be outdone, fired their pieces and the night was filled with the noise.
Harper shivered with the cold. ‘I’ll pray for another miracle.’
‘What?’
‘A chance to get Hakeswill.’ He nodded towards the city. ‘In one of those little alleyways. I’ll tear his bloody head off.’
‘What makes you think we’ll get through the wall?’
Harper gave a humourless laugh. ‘You don’t really think we can fail, do you?’
‘No.’ But then he had not really thought he could lose his Captaincy, had not thought he could lose the Company, and not in his worst dreams had he ever thought he would have to stand and watch Patrick Harper being flogged. The cold, wet night drummed on, bringing the bad dreams true.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rain, and more rain, increasing in vehemence, so by dawn it was seen that the river had flooded, was foaming white and high on the stone arches of the old bridge and, far more seriously, had swept the pontoon bridge downstream.
‘Company!’ The last syllable was drawn out, mingling with the shouts of other Sergeants. ‘Shun!’
‘Stand still! Eyes front!’
A jingle of bridles and bits brought the Battalion’s senior officers into the cleared space at the centre of the paraded Companies. Two sides of the rectangle were each formed by three Companies; four Companies were paraded on one long side and faced the solitary wooden triangle.
‘Order arms!’ Again and again. Hands slapped on wet wood, the brass hilts slopped into the muck. Rain slanted on the ranks.
Sergeants marched stiffly through the sludge, slammed into attention and saluted. ‘Company on parade, sir!’ The mounted Captains, miserable in their cloaks, acknowledged.
‘Battalion ready for punishment parade, sir!’
‘Very good, Major. At ease.’
‘’Talion!’ Collett’s voice rode over wind and rain. ‘Stand at … ease!’ There was a convulsive shuffle in the mud.
Sharpe, his head foul from the night’s drinking, had paraded with the Light Company. Rymer was embarrassed, but it was Sharpe’s place, and Hakeswill’s yellow face was expressionless. A pulse throbbed beneath the livid scar on the Sergeant’s neck. Daniel Hagman, the old Rifleman, had come to Sharpe before the parade and told him that the Company was mutinous. It was doubtless an exaggeration, but Sharpe could see the men were sullen, angry and, above all, shocked. The only good news was that Windham had cut the punishment to sixty lashes. Major Hogan had paid the Colonel a visit and, although the Engineer had failed to persuade Windham of Harper’s innocence, he had impressed him by describing Harper’s record. The Battalion waited in the sweeping rain, full of cold misery.
‘’Talion! Shun!’ Another shuffle and Harper appeared between two guards. The Irishman was stripped to the waist, showing the massive muscles of his arms and chest. He walked easily, ignoring the rain and mud, and grinned towards the Light Company. He seemed the least concerned man on the parade.
They lashed his wrists high on the triangle, spread his legs and tied them at the base, and then a Sergeant pushed the folded leather between Harper’s teeth so that he would not bite his tongue off in the pain. The Battalion’s doctor, a sickly man with a streaming nose, gave Harper’s back a cursory inspection. He was obviously healthy. A leather strip was tied round his kidneys, the doctor nodded miserably at Collett, the Major spoke to Windham, and the Colonel nodded. ‘Carry on!’
The drumsticks came down on soggy skins. The Sergeant nodded at the two lads. ‘One!’
Sharpe remembered it. His own flogging had been in a village square in India. He had been tied to an ox-cart, not a triangle, but he remembered the first slashing cut with the leather thongs, the involuntary arching of the back, the teeth grinding into the leather, and the surprise that it was not as bad as he had expected. He had almost got used to the blows, was feeling confident, and resented it when the doctor stopped the lashes to check that he was still capable of receiving more punishment. Later, the pain had blurred. It had begun to hurt, really to hurt, as the lashes tore at the skin and the alternate blows, from two sides, ripped and frayed till the watching Battalion saw the glint of bone laid open as the blood dripped on to the village dust.
God! It had hurt!
The South Essex watched in silence. The drums, their skins stretched by the rain, could hardly be heard; they were like the muffled beats of a funeral. The lashes sounded soggy as they drew blood, the Sergeant in charge of the flogging chanted the numbers, and in the background the French guns fired on.
The drummer boys paused. The doctor stepped close to Harper’s back, sneezed, and nodded to the Sergeant.
‘Twenty-five!’
The rain diluted the blood.
‘Twenty-six!’
Sharpe looked at Hakeswill. Was there a glint of triumph in the face? It was impossible to tell. The face twitched in a spasm.
‘Twenty-seven!’
Harper turned his head to face the Light Company. He was not moving at all as the blows hit him. He spat out the leather gag, grinned at them.
‘Twenty-eight! Harder!’
A drummer boy used all his strength. Harper grinned even wider.
‘Stop it!’ Collett stepped his horse forward. ‘Put the gag in!’
They pushed the leather back in Harper’s mouth, but he spat it out again, and grinned through the punishment. There was an appreciative murmur from the Light Company, almost a laugh, and they saw that Harper was chatting to the drummer boys. The bastard had beaten the punishment! Sharpe knew it was hurting him, but knew that Harper’s pride would not let it show, would only let him pretend a total unconcern.
The punishment finished, made almost farcical by Harper’s unbelievable bravery. ‘Cut him down!’
Sharpe had seen men crumple to the ground after just two dozen strokes, but Harper stepped away from the cut thongs, still grinning, and did nothing more than massage his wrists. The doctor asked him a question and the Irishman laughed, refused the offer of a blanket to be draped over his bleeding back, and turned to follow his escort off the parade.
‘Private Harper!’ Windham had spurred his horse forward.
‘Sir?’ There was almost a contempt in Harper’s voice.
‘You’re a brave man. Here.’ Windham tossed a gold coin towards the Ulsterman. For a brief fraction of a second it seemed as if Harper might ignore the coin, then a huge hand whipped up, snatched it from the air, and he gave the Colonel his big, infections grin. ‘Thank you, sir.’
The Battalion gave a low, collective sigh of relief. Windham must have realized, even as the punishment was happening, that he was flogging the most popular man in the Battalion.
