Sharpe grinned. “Leroy.”
Leroy slid off the horse and looked at Denny. “You ride a horse, young man?”
“Oh yes, sir!”
“Well climb up on that one and keep her quiet for me. Here you are.” Leroy cupped his hands and heaved the Ensign into the saddle.
“Wait for us at the company,” Sharpe said.
Denny rode away. Leroy turned to Sharpe. “There’s bloody panic upstairs. Simmerson’s turned green and is shrieking for the artillery, Daddy Hill’s telling him to calm down.”
“You were up there?”
Leroy nodded. “Met Sterritt. He’s giving birth to kittens, thinks it’s all his fault because he’s officer of the day. Simmerson’s screaming mutiny. What’s happening?”
They walked on towards the timber yard. Sharpe refused the offer of a cheroot. “They’ve said they won’t go on parade. But no-one’s actually ordered them to yet. My lads went easy enough. As I see it we’ve got to get the rest out there fast.”
Leroy blew a thin stream of smoke into the air. “Simmerson’s getting the cavalry.”
“What?”
“Daddy didn’t have much choice, did he? Colonel comes to him and says the troops are mutineers. So the General’s ordered the KGL down here. They’ll be some time, though; they weren’t even saddled up.”
The King’s German Legion. They were the best cavalry in Wellesley’s army: fast, efficient, brave, and a good choice to break up a mutiny. Sharpe dreaded the thought of the German horsemen clearing out the timber yard with their sabres.
“Where’s Forrest?”
Leroy gestured at the castle. “He’s coming down here. He went to look for the Sergeant Major. I don’t think he’ll wait for Sir Henry and his heavies.” Leroy grinned. They were at the gates, which were ajar. Harper had spoken of barricades but Sharpe could see none. Leroy gestured to him. “Go ahead, Sharpe. I’ll let you do the talking. They think you’re some kind of a bloody miracle worker.”
His first impression was of a yard full of men lying, standing, sitting, their weapons piled, their jackets and equipment discarded. There was a fire burning in the centre of the yard, which struck him as odd because of the heat of the day, and then he remembered the extra triangles which Simmerson had ordered for the mass flogging. The Colonel must have ordered the work done at this yard, and the men had burned the timber which had been crudely nailed together ready for the punishments. There was a momentary hush as the two officers came through the gate, followed by a buzz of excited talk. Leroy leaned against the entrance; Sharpe walked slowly through the groups of men, heading for the fire, which seemed to be the focus of the yard. The men were drinking, some already drunk, and as Sharpe walked slowly through the muttered comments and hostile looks, a man ironically offered him a bottle. Sharpe ignored it, knocked the man’s arm with his knee as he walked past, and heard the bottle break on the ground. He came to the space in front of the fire, and as he turned to face the bulk of the men the muttering died down. He guessed there was not much fight in them, no ringleader had protested, there had only been sullen muttering.
“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.