield, sir.’ He was educated, and Sharpe was curious.
‘Where did you get your education, Huckfield?’
‘I was a clerk, sir, in a foundry.’
‘A foundry?’
‘Yes, sir. In Shropshire. We made iron, sir, all day and night. It was a valley of fire and smoke. I thought this might be more interesting.’
‘You volunteered!’ Sharpe’s astonishment showed in his voice.
Huckfield grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Disappointed?’
‘The air’s cleaner, sir.’ Sharpe stared at him. He had heard men talk of the new ‘industry’ that was springing up in Britain. They had described, like Huckfield, whole landscapes that were bricked over and dotted with the giant furnaces producing iron and steel. He had heard stories of bridges thrown over rivers, bridges made entirely of metal, of boats and engines that worked from steam, but he had seen none of these things. One night, round a camp fire, someone had said that it was the future and that the days of men on foot and on horseback were numbered. That was fantasy, of course, but here was Huckfield who had seen these things and the image of a country given over to great black machines with bellies of fire made Sharpe feel uncertain. He nodded to the man.
‘Forget this afternoon, Huckfield. Nothing happened.’
He ignored the man’s thanks. Being uncertain of the future was the price a soldier paid. Sharpe could not imagine being in an army that was not at war; he could not imagine what he might do if there was suddenly a peace and he had no job. But before then there was a battle to fight and an Eagle to win and a girl to fight for. He climbed up into the streets of Oropesa.
CHAPTER 17
In sixteen years’ soldiering Sharpe had rarely felt such certainty that battle was about to be joined. The Spanish and British armies had combined at Oropesa and marched on to Talavera, twenty-one thousand British and thirty-four thousand Spanish, a vast army swollen by mules, servants, wives, children, priests, pouring eastwards to where the mountains almost met the River Tagus and the vast arid plain ended at the town of Talavera. The wheels of one hundred and ten field guns ground the white roads to fine dust, the hooves of over six thousand cavalry stirred the powder into the air where it clung to the infantry who trudged through the heat and listened to the far-off crackle as the leading Spanish skirmishers pushed aside the screen of French light troops. To left and right Sharpe could see other plumes of dust where cavalry patrols rode parallel to the line of march; closer by, in the fields, the Battalion saw small groups of Spanish soldiers who had fallen out of the march and now lay, apparently unconcerned, chatting with their women, smoking, watching the long columns of British infantry
file past.
The men were hungry. Hard as Wellesley tried, thorough as the Commissary could be, nevertheless there was simply not enough food for the whole army. The area between Oropesa and Talavera had already been scoured by the French, now it was searched by Spanish and British, and the Battalion had only eaten ‘Tommies’, pancakes made from flour and water, since they left Oropesa the day before. It was a time for tightening belts, but the prospects of action had raised men’s spirits, and when the Battalion marched past the bodies of three French skirmishers they forgot their hunger at their first sight of French infantry. Sharpe told his Light Company that the dead men with their fringed epaulettes were the famous French Voltigeurs, the skirmishers, the men with whom the Light Company would fight their own private battle between the lines before the big Battalions clashed. The men of the South Essex, who had not seen enemy infantry before, stared curiously at the blue-jacketed bodies that had been thrown down beside a church wall. Dark stains marked the uniforms, their heads were bent back in the strange attitude of the dead, one man had a finger missing where Sharpe supposed it had been hacked off to get at a valuable ring. Ensign Denny stared at them with fascination: these were the famous French infantry that had marched the length and breadth of Europe; he looked at the moustached faces and wondered how he would feel when he saw similar faces, but animated, staring at him over the browned barrel of the French musket.