“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 force 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.