“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.