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 Ess.e.x 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 b.u.g.g.e.rs. 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d. 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 c.o.c.king 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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 a.s.sume 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.

His face was full of disdain. 'If any of you are frightened of going to Spain and wish to stay with a properly const.i.tuted Second Battalion, give your name to the RSM. On your feet!' He waited till they were standing. 'Good evening.'

He left, stopping only to mutter a question to Harper. 'Any sign of Charlie?'

'Nothing, sir.'

'Don't wait if he has news. Just find me.'

'Yes, sir.'

Sharpe crossed to the office and there he gave much the same to the officers, though he also offered them a chance to resign their commissions this very night if they so wished. 'Just don't be here in the morning, you understand?'

There was silence. There were the two Captains; Smith the senior man, and Finch the junior, with six Lieutenants. They all looked old for their rank, and Sharpe supposed that Girdwood had hand-picked each of them. Doubtless they were filled with resentment against an army that had let younger men be promoted over them, that had even allowed a man from the ranks, Richard Sharpe, to be a Major. He was equally sure, though he did not yet have any proof, that their rancour had been a.s.suaged by generous payments from the profits of Foulness.

'I know what this place is." Not one of them, just like the sergeants, would catch his eye. 'You're b.l.o.o.d.y crimpers! Hardly a gentleman's trade, is it? And thieves.'

Captain Finch, his head still bandaged from the thump Harper had given him with his pistol b.u.t.t, looked angrily at Sharpe, but the Rifleman stared him down. 'I had to find this place by b.l.o.o.d.y joining up! And what do I find? Thieves masquerading as gentlemen. Common b.l.o.o.d.y criminals. You! Captain Smith?'

'Sir?' Captain Hamish Smith, five years older than Sharpe and with prematurely grey hair and sunken cheeks, looked timidly at the Rifleman.

'Where's the Battalion chest?'

'In that cupboard, sir.'

'Open it.'

'The chest is locked, sir. Colonel has the key.'

Sharpe took his rifle. They watched in silence as, with the practised, quick efficiency of a trained Rifleman, he loaded the gun. When the rifle was primed, he opened the cupboard, dragging the great, padlocked chest onto the floor, and held the muzzle against the steel padlock.

They flinched as the bullet ripped the hasp away from the chest with a burst of splinters and a shrieking of torn metal. 'You! Tell me your name again.' Sharpe pointed to a tall, long-faced Lieutenant who had been guarding the bridge when Sharpe arrived and who still looked shocked from the savage words that had answered his challenge there.

'Mattingley, sir.'

'Count the contents.'

Sharpe had kicked the lid open. He could see bags of coin and a pile of banknotes, but he could see no ledgers or papers. Lieutenant Price, in his search of this office, had likewise found no incriminating doc.u.ments. The only proof Sharpe had, at this moment, of Sir Henry Simmerson and Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood's illegalities was the Battalion itself. The proof he so desperately needed was not here, and he prayed that d'Alembord would find it in Girdwood's quarters.

He gave the orders for the next day as Mattingley counted the money. When the orders were given, he stared at each man in turn. 'I will say one last thing. I do not know, nor do I much care, whether the army will punish your thievery and crimping. I do know this. The att.i.tude of the Horse Guards will be much affected by the behaviour of this Mess over the next few days.' The truth was that he could not control the Battalion without these men or the sergeants, and, though he despised them and would have gladly seen each one broken and dismissed, he needed them. 'My object, gentlemen, is simple. I wish our Regiment to be part of the invasion of France. It is to that purpose that I am here, and if you help me in that purpose then I will do what I can to ensure your own personal survival.' He looked at Mattingley. 'How much?'

'Two hundred and four guineas in coin, sir. Forty-eight pounds in note.'

'This room will be locked and guarded tonight. If I find anything missing, any papers, any money, then I will know who to question. Captain Smith? I'll trouble you to stay here. The rest of you gentlemen are dismissed.'

He watched them file from the door. d'Alembord waited outside and Sharpe gestured for him to enter. 'Anything?'

'Nothing, sir.' d'Alembord had searched Girdwood's quarters, even those of his servant. 'Except some poetry.' He grinned, and it was a relief to Sharpe, after the last half hour, to hear an honest voice with humour in it.

'Poetry?'

'He's written reams of it, sir, very much of the drums of battle variety. The word rattle comes in frequently as a convenient rhyme,' d'Alembord smiled. 'But no papers. He's also given his word that he won't leave his quarters tonight.'

'But no papers, Dally?'

d'Alembord smiled sympathetically at Sharpe's disappointment. 'I fear not, sir.'

So Sharpe was still without written proof. He swore softly, told d'Alembord to sit, then, with Smith's help, went through Girdwood's charts and training records to determine which men were ready for battle, and which not. That news, at least, was satisfying. Two hundred and forty-three men, including the two guard Companies, were either fully, or close to being fully trained. d'Alembord smiled. 'It's enough, sir.'

'More than.' Sharpe rubbed his eyes. He had stayed too late in Vauxhall Gardens, and had had small sleep. 'I want those guard Companies broken up in the morning, Dally.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Form the trained men into four Companies. The rest stay in their squads. You take one Company, Harry another.' He paused. He needed two more Company commanders. 'What are those lads at Chelmsford like, Dally?'

'Carline might do.' d'Alembord said it grudgingly. 'Merrill and Pierce are b.l.o.o.d.y milksops.'

'We'll give Carline one Company, the other will have to wait.'

'Yes, sir.'

Sharpe saw the pathetic eagerness on Captain Smith's face to be given the fourth Company. He ignored it for the moment, drawing to him, instead, the great piles of attestation forms that Price had discovered in this office. There was one for each man and, just as when Sharpe had made his mark on one of these forms in Sleaford, none of them had the name of the Regiment filled in. 'Dally. Find some clerks. Put the First Battalion, South Ess.e.x, on every G.o.d-d.a.m.ned form. And lose O'Keefe and Vaughn from the pile, will you?'

d'Alembord looked at the huge pile, and nodded. He knew how important the task was. Once at Chelmsford the Battalion was still not safe from Lord Fenner, but if these forms, above a magistrate's signature, stated that the men were part of the First Battalion, then they would const.i.tute some kind of proof that the men existed and might confuse whichever officer tried to march away the Second Battalion. Sharpe would guard these forms well, staying with them until his proof had reached Lady Camoynes in London. If the proof ever came.

d'Alembord left with the attestations and Sharpe stood up. He paced up and down the floor, watching the grey-haired captain who sat miserable and ashamed in one of Girdwood's stiff chairs. He was also, Sharpe could see, eager to please his new master.

'How much money, Smith, did Girdwood fetch for each man?'

Hamish Smith blushed. He spoke reluctantly. 'Fifty pounds.'

'That's what I thought.' Sharpe did not betray the sudden relief he felt because that answer was the first direct proof he had that the Battalion had been crimping. He had Jane Gibbons' word, and that of Lady Camoynes, but Smith was the first man of the Battalion to confirm it.

'Of course it varied.' Smith was rubbing his hands together, twining his fingers, fidgeting unhappily. 'Some auctions were more profitable.'

'Who bought them?'

'Foreign postings,' Smith shrugged. 'West Indies mostly, some in Africa.'

That made sense. The regiments posted to the West Indies lost far more men than the regiments in Spain, most of them to the dreaded yellow fever. Recruits were hard, almost impossible to find, and by selling men to such regiments Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood had made sure that the evidence of his peculation was carried far away to an early grave.

Smith looked sheepishly up at Sharpe. 'I'm sorry, sir.'

'You're sorry! Christ Almighty! What about the men you've sent abroad!' There was no answer. 'Why did you do it?'