Marriott stared at him. ‘You know? You’re cleverer than you think.’ He said it patronisingly.
‘Bugger off,’ Sharpe said.
‘I’m going to. I shouldn’t be here.’ Marriott’s face was feverish. ‘I had this letter, see?’
‘A letter?’ Sharpe could not keep the astonishment out of his voice, an astonishment that made Marriott look curiously at him.
‘A letter, yes.’
‘How did they know where to send it?’
‘The depot at Chelmsford, of course.’ Marriott seemed as astonished as Sharpe that the matter should be worthy of surprise. ‘That’s where they told us letters should be sent.’
‘I can’t write, you see,’ Sharpe said, as if that explained his astonishment. It seemed obvious now that Girdwood, to prevent discovery of this camp, would order those men who wanted to send letters to use the Chelmsford address, their replies to be forwarded from there to some London clerk of Lord Fenner’s who, in turn, despatched the mail to Foulness.
‘It was from my girl.’ Marriott said it eagerly, wanting to share his good news with someone.
‘And?’ Sharpe was only half listening. He had heard a shout from the direction of the house.
‘She says she was wrong. She wants me to go back!’
The desperation in Marriott’s voice made Sharpe turn to him. ‘Listen. You’re in the bloody army. If you run, they’ll catch you. If they catch you, they’ll flog you. There are other girls, you know! Christ!’ He stared at the unhappy Marriott. ‘You’re bright, lad! You could be a bloody Sergeant in a year!’
‘I shouldn’t be in the bloody army.’
Sharpe laughed grimly. ‘Lad, you’re too bloody late.’ He turned away. He had heard a shout, but not just any shout. This was a bark of command, an order to quick march, and now, from the lawn above him, he could hear the voice shouting crisp drill orders and he wondered what on earth was happening in that wide, spacious garden of Sir Henry’s. ‘Where’s the corporal?’
Marriott peered out of the archway. ‘Twenty yards away.’
‘Watch him for me.’
Sharpe crept up the steps as slowly, as carefully as if he expected to find a French picquet at their top. He was hidden by the bulk of the boathouse from Sergeant Lynch beyond the creek, but there was precious little cover at the head of the steps to hide him from the house; nothing but a stone flowerpot in which grew bright red geraniums.
Yet he did not need to climb to the very top. From a few inches below the level of the upper step he could see what he wanted to see.
On the north lawn, two Companies of infantry were being drilled. They were dressed in fatigues, carried muskets and bayonets, and were commanded in their drill by Sergeant Major Brightwell of the Foulness Camp. Brightwell, a great bull of a man, did not concern himself with the lowly squads of new recruits, only with the Companies, like these two on the lawn, that were close to finishing their training.
They seemed to be giving a display of drill to a group of seated officers who sipped drinks as they watched the two Companies. Behind the officers, standing stiffly at ease, was a line of sergeants.
Sharpe watched for ten whole minutes, watching a comprehensive display of Company drill that finished with some crisp musket movements. The officers, sitting in wrought iron chairs, clapped politely. A servant brought more drinks on a silver tray.
Sergeant Major Brightwell ordered the parade to attention, to open order, to order arms, then there was silence.
The officers stood. Sharpe, his face half hidden by the geranium pot, saw Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood walk forward and, next to him, the unmistakeable figure of Sir Henry Simmerson who was, this fine summer’s day, dressed in his old uniform. Somehow there was no surprise in this proof that Sir Henry was allied to Girdwood. The two men, followed by the other officers, strolled up and down the paraded ranks.
‘What are you doing?’ Marriott whispered.
‘Shut up!’
Sergeant Major Brightwell ordered a half-dozen men out of the ranks. They seemed to have been selected at random by the officers and the six were lined at the bottom of the garden, facing north, and the Sergeant Major took cartridges from his pouch and handed them to the men. Sharpe watched as the six, with reasonable proficiency, fired two small volleys into the empty marshland. The muskets sounded flat in this wide, damp landscape. The smoke, in small white clouds, drifted over the scythed lawn. Two of the visiting officers turned back to the house. Both were laughing, both holding drinks in their hand, and Sharpe saw that both had buff facings on their red jackets. He had not seen many officers at Foulness, but whoever these men were, they were not of the South Essex.
Two more officers turned back towards the house. One had white facings, the other red, and suddenly Sharpe understood why officers from other regiments were brought to this remote place. He understood, and the realisation made him slide back down the steps so he was hidden, and he wondered if he could be right, yet knew that he was, and part of him was filled with admiration for such a clever, profitable scheme. Sir Henry Simmerson and Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood were nothing but crimpers, god-damned bloody crimpers! And what was more, Lord Fenner was with them.
Crimping was not an honourable trade. The army was chronically short of recruits. In 1812, Sharpe knew, it had lost more than twenty-five thousand men through disease or war, and less than five thousand had come forward in Britain to take their place. A good regiment, like the Rifles, was never short of volunteers, but for most regiments of foot there was always a shortage that was combated with extravagant promises of lavish bounty, promises that were never sufficient to fill the ranks who fought in India, in Spain and in America, and who garrisoned forts from the Far East to the Fever Islands. The army was short of recruits, and crimping was one answer to that simple, eternal fact.
A crimp was a contractor, a man paid so much a head for recruits, and Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood and Sir Henry Simmerson had turned the Second Battalion of the South Essex into just such a contractor! Sharpe knew he was right. They were raising the recruits, using the achievements of the First Battalion as a lure, training the men, then selling them to those unfashionable, unsuccessful regiments who could not attract their own recruits. What Sharpe had just seen on this lawn was the end of the process, the display of the goods, and now, he supposed, in Sir Henry’s drawing room, the money would be paid over. Seven years before, Sharpe knew, a crimper could fetch twenty-five pounds for a man. The price must have doubled since then!
He guessed there were close to two hundred men on the north lawn. If each man fetched fifty pounds then there was a profit this day alone of ten thousand pounds! Enough to keep a man in solid comfort for two lifetimes! Add to that the stolen bounty and the other peculations of the Foulness Camp and it seemed to Sharpe that Sir Henry and Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood could be making a profit of close to seventy pounds a man.
Crimping was not illegal. The army often contracted with a businessman to raise recruits, but crimping by a regiment was definitely outside the law. It was clever, it was profitable, and it was starving the South Essex to death. Sharpe felt a sudden, fierce exultation because he had solved the problem, he knew it, and just as he felt that soaring pulse of success, he felt fear too.
He felt fear because a dog, a tiny, white, fierce little handful of a dog, came scampering down the steps from the lawn, saw him, and began barking at him in a shrill yelp.
‘Shut up!’ he hissed. ‘Bugger off!’
‘Rascal!’ It was a girl’s voice. ‘You know the Colonel hates you! Rascal! Come here!’
Sharpe, sitting on the stone steps, slithered urgently towards the cover of the boathouse’s tunnel, but suddenly there was a shadow on the stone and a voice above him. ‘It’s all right, he won’t hurt you. It’s just that the Colonel’s terrified of dogs.’ She laughed.
He knew he should not have looked. He should have muttered an acknowledgement then, like some creature of the earth, skulked back into the dark, wet tunnel.
But the voice was that of a young woman of whom he had dreamed impossible dreams, prompted by a single, brief meeting in a dark, cool church before her brother’s memorial stone.
He did what he knew he should not do. He looked up at her. He reasoned that she would not recognise him, and he wanted, after these four years, to see if she was as truly lovely as his memory of her.
She was stooping, petting the dog, and she smiled again. ‘He sounds very fierce, but he isn’t. He’s a coward, really, though he frightens Lieutenant Colonels, don’t you, Rascal?’ Her voice faded.
Jane Gibbons was staring at him.
She saw a man smeared with mud, yet she recognised him.
He wondered how, in all creation, it was possible for her to recognise him, yet she did. She stared, her mouth open, the dog forgotten, and Sharpe stared back.
He had remembered her as beautiful, but the image of her that he had carried in his head was entirely wrong. He had thought of her as a kind of doll, a creature manufactured in his dreams to be all that he wanted her to be, while now, staring at each other in silent amazement, she seemed to Sharpe to be suddenly so alive and there was the double shock, of seeing her face as he had seen it once before, and of seeing someone so independently alive, not captive in his dreams.
She opened her lips, as if about to speak, but no sound came from her. Her face, shadowed by the straw bonnet that softened the strong lines of her mouth and cheekbones, had the clear, fresh skin that came of England’s climate and that Sharpe so rarely saw in Spain. Her hair, pale as sundrenched gold, was looped beneath her ears. She had been a sister to one of Sharpe’s enemies and was niece to another. Jane Gibbons.
She stared, and for a moment he thought she was going to call out, but then, suddenly, with an impulsive vivacity, she sat on the top step and shook her head. ‘It’s you!’ She spoke in amazement. ‘It is you?’
He did not know what to say. To confirm it was to risk that she would call out, to deny it was to lose this chance of speaking with her, and Sharpe was silent, struck dumb by her loveliness and he thought how he had devalued this beauty in his memory of her, then he felt panic as she turned from him to look towards her uncle.
She did not call out. Instead she looked back to Sharpe, her eyes shining with a kind of quick mischief. ‘It is you?’
‘Yes.’
‘He said you were dead!’ She looked once more towards her uncle and it struck Sharpe that she feared Sir Henry as much as he at this moment did. She looked to Sharpe again. ‘What are you doing here?’ She had grabbed the small dog and now cuddled it in her lap. ‘What are you doing?’ She repeated the question with almost breathless astonishment, mixed with pleasure, and Sharpe, who had only met her once, was startled by her quick vivacity, by the secret delight she took in this meeting. She was beautiful, and there was a streak of mischief in her that gave quickness to that beauty.
Sergeant Major Brightwell’s voice boomed loud over Sharpe’s head. ‘Companies! Close order! March!’
Instinctively Sharpe shrank back, fearing discovery, and to his astonishment Jans Gibbons gathered her skirts up, clutching the dog with her other hand, and, with one more backward glance towards her uncle, came down the steps until she was hidden from the lawn. She sat close to Sharpe. ‘What are you doing here?’
Giles Marriott gaped at them. ‘Dick?’
‘Go away! Leave us!’ Sharpe hissed it. ‘Go and clear the entrance! Go on!’
Marriott backed into the darkness of the boathouse tunnel. Jane Gibbons laughed nervously. ‘I can’t believe it! It is you! What are you doing?’
‘I came to find the Second Battalion.’ He made a gesture of impatience, not with her, but with himself as if he was uncertain how to explain the long story of his presence, but she understood immediately.
‘They hide them here and sell them off. They auction them.’
‘Auction?’ It was Sharpe’s turn to sound astonished. Somehow auctioning seemed to make the crimping worse. ‘That’s what they’re doing up there?’
She nodded. ‘They make their bids over lunch. My uncle said it was legal, but it isn’t, is it?‘
He almost smiled, so solemnly had she asked the question. ‘No, it isn’t.’
‘He said you were dead!’
‘Someone tried to kill me.’
She shuddered, staring at him with her astonished, huge eyes. ‘But you’re still an officer?’ It was a natural enough question, seeing him smeared to the waist with mud.
‘Yes. A Major.’
She bit her lower lip, smiled, and looked to the top of the steps as if fearing her uncle’s approach. Her dog wriggled in her arms and she quieted it. ‘I saw your name in The Times. After Salamanca. A place with a funny name?’
‘Garcia Hernandez.’
‘I think so. They said you were very heroic.’
‘No. I was in a cavalry charge. I couldn’t stop the horse.’
She laughed. Both were uncertain. Sharpe had dreamed so often of seeing her again, of talking with her, yet now he seemed struck dumb. He stared into her face as though he would try to remember it for ever. Her skin looked so soft. Her hair was gold. ‘I ...’ he began to say, but at the very same moment she said, ‘Will ...‘ and they both stopped, embarrassed and smiling.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Will they try and kill you again?’
‘If they know who I am. They don’t. I’m calling myself Dick Vaughn.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I have to get away. Me and a friend. You remember Sergeant Harper? The big fellow?’
She nodded, but her face was suddenly worried. ‘You have to escape?’
‘Tonight.’ He had made up his mind. He knew now what happened here, that Girdwood, Simmerson, and Lord Fenner were crimping on a grand scale. He had no more business as Private Dick Vaughn, just vengeance as Major Richard Sharpe. ‘After dark tonight.’