from army camps. 'Good cheese, isn't it?
'Grand. Harper still stared at him. 'I seem to remember, sir, that she was a pretty wee thing?
'I seem to remember that, too, Sharpe said. Harper laughed, as if unsure what to say, then shook his head as though there was nothing to say. He whistled instead, a sound as insolent as it was amused, and Sharpe laughed. 'Shall we now forget Miss Gibbons, Sergeant Major?
'I will, sir.
'And how the devil do we get out of here?
'There, Harper was pointing north, down to the bank of the wide river, and Sharpe saw, by a huddle of small houses, a line of great barges that lifted their masts high over the shingle roofs of the small village. 'One of them must be going somewhere, sir.
'Let's find out.
They walked the mile to the river's bank, going gently and cautiously, watching always for the cavalrymen whom Sharpe knew must come from the west. No horsemen had appeared yet. Dogs barked as they approached the small hamlet, and Sharpe gestured Harper into the cover of a ditch and gave him the carbine and bayonet. 'Wait for my signal.
Sharpe walked on into the tiny village. A dog snapped at him and, outside a shuttered inn, a woman grabbed a child and held it against her skirts until the mud-smeared vagabond had passed. He went down to a small, wooden pier that jutted into the wide river, a pier to which the huge, tall-masted barges were moored.
The barges were loaded with hay, great cargoes that were netted and roped down beneath heavy booms wrapped in swathes of red sail. The bargemen looked suspiciously at him. One told him to make himself scarce, but Sharpe tossed one of his three guineas into the air, caught it again, and the sight of the gold quieted them. He picked one man who looked less surly than the others. 'Where are you going?
The man said nothing at first. He stared Sharpe up and down before, slowly and reluctantly, giving an answer. 'London.
'You take passengers?
'Don't like vagrants. He had the broad Essex accent that Sharpe had heard so often in the battle line of his regiment.
Sharpe tossed the guinea in his hand. 'Do you take passengers?
'How many?
Behind Sharpe, a cock challenged the morning. He was listening for hooves, but he dared not show any fear to this man. 'Two of us.
'One each. It was sheer robbery, but the man, recognising the tattered fatigue jacket beneath the mud, must have guessed at Sharpe's desperation.
Sharpe gave him the guinea and showed him a second. 'It's yours when we get there.
The man nodded towards the boats. 'It's the
Sharpe put two fingers into his mouth, whistled, and the vast figure of Harper with his gun came into sight. The man watched them in silence as they went aboard, then, with only a boy to help him, and eschewing any assistance from the two soldiers, he hoisted three huge red sails. The barge crept away from the jetty, into the river that he said was called the Blackwater, and they glided, with a gentle land breeze, out towards the sea.
A half hour later, as they cleared the land and headed out to make the wide turn about the sandbanks of the Essex coast, Harper nodded back towards the shore. The bargeman looked and saw nothing, but Sharpe, whose life and health in Spain depended on spotting cavalry at a distance, saw the horsemen on one of the low hills.
They leaned back on the small deck beside the cargo. Before they reached London Sharpe knew he must throw the carbine and bayonet overboard, but for now the weapons were a small insurance against the temptation for the bargeman to turn them in as deserters. The water slapped and ran down the boat's side, the wind bellied the sails, the sun was hot, and Harper slept. Sharpe dozed, the carbine on his knees, and dreamed of a shadowed, hooded girl who had been waiting for him in a damp tunnel. Thanks to Jane Gibbons, they had escaped Foulness, but she, engaged on her uncle's orders, was still trapped in the marshland. He day-dreamed of revenge, and let the boat carry him towards safety.
CHAPTER 12
The next morning Sharpe saw posters being pasted onto walls throughout London. The printing was thick and black, with a gaudy red Royal coat of arms emblazoned at the top. He paused, on his way from Southwark where he had spent the night, and read one of the posters on Old London Bridge.
A GRAND REVIEW
In the Presence and by the Gracious Command of;
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF WALES
On the Forenoon of Saturday 21st August, in Hyde Park, His Majesty's Cavalry, Artillery, and Infantry, with their Bands, Colours and Appurtenances, will Parade before His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, the Prince Regent, and before His Royal Highness, the Duke of York, together with the Trophies and Artillery pieces captured in the Present Wars against the French now being fought in Spain.
And, by His Royal Highness's Gracious Command and Pleasure, the troops will enact, with Precision and Verisimilitude, the Recent Great Victory Gained over the forces of the Corsican Tyrant at Vittoria.
GOD SAVE THE KING!
The battle of Vitoria, Sharpe thought, was being milked for all it was worth, presumably to take the minds of Londoners away from the rising price of food and the ever-increasing taxes that fuelled the war.
He was dressed in the uniform he had bought to attend Carlton House, his old boots polished, his scabbard shining, only the crusts of blood on his cheeks remaining of his time at Foulness.
He had left Harper in Southwark, eating a huge breakfast and regaling Isabella and his relatives with stories of the chase over the marshland. The Sergeant, as soon as breakfast was done, was taking a message to the Rose Tavern for d'Alembord and Price. Sharpe fervently hoped that those two officers had stayed safely out of Lord Fenner's notice.
Sharpe stopped in St Alban's Street and, from Mr Hopkinson, took thirty guineas of the gold he had left with the army agent. He had money again, he wore a proper uniform, and he was ready for battle against Girdwood, Simmerson, and all the men who made their profits from the camp at Foulness.
He had thought long, as the Thames barge lumbered towards London on an incoming tide, just how he should fight the battle. Harper had been all for an immediate descent on the camp, both men in uniform, but, tempting as the prospect was, Sharpe had decided against it. Instead, with some trepidation, he would go to the authorities. He would turn the bureaucracy, behind which Simmerson and Girdwood hid, against them. He would return to Foulness, but in his own time, and on different business; the business of a golden-haired girl who had helped him escape.
He crossed Whitehall, stepped round a pile of horse-dung that was being swept from the Horse Guards' courtyard, returned the salute of the sentries, and nodded at the porter who opened the door to him. Another porter, resplendent in his uniform, eyed Sharpe suspiciously as he came to the long table where he must state his business. 'Your name, sir?
'Major Richard Sharpe. South Essex.
'Of course, sir. You was here a few days back. The man, as big as Harper, had lost one eye. He was an old soldier, discharged wounded from the war, and, because Sharpe was a fighting man and not a uniformed administrator, he unbent enough to give the Rifleman a smile. 'And what can we do for you today, sir?
'I've come to see the Duke of York.
