'Yes. Sharpe picked up Girdwood's cane and the Lieutenant Colonel was helpless to protest. 'You know me, Girdwood, as Private Vaughn. Or perhaps you just remember me as filth?
'No.
Sharpe tapped the cane into his palm. 'Do you make it a habit, Girdwood, to strike recruits? Or hunt men through the marshes?
'Who are you?
Sharpe had been speaking softly, but now, with a savage, sudden blow, he cracked the cane onto the table to spill ink over Girdwood's careful charts, and his voice was loud. 'I am the man, Girdwood, who's in charge of this Battalion. You are relieved.
Girdwood stared. He could not imagine how a deserter, one of the filth of this camp, had suddenly come into this office as a full Major. He found it hard to make his voice coherent, but he managed. 'You have orders?
'I have orders, Sharpe lied. 'Of course I have bloody orders! You think I'd come to this place just for the pleasure of your filthy company?
Girdwood knew he should be showing more bravado, but he was powerless to move and his voice, that was normally so harshly confident, was barely more than a whisper. 'Who are you?
'My name, Girdwood, is Major Richard Sharpe, First Battalion the South Essex, and until three days ago, sometimes known as Private Vaughn. Sharpe saw the terror in Girdwood's eyes, and felt no pity. 'The man you hunted through the marshland, Colonel, was Regimental Sergeant Major Harper. An Irishman. You may remember that he once captured a French Eagle. Sharpe pointed with his cane at the gleaming badge on Girdwood's shako. 'That one.
'No. Girdwood was shaking his head. 'No. No.
'Yes. Sharpe tapped the cane into his hand again, then, with sudden, terrible speed, he lashed it into Girdwood's face, not to cut him as Sharpe was cut, but to ruin the careful sculpture of the shaped moustache. The blow shattered the shining pitch and a lump of tar hung pathetically down at the Lieutenant Colonel's lip. Sharpe stared at him. 'You spineless bastard. Dally!
d'Alembord pushed the door open and stamped in with a wondrous display of military precision. 'Sir?
'This is Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood. He is under arrest. You will conduct him to his quarters, search them for any papers belonging to this Battalion, and, if he gives you his word of honour, you will leave him unguarded.
'Yes, sir. d'Alembord looked at the small man with his ruined, broken moustache, and smiled. Then he remembered that he was supposed to be solemn. 'Of course, sir.
Sharpe snapped the silver headed cane in two and tossed the fragments onto Girdwood's lap. 'Get up, sir, and bugger off.
Outside, as he followed d'Alembord and his prisoner, he saw a group of men gawping at him. He ignored them. 'Lieutenant Price?
'Sir?
'Start going through the papers in this office. He tossed Price his rifle. 'And Harry?
'Sir?
'If anyone tries to stop you, shoot them.
'Yes, sir.
Sharpe untied his horse and mounted. He was beginning to enjoy himself.
Sergeant Lynch was not enjoying himself. He had been bawling at his squad, making them form a column of four on the centre files, swearing at the filth because they were getting it wrong, when he was suddenly aware that the men, instead of looking at him, were staring past him and that their faces, above the constricting leather stocks, were showing looks of astonishment and even delight. 'Look at me, filth! They ignored him, and suddenly a voice bellowed behind him, a voice even louder than his own.
'Look at me, filth!
Sergeant Lynch turned.
Private O'Keefe stood there, except that he was not a private any longer, but a Sergeant, a huge Sergeant who had a rifle slung on one shoulder, a huge mouthed seven-barrelled gun on the other, and a sword-bayonet at his belt. Harper, grinning, stamped to attention a single pace away from Sergeant Lynch. 'Remember me, filth?
Lynch stared up at Harper, not knowing what to say or do, and the huge Irishman smiled back. 'Say, "God save Ireland", Sergeant Lynch.
Lynch said nothing. The back of his neck, so acute was the angle at which he had to hold his head, was hurting because of the leather stock.
Harper raised his voice. 'My name, filth, is Sergeant Major Patrick Augustine Harper, of Donegal and proud of it, and of the First Battalion of the South Essex and proud of that too. You, Sergeant Lynch, will repeat after me; God save Ireland!
'God save Ireland, Sergeant Lynch said.
'I can't hear you!
'God save Ireland!
'It's grand to hear you say it, John! Just grand! Harper looked past Lynch and saw the squad grinning at him, slouching in their ranks. 'No one stood you at ease! Shun! They snapped to attention. Charlie Weller was staring at Harper as if the huge Irishman had just landed on a broomstick. Harper winked at him, then looked again at the Sergeant. 'What were you saying to me, Johnny Lynch?
'God save Ireland.
'Louder, now!
'God save Ireland!
'Amen. And may the Holy Father pray for your soul, John Lynch, because, by Christ, it's in danger from me. Harper turned away from him, took a great breath, and shouted across the parade ground. "Talion! 'Talion will form line on number one Company. To my orders! Wait for it! Officers stared. Sergeant Major Brightwell began striding over the vast area, but Harper's voice seemed to double in intensity. 'No one told you to move, you great lump! Stand still!
It was grand to be alive, Harper thought, just grand! Even to be a soldier in this army had its moments of pure joy. He grinned, filled his lungs again, and ordered the Battalion to form up on parade.
'Private Weller! Sharpe had ridden to the front of the parade. Harper stood beside him. 'Weller! Here! March, lad! Don't run!
Weller, grinning like an imp, marched to Sharpe, stamped to attention, and stared up at the Rifleman as if he did not believe what he saw. Sharpe smiled at him. 'My name, Charlie, is Major Richard Sharpe. You call me "sir".
'Yes, sir.
'And the Sergeant Major has instructions for you. Listen to him.
'Yes, sir.
Sharpe left them, riding his horse slowly forward and staring at the Battalion which, dressed in its blue and grey, was stretched over the parade ground. He came from the east so that the setting sun was on his face and, dazzled by it, he could hardly see their faces. He looked down at Brightwell, and the man stared up at Sharpe with horror in his eyes. 'Sergeant Major?
'Sir?
'Punishment order. Now!
Brightwell ordered the Companies to form three sides of a hollow square. His voice was uncertain as he did it, an uncertainty that was reflected on the faces of the sergeants and officers. They had all heard the words "punishment order".
Sharpe turned and saw Charlie Weller running off the parade ground. 'Sergeant Major Harper?
'Sir?
'Stand the men at ease.
The men watched him. Sharpe estimated there were more than five hundred men here, enough to be considered a full Battalion in Spain, and he hoped that sufficient of them were trained to take their places in the line. He had ordered them into punishment order, not because he planned any action against the sergeants or officers, but because it was the most convenient formation for every man to hear his voice. 'Take your stocks off!
They obeyed. Some grinned, others looked worried. Some, a few, recognised him as Private Vaughn, and others listened to the sudden rush of whispers that went through the Battalion like a wind through standing corn.
'Quiet! Harper's voice brought an instant silence.
Sharpe rode forward. 'My name is Major Richard Sharpe. I come from the First Battalion of this Regiment in Spain. I am going to take some of you back to Spain. He let that sink in as he turned and watched the faces of the men on the flanks, the only ones who were not silhouettes in front of the setting sun. 'Tomorrow we begin our journey! We will be going to Chelmsford. In a few weeks, perhaps less, some of you will go to our First Battalion with myself and with Regimental Sergeant Major Harper. You may have heard of him. He once captured an Eagle from the French!