Briggs held out the sword. Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood drew a few inches of the blade from the scabbard, saw that it had been polished, then handed it back to his servant who, with deferential hands, buckled it about his master’s waist.
‘Shako!’
That too was inspected. Girdwood levered the brass plate that bore the badge of the chained eagle away from the black cloth stovepipe of the shako’s crown and saw, to his pleasure, that Briggs had polished the back as well as the front of the badge. He put it on his head, checking in the mirror to see that it was perfectly straight, then buckled the chin strap.
Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood held his head high. He had no choice. He favoured the stiff leather four-inch stock that dug into the skin of a man’s chin. The new recruits, forced into the collar, would be unable to turn their heads because of the rigid leather, and within hours their skin would have been rubbed sore, even bleeding. Girdwood knew that the fighting Battalions had abandoned the stock, and he understood the wisdom of that, for the lack of it allowed a man to aim a musket more efficiently, but for a fresh recruit there was nothing like a good, stiff, neck-abrading stock. It made them keep their heads up, it made them look like soldiers, and should the bastards dare to run away, then the two red weals under their chin were as good as any brand to identify them.
‘Cane!’
Briggs gave the Colonel his polished cane, its silver head brilliant, and Girdwood gave it an experimental cut and heard the satisfying swish as it split the air.
‘Door!’
Briggs opened the door smartly, holding it at a right angle to the wall, and outside, exactly on the stroke of half past eleven as he should be, stood Captain Smith, one of Girdwood’s officers.
The Captain’s right boot slammed next to his left, he saluted.
‘Come in, Smith.’
‘Sir!’ Smith, who would accompany the Colonel on his noon inspection, reported that Sergeant Havercamp had returned from his Midlands foray. ‘Very successful, sir! Very! Forty-four men!’
‘Good.’ Girdwood’s face did not betray his elation at the good news. Twelve recruits was reckoned a good number for a Sergeant to bring back, but Horatio Havercamp had always been his best man. ‘You’ve seen them?’
‘Indeed, sir.’ Smith still stood at a rigid attention as Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood demanded.
Girdwood tucked his cane under his left arm. He leaned forward from the waist, and into his dark, small eyes came a look of almost feverish intensity. ‘Any Irish, Smith?’
‘One, sir.’ Smith’s voice, a trifle apologetic, managed to convey that the news was not entirely bad. ‘Just the one, sir.’
Girdwood growled. It was an odd noise that was intended to convey a threat. ‘We shall give them,’ he said slowly, and with some relish, ‘to Sergeant Lynch.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘And I will inspect them in twenty-three minutes.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Follow me.’
The sentries slammed to attention, saluted, and the sun glinted on the polished, gleaming moustache as Lieutenant Colonel Bartholomew Girdwood set out, with officers and clerks in attendance, on his noonday inspection.
‘You’ll say goodbye to me, lads.’ Sergeant Horatio Havercamp walked slowly down the line of his recruits. Each man was dressed in fatigues now; grey trousers, boots, and a short, thin, pale blue jacket. Havercamp brushed at his moustache. ‘But I shall be back, lads, come to see you when you’re soldiers.’ He stopped opposite Charlie Weller. ‘Keep the bleeding dog out the way, Charlie. The Colonel don’t like dogs.’
Weller, at whose side Buttons wagged his tail, looked worried. ‘Out the way, Sarge?’
‘I’ll have a word with the kitchens, lad. Can he rat?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
Havercamp walked on down the line, stopping at Giles Marriott. ‘You, lad. Keep your bleeding mouth shut.’ He said it in a kindly enough way. He disliked Marriott with the irrational dislike that some people engendered simply by their looks and manner, but, now that Havercamp was leaving the squad, he gave the lovesick clerk the same advice that Sharpe had given him. ‘Just keep your bloody nose clean.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
Havercamp punched Harper lightly in the belly. ‘You didn’t give me no trouble at all, did you?’
“Course not, Sarge.‘
‘Good luck, Paddy. Luck to you all, lads!’
And oddly it was sad to see him walk away, going for more recruits, leaving them in this strange place where everyone, except themselves, seemed to understand what happened and what was expected of them.
‘Left turn!’ a corporal shouted. ‘Let’s have you bastards! Move!’
Their clothes had been taken, labelled in sacks, they had been given their fatigues, and now they were issued with what the army called their Necessaries: gaiters, spare shoes, stockings, shirts, mittens, shoe-brush, foraging cap, and knapsack. Then, loaded down with the kit, they were taken, one by one, into a clerk’s hut and peremptorily told to sign a piece of paper that was thrust at each man.
Sharpe made his cross. Giles Marriott, inevitably, complained.
Harper, standing outside, heard the whining voice and groaned. ‘Stupid bastard!’
‘I protest!’ Marriott was shouting at the clerk. ‘It’s not fair!’
Nor was it. They had each been promised a bounty of twenty-three pounds, seventeen shillings and sixpence. Sergeant Havercamp had dazzled the recruits with his cascade of gold in Sleaford, and the guinea they had each received at their attestation had compounded the promise, but now came the reality.
The paper they signed confirmed that there was no bounty, or rather, that each recruit was deemed to have already spent it.
The army had charged them for their Necessaries. It had charged them for the food they had eaten on their journey, and for the ale and rum they had drunk in Sergeant Havercamp’s generous company. It charged them for the laundry they had not had washed, for the army hospitals at Chelsea and Kilmainham that most had never heard of and, by one deduction after another, it was proved to them that, far from the army owing them the balance of their bounty, the recruits all owed money which would be deducted from their pay.
Of course it was not fair, but the army would have no recruits unless it made the extravagant promise, and no money to fight the war if it kept it. Nevertheless, Sharpe had never known so much to be stripped from the bounty. Someone, he reflected as Marriott’s shrill protest continued, was making a fine profit from each recruit.
‘Filth!’ The voice came from behind them, startling them, making them turn to see a small, immaculately uniformed Sergeant pacing towards them with a face of such concentrated fury and hatred that the recruits instinctively shrank back, letting the small, dark-faced man stride into the clerk’s hut.
There was a shriek from inside, followed by a yelp of protest, then Marriott came backwards from the door, tripped, fell, and the Sergeant followed, slashed him about the head with his cane and kicked him in the shins with his gleaming boots.
‘Up, filth! Up!’
Marriott, shaking, stood. He was a head taller than the Sergeant who, once Marriott was standing, punched him in the belly. ‘You’ve got a complaint, filth?’
‘They promised us ...’
The sergeant punched him again, harder. ‘You’ve got a complaint, filth?’
‘No, Sergeant.’
‘I can’t hear you, filth!’
‘No, Sergeant!’ There were tears on Marriott’s cheeks.
The Sergeant snapped his head round to look at the other recruits, then past them to where Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood approached with his retinue. ‘Filth!’ He shouted at them all. ‘Fall in!’ I’
Lieutenant Colonel Bartholomew Girdwood was a man soured by life, a man mistreated by life, a man that few understood. He was a soldier, he regarded himself as a great soldier, but he had never, not once, been allowed to go into battle. The closest he had come to war had been in Ireland, but he
despised fighting against peasants; and even when the peasants had decimated his troops and run him ragged round the damp countryside, he had still despised them. Those he caught, he hanged, those he did not catch, he ignored. He dreamed only of fighting the French, and could not understand an army that had not allowed him to go to Spain.
‘Filth!’ The Sergeant screamed the word. ‘Shun!’
The recruits shuffled to attention. Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood, with his eye for military punctilio, noticed the two men who did it properly, whose thumbs were against the seams of their ragged trousers and whose heads and shoulders were back and whose feet were angled at a precise thirty degrees. Two old soldiers, two men easy to train, and two men who, because they knew all the tricks, he must watch like a hawk. He watched them now, seeing the scarred face of the older man and the hugeness of the younger, and he made the strange, snarling noise in his throat that was supposed to be a warning to them. He glared at the scarred man. ‘What regiment were you?’
Sharpe, who knew better than to stare into an officer’s face, was nevertheless fascinated by the rock hard, gleaming black moustache that contrasted so oddly with the white, scraped skin of Girdwood’s face. ‘Thirty-third, sir!’
‘Discharged?’
‘Sir!’
Girdwood glanced at the huge man, instinctively disliking Harper because he was so tall. ‘You?’
‘Fourth Dragoon Guards, sir!’
Sharpe, who was amused that Harper had chosen such an elegant regiment for his supposed past, sensed that Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood’s hostility had been increased by the big man’s answer. Girdwood made the odd, snarling noise in his throat once more, then tapped his left palm with the silver-topped cane. ‘The Royal Irish!’ He said it slowly, with savage dislike. ‘Then listen to me, soldier, this is not an Irish regiment. I’ll have none of your damned insolence here, do you understand me?’
‘Sir!’
‘None of it!’ Girdwood’s voice was a harsh shriek that startled the other recruits whom he glared at, staring at them one by one as if, by the sheer force of his dark, harsh gaze, he could fill them with fear and respect.
He seemed to stare at them for a long, long time, saying nothing, but in his head the angry thoughts uncoiled. Peasants, he thought, nothing but peasants! Scum, filth. Horrid, stinking, foul, stupid, lax, undisciplined scum. Civilians!
His gaze came back to Harper’s stolid, expressionless face. ‘Who’s the King of Ireland?’
‘King George, sir!’
Girdwood’s polished black moustache was level with the second button of Harper’s fatigue jacket. The Colonel glared up at the huge man. ‘And what are the rebels?’
Harper paused. Sharpe, standing next to him, prayed that the Irishman would lie. Harper, if an accident of hunger and fate had not driven him into the British Army, would doubtless have been one of the rebels who had fought so hopelessly against the British in Ireland. Harper, who liked his job, and who fought the French as enthusiastically as any man, had never lost his love for Ireland, any more than had most of the Irishmen who made up a third of Wellington’s army in Spain.
‘Well?’ Girdwood asked.
Harper chose dumb stupidity as his best tactic. ‘Don’t know, sir!’
‘Scum! Pig-shit! Bastards! Irish! That’s what they are! Sergeant Lynch!’
‘Sir!’ The small Sergeant who had so effectively silenced Giles Marriott took one pace forward. He looked as if he could have been Girdwood’s twin; they were two moustached, small, black-haired, manikins.
Girdwood pointed with his cane at Harper. ‘You’ll note this man, Sergeant Lynch?’
‘I’ll do that, sir!’
‘I’ll not have Irish tricks, by Christ I will not!’
‘No, sir!’
Sharpe, who was feeling relief that the Colonel had not demanded that Harper repeat his litany against the Irish rebels, now saw that the Colonel was staring with apparent shock towards the end of the line of recruits. Girdwood raised his cane. It was shaking. ‘Sergeant Lynch! Sergeant Lynch!’
Lynch turned. He too froze. When he spoke, in seemingly equal shock, his voice had a sudden touch of the Irish accent that he had worked so hard to lose. ‘A dog, sir? One of the filth has a dog, sir!’
Buttons, sensing the sudden interest in him, wagged his muddy tail, ducked his head, and started forward to be petted by these new men who stared at him.
Girdwood stepped back. ‘Get it away from me!’ His voice betrayed true panic.
Sergeant Lynch darted forward. Charlie Weller stepped forward too, but a corporal tripped him just as Sergeant Lynch kicked the dog, a brutal, rib-breaking kick that forced a yelp out of the animal and lifted it into the air to fly, screaming as it went, a full five yards away. Charlie Weller, his face aghast, tried to stand up, but the corporal kicked him in the head, and kicked again to keep the boy down.
Buttons, his ribs broken, came whimpering and limping back towards his master. He flinched away from Sergeant Lynch, but the Sergeant stood over the dog, lifted his heel and smashed it down onto the dog’s skull. Buttons shrieked again, the heel was forced slowly, grindingly down, and the recruits stood in horror as the dog slowly died.
It seemed to take a long time. No one spoke. The corporal pulled Weller upright, blood on the boy’s face, and pushed him, too stunned to resist, back into the line.
Sergeant Lynch smiled as the small dog stopped moving and Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood breathed a sigh of relief. Girdwood hated dogs. They were undisciplined, messy, and savage. He had been bitten as a child, after throwing a half-brick at a mastiff, and the terror had never gone. ‘Thank you, Sergeant!’
There was blood on Lynch’s right boot. ‘Only my duty, sir!’
The death of the dog had lifted Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood’s spirits from the depression caused by hearing Harper’s accent. Depression, for Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood had cause to hate Ireland. It was in that country, as a Captain, that he had been reprimanded by a Court of Enquiry held in Dublin Castle. Not just reprimanded, but dismissed from the Dublin garrison.
It had not been his fault! He had been ambushed! By God, it was not his fault! If His Majesty’s troops could not march in decent close order down an Irish highway, where could they march? They had been traitorous peasants, the men who shot from behind hedges and who had tumbled his men in blood on the sunken road while Captain Girdwood, screaming in anger, had ordered his redcoats to form line and fix bayonets, but by the time he had imposed decent order on his Company, the Irish bastards had gone. Gone! Run away! In other words, as he had told the Court, he had defeated them! ‘I was left master of the field,’ he had said, and was it not true?
The Court had thought not. They had passed him over for promotion, dismissed him from the garrison, reprimanded him, and recommended that Captain Bartholomew Girdwood be no longer employed in the service of His Majesty’s army.
He had taken his reprimand to Sir Henry Simmerson, Member of Parliament, Commissioner of the Excise, a man known to be a scourge of the lax discipline that was creeping into the army. And from that fortuitous meeting, in which their two minds were of such sweet accord, had come promotion and this opportunity. Sir Henry, with his friend, Lord Fenner, had purchased a Majority for Girdwood, then promoted him to Lieutenant Colonel, and presented him with a Battalion and with a chance to become wealthy. There was more to come. The war, Girdwood was assured by both Sir Henry and Lord Fenner, was ending, and he could look forward, thanks to their generosity and patronage, to a peacetime career of eminence and comfort. He would be married to Sir Henry’s niece; he would become rich, powerful, and, until then, he would continue to do the job that he believed he did better than any man alive; the job of turning undisciplined, lax civilians into soldiers. He shivered as he remembered the shock of seeing a dog, then smiled at his rescuer, Sergeant Lynch. ‘Carry on, Sergeant, and well done!’
One man in this camp hated the Irish more than the Colonel, and that was Sergeant John Lynch.
He had been christened Sean, but, just as he tried to lose the accent of his native Kerry, so he had lost his native name.
He modelled himself on Girdwood, seeing in the Lieutenant Colonel the quality of rigid discipline that had made Britain’s army victorious over the Irish rebels. Sergeant John Lynch wanted to be with the winners, and not just with them, but of them. Instead of being an Irish peasant forced to show unwilling respect to the English, he wished to be a man to whom that respect was shown. He had turned against his country with all the passion of a convert, exactly as he had abandoned his parents’ faith to become an Anglican. There could have been no man better suited to attract Patrick Harper’s hatred, or, indeed, the hatred of every man in the squad, for Sergeant John Lynch was a most harsh trainer of troops. Yet, as Sharpe grudgingly allowed, an effective one.
The training was done the old-fashioned way, by brutal discipline, punishment, and unrelenting hard work. Girdwood believed that what made a man stand in the musket line and fight outnumbering enemies was not pride, nor loyalty, nor patriotism, but fear of the alternative. He made soldiers, and, it was apparent, he made money too.
Indeed, within three days, it seemed to Sharpe that perhaps money was the reason for the camp’s secrecy. It was not just the way that Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood’s men had stolen the bounty from each recruit, but the way that, day after day, the debts piled up. At every inspection Sergeant Lynch would find a fault with a man’s Necessaries; a torn knapsack strap, a holed sock, and each fault would be noted and the cost of the item deducted against future pay. Sharpe guessed that no man at the camp received pay, that all of it was channelled into the hands of Girdwood. Such raids on men’s pay were quite normal in the army; half of every man’s wages was deducted for food alone; yet Sharpe had never seen it done on such a scale or with such enthusiastic rapacity.
Only the training was pursued with more enthusiasm, and Sharpe had not seen any camp in which recruits were worked so hard. They drilled from morning till sundown. The grammar of soldiering was hammered into them until the clumsiest recruit, after one week, could perform all the manoeuvres of Company drill. Only Tom, the half-wit, was considered untrainable and he was given to the Sergeants’ Mess as a cleaner.
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe's Honour, Sharpe's Regiment, Sharpe's Siege Page 42