‘You are therefore dismissed from duty this night! Reveille will be at three in the morning, we march at five! You will pack your kit this night. Your stocks you will throw away. You will not be charged for their loss.’ That caused a small, uncertain cheer that grew when they realised that neither Harper nor Sharpe was inclined to stop it.
Sharpe waited. ‘Officers will report to the Lieutenant Colonel’s office in five minutes! Sergeants to their Mess at the same time. Sergeant Major Harper! Dismiss the parade!’
Harper stepped forward, but before he could shout the dismissal order, a voice interrupted him. A strong voice, coming from the left of the Battalion, as Sergeant Horatio Havercamp filled his lungs. ‘Three cheers for Major Sharpe, lads! Hip, hip, hip!’
They cheered. Havercamp, with the same instinctive skill with which he dazzled crowds at country fairs, had read the Battalion’s mood and now, as the last cheer died, and as Sharpe rode across to the big, red-moustached man, Havercamp grinned up at the officer. ‘Welcome back, sir!’ Sharpe considered the Sergeant. A rogue, no doubt, but a clever one. Havercamp smiled. ‘I told you I’d have to call you “sir”, sir.’
Sharpe crossed the index and middle fingers of his right hand. He kept his voice low. ‘Like that, aren’t we, Horatio? Many’s the time we’ve shared ajar of ale, many’s the time I’ve told you not to call me “sir”?’
Havercamp laughed, not in the least abashed at being reminded of his Sleaford claims. ‘I was telling just as much truth that day as you, sir.’
‘Then we shall have to have a truthful talk in the morning, Sergeant Havercamp.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Havercamp paused, then raised his voice so that the Battalion could hear him. ‘And I told you so, sir.’
‘Told me what?’
‘Any of you could become an officer! Really quick!’
The men laughed, and Sharpe, hearing it, was glad. Men who laughed were men who could fight, and he began to believe that if he could just find the proof that a green-eyed lady needed, then the South Essex was anything but doomed. He had bluffed Girdwood, he had taken over the Battalion, and now all that stood between Sharpe and success were the hidden records. ‘Regimental Sergeant Major!’
‘Sir?’
‘Dismiss!’
Sharpe pulled the reins of his horse and wheeled towards the offices. He was not a gambler, but he was taking a risk as great as any he had ever taken before the guns in Spain. He put his heels back and rode to save his regiment.
CHAPTER 15
The sergeants stood to attention as Sharpe came in. None, except for Horatio Havercamp, caught his eye. Some flinched when Harper slammed the door. The huge Irishman’s boots were loud on the wooden floor as he went to stand behind and to one side of Sharpe.
Sharpe, as the silence stretched almost unbearably, counted thirty-one men in the room. He had decided to start here, letting the officers sweat in Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood’s old office. These men, the sergeants, were the men who really ran this camp. They were the trainers, the disciplinarians, the workers who took boys and made them into soldiers. Nine officers were more than sufficient for Foulness, but Sharpe knew that Girdwood would have needed as many sergeants as he could find.
He spoke softly, ‘You may sit.’
Awkwardly, as if every noise they made might attract unwelcome attention, they perched on chairs or tables. Some remained standing.
Sharpe waited. He looked at each of them, again letting the silence put fear in them, and when he did speak, his voice was savage. ‘Every one of you is going to die.’ That froze them. Whatever they had been expecting, it was not that. They seemed hardly able to breathe as they stared at him. ‘You’re going to die because you’re useless buggers. A dozen of you against one man!’ He gestured at Harper. ‘And you lost! You think the French are weaklings? You couldn’t even catch the two of us! We ran circles round you! You feeble bastards! Brightwell!’
‘Sir?’ The Sergeant Major was sitting stiffly in an old armchair which trailed tufts of horsehair.