Sharpe marched across the parade ground as though he were the Regimental Sergeant Major on a Royal parade. Damn Simmerson. He might as well have his face rubbed in the dirt. He cracked to a halt, saluted, and waited. Hill looked down on him, his round face shadowed by his large cocked hat.
“Captain Sharpe?”
“Sir!”
“You paraded the Battalion? Is that correct?”
“Sir!” Sharpe had learned as a Sergeant that repeating the word `sir’ with enough force and precision could get a man through most meetings with senior officers. Hill realised it too. He looked at his watch and then back at Sharpe. “The parade is thirty minutes early. Why?”
“The men seemed bored, sir. I thought some drill would do them good, so Captain Leroy and myself brought them out.”
Hill smiled; he liked the answer. He looked at the ranks standing immobile in the sunlight. “Tell me, Captain, did anyone refuse to parade?”
“Refuse, sir?” Sharpe sounded surprised. “No, sir.”
Hill looked at him keenly. “Not one man, Captain?”
“No, sir. Not one man.” Sharpe dared not look at Simmerson. Once more the Colonel was looking foolish. He had cried `mutiny’ to a General of Division only to find that a junior Captain had paraded the men. Sharpe sensed
Simmerson shifting uneasily on his saddle as Hill looked down shrewdly. “You surprise me, Captain.”
“Surprise, sir?”
Hill smiled. He had dealt with enough Sergeants in his life to know the game Sharpe was playing. “Yes, Captain. You see your Colonel received a letter saying that the men were refusing to parade. That’s called mutiny.”
Sharpe turned innocent eyes on Simmerson. “A letter, sir? Refusing to parade?” Simmerson glared at him; he would have killed Sharpe on the spot if he had dared. Sharpe looked back to Hill and let his expression change from innocent surprise to slow dawning of awareness. “I think that must be a prank, sir. You know how playful the lads get when they’re ready for battle.”
Hill laughed. He’d been beaten by enough Sergeants to know when to stop playing the game. “Good! Well, what a to-do about nothing! Today seems to be the South Essex’s day! This is the second parade I’ve attended in twelve hours. I think it’s time I inspected your men, Sir Henry.” Simmerson said nothing. Hill turned back to Sharpe. “Thank you, Captain. 95th, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve heard of you, haven’t I? Sharpe. Let me think.” He peered down at the Rifleman then snapped his fingers. “Of course! I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, Sharpe! Did you know the Rifles are on their way back?”
Sharpe felt his heart leap in excitement. “Here, sir?”
“They might even be in Lisbon by now. Can’t manage without the Rifles, eh, Simmerson?” There was no reply. “Which Battalion are you, Sharpe?”
“Second, sir.”
“You’ll be disappointed, then. The first are coming. Still, it’ll be good to see old friends again, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hill seemed genuinely happy to be chatting away. Over the General’s shoulder Sharpe caught a glimpse of Gib-bons 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 grin-ning and rode with Simmerson and his entourage to the centre of the parade ground.