Colonel and Brightwell passed Finch, goading their horses into a canter on the treacherous ground. Finch, at the very edge of a small ditch that his sword would explore next, turned to shout orders to the remaining huntsmen when, inexplicably, his horse reared.
Finch leaned forward to soothe the horse, but still it rose, screaming in terror, then lurched sideways. The captain caught a glimpse of a man, black as the night, dripping and huge, who had erupted from the ditch to seize one of the horse's forelegs and now, with massive strength, was tipping the beast over. Finch tried to hit the man with his carbine, but his hand was seized and he was pulled with dreadful force to fall at his attacker's feet, while his frightened horse, released by Harper, skittered away.
'Don't move! Harper, stinking and filthy from the ditch, shouted at the sergeants. 'I'll kill him! They froze. The huge Irishman, dripping wet, had pulled the sword from Finch's right hand and now held it at the officer's throat.
Harper stripped the carbine from Finch, then pulled the ammunition pouch from the officer's belt, breaking it free with a massive tug as if the two leather loops that held it were no stronger than rotted cotton. He looked up at the sergeants. 'Step back! Step back! Then, from behind him, came the shout he had waited for.
'Patrick! Patrick!
Harper dropped the sword and dragged Finch backwards. He stumbled over the ditch, still watching the sergeants who, in turn, stared appalled as their prey, who had appeared from nowhere like an embodied shadow, dragged his hostage towards the lone horseman who came over the marsh.
Girdwood checked and turned his horse. He saw the Irishman dragging Finch backwards. He saw, too, the horseman who approached Harper's rear and the Colonel supposed that the rider must be one of his own men. 'Kill him! Kill him! But instead the rider dismounted beside the huge Irishman and Girdwood, frozen in indecision between the calamities on either hand, called out to his sergeants. 'Kill them!
One of the sergeants raised his musket, but Harper hauled Finch to his feet and held the sword at the officer's throat. 'One bullet and he's a dead man! Now step back!
Sharpe jumped down from the horse. He knew that Harper, who had been reared to ride the wild ponies of the Donegal Moors, was a much better horseman than himself. 'You take the horse, Patrick! Hold onto that bastard! Sharpe threw away the useless musket and took the carbine from Harper. He checked that the carbine was of the Heavy Dragoon pattern that took the same calibre bullet as those in his captured pouch, then, seeing that Harper was mounted with the unfortunate Finch draped over the horse in front of him, he started westwards.
Girdwood watched in horror. 'Fire! He shouted it to the sergeants who were closest to Sharpe and Harper, but none dared fire for fear of hitting Captain Finch. Girdwood stood in his stirrups. 'Stop them!
Yet not one of Girdwood's men wanted to be a hero this night, not in such an ignoble cause and not when they knew that the two fugitives merely fled towards the waiting picquet at the bridge. Beyond the bridge the militia cavalry waited, and so Girdwood's men, happy that others should rescue Captain Finch and apprehend the armed deserters, followed the fugitives without enthusiasm. Girdwood spurred his horse towards the laggard sergeants. 'Go on! Go on! Go on!
Sharpe heard the shout, turned, and brought the carbine into his shoulder. Girdwood could just spur these men into action and Sharpe knew they must be discouraged. He aimed at Girdwood's horse, closed his eye against the flash of powder, and fired.
Girdwood's horse swerved away, startled by the bullet, and Sharpe heard the sergeants swear. He reloaded, his hands swift in the old actions, and he astonished his pursuers by sending a second bullet to flutter the air just seconds after the first. He turned and sprinted after Harper and heard a single musket fire in reply. The ball went wide. No one now, not Girdwood, not his officers, and not one of the sergeants, wanted to hurry the pursuit into the face of such deadly skill. They let Sharpe and Harper stretch their lead and were confident that the militia or the picquet at the bridge would end this nonsense.
Sharpe caught up with Harper. 'All well?
'Bastard's quiet, sir! Harper had found a pistol in Finch's belt and had rapped the captain on the skull with its butt. 'Where to?
'This way! Sharpe, running hard, turned off the road and led Harper back to the marsh. They were still on Foulness, still pursued, and there were enemies ahead, but they were Riflemen, hardened by war, and they would use their skills in this night of moonshine and madness. They would fight.
CHAPTER 11
That morning, when Sergeant Lynch had marched them off the island, Sharpe had noted a drainage ditch that angled north west from the road and pointed, like a straight line on a map, towards Sir Henry's house. It was beside that ditch that he and Harper now went. 'We're going to the creek! You go ahead! Sharpe reloaded the carbine, watching to see if the pursuers pressed close, but his earlier shots had taken what small courage they had and destroyed it. He felt a moment's shame that these men wore the uniform of the South Essex, then turned and ran after Harper.
The Sergeant had stopped beside the creek which edged the island. 'Can we lose this bastard, sir? He plucked at Finch's jacket tails.
'Drop him! The pursuit was too far behind for them to need a hostage now, and Harper hit Finch again, to keep him quiet, then tipped the officer into the mud. He coaxed the horse forward to the water. 'Give me the gun, sir!
Sharpe handed up the carbine and his belt with its ammunition pouch. The tide was low, the water scarcely up to his knees, but if he tripped and soaked the cartridges they would be defenceless. The horse, nervous in the water, eagerly climbed up to the great reed bed that banked the creek. Sharpe followed, his shoes sticking in the thick mud.
'Another river, sir! Harper called out and Sharpe, to his consternation, saw that they had succeeded in leaving Foulness only to gain the dubious refuge of this smaller island, scarcely more than a great stand of reeds among the water. This next crossing was wider and looked deeper, the moon-sheened water swirling menacingly as it swept seawards. 'Take the bridle for me, sir!
Sharpe led the horse into the deeper water and the current snatched at him. He supposed this must be the Roach, where Marriott had so nearly drowned him, and then he was half swimming, half being dragged by the panicked horse, until, with relief, he felt the beast heaving itself up the far bank and dragging him with it. He let go of the bridle, shook the water from his hair, then saw Sir Henry's house and, running straight towards it, the path on the sea wall that they had trodden that morning.
'Sir!
'What is it?
'Cavalry. It was odd, suddenly, but it felt like Spain. Harper slid from the horse, his right hand feeling in the carbine pan to check that it was loaded. 'Skirmish line of the bastards, sir. Half a mile. He pointed west. 'Haven't seen us yet, but they will if we're mounted.
'Moving?
'No. Harper grinned in the moonlight. 'Dozy bastards.
It was a fine decision that had to be made. If Sharpe or Harper rode the horse, and the other ran alongside grasping the stirrup to keep up, they would be seen in this flat land by the searching cavalry. Their journey would be faster, but the militia, unencumbered by double-mounting or stirruping, would be faster still. If they went on foot they would be hidden, but the journey from here to the creek would take twice as long; twice as much time in which they might be found. It was visibility and speed against deception. Sharpe looked back the way they had come, but he could see no one and hear nothing. Finch must still be stunned by the blow Harper had given him.
Sharpe took the gun and ammunition. 'Hobble the horse. We walk.
'We bloody run. Harper was unbuckling the bridle. He tied the horse's front feet together. It whinnied nervously, and the Irishman soothed it. 'I'm ready.
They crouched low. The embankment, on which the path ran so clear and straight towards Sir Henry's
