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.

CHAPTER 16

“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.”