Wellesley nudged his horse forward and stared down as the prisoner’s bonds were cut loose. ‘Private Sharpe?’ He spoke with utter disdain, as though he dirtied himself by even addressing Sharpe.
Sharpe looked up, blinked, then made a guttural noise. Bywaters ran forward and worked the gag out of Sharpe’s mouth. Freeing the pad took some manipulation, for Sharpe had sunk his teeth deep into the folded leather. ‘Good lad now,’ Bywaters said softly, ‘good lad. Didn’t cry, did you? Proud of you, lad.’ The Sergeant Major at last managed to work the gag free and Sharpe tried to spit.
‘Private Sharpe?’ Wellesley’s disdainful voice repeated.
Sharpe forced his head up. ‘Sir?’ The word came out as a croak. ‘Sir,’ he tried again and this time it sounded like a moan.
Wellesley’s face twitched with distaste for what he was doing. ‘You’re to be fetched to General Harris’s tent. Do you understand me, Sharpe?’
Sharpe blinked up at Wellesley. His head was spinning and the pain in his body was vying with disbelief at what he heard and with rage against the army.
‘You heard the Colonel, boy,’ Bywaters prompted Sharpe.
‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe managed to answer Wellesley.
Wellesley turned to Micklewhite. ‘Bandage him, Mister Micklewhite. Put a salve on his back, whatever you think best. I want him compos mentis within the hour. You understand me?’
‘Within an hour!’ the surgeon said in disbelief, then saw the anger on his young Colonel’s face. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said swiftly, ‘within an hour, sir.’
‘And give him clean clothes,’ Wellesley ordered the Sergeant Major before giving Sharpe one last withering look and spurring his horse away.
The last of the ropes holding Sharpe to the tripod were cut away. Shee and the officers watched, all of them wondering just what extraordinary business had caused a summons to General Harris’s tent. No one spoke as the Sergeant Major plucked away the last strands of rope from Sharpe’s right wrist, then offered his own hand. ‘Here, lad. Hold onto me. Gendy now.’
Sharpe shook his head. ‘I’m all right, Sergeant Major,’ he said. He was not, but he would be damned before he showed weakness in front of his comrades, and double damned before he showed it in front of Sergeant Hakeswill who had watched aghast as his victim was cut down from the triangle. ‘I’m all right,’ Sharpe insisted and he slowly pushed himself away from the tripod, then, tottering slighdy, turned and took three steps.
A cheer sounded in the Light Company.
‘Quiet!’ Captain Morris snapped. ‘Take names, Sergeant Hakeswill!’
‘Take names, sir! Yes, sir!’
Sharpe staggered twice and almost fell, but he forced himself to stand upright and then to take some steady steps towards the surgeon. ‘Reporting for bandaging, sir,’ he croaked. Blood had soaked his trousers, his back was carnage,
but he had recovered most of his wits and the look he gave the surgeon almost made Micklewhite flinch because of its savagery.
‘Come with me, Private,’ Micklewhite said.
‘Help him! Help him!’ Bywaters snapped at the drummer boys and the two sweating lads dropped their whips and hurried to support Sharpe’s elbows. He had managed to remain upright, but Bywaters had seen him swaying and feared he was about to collapse.
Sharpe half walked and was half carried away. Major Shee took off his hat, scratched his greying hair, and then, unsure what he should do, looked down at Bywaters. ‘It seems we have no more business today, Sergeant Major.’
‘No, sir.’
Shee paused. It was all so irregular.
‘Dismiss the battalion, sir?’ Bywaters suggested.
Shee nodded, glad to have been given some guidance. ‘Dismiss them, Sergeant Major.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sharpe had survived.
CHAPTER 4
It seemed airless inside General Harris’s tent. It was a large tent, as big as a parish marquee, and though both its wide entrances had been brailed back there was no wind to stir the damp air trapped under the high ridge. The light inside the big tent was yellowed by the canvas to the colour of urine and gave the grass underfoot a dank unhealthy look.
Four men waited inside the tent. The youngest and most nervous was William Lawford who, because he was a mere lieutenant and by far the most junior officer present, was sitting far off to one side on a gilt chair of such spindly and fragile construction it seemed a miracle that it had survived its transport on the army’s wagons. Lawford scarcely dared move lest he draw attention to himself, and so he sat awkward and uncomfortable as the sweat trickled down his face and dripped onto the crown of his cocked hat which rested on his thighs.