At least Sharpe hoped no one would hang for Jem Hocking.
But he was still a wanted man. He had run out of Wapping with a small fortune and there were plenty of men who would like to find him and take that fortune away. Hocking’s mastiffs for a start, and they would look for him in just such a tavern as the Frog Prick. So stay here one night, he told himself, then get out of London for a while. Just as he made that decision there was a sudden commotion at the tavern door that made him fear his pursuers had already come for him, but it was only a boisterous group of men and women hurrying out of the rain. The men shook water from umbrellas and plucked cloaks from the women’s shoulders. Sharpe suspected they had come from the nearby theater, for the women wore scandalously low-cut dresses and had heavily made-up faces. They were actresses, probably, while the men were all army officers, gaudy in scarlet coats, gold braid and red sashes, and Sharpe looked away before any could catch his eye. “Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,” one of the red-coated officers called, “gives genius a better discerning!” That odd statement provoked a cheer. Tables and chairs were shifted to make room for the party which was evidently known to a score of men in the room. “You look in the pink of perfection, my dear,” the officer told one of the women, and was mocked for his gallantry by his fellows.
Sharpe scowled at his ale. Grace had loved the theater, but it was not his world, not any more, so damn it, he thought. He would not be an officer much longer. He had money now, so he could go into the world and start again. He drank the ale, gulping it down, suddenly aware of how thirsty he was. He needed a wash. He needed to soak his jacket in cold water. All in good time, he thought. Bed first, sleep or try to sleep. Try to sleep instead of thinking about Grace, and in the morning think what to do with the rest of his life.
Then a heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. “I’ve been looking for you,” a harsh voice said, “and here you are.”
CHAPTER 3
“I never forget a face,” Major General Sir David Baird said. He had taken a step back, alarmed by the ferocity of the scowl with which Sharpe had greeted him. “It is Sharpe, isn’t it?” Baird asked, but was now met with a stare of incomprehension. “Well, is it or isn’t it?” Baird demanded brusquely.
Sharpe, recovering from his astonishment, nodded. “It is, sir.”
“I helped save you from a flogging once, and now you’re an officer. The Lord’s providences are incomprehensible, Mister Sharpe.”
“They are, sir.”
Baird, a huge man, tall and muscled, was in a red uniform coat that was heavy with epaulettes and gold braid. He scowled at his companions, the group who had just arrived with wet umbrellas and painted women. “Those young men over there are aides to the Duke of York,” he said, “and His Majesty insisted they take me to the theater. Why? I cannot tell. Have you ever been forced into a theater, Sharpe?”
“Once, sir.” And everyone had stared at Grace and talked of her behind their hands and she had endured it, but wept afterward.
“She Stoops to Conquer, what kind of name for an entertainment is that?” Baird asked. “I was asleep by the end of the prologue so I’ve no idea. But I’ve been thinking of you lately, Mister Sharpe. Thinking of you and looking for you.”
“For me, sir?” Sharne could not hide his puzzlement.
“Is that blood on your coat? It is! Good God, man, don’t tell me the bloody Frogs have landed.”
“It was a thief, sir.”
“Not another one? A captain of the Dirty Half Hundred was killed just two days ago, not a hundred yards from Piccadilly! It must have been footpads, the bastards. I hope you hurt the man?”
“I did, sir. ”
“Good.” The General sat opposite Sharpe. “I heard you’d been commissioned. I congratulate you. You did a fine thing in India, Sharpe.”