Sharpe was astonished that Marriott had spoken, the young man had hardly opened his mouth since he had come to the inn to get his shilling. 'No, Sharpe shrugged. 'But it's quicker than turning him over to a magistrate.
'You've been in before?
'Yes.
'What's it like?
'You'll be all right. Sharpe smiled and drank the mug of tea that was their breakfast. 'You can read and write. You'll become a clerk.
Charlie Weller was petting his dog. 'I want to fight!
Marriott still stared at Havercamp, who was shutting the yard gate on the bruised, bleeding man. 'They shouldn't behave like that.
Sharpe wanted to laugh aloud at the hurt words, but instead he looked sympathetically at the frightened young man. 'Listen! Havercamp's not bad. You're going to meet much worse than him. Just remember a few rules and they can't touch you.
'What?
'Never step out of line, never complain, never look into a sergeant's or an officer's eyes, and never say anything except yes or no. Got it?
'I don't understand.
'You will, Harper said. He had come back from the pump in the yard under which he had dunked his head so that the water now streamed down his face and soaked his thin, torn shirt. 'By God you will, lad.
'You! Paddy! It was Sergeant Havercamp's voice, booming over the yard. 'Turn round!
Harper obeyed. The water had soaked the thin shirt to his hugely muscled back and showed, through its thin weave, the scars that lay over his spine. Sergeant Havercamp grinned beneath his red moustache. 'Paddy, Paddy, Paddy! Why didn't you tell me?
'Tell you what, Sarge?
'You served, didn't you? You're an old soldier, Paddy!
'You never asked me! Harper said indignantly.
'What regiment?
'Fourth Dragoon Guards.
Havercamp stared at him. 'Now you didn't scamper, did you, Paddy?
'No, Sarge.
Havercamp stepped a pace closer. 'And you're not going to give me any trouble, are you, Paddy? Havercamp, wary of the huge man, was nevertheless resentful of all the beer he had poured into Harper's throat in an attempt to make him join an army that, obviously, the big Irishman had wanted to rejoin all along.
'No, Sarge.
'Cos I'm bleeding watching you.
Harper smiled, waited until Havercamp was a pace away, then spoke. 'Bastard! He said it just loud enough for Havercamp to hear, and just softly enough for the Sergeant to pretend that he had not. Harper laughed and looked at Marriott. 'I'll tell you one other thing, lad.
'What? Marriott's face was pale with worry.
'Just remember that all the officers and a good few of the sergeants are bloody terrified of you.
'All the officers? Sharpe said indignantly.
'Well, almost all, Harper laughed. He was enjoying himself. He picked Buttons up, fondled the dog, and grinned at Sharpe. 'Isn't that right, Dick?
'You're full of bloody Irish wind, you are, Paddy.
Harper laughed. 'It's the English air.
'On your feet! Sergeant Havercamp shouted. 'Come on, you bastards! Get on your plates of meat! Move!
Sharpe was wondering whether he and Harper would have to jump. It could be done, he knew, simply by overpowering the slack guard that watched them each night. He feared it would be necessary because every southwards step seemed to be taking them towards Chelmsford and he could not imagine the ignominy of being delivered to Captain Carline and his plump Lieutenants. Sharpe had embarked on this deception in the belief that they would be taken to wherever the Second Battalion was hidden, yet Sergeant Havercamp was inexorably leading them towards the Chelmsford barracks.
Then, at a large village called Witham, and to Sharpe's relief, Sergeant Havercamp took them off the Chelmsford road. The Sergeant was in high spirits. He made them march in step, putting Sharpe and Harper at the front and the corporals at the back. ‘Ill teach you buggers to be soldiers. Left! Left! One of the drummer boys tapped the pace with his stick.
They spent their last night of travel in a half empty barn. Havercamp had them up early, and they marched in the dawn into a landscape like none Sharpe had seen before in England.
It was a country of intricate rivers, streams, marshes, a country loud with the cry of gulls telling Sharpe they were close to the sea. There was a smell of salt in the air. The grass was coarse. Once, far off to his left, he saw the wind whipping a grey sea white towards a great expanse of mud, then the view disappeared as Sergeant Havercamp turned them inland once more.
They marched through flat farmlands where the few trees had been bent westwards by the wind from the sea. They crossed the fords of sluggish rivers that ran in wide, muddy beds to meet the salt tide. The houses, low and squat, had weatherboards painted a malevolent black, while the churches were visible far over the flat land.
'Where are we? Harper asked. He and Sharpe still led the small procession as Havercamp turned them eastwards again, into the wind with its smell of salt and its lonely sounds of seabirds.
'Somewhere in Essex. Sharpe shrugged. No milestones marked the road they now walked, and no fingerboards pointed to a village or town. The only landmark now was a great house, brick built, with spreading, elegant wings on either side of its three-storeyed main block. On the house's roof was an intricate weather-vane. The house was two miles away, a lonely place, and Sharpe wondered, as they marched along the deserted road towards the great, isolated building, whether the house was their destination.
'Fall out! Fast now! Fall out! Sergeant Havercamp was suddenly bawling from the back of the line. 'Into the ditch! Come on! Hurry, hurry, hurry, you bastards! Into the ditch! Fall out!
Corporal Clissot pushed Sharpe, who stumbled into Harper so that both of them fell into the ditch that was stinking with green slime. They sat up to their waists in the foul water, and watched as a carriage and four came towards them. Giles Marriott, who had shown in the last two days a distressing urge to stand up for what he saw as his rights, protested at having to stand in the ditch, but Havercamp unceremoniously kicked him into the foul sludge, then jumped the obstacle, turned smartly in a turnip field, and stood to attention with his right hand saluting the carriage.
Two coachmen sat on the carriage's box, and three passengers sat within its cushioned interior. The leather hoods had been folded back, and one of the passengers, a girl, held a parasol against the sun.
'Christ! Harper said.
'Quiet! Sharpe put a hand on the Irishman's arm.
Sir Henry Simmerson, riding in the open carriage, raised a fat hand towards Sergeant Havercamp, while his small, angry eyes flicked over the muddy, gawping recruits in the ditch. Sharpe saw the jug ears, the porcine face, then he stared down at the green scum on the water so that Sir Henry would not notice him.
'That's. . Harper began.
'I know who the hell it is! Sharpe hissed.
And next to Sir Henry Simmerson, opposite a stern, grey-haired woman, and beneath a parasol of white lace, was a girl whom Sharpe had last seen in a parish church four years before. Jane Gibbons, Simmerson's niece, and the sister of the man who had tried to kill Sharpe at Talavera.
'On your feet! Hurry! Come on!
The dust from the carriage wheels was gritty in the air as Sharpe and Harper climbed from the ditch and dripped water onto the dry road. 'Form up! In twos!
