“Denny!”
The boy came awake, frightened. “Sir!”
“Where’s Knowles?”
“Don’t know, sir. In town, I think.”
Sharpe thought for a second. The boy stared wide-eyed from the mattress. Sharpe’s hand gripped and regripped the sword hilt. “Join me in the courtyard as soon as you’re dressed. Hurry.”
Harper was waiting in the street, where the heat of the sun had seared the stones so that Sharpe could feel the burning even through the soles of his boots. “Sergeant, I want the Light Company on parade in five minutes in the track behind the orchard. Full kit.”
The Sergeant opened his mouth to ask a question, saw the look on Sharpe’s face, and threw a salute instead. He strode off. Denny came out of the courtyard buckling on his sword, which trailed on the stones beside him. He looked apprehensive as Sharpe turned to him. “Listen carefully. You are to find out for me where Colonel Simmerson is and what he is doing. Understand?” The boy nodded. “And you’re not to let him know that’s what you’re doing. Try the castle. Then come and find me. I’ll either be on the track beside the orchard or on the square in front of the timber yard. If I’m not in either place, then find Sergeant Harper and wait with him. Understand?” Denny nodded again. “Repeat it to me.”
The boy went through his instructions. He desperately wanted to ask Sharpe what the excitement was about but dared not. Sharpe nodded when he finished. “One more thing, Christopher.” He deliberately used Denny’s Christian name to give the lad reassurance. “You are not, in any circumstance, to go in the timber yard. Now, be off. If you see Lieutenant Knowles, or Major Forrest, or Captain Leroy, ask them if they’ll join me. Hurry!”
Denny clutched his sword and ran off. Sharpe liked him. One day he would make a good officer, if he was not first spitted on the bayonet of a French Grenadier. Sharpe turned down the hill towards the timber yard and the billets of the men. There was only one chance of averting a disaster and that was to get the Battalion on parade as soon as possible, before Simmerson had time to react to the threat of mutiny. There was a clatter of hooves behind him and he turned to see a rider waving at him. It was Captain Sterritt, the officer of the day, and he looked understandably nervous.
“Sharpe!”
“Sterritt?”
Sterritt pulled up his horse. “There’s an officers’ call at the Castle. Now. Everyone.”
“What’s happening?”
Sterritt looked frantically round the deserted street as though someone might overhear the further disaster that had overtaken Simmerson’s Battalion. Sharpe had hardly seen Sterritt since the fight at the bridge. The man was patently frightened of Simmerson, of the men, of Sharpe, of everyone, and deliberately made himself insignificant so as to escape notice. He sketched in the events at the timber yard. Sharpe interrupted him. “I know about that. What’s happening at the castle?”
“The Colonel’s asked to see General Hill.”
There was still time. He looked up at the frightened Captain. “Listen. You haven’t seen me. Understand, Sterritt? You have not seen me.”
“But… “
“No buts. Do you want to see those sixty men shot?”
Sterritt’s mouth dropped open. He looked round the street again and back to Sharpe. “The Colonel’s orders are that no-one is to go near the timber yard.”
“You haven’t seen me so how could I have heard the order?”
“Oh.” Sterritt did not know how to react. He watched Sharpe go on down the street and wished again that he had been born four years earlier; then he would have been the eldest and would now be a gentleman farmer. As it was he felt like a rag doll swept away in a flood. He turned sadly away towards the casde and wondered what would become of it all.
In front of the timber yard was a huge open space like an English village green, except that the grass here was bleached yellow and grew thinly on the shallow soil. The space was used for a weekly market but today it was a football ground for soldiers from a dozen Battalions. Sharpe could see troops from the 48th, the 29th, and a company of Royal American Rifles whose green jackets reminded him of happier days. The men cheered and jeered the players; soon, thought Sharpe, they would have a more interesting spectacle to watch.
He turned left, beside the wall of the timber yard, and down toward the orchard. No-one was on the track as he had expected, but as he drew nearer he shouted for Harper and was rewarded by hearing a flurry of commands as the Light Company Sergeants ordered the men onto the track. He assumed the men would be reluctant to parade but doubted if they would dare oppose him, and he stopped and watched as Harper paraded the company in four ranks.
“Company on parade. Sir!”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Sharpe walked to the front of the company, his back to the trees and to the crowd of spectators drawn from the Battalion’s women mixed with men from the other companies who had come over the wall from the yard.
“We’re going on parade early.” They didn’t move. Their eyes stared rigidly in front of them. The six men detailed for punishment one step forward.“
There was a fractional hesitation. The six men, three Riflemen and three from the original Light Company, looked left and right but took the pace. There was a murmur in the ranks.
“Quiet!”
The men went silent but from behind, from the orchard, a group of women began shouting insults and encouraging their men not to give up the protest. Sharpe spun round.
“Hold your tongues! Women can be flogged too!”
He marched the company to the market square and moved the footballers reluctantly from the thin turf. The six men to be flogged stood in the front rank wearing only their trousers and shirts. They went easily enough. Sharpe could tell from their faces that they were relieved that he had taken them over and forced them onto parade. Whatever hot words had been spoken in the burning Spanish afternoon Sharpe knew that no man really wanted to go through the hopeless business of taking on the full authority of the army. That sounded simple, he thought, and now he had to persuade nine other companies. He walked close to the six men in the front rank and looked hard at them.
“I know it’s unfair.” He spoke quietly. “You didn’t make the noise this morning.” He stopped. He was not sure what he wanted to say, and to go further would be to sound too sympathetic to their protest. Gataker, one of the unlucky Riflemen, grinned cheerfully.
“It’s all right, sir. It’s not your fault. And we’ve bribed the drummer boys.”
Sharpe smiled back. The bribe would be of little use, Simmerson would make sure of that, but he was grateful for Gataker’s words. He stepped back five paces and raised his voice.
“Wait here! If any man moves he’ll replace one of these six men!”
He walked over the turf towards the double gates of the timber yard. He had never really worried about his own men, knew that they would follow him, but as he paced towards the shut gates he wondered what trouble was brewing inside. And, more importantly, what trouble was being brewed behind the slab-like walls of the castle. He felt for his sword hilt and walked on.
CHAPTER 16
“Sir! Captain! Sir!”
Ensign Denny was running towards him, sword trailing, his face streaming with sweat. “Sir?”
“What did you find out?”
“Colonel’s at the castle, sir. I think he’s with the General. I met Captain Leroy and Major Forrest. Captain Leroy asked you to wait for him.”
Over Denny’s shoulder Sharpe saw Leroy, on his horse, coming from the steep streets that led to the castle. The American, thank God, was not hurrying. He walked his horse as though there were no emergency; if the men in the timber yard saw panic and worry among the officers they would think they were winning and merely become more obstinate.
Leroy’s horse almost sauntered the last few yards. The American nodded at Sharpe, took his hands off the reins, and lit a long black cheroot. “Sharpe.”