Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe's Honour, Sharpe's Regiment, Sharpe's Siege (68 page)

The Major took off the shako that had shadowed his face and dropped it casually onto a chair. He put his hands on Girdwood’s table, leaned forward, and smiled into the Lieutenant Colonel’s face. ‘Remember me, Bartholomew?’

Girdwood stared, not sure if the face was familiar or not. The two fresh scars on the Rifleman’s face were dark with dried blood, and the sight of them, and something about the eyes that stared so implacably at him, brought to Girdwood’s mind a memory of the two deserters. ‘No.’ He had not meant to speak aloud. He shook his head, shrank back in his chair. ‘No!’

‘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!’

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.

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.