“Come on! Move yourselves!”
The Sergeants, a dozen of them, came sheepishly to the fire. Sharpe was suddenly aware of the scorching heat of the blaze; added to the sun it was breaking his back into a prickly sweat. The Sergeants shuffled to a halt. Sharpe spoke loudly. “You’ve got two minutes. I want everyone on parade, in this yard, properly dressed. The men to be flogged wearing shirts and trousers only. Grenadier Com-pany by the gate, the rest formed on them. Move!”
They hesitated. Sharpe took a step towards them and they suddenly snapped into action. He turned and walked into the crowded men. “On your feet! You’re on parade! Hurry up!”
The burly man tried one last protest, and Sharpe whipped round on him. “You want more bloody execu-tions? Move!”
It was all over. Some of the drunker men needed kicking onto their feet but the little fight had gone out of them. Leroy joined Sharpe and, with the Sergeants, they dressed the companies. The men looked a mess. Their uniforms were unbrushed, spotted with sawdust, their belts stained and muskets dirty. Some of the men were pale with drink. Sharpe had rarely seen a Battalion in worse parade order, but that was better than a mutinous rabble being chased by the efficient German cavalry.
Leroy swung open the gates, Sharpe gave the order, and the Battalion marched out in formation to line up on the Light Company. Forrest was outside. His mouth dropped as the first company emerged. He had a handful of officers and other Sergeants with him, and they ran to their companies and shouted orders. The Battalion began to march crisply; the Sergeant Major hammered them into place, stood them at ease, stood the ranks easy. Sharpe marched up to Forrest’s horse, snapped to attention, and saluted.
“Battalion on parade, sir!”
Forrest looked down on him. “What happened?”
“Happened, sir? Nothing.”
“But I was told they refused to parade.”
Sharpe pointed at the Battalion. The men were pulling their uniforms into shape, brushing the worst dirt off their jackets, punching their shakoes into shape. Forrest stared at them and back to Sharpe. “He’s not going to like this.”
“The Colonel, sir?”
Forrest grinned. “He’s coming here with the cavalry, Sharpe. And General Hill.” Forrest checked his grin; it was unseemly, but Sharpe understood his amusement. Sim-merson would be furious; he had disturbed a General, roused a Regiment of cavalry, and all for a mutiny that had not happened. The thought pleased Sharpe.
The Battalion stood in the heat, the bells in the town marked five o’clock and quarter past; they dusted their uniforms as well as they could. Perhaps half the officers were present, they dribbled in from the town, but the rest were with Simmerson. As the clock struck the half hour there was the thunder of hooves, a cloud of dust, and in a display of force calculated to demoralise the supposedly mutinying troops the blue-uniformed Dragoons of the King’s German Legion galloped onto the market square. They were splendidly turned out in their blue jackets, fur-trimmed pelisses and, on their heads, brown fur colbacks. Their sabres were drawn and they rode straight for the timber yard. Slowly it dawned on them that it was empty and that the heads they had been sent to break were on parade. Orders were shouted, horses turned, the cavalry subsided into an embarrassed silence and watched the gaggle of redcoated horsemen follow them onto the market place: Colonel Sir Henry Simmerson with Major General Rowland Hill, aides de camp, officers of the Battalion like Gibbons and Berry, and behind them a gaggle of other mounted officers who had come to see the excitement. They all stopped and stared. Simmerson peered into the timber yard, looked back at the parade, and then once more into the yard. The Sergeant Major took his cue from Forrest.
“Talion! ‘Shun!”
The Battalion of Detachments snapped to attention. The Sergeant Major filled his chest.
“Talion! Shoulder arms!”
The three movements were perfectly timed. There was only the sound of six-hundred palms slapping six hundred muskets in unison.
“Talion will make the General Salute!” There was a General present. “Present arms!”
Sharpe swept his sword into the salute. Behind him the companies slammed the ground with their feet, the muskets dipped in glorious precision, the parade quivered with pride. ‘Daddy` Hill saluted back. The Sergeant Major shouldered the Battalion’s arms, ordered them, and stood the men at ease. Sharpe watched Forrest ride his horse to Simmerson and salute. He could see gesticulations but could hear nothing. Hill seemed to be asking the questions and Sharpe saw Forrest turn in his saddle and point in the direction of the Light Company. The pointed arm turned into a beckoning one. “Captain Sharpe!”