“Yes, sir.”

Hill seemed genuinely happy to be chatting away. Over the General’s shoulder Sharpe caught a glimpse of Gibbons sitting disconsolate on his horse. The General slapped away a fly. “What do they say about the Rifles, eh. Captain?”

“First on the field and last off it, sir.”

Hill nodded. “That’s the spirit! So you’re attached to the South Essex, are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re in my division, Sharpe, very glad. Carry on!”

“Thank you, sir.” He saluted, about turned, and marched back towards the Light Company. As he went he heard Hill call out to the cavalry’s commanding officer. “You can go home! No business today!”

The General walked his horse down the ranks of the Battalion and talked affably with the men. Sharpe had heard much about ‘Daddy’ Hill and understood now why he had been given the nickname. The General had the knack of making every man think that he was cared for, seemed genuinely concerned about them, wanted them to be happy. There was no way in which he could not have seen the state of the Battalion. Even allowing for three weeks’ marching and the fight at the bridge, the men looked hastily turned out and sloppily dressed, but Hill turned a blind eye. When he reached the Light Company he nodded familiarly to Sharpe, joked about Harper’s height, made the men laugh. He left the company grinning and rode with Simmerson and his entourage to the centre of the parade ground.

“You’ve been bad lads! I was disappointed in you this morning!” He spoke slowly and distinctly so that-the flank companies, like Sharpe’s, could hear him clearly. “You deserve the punishment that Sir Henry ordered!” He paused. “But really you’ve done very well this afternoon! Early on parade!” There was a rustle of laughter in the ranks. “You seem very keen to get your punishment!” The laughter died. “Well, you’re going to be disappointed. Because of your behaviour this afternoon Sir Henry has asked me to cancel the punishment parade. I don’t think I agree with him but I’m going to let him have his way. So there will be no floggings.” There was a sigh of relief. Hill took another deep breath. “Tomorrow we march with our Spanish allies towards the French! We’re going to Talavera and there’s going to be a battle! I’m proud to have you in my division. Together we’re going to show the French just what being a soldier means!” He waved a benign hand at them. “Good luck, lads, good luck!”

They cheered him till they were hoarse, took off their shakoes and waved them at «the General, who beamed back at them like an indulgent parent. When the noise died down he turned to Simmerson.

“Dismiss them, Colonel, dismiss them. They’ve done well!”

Simmerson had no alternative but to obey. The parade was dismissed; the men streamed off the field in a buzz of talk and laughter. Hill trotted back towards the castle and Sharpe watched Simmerson and his group of officers ride after him. The man had been made to look foolish and he, Sharpe, would be blamed. The tall Rifleman walked slowly back towards the town, head down to discourage conversation. It was true that he had enjoyed discomfiting Simmerson, but the Colonel had asked for the treatment; he had not even bothered to check whether the men would refuse an order, he had simply screamed for the cavalry. Sharpe knew he had heaped too many insults on the Colonel and his nephew. Sharpe doubted now that Simmerson would be content with the letter that would be in Lisbon by now, waiting for a ship and a fair wind to carry the mail to London. The letter would blight Sharpe’s career, and unless he could perform a miracle in the battle that was coming nearer by the hour, then Simmerson would have the satisfaction of seeing Sharpe broken. But there was more to it now. There was honour and pride and a woman. He doubted if Gibbons would seek an honourable solution, he doubted if the Lieutenant would be satisfied by the letter his uncle had written, and he felt a shiver of apprehension at what might happen. The girl would be Gibbons’ target.

A man ran up behind him. “Sir?”

Sharpe turned. It was the burly man who had tried to stop the Battalion parading in the timber yard. “Yes?”

“I wanted to thank you, sir.”

“Thank me? For what?” Sharpe spoke harshly. The man was embarrassed. “We would have been shot, sir.”

“I would happily have given the order myself.”

“Then thank you, sir.”

Sharpe was impressed. The man could have kept silent. “What’s your name?”

“Huckfield, sir.” He was educated, and Sharpe was curious.

“Where did you get your education, Huckfield?”

“I was a clerk, sir, in a foundry.”

“A foundry?”

“Yes, sir. In Shropshire. We made iron, sir, all day and night. It was a valley of fire and smoke. I thought this might-be more interesting.”

“You volunteered!” Sharpe’s astonishment showed in his voice.

Huckfield grinned. “Yes, sir.”

“Disappointed?”

“The air’s cleaner, sir.” Sharpe stared at him. He had heard men talk of the new ‘industry’ that was springing up in Britain. They had described, like Huckfield, whole landscapes that were bricked over and dotted with the giant furnaces producing iron and steel. He had heard stories of bridges thrown over rivers, bridges made entirely of metal, of boats and engines that worked from steam, but he had seen none of these things. One night, round a camp fire, someone had said that it was the future and that the days of men on foot and on horseback were numbered. That was fantasy, of course, but here was Huckfield who had seen these things and the image of a country given over to great black machines with bellies of fire made Sharpe feel uncertain. He nodded to the man.

“Forget this afternoon, Huckfield. Nothing happened.”

He ignored the man’s thanks. Being uncertain of the future was the price a soldier paid. Sharpe could not imagine being in an army that was not at war; he could not imagine what he might do if there was suddenly a peace and he had no job. But before then there was a battle to fight and an Eagle to win and a girl to fight for. He climbed up into the streets of Oropesa.

CHAPTER 17

In sixteen years’ soldiering Sharpe had rarely felt such certainty that battle was about to be joined. The Spanish and British armies had combined at Oropesa and marched on to Talavera, twenty-one thousand British and thirty-four thousand Spanish, a vast army swollen by mules, servants, wives, children, priests, pouring eastwards to where the mountains almost met the River Tagus and the vast arid plain ended at the town of Talavera. The wheels of one hundred and ten field guns ground the white roads to fine dust, the hooves of over six thousand cavalry stirred the powder into the air where it clung to the infantry who trudged through the heat and listened to the far-off crackle as the leading Spanish skirmishers pushed aside the screen of French light troops. To left and right Sharpe could see other plumes of dust where cavalry patrols rode parallel to the line of march; closer by, in the fields, the Battalion saw small groups of Spanish soldiers who had fallen out of the march and now lay, apparently unconcerned, chatting with their women, smoking, watching the long columns of British infantry file past.

The men were hungry. Hard as Wellesley tried, thorough as the Commissary could be, nevertheless there was simply not enough food for the whole army. The area between Oropesa and Talavera had already been scoured by the French, now it was searched by Spanish and British, and the Battalion had only eaten ‘Tommies’, pancakes made from flour and water, since they left Oropesa the day before. It was a time for tightening belts, but the prospects of action had raised men’s spirits, and when the Battalion marched past the bodies of three French skirmishers they forgot their hunger at their first sight of French infantry.