Sharpe's Regiment Part 18

CHAPTER 14.

'Property of a widow, sir.' The owner of the livery stables wiped his palms on his leather ap.r.o.n, spat tobacco juice at a cat that sunned itself on his cobbles, then ran a hand along the springs of the carriage. 'I grant you it ain't clean, Major, but in very nice trim! New axles! New splinter-bar I put on myself. Take you anywhere!' He slapped one of the iron-rimmed wheels. 'Tell you the truth, Major, I was thinking of using it for myself.'

'I need it for a week.'

'Horses too?'

'And groom and driver.'

The owner, a portly, bald man with knowing eyes, looked again at Sharpe's new uniform, as if gauging what it cost, then shook his head as though what he was about to say pained him greatly. 'Of course I can give you a special price, Major, always like to help the military, I do, but it ain't cheap! I mean hiring a four-horse carriage, Major? It ain't a sedan chair!'

'How much?'

'And horses! You'll have to change, of course, or are you staying in town?'

'We'll be changing horses.'

'There's the return fee on them, deposit on the vehicle, on the horses, then there's their feed, wages of the men if I can find a couple for you, their feed, hire of the carriage, deposit on the harness. Adds up, Major.'

'How much?'

'Drivers need to sleep somewhere, Major.' He was eyeing Sharpe's weapons, wondering how much he dared ask. 'You ain't going abroad, Major? Just my little joke, sir.' He sniffed. 'Still, seeing as you're the army and as how our lads are beating Boneypart, Major, I think I can do it for thirty guineas, plus the deposit and return fees, of course. All payable today, Major. Cash.'

'Fifteen.'

The stable owner stared at Sharpe in amazement, then gave a short laugh to demonstrate that the soldier must have misheard. 'This is a quality vehicle, Major! It's not your tradesman's cart! There's n.o.bility who'd like this one, Major!'

They settled on twenty-five guineas, which still gave Sharpe the disquieting sense that he had been cheated, and he was forced to leave a bond for a further two hundred guineas against the loss of the carriage, then he was forced to wait while the owner found a coachman and a groom who were willing to be hired for the week. Travelling by carriage was far faster than by saddle horse, which was one reason Sharpe had chosen to hire a vehicle, the other being that he could use it to remove the mounds of paperwork he expected to find at Foulness, but as he waited for the problems to be solved there were moments when he thought he would have preferred to walk. d'Alembord, Price, and Harper, on the other hand, were in high spirits because of what the day promised.

Sergeant Harper, delighted to be back in uniform, was equally delighted with the carriage. He had never travelled in one before, and he stared fixedly through the window for the sheer pleasure of watching a landscape beyond gla.s.s. 'This is grand, sir! This is just grand!'

'Cost me a b.l.o.o.d.y ear-ring.'

'You'll just have to marry a one-eared woman, eh?'

Lieutenant Price groaned. 'I forgot your Irish wit, Sergeant.'

Sharpe had told all three that they need not come with him, and all three, as he had hoped, had refused to abandon him. d'Alembord, sitting opposite Sharpe, looked out at the dull marshes over which the road led, level and monotonous, towards West Ham. 'You think Lord Fenner's already sent a message to this Girdwood?'

'Maybe.' But if the Lady Camoynes was right, then Sharpe had this one day at least. She had been licking his face, spreading the blood over his skin from the wounds that she had re-opened with her teeth. 'They think you're asleep, alley-cat. So don't wait. Don't talk to Lawford. Just go.' Sharpe had obeyed her, driven into precipitate action by her a.s.surance that Sir William Lawford, by going to Fenner, would betray the men at Pasajes.

They changed horses at Stifford, and again at Hadleigh, and the driver and groom, both promised a bounty by Sharpe if they completed the journey before sundown, worked fast. At Hadleigh, their last stop, where the old castle stood above the Thames estuary, Sharpe bought saddle horses. He had been that morning to St Alban's Street to find, to his pleasure, that the first money from the sale of the diamonds had arrived, then, to make his plans possible, he had withdrawn a great draft of the cash. This week, he knew, the money he had stolen from the French would be put to work for the British.

They were close now. Sharpe, as the ostler backed the fresh horses into the harness, called Harper and the two officers to his side. 'Remember why we're here. We need their record books, and we have to take the men away from Foulness so Fenner can't hide them again. That's all. We're not going to punish anyone.' They nodded. It was the twentieth time he had told them, but he was nervous. He planned to find the proof which he was sure existed, proof that he could send to the green-eyed lady who wanted her vengeance on Fenner, then he would march the men to Chelmsford and there formally enlist them into the First Battalion and protect them while the proof worked its magic in London. 'Remember. We're not punis.h.i.+ng anyone.'

'I'm still looking forward to it.' Harper laughed. 'By G.o.d, I am!'

Sharpe smiled. 'There is a vengeful streak in you, Sergeant Harper.'

'By G.o.d, sir, and you're right.' Harper grinned, and they went on to Foulness.

At six o'clock, as always, Lieutenant Colonel Bartholomew Girdwood sat in his office and wrote, in his small, neat hand, the progress reports of his Companies. 'Number four's ready for musket training?'

'Yes, sir.' Captain Smith sat stiffly in front of the desk.

'Good, good!' Girdwood made a mark on his chart. From the parade ground came the bellow of orders. He tapped his newly-tarred moustache with the shaft of his pen, making a sharp, rapping noise. 'How many men did Havercamp bring today?'

'Ten, sir.'

Girdwood grunted. 'Getting near harvest. Always a bad time. Is he leaving tomorrow?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Issue him with funds.' He frowned. 'Is that a coach?'

'Sounds like it, sir."

Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood presumed Sir Henry had come, as he often did of an early evening, to inspect the camp. He would find nothing amiss, except, of course, the burned-out stables. The memory of the fire, and the thought of the two deserters, hurt him. One of them, the Irishman, had dared to fire at him! 'I suppose it would be expecting too much to have any news from the militia?'

'Nothing as yet, sir.'

'My G.o.d! Real soldiers would have found those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds days ago. They've gone, Smith!' Girdwood shook his head sadly. 'We won't see them again!'

Hooves sounded outside. The noise, coupled with the jangling of the coach's trace chains, reminded Girdwood that Sir Henry was planning to stay in London until after the Prince Regent's victory parade, and he glanced stiffly towards the door. 'See who it is, Smith.' No one, in Girdwood's view, had any business coming here, no one. The vicar of Great Wakering had arrived once, having talked his way past the bridge guard to offer spiritual solace to the camp, but Girdwood had ordered the man away and told him never to come back. He wondered if this was the vicar returning and he shouted through the open door after the Captain. 'And see the filth off, Smith! Smartly!'

'Sir!' The shout was a despairing one, cut off almost as soon as it was begun, then the door was s.n.a.t.c.hed open and Girdwood, gripping the table's edge, saw a tall man silhouetted in the doorway. Instantly a pang of guilt stabbed through him, for the man wore uniform and a sword, and the moment that Girdwood had feared despite all Sir Henry's rea.s.surances seemed to have come. An officer had come to arrest him!

'See what filth off?' the man asked.

Girdwood stood. He could see, now that the man had walked into the room and shut the door, that the unwelcome visitor was a Rifle Major. Girdwood outranked him, and despite the fear he still felt, he made his voice harsh. 'You will leave this office, Major! Now! You did not have my permission to enter.'

The Major took off the shako that had shadowed his face and dropped it casually onto a chair. He put his hands on Girdwood's table, leaned forward, and smiled into the Lieutenant Colonel's face. 'Remember me, Bartholomew?'

Girdwood stared, not sure if the face was familiar or not. The two fresh scars on the Rifleman's face were dark with dried blood, and the sight of them, and something about the eyes that stared so implacably at him, brought to Girdwood's mind a memory of the two deserters. 'No.' He had not meant to speak aloud. He shook his head, shrank back in his chair. 'No!'

'Yes.' Sharpe picked up Girdwood's cane and the Lieutenant Colonel was helpless to protest. 'You know me, Girdwood, as Private Vaughn. Or perhaps you just remember me as filth?'

'No.'

Sharpe tapped the cane into his palm. 'Do you make it a habit, Girdwood, to strike recruits? Or hunt men through the marshes?'

'Who are you?'

Sharpe had been speaking softly, but now, with a savage, sudden blow, he cracked the cane onto the table to spill ink over Girdwood's careful charts, and his voice was loud. 'I am the man, Girdwood, who's in charge of this Battalion. You are relieved.'

Girdwood stared. He could not imagine how a deserter, one of the filth of this camp, had suddenly come into this office as a full Major. He found it hard to make his voice coherent, but he managed. 'You have orders?'

'I have orders,' Sharpe lied. 'Of course I have b.l.o.o.d.y orders! You think I'd come to this place just for the pleasure of your filthy company?'

Girdwood knew he should be showing more bravado, but he was powerless to move and his voice, that was normally so harshly confident, was barely more than a whisper. 'Who are you?'

'My name, Girdwood, is Major Richard Sharpe, First Battalion the South Ess.e.x, and until three days ago, sometimes known as Private Vaughn.' Sharpe saw the terror in Girdwood's eyes, and felt no pity. 'The man you hunted through the marshland, Colonel, was Regimental Sergeant Major Harper. An Irishman. You may remember that he once captured a French Eagle.' Sharpe pointed with his cane at the gleaming badge on Girdwood's shako. 'That one.'

'No.' Girdwood was shaking his head. 'No. No.'

'Yes.' Sharpe tapped the cane into his hand again, then, with sudden, terrible speed, he lashed it into Girdwood's face, not to cut him as Sharpe was cut, but to ruin the careful sculpture of the shaped moustache. The blow shattered the s.h.i.+ning pitch and a lump of tar hung pathetically down at the Lieutenant Colonel's lip. Sharpe stared at him. 'You spineless b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Dally!'

d'Alembord pushed the door open and stamped in with a wondrous display of military precision. 'Sir?'

'This is Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood. He is under arrest. You will conduct him to his quarters, search them for any papers belonging to this Battalion, and, if he gives you his word of honour, you will leave him unguarded.'

'Yes, sir.' d'Alembord looked at the small man with his ruined, broken moustache, and smiled. Then he remembered that he was supposed to be solemn. 'Of course, sir.'

Sharpe snapped the silver headed cane in two and tossed the fragments onto Girdwood's lap. 'Get up, sir, and b.u.g.g.e.r off.'

Outside, as he followed d'Alembord and his prisoner, he saw a group of men gawping at him. He ignored them. 'Lieutenant Price?'

'Sir?'

'Start going through the papers in this office.' He tossed Price his rifle. 'And Harry?'

'Sir?'

'If anyone tries to stop you, shoot them.'

'Yes, sir.'

Sharpe untied his horse and mounted. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

Sergeant Lynch was not enjoying himself. He had been bawling at his squad, making them form a column of four on the centre files, swearing at the filth because they were getting it wrong, when he was suddenly aware that the men, instead of looking at him, were staring past him and that their faces, above the constricting leather stocks, were showing looks of astonishment and even delight. 'Look at me, filth!' They ignored him, and suddenly a voice bellowed behind him, a voice even louder than his own.

'Look at me, filth!'

Sergeant Lynch turned.

Private O'Keefe stood there, except that he was not a private any longer, but a Sergeant, a huge Sergeant who had a rifle slung on one shoulder, a huge mouthed seven-barrelled gun on the other, and a sword-bayonet at his belt. Harper, grinning, stamped to attention a single pace away from Sergeant Lynch. 'Remember me, filth?'

Lynch stared up at Harper, not knowing what to say or do, and the huge Irishman smiled back. 'Say, "G.o.d save Ireland", Sergeant Lynch.'

Lynch said nothing. The back of his neck, so acute was the angle at which he had to hold his head, was hurting because of the leather stock.

Harper raised his voice. 'My name, filth, is Sergeant Major Patrick Augustine Harper, of Donegal and proud of it, and of the First Battalion of the South Ess.e.x and proud of that too. You, Sergeant Lynch, will repeat after me; G.o.d save Ireland!'

'G.o.d save Ireland,' Sergeant Lynch said.

'I can't hear you!'

'G.o.d save Ireland!'

'It's grand to hear you say it, John! Just grand!' Harper looked past Lynch and saw the squad grinning at him, slouching in their ranks. 'No one stood you at ease! Shun!' They snapped to attention. Charlie Weller was staring at Harper as if the huge Irishman had just landed on a broomstick. Harper winked at him, then looked again at the Sergeant. 'What were you saying to me, Johnny Lynch?'

'G.o.d save Ireland.'

'Louder, now!'

'G.o.d save Ireland!'

'Amen. And may the Holy Father pray for your soul, John Lynch, because, by Christ, it's in danger from me.' Harper turned away from him, took a great breath, and shouted across the parade ground. "Talion! 'Talion will form line on number one Company. To my orders! Wait for it!' Officers stared. Sergeant Major Brightwell began striding over the vast area, but Harper's voice seemed to double in intensity. 'No one told you to move, you great lump! Stand still!'

It was grand to be alive, Harper thought, just grand! Even to be a soldier in this army had its moments of pure joy. He grinned, filled his lungs again, and ordered the Battalion to form up on parade.

'Private Weller!' Sharpe had ridden to the front of the parade. Harper stood beside him. 'Weller! Here! March, lad! Don't run!'

Weller, grinning like an imp, marched to Sharpe, stamped to attention, and stared up at the Rifleman as if he did not believe what he saw. Sharpe smiled at him. 'My name, Charlie, is Major Richard Sharpe. You call me "sir".'

'Yes, sir.'

'And the Sergeant Major has instructions for you. Listen to him.'

'Yes, sir.'

Sharpe left them, riding his horse slowly forward and staring at the Battalion which, dressed in its blue and grey, was stretched over the parade ground. He came from the east so that the setting sun was on his face and, dazzled by it, he could hardly see their faces. He looked down at Brightwell, and the man stared up at Sharpe with horror in his eyes. 'Sergeant Major?'

'Sir?'

'Punishment order. Now!'

Brightwell ordered the Companies to form three sides of a hollow square. His voice was uncertain as he did it, an uncertainty that was reflected on the faces of the sergeants and officers. They had all heard the words "punishment order".