Harper raised his voice. ‘My name, filth, is Sergeant Major Patrick Augustine Harper, of Donegal and proud of it, and of the First Battalion of the South Essex and proud of that too. You, Sergeant Lynch, will repeat after me; God save Ireland!’
‘God save Ireland,’ Sergeant Lynch said.
‘I can’t hear you!’
‘God save Ireland!’
‘It’s grand to hear you say it, John! Just grand!’ Harper looked past Lynch and saw the squad grinning at him, slouching in their ranks. ‘No one stood you at ease! Shun!’ They snapped to attention. Charlie Weller was staring at Harper as if the huge Irishman had just landed on a broomstick. Harper winked at him, then looked again at the Sergeant. ‘What were you saying to me, Johnny Lynch?’
‘God save Ireland.’
‘Louder, now!’
‘God save Ireland!’
‘Amen. And may the Holy Father pray for your soul, John Lynch, because, by Christ, it’s in danger from me.’ Harper turned away from him, took a great breath, and shouted across the parade ground. “Talion! ‘Talion will form line on number one Company. To my orders! Wait for it!’ Officers stared. Sergeant Major Brightwell began striding over the vast area, but Harper’s voice seemed to double in intensity. ‘No one told you to move, you great lump! Stand still!’
It was grand to be alive, Harper thought, just grand! Even to be a soldier in this army had its moments of pure joy. He grinned, filled his lungs again, and ordered the Battalion to form up on parade.
* * *
‘Private Weller!’ Sharpe had ridden to the front of the parade. Harper stood beside him. ‘Weller! Here! March, lad! Don’t run!’
Weller, grinning like an imp, marched to Sharpe, stamped to attention, and stared up at the Rifleman as if he did not believe what he saw. Sharpe smiled at him. ‘My name, Charlie, is Major Richard Sharpe. You call me “sir”.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the Sergeant Major has instructions for you. Listen to him.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sharpe left them, riding his horse slowly forward and staring at the Battalion which, dressed in its blue and grey, was stretched over the parade ground. He came from the east so that the setting sun was on his face and, dazzled by it, he could hardly see their faces. He looked down at Brightwell, and the man stared up at Sharpe with horror in his eyes. ‘Sergeant Major?’
‘Sir?’
‘Punishment order. Now!’
Brightwell ordered the Companies to form three sides of a hollow square. His voice was uncertain as he did it, an uncertainty that was reflected on the faces of the sergeants and officers. They had all heard the words “punishment order”.
Sharpe turned and saw Charlie Weller running off the parade ground. ‘Sergeant Major Harper?’
‘Sir?’
‘Stand the men at ease.’
The men watched him. Sharpe estimated there were more than five hundred men here, enough to be considered a full Battalion in Spain, and he hoped that sufficient of them were trained to take their places in the line. He had ordered them into punishment order, not because he planned any action against the sergeants or officers, but because it was the most convenient formation for every man to hear his voice. ‘Take your stocks off!’
They obeyed. Some grinned, others looked worried. Some, a few, recognised him as Private Vaughn, and others listened to the sudden rush of whispers that went through the Battalion like a wind through standing corn.
‘Quiet!’ Harper’s voice brought an instant silence.
Sharpe rode forward. ‘My name is Major Richard Sharpe. I come from the First Battalion of this Regiment in Spain. I am going to take some of you back to Spain.’ He let that sink in as he turned and watched the faces of the men on the flanks, the only ones who were not silhouettes in front of the setting sun. ‘Tomorrow we begin our journey! We will be going to Chelmsford. In a few weeks, perhaps less, some of you will go to our First Battalion with myself and with Regimental Sergeant Major Harper. You may have heard of him. He once captured an Eagle from the French!’
The sergeants, he could see, were staring in shock at Harper. The officers looked white.