The sergeants, he could see, were staring in shock at Harper. The officers looked white.
'You are therefore dismissed from duty this night! Reveille will be at three in the morning, we march at five! You will pack your kit this night. Your stocks you will throw away. You will not be charged for their loss. That caused a small, uncertain cheer that grew when they realised that neither Harper nor Sharpe was inclined to stop it.
Sharpe waited. 'Officers will report to the Lieutenant Colonel's office in five minutes! Sergeants to their Mess at the same time. Sergeant Major Harper! Dismiss the parade!
Harper stepped forward, but before he could shout the dismissal order, a voice interrupted him. A strong voice, coming from the left of the Battalion, as Sergeant Horatio Havercamp filled his lungs. 'Three cheers for Major Sharpe, lads! Hip, hip, hip!
They cheered. Havercamp, with the same instinctive skill with which he dazzled crowds at country fairs, had read the Battalion's mood and now, as the last cheer died, and as Sharpe rode across to the big, red-moustached man, Havercamp grinned up at the officer. 'Welcome back, sir! Sharpe considered the Sergeant. A rogue, no doubt, but a clever one. Havercamp smiled. 'I told you I'd have to call you «sir», sir.
Sharpe crossed the index and middle fingers of his right hand. He kept his voice low. 'Like that, aren't we, Horatio? Many's the time we've shared ajar of ale, many's the time I've told you not to call me "sir"?
Havercamp laughed, not in the least abashed at being reminded of his Sleaford claims. 'I was telling just as much truth that day as you, sir.
'Then we shall have to have a truthful talk in the morning, Sergeant Havercamp.
'Yes, sir. Havercamp paused, then raised his voice so that the Battalion could hear him. 'And I told you so, sir.
'Told me what?
'Any of you could become an officer! Really quick!
The men laughed, and Sharpe, hearing it, was glad. Men who laughed were men who could fight, and he began to believe that if he could just find the proof that a green-eyed lady needed, then the South Essex was anything but doomed. He had bluffed Girdwood, he had taken over the Battalion, and now all that stood between Sharpe and success were the hidden records. 'Regimental Sergeant Major!
'Sir?
'Dismiss!
Sharpe pulled the reins of his horse and wheeled towards the offices. He was not a gambler, but he was taking a risk as great as any he had ever taken before the guns in Spain. He put his heels back and rode to save his regiment.
CHAPTER 15
The sergeants stood to attention as Sharpe came in. None, except for Horatio Havercamp, caught his eye. Some flinched when Harper slammed the door. The huge Irishman's boots were loud on the wooden floor as he went to stand behind and to one side of Sharpe.
Sharpe, as the silence stretched almost unbearably, counted thirty-one men in the room. He had decided to start here, letting the officers sweat in Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood's old office. These men, the sergeants, were the men who really ran this camp. They were the trainers, the disciplinarians, the workers who took boys and made them into soldiers. Nine officers were more than sufficient for Foulness, but Sharpe knew that Girdwood would have needed as many sergeants as he could find.
He spoke softly, 'You may sit.
Awkwardly, as if every noise they made might attract unwelcome attention, they perched on chairs or tables. Some remained standing.
Sharpe waited. He looked at each of them, again letting the silence put fear in them, and when he did speak, his voice was savage. 'Every one of you is going to die. That froze them. Whatever they had been expecting, it was not that. They seemed hardly able to breathe as they stared at him. 'You're going to die because you're useless buggers. A dozen of you against one man! He gestured at Harper. 'And you lost! You think the French are weaklings? You couldn't even catch the two of us! We ran circles round you! You feeble bastards! Brightwell!
'Sir? The Sergeant Major was sitting stiffly in an old armchair which trailed tufts of horsehair.
'I believe you owe Regimental Sergeant Major Harper one crucifix. Do you have it?
Brightwell said nothing. His face, red and broken veined anyway, was scarlet now.
Sharpe stared at him. 'I asked you a question!
'No, sir.
'No what?
'Don't have it, sir.
'Then you will pay him for it. Sharpe looked for Lynch, and found him at the back of the room. 'Lynch!
Lynch stood. 'Sir.
Sharpe paced towards him, stopping half way down the long, bare hut. 'I watched you commit murder, Lynch.
Lynch was white. 'Colonel's orders, sir.
'Go and lick out a latrine, now!
'Sir? Lynch looked horrified.
'Move!
'But, sir!
Sharpe waited till the Sergeant reluctantly moved, then told him to stay where he was. 'You see, Lynch. There are some orders you choose to obey and some you do not. Sit down, you bastard. Your punishment for that murder is delayed.
Sharpe's feet echoed on the bare boards as he walked back to the front of the room. One of the sergeants was nervously fingering dominoes left on a table, and his fidgeting pushed a tile over the edge. The clatter of its fall seemed unbearably loud, making some of the sergeants jump as if it had been the sound of Sharpe cocking a rifle.
Sharpe turned. 'I have taken over command of this Battalion as of this evening. The senior captain is now Mr d'Alembord. The head of this Mess is Regimental Sergeant Major Harper. As you are aware, the Sergeant Major and I had to use unusual methods to find you. Whatever happened to myself and the RSM in this place is now forgotten. It is over. There will be no recriminations for anything that happened to us, no punishments, nothing.
They stared at him, surprised by the leniency. 'So listen to me. I know what has been happening here. The army knows. Every one of you, every single one of you has earned a prison sentence or worse. He was making it up as he went along, but their submission told him that he was on target. 'But the army, in its wisdom, is not going to pursue charges, not if you bastards now do as you are told and do it well! Not one of them moved. The last rays of the sun slashed through the drifting dust in the air.
'There will be no more selling of recruits. We're marching to Chelmsford tomorrow. We're going, eventually, to Spain. I'm leaving you miserable bastards in your present ranks, and I expect you to earn that trust! You are accountable to the Regimental Sergeant Major and if any of you do not like that, then I suggest you take it up with Sergeant Major Harper personally. I can tell you from personal experience that he has no objections to settling quarrels in private.
Harper kept his rigid pose, but slowly, very slowly, a smile appeared on his face. No one smiled back.
Sharpe was nearly through with them. 'I assume that all of you remember how real sergeants behave? That is how you will behave. There will be no punishments except those sanctioned by your Company officer, or the officer of the day, or by myself, and all such punishments will be recorded in the Battalion book. And if I discover any one of you trying to get round that order, I will punish that man myself, in private, and alone, and without entering it into the book. Two last things. He did not raise his voice, and only Harper knew how desperately Sharpe meant these final words. 'If any man out of any of your Companies deserts on tomorrow's march, I will punish you for that desertion. There will be march orders in three hours; be ready for them. And one last thing. There was a small stir as they looked up at him. So far, beyond insults that they deserved, he had not been harsh.