‘This way, Sharpe,’ Lawford said when they were out of earshot of the sentries. ‘We’re following a star.’
‘Just like the wise men, Bill,’ Sharpe said. It had taken Sharpe an extraordinary effort to use Mister Lawford’s first name, but he knew he had to do it. His survival, and Lawford’s, depended on everything being done right.
But the use of the name shocked Lawford, who stopped and stared at Sharpe. ‘What did you call me?’
‘I called you Bill,’ Sharpe said, ‘because that’s your bleeding name. You ain’t an officer now, you’re one of us. I’m Dick, you’re Bill. And we ain’t following any bloody star. We’re going to those trees over there. See? The three big buggers?’
‘Sharpe!’ Lawford protested.
‘No!’ Sharpe turned savagely on Lawford. ‘My job is to keep you alive, Bill, so get one thing straight. You’re a bleeding private now, not a bloody officer. You volunteered, remember? And we’re deserters. There ain’t no ranks here, no “sirs”, no bloody salutes, no gentlemen. When we get back to the army I promise you I’ll pretend this never happened and I’ll salute you till my bloody arm drops off, but not now, and not till you and me get out of this bloody nonsense alive. So come on!’
Lawford, stunned by Sharpe’s confidence, meekly followed. ‘But this is south of west!’ he protested, glancing up at the stars to check the direction Sharpe was taking.
‘We’ll go west later,’ Sharpe said. ‘Now get your bleeding stock off.’ He ripped his own off and tossed it into some bushes. ‘First thing any runner does, sir’ – the ‘sir’ was accidental, a habit, and he silently cursed himself for using it -‘is take off his stock. Then mess your hair. And get those trousers dirty. You look like you’re standing guard on Windsor bleeding Castle.’ Sharpe watched as Lawford did his best to obey. ‘So where did you join up, Bill?’ he asked.
Lawford was still resentful of this sudden reversal of roles, but he was sensible enough to realize Sharpe was right. Join up?’ he repeated. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Of course you did! Where did they recruit you?’
‘My home’s near Portsmouth.’
‘That’s no bloody good. Navy would press you in Portsmouth before a recruiting sergeant could get near to you. Ever been to Sheffield?’
‘Good Lord, no!’ Lawford sounded horrified.
‘Good place, Sheffield,’ Sharpe said. ‘And there’s a pub on Pond Street called The Hawle in the Pond. Can you remember that? The Hawle in the Pond in Sheffield. It’s a favourite hunting hole for the 33rd’s recruiters, especially on market days. You was tricked there by some bleeding sergeant. He got you drunk and before you knew it you’d taken the King’s shilling He was a sergeant of the 33rd, so what did he have on his bayonet?’
‘His bayonet?’ Lawford, fumbling to release the leather binding of his newly clubbed hair, frowned in perplexity. ‘Nothing, I should hope.’
‘We’re the 33rd, Bill! The Havercakes! He carried an oatcake on his bayonet, remember? And he promised you’d be an officer inside two years because he was a lying bastard. What did you do before you met him?’
Lawford shrugged. ‘A farmer?’
‘No one would ever believe you laboured on a farm,’
Sharpe said scornfully. ‘You ain’t got a farmer’s arms. That General Baird now, he’s got proper arms. Looks as if he could hoist hay all day long and not feel a damn thing, but not you. You were a lawyer’s clerk.’
Lawford nodded. ‘I think we should go now,’ he said, trying to reassert his rapidly vanishing authority.
‘We’re waiting,’ Sharpe said stubbornly. ‘So why the hell are you running?’
Lawford frowned. ‘Unhappiness, I suppose.’
‘Bleeding hell, you’re a soldier! You ain’t supposed to be happy! No, let’s think now. You boned the Captain’s watch, how about that? Got caught, and you faced a flogging. You saw me flogged and didn’t fancy you could survive, so you and me, being mates like, ran.’
‘I really do think we must go!’ Lawford insisted.
‘In a minute, sir.’ Again Sharpe cursed himself for using the honorific. ‘Just let my back settle down.’
‘Oh, of course.’ Lawford was immediately contrite. ‘But we can’t wait too long, Sharpe.’