Читать книгу Sharpe’s Prey: The Expedition to Copenhagen, 1807 - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 8

Captain Henry Willsen of His Majesty’s Dirty Half Hundred, more formally the 50th Regiment of West Kent, parried his opponent’s sabre. He did it hurriedly. His right hand was low so that his sabre’s blade was raised in the position known to the fencing masters as the quarte basse and the knowledgeable spectators thought the parry was feeble. A surprised murmur sounded, for Willsen was good. Very good. He had been attacking, but it was apparent he had been slow to see his taller opponent’s counter and now he was in disorganized retreat. The taller man pressed, swatting the quarte basse aside and lunging so that Willsen skittered backwards, his slippers squeaking with a staccato judder on the wooden floor which was liberally scattered with French chalk. The very sound of the slippers on the chalked wood denoted panic. The sabres clashed harshly again, the taller man stamped forward, his blade flickering, clanging, reaching, and Willsen was countering in apparent desperation until, so fast that those watching could scarce follow his blade’s quick movement, he stepped to one side and riposted at his opponent’s cheek. There seemed little power in the riposte, for its force all came from Willsen’s wrist rather than from his full arm, but the sabre’s edge still struck the taller man with such might that he lost his balance. He swayed, right arm flailing, and Willsen gently touched his weapon’s point to his opponent’s chest so that he toppled to the floor.

‘Enough!’ the Master-at-Arms called.

‘God’s teeth.’ The fallen man swept his blade at Willsen’s ankles in a fit of pique. The blow was easily blocked and Willsen just walked away.

‘I said enough, my lord!’ the Master-at-Arms shouted angrily.

‘How the devil did you do that, Willsen?’ Lord Marsden pulled off the padded leather helmet with its wire visor that had protected his face. ‘I had you on your damned arse!’

Willsen, who had planned the whole passage of the fight from the moment he made a deliberately soft quarte basse, bowed. ‘Perhaps I was just fortunate, my lord?’

‘Don’t patronize me, man,’ Lord Marsden snapped as he climbed to his feet. ‘What was it?’

‘Your disengagement from the sixte was slow, my lord.’

‘The devil it was,’ Lord Marsden growled. He was proud of his ability with foil or sabre, yet he knew Willsen had bested him easily by feigning a squeaking retreat. His lordship scowled, then realized he was being ungracious and so, tucking the sabre under his arm, held out a hand. ‘You’re quick, Willsen, damned quick.’

The handful of spectators applauded the show of sportsmanship. They were in Horace Jackson’s Hall of Arms, an establishment on London’s Jermyn Street where wealthy men could learn the arts of pugilism, fencing and pistol shooting. The hall was a high bare room lined with racks of swords and sabres, smelling of tobacco and liniment, and decorated with prints of prize fighters, mastiffs and racehorses. The only women in the place served drinks and food, or else worked in the small rooms above the hall where the beds were soft and the prices high.

Willsen pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his long fair hair. He bowed to his beaten opponent, then carried both sabres to the weapon rack at the side of the hall where a tall, very thin and extraordinarily handsome captain in the red coat and blue facings of the 1st Regiment of Foot Guards was waiting. The guardsman, a stranger to Willsen, tossed away a half-smoked cigar as Willsen approached. ‘You fooled him,’ the Captain said cheerfully.

Willsen frowned at the stranger’s impertinence, but he answered politely enough. Willsen, after all, was an employee in Horace Jackson’s Hall and the Guards Captain, judging by the elegant cut of his expensive uniform, was a patron. The sort of patron, moreover, who could not wait to prove himself against the celebrated Henry Willsen. ‘I fooled him?’ Willsen asked. ‘How?’

‘The quarte basse,’ the guardsman said, ‘you made it soft, am I right?’

Willsen was impressed at the guardsman’s acuity, but did not betray it. ‘Perhaps I was just fortunate?’ he suggested. He was being modest, for he had the reputation of being the finest swordsman in the Dirty Half Hundred, probably in the whole army and maybe in the entire country, but he belittled his ability, just as he shrugged off those who reckoned he was the best pistol shot in Kent. A soldier, Willsen liked to say, should be a master of his arms and so he practised assiduously and prayed that one day his skill would be useful in the service of his country. Until that time came he earned his captain’s pay and, because that was not sufficient to support a wife, child and mess bill, he taught fencing and pistol-shooting in Horace Jackson’s Hall of Arms. Jackson, an old pugilist with a mashed face, wanted Willsen to leave the army and join the establishment full time, but Willsen liked being a soldier. It gave him a position in British society. It might not be a high place, but it was honourable.

‘There’s no such thing as luck,’ the guardsman said, only now he spoke in Danish, ‘not when you’re fighting.’

Willsen had been turning away, but the change of language made him look back to the golden-haired Guards Captain. His first careless impression had been one of privileged youth, but he now saw that the guardsman was probably in his early thirties and had a cynical, knowing cast to his devil-may-care good looks. This was a man, Willsen thought, who would be at home in a palace or at a prizefight. A formidable man too, and one who was of peculiar importance to Willsen, who now offered the guardsman a half-bow. ‘You, sir,’ he said respectfully, ‘must be Major the Honourable John Lavisser?’

‘I’m Captain Lavisser,’ Captain and Major Lavisser said. The Guards gave their officers dual ranks; the lower one denoted their responsibility in the regiment while the higher was an acknowledgement that any Guards officer was a superior being, especially when compared to an impoverished swordsman from the Dirty Half Hundred. ‘I’m Captain Lavisser,’ the Honourable John Lavisser said again, ‘but you must call me John. Please.’ He still spoke in Danish.

‘I thought we were not to meet till Saturday?’ Willsen said, taking off his fencing slippers and pulling on boots.

‘We’re to be companions for a fair time’ – Lavisser ignored Willsen’s hostility – ‘and it’s better, I think, that we should be friends. Besides, are you not curious about our orders?’

‘My orders are to escort you to Copenhagen and see you safe out again,’ Willsen responded stiffly as he pulled on his red coat. The wool of the coat was faded and its black cuffs and facings were scuffed. He strapped on his seven-guinea sword, unhappily aware of the valuable blade that hung from Lavisser’s slings, but Willsen had long learned to curb his envy at the inequalities of life, even if he could not entirely forget them. He knew well enough that his captaincy in the Dirty Half Hundred was worth £1,500, exactly what it cost to purchase a mere lieutenancy in the Guards, but so be it. Willsen had been taught by his Danish father and English mother to trust in God, do his duty and accept fate, and fate had now decreed he was to be the companion of a man who was the son of an earl, a guardsman, and an aide to Prince Frederick, Duke of York, who was the second son of George III and Commander in Chief of the British army.

‘But don’t you want to know why we are going to Copenhagen?’ Lavisser asked.

‘I have no doubt I shall be informed at the proper time,’ Willsen said, his manner still stiff.

Lavisser smiled and his thin, saturnine face was transformed with charm. ‘The proper time, Willsen, is now,’ he said. ‘Come, at least allow me to buy you supper and reveal the mysteries of our errand.’

In truth Captain Willsen was intrigued. He had served twelve years in the British army and had never heard a shot fired in anger. He yearned to distinguish himself and now, quite suddenly, a chance had arisen because an officer was needed to escort the Duke of York’s aide to Copenhagen. That was all Willsen knew, though his commanding officer had hinted that his facility with small arms might be a great advantage. Willsen had been worried at first, fearing that he would be fighting against his father’s people, but he had been assured that the danger in Copenhagen came from the French, not the Danes, and that assurance had permitted Willsen to accept the responsibility, just as it had piqued his curiosity. Now Lavisser was offering to explain and Willsen, who knew he had been churlish, nodded. ‘Of course. It will be a pleasure to dine with you, sir.’

‘My name is John,’ Lavisser insisted as he led Willsen down the staircase to the street. Willsen half expected to find a carriage waiting, but it appeared Lavisser was on foot even though a small chill rain was falling. ‘Hard to believe it’s July,’ Lavisser grumbled.

‘It will be a bad harvest,’ Willsen remarked.

‘I thought we might get a bite at Almack’s,’ Lavisser suggested, ‘and maybe play a hand afterwards?’

‘I never wager,’ Willsen answered, and even if he did he could never have afforded the high stakes at Almack’s.

‘How very wise you are,’ Lavisser said. They were both speaking English again. ‘And I thought it might please you if we had a word with Hanssen before supper.’

‘Hanssen?’

‘The first secretary at the Danish embassy,’ Lavisser explained. He gave his companion an earnest look. ‘I want to be quite certain that our activities are not prejudicial to Denmark. Hanssen’s a decent man and I’ve always found his advice very sound.’

Willsen shared the desire to avoid upsetting Denmark and so he rather liked the idea of talking to someone from the embassy, but his innate caution came to the fore. ‘Are we supposed to be revealing our purposes to the Danish government?’

‘Of course we’re not and of course we shan’t.’ Lavisser stopped and unleashed his dazzling smile on Willsen. ‘Sir David told me you expressed scruples about visiting Denmark? Is that right? Believe me, my dear Willsen, I feel the same. My mother’s family live there and I will do nothing, nothing, that places them in jeopardy.’ He paused, then his voice became, if anything, even more earnest. ‘If you and I cannot bring Denmark and Britain into a closer friendship, my dear Willsen, then we have no business going there, none. I merely seek general reassurances from Hanssen. I want news of the political situation in Denmark. I want to know what pressures the French are applying. The French are the irritants, but aren’t they always? And of course Hanssen will want to know the purpose of our visit, but we shall merely say we are visiting families. What could be more innocent?’ Lavisser smiled, walked on and Willsen, reassured, followed the tall guardsman across the street. A crossing sweeper, a skinny boy with a running sore on his forehead, sprinted to brush a horse dropping out of Lavisser’s path. The guardsman spun a careless sixpence towards the lad, then led Willsen down an alleyway. ‘Would it offend you if we visited Hanssen by his servants’ entrance?’ Lavisser asked. ‘Only with the Baltic so tremulous you can be sure that the damned Frogs will be watching his front door.’

‘The French? In London?’

‘They have agents everywhere,’ Lavisser said, ‘even London. But not, I think, in this alley.’

The alley was noisome and dark. It culminated in a gate that stood ajar and led into a bleak narrow yard that was made even darker by the day’s dense clouds and the surrounding walls. The yard’s cobbles were half covered in rubbish that was being loaded onto a handcart by a tall, heavy-set man who seemed surprised to see two red-coated officers invade his grubby domain. He hastily stood aside, snatched off his ragged hat and tugged his forelock as the two officers stepped gingerly through the yard’s filth.

‘Would you be averse to feminine company after supper?’ Lavisser asked.

‘I’m a married man, Captain,’ Willsen said severely.

‘Do call me John, please.’

Willsen was made uncomfortable by the invitation to such familiarity. ‘I’ll not stay after supper,’ he said awkwardly, edging past the cart.

Henry Willsen was one of the finest swordsmen in the British army and his skill with a pistol would have been the envy of any duellist, but he had no defence against the attack which erupted as soon as he had passed the rubbish cart. The tall man kicked Willsen in the back of one knee and, as the officer fell, his assailant stabbed upwards with a knife that slid between Willsen’s ribs. The blade sank to the hilt and the man held it there, supporting Willsen who was gasping suddenly as his right hand groped for the hilt of his cheap sword. He managed to take hold of the weapon, though feebly, but Captain Lavisser, who had turned when the tall man attacked, just smiled and knocked Willsen’s hand aside. ‘I don’t think you need that, Harry,’ he said.

‘You …’ Willsen tried to speak, but his lungs were filling with blood. He began to choke and his eyes widened as he shook his head.

‘I do apologize, my dear Willsen,’ Lavisser said, ‘but I’m afraid your presence in Copenhagen would be a most dreadful embarrassment.’ The Guards officer stepped hurriedly back as the big man, who had been supporting Willsen’s weight with his knife, jerked the blade free. Willsen slumped and his attacker dropped beside him and slashed the knife across his throat. Willsen began to make choking noises as he jerked spasmodically on the cobbles. ‘Well done,’ Lavisser said warmly.

‘Easy work,’ the big man grunted. He stood, wiping the blade on his dirty coat. He was very tall, very broad in the chest and had the scarred knuckles of a pugilist. His face was pitted with pox scars, his nose had been broken and ill set at least once, and his eyes were like stones. Everything about him declared that he was from as low a gutter as could bear life and just to look at him was to be glad that the gallows stood tall outside Newgate Prison.

‘He’s still alive.’ Lavisser frowned at Willsen.

‘Not for long, he ain’t,’ the big man said, then stamped hard on Willsen’s chest. ‘Not now, he ain’t.’

‘You are an example to us all, Barker,’ Lavisser said, then stepped close to the lifeless Willsen. ‘He was a very dull man, probably a Lutheran. You’ll take his cash? Make it look like a robbery?’

Barker had already begun cutting the dead man’s pockets open. ‘You think they’ll find another bugger to go with us?’ he asked.

‘They seem tediously intent on giving me company,’ Lavisser said airily, ‘but time is short now, very short, and I doubt they’ll find anyone. But if they do, Barker, then you must deal with the new man just as you dealt with this one.’ Lavisser seemed fascinated by the dead Willsen, for he could not take his eyes from him. ‘You are a great comfort to me, Barker, and you will like it in Denmark.’

‘I will, sir?’

‘They are a very trusting people,’ Lavisser said, still unable to take his gaze from Willsen’s body. ‘We shall be as ravening wolves among the woolliest of baa-lambs.’ He finally managed to look away from the corpse, raised a languid hand and edged past the handcart. He made bleating noises as he went down the alley.

The rain fell harder. It was the end of July, 1807, yet it felt more like March. It would be a poor harvest, there was a new widow in Kent and the Honourable John Lavisser went to Almack’s where he lost considerably more than a thousand guineas, but it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered now. He left worthless notes of hand promising to pay his debts and walked away. He was on his way to glory.

Mister Brown and Mister Belling, the one fat and the other thin, sat side by side and stared solemnly at the green-jacketed army officer across the table. Neither Mister Belling nor Mister Brown liked what they saw. Their visitor – he was not exactly a client – was a tall man with black hair, a hard face and a scar on his cheek and, ominously, he looked like a man who was no stranger to scars. Mister Brown sighed and turned to stare at the rain falling on London’s Eastcheap. ‘It will be a bad harvest, Mister Belling,’ he said heavily.

‘I fear so, Mister Brown.’

‘July!’ Brown said. ‘July indeed! Yet it’s more like March!’

‘A fire in July!’ Mister Belling said. ‘Unheard of!’

The fire, a mean heap of sullen coals, burned in a blackened hearth above which hung a cavalry sabre. It was the only decoration in the panelled room and hinted at the office’s military nature. Messrs Belling and Brown of Cheapside were army agents and their business was to look after the finances of officers who served abroad. They also acted as brokers for men wanting to buy or sell commissions, but this wet, chill July afternoon was bringing them no fees. ‘Alas!’ Mister Brown spread his hands. His fingers were very white, plump and beautifully manicured. He flexed them as though he was about to play a harpsichord. ‘Alas,’ he said again, looking at the green-jacketed officer who glowered from the opposite side of the table.

‘It is the nature of your commission,’ Mister Belling explained.

‘Indeed it is,’ Mister Brown intervened, ‘the nature, so to speak, of your commission.’ He smiled ruefully.

‘It’s as good as anyone else’s commission,’ the officer said belligerently.

‘Oh, better!’ Mister Brown said cheerfully. ‘Would you not agree, Mister Belling?’

‘Far better,’ Mister Belling said enthusiastically. ‘A battlefield commission, Mister Sharpe? ’Pon my soul, but that’s a rare thing. Rare!’

‘An admirable thing!’ Mister Brown added.

‘Most admirable,’ Mister Belling agreed energetically. ‘A battlefield commission! Up from the ranks! Why, it’s a …’ He paused, trying to think what it was. ‘It’s a veritable achievement!’

‘But it is not’ – Mister Brown spoke delicately, his plump hands opening and closing like a butterfly’s wings – ‘fungible.’

‘Precisely.’ Mister Belling’s manner exuded relief that his partner had found the exact word to settle the matter. ‘It is not fungible, Mister Sharpe.’

No one spoke for a few seconds. A coal hissed, rain spattered on the office window and a carter’s whip cracked in the street, which was filled with the rumble, crash and squeal of wagons and carriages.

‘Fungible?’ Lieutenant Richard Sharpe asked.

‘The commission cannot be exchanged for cash,’ Mister Belling explained. ‘You did not buy it, you cannot sell it. You were given it. What the King gives you may give back, but you cannot sell. It is not’ – he paused – ‘fungible.’

‘I was told I could sell it!’ Sharpe said angrily.

‘You were told wrong,’ Mister Brown said.

‘Misinformed,’ Mister Belling added.

‘Grievously so,’ Mister Brown said, ‘alas.’

‘The regulations are plain,’ Mister Belling went on. ‘An officer who purchases a commission is free to sell it, but a man awarded a commission is not. I wish it were otherwise.’

‘We both do!’ Mister Brown said.

‘But I was told …’

‘You were told wrong,’ Mister Belling snapped, then wished he had not spoken so brusquely for Lieutenant Sharpe started forward in his chair as though he was going to attack the two men.

Sharpe checked himself. He looked from the plump Mister Brown to the scrawny Mister Belling. ‘So there’s nothing you can do?’

Mister Belling stared at the smoke-browned ceiling for a few seconds as though seeking inspiration, then shook his head. ‘There is nothing we can do,’ he pronounced, ‘but you might apply to His Majesty’s government for a dispensation. I’ve not heard of such a course ever being followed, but an exception might be made?’ He sounded very dubious. ‘There are senior officers, perchance, who would speak for you?’

Sharpe said nothing. He had saved Sir Arthur Wellesley’s life in India, but he doubted whether the General would help him now. All Sharpe wanted was to sell his commission, take the £450 and get out of the army. But it seemed he could not sell his rank because he had not bought it.

‘Such an appeal would take time,’ Mister Brown warned him, ‘and I would not be sanguine about the outcome, Mister Sharpe. You are asking the government to set a precedent and governments are chary of precedents.’

‘Indeed they are,’ Belling said, ‘and so they should be. Though in your case … ?’ He smiled, raised his eyebrows, then sat back.

‘In my case?’ Sharpe asked, puzzled.

‘I would not be sanguine,’ Mister Brown repeated.

‘You’re saying I’m buggered?’ Sharpe asked.

‘We are saying, Mister Sharpe, that we cannot assist you.’ Mister Brown spoke severely for he had been offended by Sharpe’s language. ‘Alas.’

Sharpe gazed at the two men. Take them both down, he thought. Two minutes of bloody violence and then strip their pockets bare. The bastards must have money. And he had three shillings and threepence halfpenny in his pouch. That was it. Three shillings and threepence halfpenny.

But it was not Brown or Belling’s fault that he could not sell his commission. It was the rules. The regulations. The rich could make more money and the poor could go to hell. He stood, and the clatter of his sabre scabbard on the chair made Mister Brown wince. Sharpe draped a damp greatcoat round his shoulders, crammed a shako onto his unruly hair and picked up his pack. ‘Good day,’ he said curtly, then ducked out of the door, letting in a gust of unseasonably cold air and rain.

Mister Belling let out a great sigh of relief. ‘You know who that was, Mister Brown?’

‘He announced himself as Lieutenant Sharpe of the 95th Rifles,’ Mister Brown said, ‘and I have no reason to doubt him, do I?’

‘The very same officer, Mister Brown, who lived, or should I say cohabited, with the Lady Grace Hale!’

Mister Brown’s eyes widened. ‘No! I thought she took up with an ensign!’

Mister Belling sighed. ‘In the Rifles, Mister Brown, there are no ensigns. He is a second lieutenant. Lowest of the low!’

Mister Brown stared at the closed door. ‘’Pon my soul,’ he said softly, ‘’pon my soul!’ Here was something to tell Amelia when he got home! A scandal in the office! It had been whispered throughout London how the Lady Grace Hale, widow to a prominent man, had moved into a house with a common soldier. True, the common soldier was an officer, but not a proper officer. Not a man who had purchased his commission, but rather a sergeant who had earned a battlefield promotion, which was, in its way, entirely admirable, but even so! Lady Grace Hale, daughter of the Earl of Selby, living with a common soldier? And not just living with him, but having his baby! Or so the gossip said. The Hale family claimed the dead husband had been the child’s father and the date of the baby’s birth was conveniently within nine months of Lord William’s death, but few believed it. ‘I thought the name was somehow familiar,’ Brown said.

‘I scarcely credited it myself,’ Mister Belling admitted. ‘Can you imagine her ladyship enduring such a man? He’s scarce more than a savage!’

‘Did you note the scar on his face?’

‘And when did he last shave?’ Belling shuddered. ‘I fear he is not long for the army, Mister Brown. A curtailed career, would you not say?’

‘Truncated, Mister Belling.’

‘Penniless, no doubt!’

‘No doubt!’ Brown said. ‘And he carried his own pack and greatcoat! An officer doesn’t carry a pack! Never seen such a thing in all my years. And he was reeking of gin.’

‘He was?’

‘Reeking!’ Brown said. ‘Well, I never! So that’s the fellow, is it? What was the Lady Grace thinking of? She must have been quite mad!’ He jumped, startled because the door had been suddenly thrown open. ‘Mister Sharpe?’ he said faintly, wondering if the tall rifleman had returned to exact vengeance for their unhelpfulness. ‘You forgot something, perhaps?’

Sharpe shook his head. ‘Today’s Friday, isn’t it?’ he asked.

Mister Belling blinked. ‘It is, Mister Sharpe,’ he said feebly, ‘it is indeed.’

‘Friday,’ Mister Brown confirmed, ‘the very last day of July.’

Sharpe, dark-eyed, tall and hard-faced, stared suspiciously at each of the two men in turn, then nodded reluctantly. ‘I thought it was,’ he said, then left again.

This time it was Brown who let out a sigh of relief as the door closed. ‘I cannot think,’ he said, ‘that promoting men from the ranks is a wise idea.’

‘It never lasts,’ Belling said consolingly, ‘they ain’t suited to rank, Mister Brown, and they take to liquor and so run out of cash. There is no prudence in the lower sort of men. He’ll be on the streets within the month, rely upon it, within the month.’

‘Poor fellow,’ Mister Brown said and shot the door’s bolt. It was only five o’clock in the evening, and the office was supposed to remain open until six, but somehow it seemed prudent to shut up early. Just in case Sharpe came back. Just in case.

Grace, Sharpe thought, Grace. God help me, Grace. God help me. Three shillings, three pence and a bloody halfpenny, all the money he had left in the world. What do I do now, Grace? He often talked to her. She was not there to listen, not now, but he still talked to her. She had taught him so much, she had encouraged him to read and tried to make him think, but nothing lasts. Nothing. ‘Bloody hell, Grace,’ he said aloud and men on the street gave him room, thinking him either mad or drunk. ‘Bloody hell.’ The anger was welling inside him, thick and dark, a fury that wanted to explode in violence or else drown itself in drink. Three shillings and threepence bloody halfpenny. He could get well drunk on that, but the ale and gin he had taken at midday was already sour in his belly. What he wanted was to hurt someone, anyone. Just a blind, desperate anger.

He had not planned it this way. He thought he would come to London, borrow an advance from an army agent, and then go away. Back to India, he had thought. Other men went there poor and came back rich. Sharpe the nabob and why not? Because he could not sell his rank, that was why not. Some snotty child with a rich father could buy and sell his rank, but a real soldier who had fought his way up the ladder could not. Bugger them all. So what now? Ebenezer Fairley, the merchant who had sailed with Sharpe from India, had offered him a job, and Sharpe supposed he could walk to Cheshire and beg from the man, but he had no urge to start that journey now. He just wanted to vent his anger and so, reassured that it was indeed Friday, he walked towards the Tower. The street stank of the river, coal smoke and horse dung. There was wealth in this part of London that lay so close to the docks and to the Custom House and to the big warehouses crammed with spices, tea and silks. This was a district of counting houses, bankers and merchants, a conduit for the world’s wealth, but the money was not displayed. A few clerks hurried from one office to another, but there were no crossing sweepers and none of the signs of luxury that filled the elegant streets to the city’s west. The buildings here were tall, dark and secret, and it was impossible to tell whether the grey-haired man scuttling with a ledger under his arm was a merchant prince or a worn-out clerk.

Sharpe turned down Tower Hill. There was a pair of red-coated sentries at the Tower’s outer gate and they pretended not to see the sabre scabbard protruding from Sharpe’s greatcoat and he pretended not to see them. He did not care if they saluted him or not. He did not much care if he never saw the army again so long as he lived. He was a failure. Storekeeper to the regiment. A bloody quartermaster. He had come from India, where he had received a commission into a red-coated regiment, to England, where he had been placed in the greenjackets, and at first he had liked the Rifles, but then Grace had gone and everything went wrong. Yet it was not her fault. Sharpe blamed himself, but still did not understand why he had failed. The Rifles were a new kind of regiment, prizing skill and intelligence above blind discipline. They worked hard, rewarded progress and encouraged the men to think for themselves. Officers trained with the men, even drilled with them, and the hours that other regiments wasted in pipe-claying and stock-polishing, in boot-licking and tuft-brushing, the green-jackets spent in rifle practice. Men and officers competed against each other, all trying to make their own company the best. It was exactly the kind of regiment that Sharpe had dreamed of when he had been in India, and he had been recommended to it. ‘I hear you’re just the sort of officer we want,’ Colonel Beckwith had greeted Sharpe, and the Colonel’s welcome was heartfelt, for Sharpe brought the green-jackets a wealth of recent experience in battle, but in the end they did not want him. He did not fit. He could not make small talk. Perhaps he had frightened them. Most of the regiment’s officers had spent the last years training on England’s south coast, while Sharpe had been fighting in India. He had become bored with the training, and after Grace he had become bitter so that the Colonel had taken him away from number three company and put him in charge of the stores. Which was where most officers up from the ranks were placed in the hidebound, red-coated regiments, but the Rifles were supposed to be different.

Now the regiment had marched away, going to fight somewhere abroad, but Sharpe, the morose quartermaster, had been left behind. ‘It’ll be a chance,’ Colonel Beckwith had told Sharpe, ‘to clean out the hutments. Give them a damn good scouring, eh? Have everything ready for our return.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe had said, and thought Beckwith could go to hell. Sharpe was a soldier, not a damned barracks cleaner, but he had hidden his anger as he watched the regiment march north. No one knew where it was going. Some said Spain, others said they were going to Stralsund, which was a British garrison on the Baltic, though why the British held a garrison on the southern coast of the Baltic no one could explain, and a few claimed the regiment was going to Holland. No one actually knew, but they all expected to fight and they marched in fine spirits. They were the greenjackets, a new regiment for a new century, but with no place for Richard Sharpe. So Sharpe had decided to run. Damn Beckwith, damn the green-jackets, damn the army and damn everything. He had reckoned he would sell his commission, take the money and find a new life. Except he could not sell because of the bloody regulations. God damn it, Grace, he thought, what do I do?

Only he knew what he was going to do. He was still going to run. Yet to start a new life he needed money, which was why he had made certain it was a Friday. Now he edged down the greasy stairs at the foot of Tower Hill and nodded to a waterman. ‘Wapping Steps,’ he said, settling in the boat’s stern.

The waterman shoved off, letting the river current carry him downstream past Traitor’s Gate. The masts were thick on either side of the river where ships and barges were double berthed against wharves crudely protected by bulging fenders made of thick, twisted, tar-soaked rope. Sharpe knew those fenders. The worn-out ones had been carted to the foundling home in Brewhouse Lane where the children had been made to dismantle the matted remnants of tar and hemp. At the age of nine, Sharpe remembered, he had lost the nails on four of his fingers. It had been useless work. Teasing out the hemp strands with small bare and bloody hands. The strands were sold as an alternative for the horsehair that stiffened the plaster used on walls. He looked at his hands now. Still rough, he thought, but no longer black with tar and bloody with ripped nails.

‘Recruiting?’ the waterman asked.

‘No.’

The curt tone might have offended the waterman, but he shrugged it off. ‘It ain’t my business,’ he said, deftly using an oar to keep the boat drifting straight, ‘but Wapping ain’t healthy. Not to an officer, sir.’

‘I grew up there.’

‘Ah,’ the man said, giving Sharpe a puzzled look. ‘Going home, then?’

‘Going home,’ Sharpe agreed. The sky was leaden with cloud and darkened further by the pall of smoke that threaded the spires and towers and masts. A black sky over a black city, broken only by a jagged streak of pink in the west. Going home, Sharpe thought. Friday evening. The small rain pitted the river. Lights glimmered from portholes in the berthed ships which stank of coal dust, sewage, whale oil and spices. Gulls flew like white scraps in the early dark, wheeling and diving about the heavy beam at Execution Dock, where the bodies of two men, mutineers or pirates, hung with broken necks.

‘Watch yourself,’ the waterman said, skilfully nudging his skiff in among the other boats at the Wapping Steps. He was not warning Sharpe against the slippery flight of stairs, but against the folk who lived in the huddled streets above.

Sharpe paid in coppers, then climbed up to the wharf which was edged with low warehouses guarded by ragged dogs and cudgel-bearing thugs. This place was safe enough, but once through the alley and into the streets he was in hungry territory. He would be back in the gutter, but it was his gutter, the place he had started and he felt no particular fear of it.

‘Colonel!’ A whore called to him from behind a warehouse. She lifted her skirt then spat a curse when Sharpe ignored her. A chained dog lunged at him as he emerged onto High Street where a dozen small boys whooped in derision at the sight of an army officer and fell into mocking step behind him. Sharpe let them follow for twenty paces, then whipped round fast and snatched the nearest boy’s shabby coat, lifted and slammed him against the wall. Two of the other boys ran off, doubtless to fetch brothers or fathers. ‘Where’s Maggie Joyce?’ Sharpe asked the boy.

The child hesitated, wondering whether to be brave, then half grinned. ‘She’s gone, mister.’

‘Gone where?’

‘Seven Dials.’

Sharpe believed him. Maggie was his one friend, or he hoped she was, but she must have had the sense to leave Wapping, though Sharpe doubted that the Seven Dials was much safer. But he had not come here to see Maggie. He had come here because it was Friday night and he was poor. ‘Who’s the Master at the workhouse?’ he asked.

The child looked really scared now. ‘The Master?’ he whispered.

‘Who is it, boy?’

‘Jem Hocking, sir.’

Sharpe put the lad down, took the halfpenny from his pocket and spun it down the street so that the boys pursued it between the people, dogs, carts and horses. Jem Hocking. That was the name he had hoped to hear. A name from a black past, a name that festered in Sharpe’s memory as he walked down the centre of the street so that no one emptied a slop bucket over his head. It was a summer evening, the cloud-hidden sun was still above the horizon, but it seemed like winter twilight here. The houses were black, their old bricks patched with crude timbers. Some had fallen down and were nothing but heaps of rubble. Cesspits stank. Dogs barked everywhere. In India the British officers had shuddered at the stench of the streets, but none had ever walked here. Even the worst street in India, Sharpe thought, was better than this foetid place where the people had pinched faces, sunk with hunger, but their eyes were bright enough, especially when they saw the pack in Sharpe’s left hand. They saw a heavy pack, a sabre and assessed the value of the greatcoat draped like a cloak over his broad shoulders. There was more wealth on Sharpe than these folk saw in a half-dozen years, though Sharpe reckoned himself poor. He had been rich once. He had taken the jewels of the Tippoo Sultan, stripping them from the dying king’s body in the shit-stinking tunnel of the Water Gate of Seringapatam, but those jewels were gone. Bloody lawyers. Bloody, bloody lawyers.

But if the folk saw the wealth on Sharpe they also saw that he was very tall and very strong and that his face was scarred and hard and bitter and forbidding. A man would have to be desperately hungry to risk his life in an attempt to steal Sharpe’s coat or pack and so, like wolves that scented blood but feared losing their own, the men watched him pass and, though some followed him as he turned up Wapping Lane, they did not pursue him into Brewhouse Lane. The poorhouse and the foundling home were there and no one went close to those grim high walls unless they were forced.

Sharpe stood in the doorway of the old brewery, long closed down, and stared across the street at the workhouse walls. On the right was the poorhouse that mostly held folk too old to work, or else they were sick or had been abandoned by their children. Landlords turned them onto the street and the parish beadle brought them here, to Jem Hocking’s kingdom, where the men were put in one ward and the women in the other. They died here, husbands forbidden to speak with their wives, and all half starved until their corpses were carried in a knacker’s cart to a pauper’s grave. That was the poorhouse, and it was divided from the foundling home by a narrow, three-storey brick house with white-painted shutters and an elegant wrought-iron lantern suspended above its well-scrubbed front steps. The Master’s house. Jem Hocking’s small palace which overlooked the foundling home which, like the poorhouse, had its own gate: a black slab of heavy timber smeared with tar and surmounted with rusted iron spikes four inches long. A prison, really, for orphans. The magistrates sent pregnant girls here, girls too poor to have a home or too sick to sell their swollen bodies on the streets. Their bastards were born here and the girls, as often as not, died of the fever. Those that survived went back to the streets, leaving their children in the tender care of Jem Hocking and his wife.

It had been Sharpe’s home once. And now it was Friday.

He crossed the street and hammered on the small wicket door set into the foundling home’s larger gate. Grace had wanted to come here. She had listened to Sharpe’s stories and believed she could change things, but there had never been time. So Sharpe would change things now. He lifted his hand to hammer again just as the wicket door opened to reveal a pale and anxious young man who flinched away from Sharpe’s fist. ‘Who are you?’ Sharpe demanded as he stepped through the small opening.

‘Sir?’ The young man had been expecting to ask that same question.

‘Who are you?’ Sharpe asked. ‘Come on, man, don’t bloody dither! And where’s the Master?’

‘The Master’s in his house, but …’ The young man abandoned whatever he had been trying to say and instead attempted to stand in front of Sharpe. ‘You can’t go in there, mister!’

‘Why not?’ Sharpe had crossed the small yard and now pushed open the door to the hall. When he had been a child he had thought it a vast room, big as a cathedral, but now it looked squalid and small. Scarce bigger than a company’s barrack room, he realized. It was supper and some thirty or more children were sitting on the floor among the oakum and the tar-encrusted fenders that was their daily work. They scooped spoons in wooden bowls while another thirty children queued beside a table that held a cauldron of soup and a bread board. A woman, her red arms massive, stood behind the table while a young man, equipped with a riding crop, lolled on the hall’s low dais above which a biblical text arched across the brown-painted wall. Be sure your sin will find you out.

Sixty pairs of eyes stared at Sharpe in astonishment. None of the children spoke for fear of the riding crop or a blow from the woman’s burly arm. Sharpe did not speak either. He was staring at the room, smelling the tar and fighting against the overwhelming memories. It had been twenty years since he had last been under this roof. Twenty years. It smelt the same, though. It smelt of tar and fear and rotten food. He stepped to the table and sniffed the soup.

‘Leek and barley gruel, sir.’ The woman, seeing the silver buttons and the black braid and the sabre, dropped a clumsy curtsey.

‘Looks like lukewarm water to me,’ Sharpe said.

‘Leek and barley, sir.’

Sharpe picked up a random piece of bread. Hard as brick. Hard as ship’s biscuit.

‘Sir?’ The woman held out her hand. She was nervous. ‘The bread is counted, sir, counted.’

Sharpe tossed it down. He was tempted to some extravagant gesture, but what would it do? Upsetting the cauldron merely meant the children would go hungry, while dropping the bread into the soup would achieve nothing. Grace would have known what to do. Her voice would have cracked like a whip and the work-house servants would have been scurrying to fetch food, clothes and soap. But those things cost money and Sharpe only had a pocketful of copper.

‘And what have we here?’ a strong voice boomed from the hall door. ‘What has the east wind blown in today?’ The children whimpered and went very still while the woman dropped another curtsey. Sharpe turned. ‘And who are you?’ the man demanded. ‘Colonel of the regiment, are you?’

It was Jem Hocking. Come like the devil to the heart of hell.

He was no devil to look at. See Jem Hocking in the street and a man might take him for a prosperous farmer up from the Vale of Kent. The years had whitened his hair and stretched his chequered waistcoat taut across a bulging belly, but he was still a bull of a man with wide shoulders, stout legs and a face as flat as a shovel. Thick jowls hung beneath bushy white side whiskers, a golden watch chain held a dozen seals, his tall boots were tasselled, his dark-blue coat was edged with velvet cuffs and he carried a varnished black staff with a silver knob. He was the Master and for a moment Sharpe could not speak. He was overwhelmed by hatred, by the memories of this man’s cruelty, even by fear. Twenty years and a battlefield commission had not taken away that fear. He wanted to imitate the children; he wanted to freeze, pretend not to exist, not even breathe in case he was noticed.

‘Does I know you?’ Hocking demanded. The big man was frowning, trying to discern something familiar in Sharpe’s scarred face, but the memory would not come. He shook his head in puzzlement. ‘So who are you?’

‘My name is Dunnett,’ Sharpe said, using the name of an officer in the greenjackets who held a particular dislike of Sharpe. ‘Major Warren Dunnett,’ he said, promoting Dunnett from captain.

‘A major, eh? And what kind of uniform is that, Major? Red coats I know, and blue I’ve seen, but bless me, I ain’t seen green and black.’ He stepped towards Sharpe, pushing the children’s skinny legs out of the way with his beadle’s staff. ‘Is it a newfangled uniform, eh? Some kind of coat that gives a man the right to trespass on parish property?’

‘I was looking for the Master,’ Sharpe said. ‘I was told he was a man of business.’

‘Business.’ Hocking spat the word. ‘And what business do you have, Major, other than the killing of the King’s enemies?’

‘You want me to talk about it here?’ Sharpe asked. He took one of the pennies from his coat pocket and spun it towards the ceiling. It glittered as it flew, watched by hungry, astonished children, then fell into Sharpe’s hand and vanished.

The sight of the money, even a humble penny, was all the reassurance Hocking needed. The rest of his questions could wait. ‘I has business outside the poorhouse tonight,’ he announced, ‘it being a Friday. You’ll take an ale with me, Major?’

‘That would be a pleasure, Master,’ Sharpe lied.

Or perhaps it was not a lie, for Sharpe was angry and revenge was a pleasure. And this revenge had been simmering in his dreams for twenty years. He glanced a last time at the text on the wall and wondered if Jem Hocking had ever considered the truth of it.

Be sure your sin will find you out.

Jem Hocking should have taken note and been on his knees in prayer.

Because Richard Sharpe had come home.