Sharpe's Eagle (22 page)

"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, Ster-ritt? 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.

"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."

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. Disci-pline, at moments like this, was not open to discussion. It existed, and that
was that. He turned back to the Ser-geants.

"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 Com-pany 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
execu-tions? 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. Sim-merson 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.