‘In here, lads!’
It was not for breakfast. Instead, a magistrate waited in the public room, a grey-haired, savage faced, irascible man with pinched cheeks and a red nose. A clerk sat next to him with a stack of papers, a pot of ink, a quill, and a pile of bank notes.
‘Right! Let’s see you lively!’ Sergeant Havercamp whisked them forward one by one, chivvied them to the table, and stood over them as they were sworn in. Only three of the recruits, one of them the quiet young man in his broadcloth coat, could write. The others, like Sharpe and Harper, made crosses on the paper. Sharpe noticed that the doctor had already signed the forms, presumably before he came out to the stable to glance at the recruits. He noticed, too, that no one offered the recruits the chance of a seven-year engagement; it was simply not mentioned. The form, that he pretended he could not read, was headed “Unlimited Service”.
He put his cross in the place the clerk showed him. “I, Dick
Vaughn”
the paper read, “do make Oath that I am or have been ”, Sharpe declared no occupation and the clerk left it a blank, “and to the best of my Knowledge and Belief was born in the Parish of
Shoreditch
in the County of
Middlesex
and that I am the age of 32 Years”. Sharpe decided he would take four years off his age. “That I do not belong to the Militia, or to any other Regiment, or to His Majesty’s Navy or Marines, and that I will serve His Majesty, until I shall be legally discharged. Witness my Hand. X. Dick
Vaughn,
his mark.
The magistrate took the paper and scribbled his own name on it. “I,
Charles Meredith Harvey,
one of His Majesty’s Justices of the Peace of the
borough
of
Sleaford
do hereby certify, that Dick
Vaughn
appeared to be 32 years old, six feet—inches high, Dark Complexion, Blue Eyes, Black Hair, came before me at
Sleaford
on the Fourth Day of August One thousand Eight Hundred and Thirteen and stated himself to be of the Age of
Thirty-Two
years, and that he had no Rupture, and was not troubled with Fits, and was no ways disabled by Lameness, Deafness, or otherwise, but had the perfect Use of his Limbs and Hearing, and was not an Apprentice; and acknowledged that he had voluntarily inlisted himself, for the Bounty of
Twenty-Three
pounds Seventeen shillings
and
Sixpence to serve His Majesty King George III, in the Regiment of commanded by until he should be legally discharged.”
Sharpe noticed that, although the clerk filled in the personal details of each man as they stood at the table, and though the magistrate’s blanks were all filled, strangely the South Essex’s name did not appear in its proper place. At the end of the document there was an attestation that he had received one guinea of his bounty which was pressed into his hand by the clerk. ‘Next!’
He was in. Sworn in. He had taken the King’s Shilling, and accepted a new-fangled, scruffy pound note to make it into a guinea, and he watched silently as the other men went forward. More money, he saw, passed hands as the magistrate left, presumably so that worthy official would ignore the absence of any regiment noted down on the attestation form, then Sergeant Havercamp was bawling at them to get outside, into the inn yard, and there each man was given a chance to drink at the pump and half a loaf of stale bread was pushed into their hands.
The two corporals, grinning in their red jackets, helped push the nine men into two crude ranks. The drummer boys, yawning and sticky-eyed, banged their drums and, before the sun was risen properly, they were marching through the detritus of the hiring fair. The young man in broadcloth, who had given his name to the clerk as Giles Marriott, walked in front of Sharpe. He did not speak a word to his neighbour, the half-wit, Tom. Sharpe noticed, as they crossed the market place in the grey dawn, how Marriott stared at a fine, brick-built house.
‘Move it! Come on!’ Corporal Terence Clissot pushed Marriott. ‘Get a bloody move on!’
Yet still Marriott stared back, half-tripping as he walked, and Sharpe turned to look at the house, wondering what it was that made the young, good-looking man stare so fixedly at it. The drums still rattled and it was, perhaps, their sound that made one of the shutters open on the upper floor.
A girl stared out. Sharpe saw her, looked at Marriott, and thought there was a glistening in the man’s eye. Marriott lifted a hand half-heartedly, then seemed to decide that the small gesture was futile in the face of this huge gesture he had just made to spite the girl who had jilted him. He dropped his hand and walked on. Yet the half-gesture, so feebly made and so quickly retracted, had not escaped Sergeant Havercamp. He saw the girl, looked at Marriott, and laughed.
They marched south. The hedgerows were thick with dew. The drums, now they were out of the town, fell silent. None of the nine men spoke.
A dog barked. Nothing unusual in a country dawn, except this dog was chasing after them and Sergeant Havercamp turned, snarled, raised his boot to kick at it, then checked his foot.
It was Buttons. Behind the dog, running just as hard, smock flapping and with a bundle on his shoulder, was Charlie Weller. ‘Wait for me! Wait for me!’
Havercamp laughed. ‘Come on, lad!’
Weller looked behind, as if to make sure that his mother was not following him, but the lane was clear. ‘Can I join, Sergeant?’
‘You’re welcome, lad! Into line! We’ll swear you in at the next town!’
Weller grinned at Sharpe, pushed in beside him, and the boy’s face showed all the excitement proper at the beginning of a great adventure. They collected the other recruits and their guards from the barn, then headed south for a soldier’s life.
At Grantham, where they were locked into the yard of the Magistrate’s Court, Sharpe watched Sergeant Havercamp strike a deal. Twelve prisoners were released to him, manacled men who were pushed into the back of the line. More bread was given to them and Sharpe watched young Tom, the half-wit, thrust the loaf at his mouth and gnaw at it. The boy grinned constantly, always watching for a cuff, a curse or a kick. If he was spoken to he giggled and smiled.
That night three men ran, two successfully getting away, almost certainly to find another recruiting party and gull another guinea from the King. The third was caught, brought to the yard where they had slept, and beaten by Corporal Clissot and Sergeant Havercamp. When the beating was over, and the man was lying bleeding and bruised on the yard’s cobbles, Sergeant Havercamp retrieved the King’s guinea, then kicked the man out into the road. There was small future in taking a jumper back to the Battalion for the man would doubtless only try to desert again.
Giles Marriott had stared in awe at the beating, flinching when the Corporal’s boots slammed into the man’s ribs. Marriott was pale by the time the punishment was given. He looked at Sharpe. ‘Are they allowed to do that?’
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. ‘I’ll 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 weathervane. 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 Glissot 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.