Sharpe's Regiment (14 page)

‘I know who the hell it is!’ Sharpe hissed.

And next to Sir Henry Simmerson, opposite a stern, grey-haired woman, and beneath a parasol of white lace, was a girl whom Sharpe had last seen in a parish church four years before. Jane Gibbons, Simmerson’s niece, and the sister of the man who had tried to kill Sharpe at Talavera.

‘On your feet! Hurry! Come on!’

The dust from the carriage wheels was gritty in the air as Sharpe and Harper climbed from the ditch and dripped water onto the dry road. ‘Form up! In twos!’

Sharpe stared at the receding carriage. He could see the passengers sitting stiffly apart and he tried to tell himself that Jane Gibbons was hating to be beside her uncle.

‘By the front! Quick march!’

Sharpe had held the Eagle in Carlton House before the admiring gaze of the courtiers, and now another remembrance of that far-off day had come back. Sir Henry Simmerson had been the first Lieutenant Colonel of the South Essex, an angry, arrogant fool who had believed the battle lost and had taken the Battalion from the battle line in panic. He had been relieved of his command, and the South Essex, who had been shamed by his leadership, recovered their honour that day by capturing the French standard.

And afterwards, when Sharpe and Harper had been alone in the battle-smoke, amidst the litter of death and victory, Lieutenant Christian Gibbons, Sir Henry’s nephew, had tried to take the Eagle from them.

Gibbons had died, stabbed by Harper with a French bayonet, yet the inscription on his marble memorial, undoubtedly composed by Sir Henry, claimed that he had died taking the Eagle. And on Sharpe’s last visit to England, in a small parish church which must, he knew now, be close to this flat, marshy place, he had met Jane Gibbons.

In all the years since, on battlefields and in foul, smoky, flea-ridden billets, in the palaces of Spain where he had met La Marquesa, in his own marriage bed, he had not forgotten her. Sharpe’s wife, before she died, had laughed because he carried a locket with Jane Gibbons’ picture inside, a locket Sharpe had taken from her dead brother. The locket was lost now, yet he had not forgotten her.

Perhaps because she was the image of the England that soldiers remembered when they fought in a harsh, hot country. She had golden hair, soft cheeks, and eyes the same colour as the bright blue gowns that draped the Virgins of all Spanish churches. Sharpe had lied to her, telling her that her brother had died a hero’s death, and he had been nervous before her grateful smile. She had seemed to him, in that cool, dark church, where she had come to place a pot of gilliflowers beneath her brother’s memorial, to be a creature of another world; gentle, with a vein of quick life, too beautiful and precious for his harsh hands or battle-scarred face.

She must, he thought as they followed the carriage’s tracks, be married by now. Even in an England where, as Captain d‘Alem bord often said, there were not enough well-washed men for well-born girls, surely such a beautiful, smiling creature would not be left unwed. And seeing her again, this suddenly, on this desolate track in the marshes at the edge of England, he felt the old attraction, the old, hopeless attraction for a girl so lovely. He felt, too, the old temptation to believe that no girl, come from so foul and treacherous a family, could be worthy of love.

‘Pick your bloody feet up! Move!’ Sergeant Havercamp slashed with his cane at his recruits. ‘Put your shoulders back, Marriott! You’re in the bloody army, not in a bloody dance! March!’

The carriage turned off the road ahead and Sharpe saw it go towards the large, elegant, brick house, with its white painted window frames and its weathervane which, as the small band of recruits got closer, Sharpe saw to be in the shape of a French Eagle. That bird, he thought, was coming back to haunt him. That one act on a battlefield, that first capture of a vaunted enemy standard, had made the South Essex’s reputation, had saved Sharpe’s career, and now, he feared, it was a symbol of the men who had tried to kill him in London, and who would certainly try again if they discovered his identity.

‘If that bugger sees us ...’ Harper did not finish the sentence.

‘I know.’ And how fitting it would be, Sharpe thought, if Sir Henry was among his enemies.

‘Shut your faces! March!’ Sergeant Havercamp cracked his cane on Sharpe’s back. ‘Pick your bloody feet up! You know how!’

They did not go to Sir Henry’s house, for the eagle on the weathervane had convinced Sharpe that the big place was indeed Sir Henry‘s, but instead turned southwards onto an even smaller track. They filed along a bank beside a drainage ditch, waded a deep ford that was sticky with mud, and, when Sir Henry’s house was far on the horizon, turned left again onto a larger road rutted by cart tracks.

A bridge was ahead of them, a wooden bridge guarded by soldiers. ‘Break step! That means walk, you bastards, or else you’ll break the bloody bridge!’

A dozen men in the South Essex’s yellow facings guarded the crossing. A sergeant called cheerfully to Havercamp as the recruits straggled over the echoing bridge that crossed a deep, mud-banked creek of the sea.

‘Left! Left!’ The drum tap gave them the beat by which they could regain proper marching step, they were off the bridge, past the picquet, and ahead of them Sharpe saw the place he had come to find.

He did not know where he was, except that this was a lost, empty part of the Essex coast, but ahead of him, in a wet, marshy land, he saw an army camp. There were huts, tents, two brick buildings, and, on a higher swell of land, a great parade ground that was thick with marching men. Buttons, as if as eager as his master to get into the army, ran excitedly ahead.

Sharpe felt the same excitement. He had found the Second Battalion of the South Essex, he had found the men he would lead to France. All that was left to do now was to find out why Lord Fenner had lied and then to take these men, against all his enemies here and in London, out of this hidden place and to the war against the French.

On the mornings of the second and fourth Monday of each month, at eleven o‘clock precisely, Lieutenant Colonel Bartholomew Girdwood’s servant brought a small pot of boiling pitch to his master. Then, carefully, he put a thick cloth over the Colonel’s mouth, other cloths on his cheeks and nostrils, and, with a spatula borrowed from the Battalion surgeon, he smeared the boiling tar into the Colonel’s moustache. He worked it in, forcing the thick, steaming mess deep into the wiry hairs, and, though sometimes the Colonel’s face would flicker as a boiling drop reached the skin of his lip, he would stay utterly silent until the servant had finished the task. The cloths would be removed, there would be a pause while the tar set solid, then the servant, with scissors, file and heated spatula, shaped and polished the moustache so that, for another two weeks, it would need no further attention.

‘Thank you, Briggs!’ The Colonel tapped his moustache. It sounded like a nail rapping on ivory. ‘Excellent!’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood stared into the mirror. He liked what he saw. Tarred moustaches had been a fashion for officers of Frederick the Great’s army, a fashion which forced a man’s face into an unsmiling, martial expression that suited Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood’s unsmiling, martial character.

He fancied himself a harsh man. He was unfortunately smaller than he wished, but his thick-soled boots and high shako made up for the lack of inches. He was thin, muscled, and his face could have belonged to no one but a soldier. It was a hard face, clean shaven but for the moustache, with harsh black eyes and black hair trimmed short. He was a man of rigorous routine, his meals taken to the minute, his days governed by a strict timetable that was meticulously charted on the wall of his office.

‘Sword!’

Briggs held out the sword. Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood drew a few inches of the blade from the scabbard, saw that it had been polished, then handed it back to his servant who, with deferential hands, buckled it about his master’s waist.

‘Shako!’

That too was inspected. Girdwood levered the brass plate that bore the badge of the chained eagle away from the black cloth stovepipe of the shako’s crown and saw, to his pleasure, that Briggs had polished the back as well as the front of the badge. He put it on his head, checking in the mirror to see that it was perfectly straight, then buckled the chin strap.

Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood held his head high. He had no choice. He favoured the stiff leather four-inch stock that dug into the skin of a man’s chin. The new recruits, forced into the collar, would be unable to turn their heads because of the rigid leather, and within hours their skin would have been rubbed sore, even bleeding. Girdwood knew that the fighting Battalions had abandoned the stock, and he understood the wisdom of that, for the lack of it allowed a man to aim a musket more efficiently, but for a fresh recruit there was nothing like a good, stiff, neck-abrading stock. It made them keep their heads up, it made them look like soldiers, and should the bastards dare to run away, then the two red weals under their chin were as good as any brand to identify them.

‘Cane!’

Briggs gave the Colonel his polished cane, its silver head brilliant, and Girdwood gave it an experimental cut and heard the satisfying swish as it split the air.

‘Door!’

Briggs opened the door smartly, holding it at a right angle to the wall, and outside, exactly on the stroke of half past eleven as he should be, stood Captain Smith, one of Girdwood’s officers.

The Captain’s right boot slammed next to his left, he saluted.

‘Come in, Smith.’

‘Sir!’ Smith, who would accompany the Colonel on his noon inspection, reported that Sergeant Havercamp had returned from his Midlands foray. ‘Very successful, sir! Very! Forty-four men!’

‘Good.’ Girdwood’s face did not betray his elation at the good news. Twelve recruits was reckoned a good number for a Sergeant to bring back, but Horatio Havercamp had always been his best man. ‘You’ve seen them?’

‘Indeed, sir.’ Smith still stood at a rigid attention as Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood demanded.

Girdwood tucked his cane under his left arm. He leaned forward from the waist, and into his dark, small eyes came a look of almost feverish intensity. ‘Any Irish, Smith?’

‘One, sir.’ Smith’s voice, a trifle apologetic, managed to convey that the news was not entirely bad. ‘Just the one, sir.’

Girdwood growled. It was an odd noise that was intended to convey a threat. ‘We shall give them,’ he said slowly, and with some relish, ‘to Sergeant Lynch.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘And I will inspect them in twenty-three minutes.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Follow me.’

The sentries slammed to attention, saluted, and the sun glinted on the polished, gleaming moustache as Lieutenant Colonel Bartholomew Girdwood set out, with officers and clerks in attendance, on his noonday inspection.

 

‘You’ll say goodbye to me, lads.’ Sergeant Horatio Havercamp walked slowly down the line of his recruits. Each man was dressed in fatigues now; grey trousers, boots, and a short, thin, pale blue jacket. Havercamp brushed at his moustache. ‘But I shall be back, lads, come to see you when you’re soldiers.’ He stopped opposite Charlie Weller. ‘Keep the bleeding dog out the way, Charlie. The Colonel don’t like dogs.’

Weller, at whose side Buttons wagged his tail, looked worried. ‘Out the way, Sarge?’

‘I’ll have a word with the kitchens, lad. Can he rat?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

Havercamp walked on down the line, stopping at Giles Marriott. ‘You, lad. Keep your bleeding mouth shut.’ He said it in a kindly enough way. He disliked Marriott with the irrational dislike that some people engendered simply by their looks and manner, but, now that Havercamp was leaving the squad, he gave the lovesick clerk the same advice that Sharpe had given him. ‘Just keep your bloody nose clean.’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

Havercamp punched Harper lightly in the belly. ‘You didn’t give me no trouble at all, did you?’

“Course not, Sarge.‘

‘Good luck, Paddy. Luck to you all, lads!’

And oddly it was sad to see him walk away, going for more recruits, leaving them in this strange place where everyone, except themselves, seemed to understand what happened and what was expected of them.

‘Left turn!’ a corporal shouted. ‘Let’s have you bastards! Move!’

Their clothes had been taken, labelled in sacks, they had been given their fatigues, and now they were issued with what the army called their Necessaries: gaiters, spare shoes, stockings, shirts, mittens, shoe-brush, foraging cap, and knapsack. Then, loaded down with the kit, they were taken, one by one, into a clerk’s hut and peremptorily told to sign a piece of paper that was thrust at each man.

Sharpe made his cross. Giles Marriott, inevitably, complained.

Harper, standing outside, heard the whining voice and groaned. ‘Stupid bastard!’

‘I protest!’ Marriott was shouting at the clerk. ‘It’s not fair!’

Nor was it. They had each been promised a bounty of twenty-three pounds, seventeen shillings and sixpence. Sergeant Havercamp had dazzled the recruits with his cascade of gold in Sleaford, and the guinea they had each received at their attestation had compounded the promise, but now came the reality.

The paper they signed confirmed that there was no bounty, or rather, that each recruit was deemed to have already spent it.

The army had charged them for their Necessaries. It had charged them for the food they had eaten on their journey, and for the ale and rum they had drunk in Sergeant Havercamp’s generous company. It charged them for the laundry they had not had washed, for the army hospitals at Chelsea and Kilmainham that most had never heard of and, by one deduction after another, it was proved to them that, far from the army owing them the balance of their bounty, the recruits all owed money which would be deducted from their pay.