‘Dick, sir. You call me Dick. We’re friends, remember?’
‘Of course.’ Lawford, as uncomfortable with this sudden intimacy as with the need to waste time, settled awkwardly by Sharpe at the base of a tree. ‘So why did you join up?’ he asked Sharpe.
‘The harmen were after me.’
‘The harmen? Oh yes, the constables.’ Lawford paused. Somewhere in the night a creature shrieked as it was caught by a predator, while off to the east the sergeants called to their sentries. The sky glowed with the light of the army’s myriad fires. ‘What had you done?’ Lawford asked.
‘Killed a man. Put a knife in him.’
Lawford gazed at Sharpe. ‘Murdered him, you mean?’
‘Oh, aye, it was murder right enough, even though the bugger deserved it. But the judge at York Assizes wouldn’t have seen it my way, would he? Which meant Dick Sharpe
would have been morris-dancing at the end of a rope so I reckoned it was easier to put on the scarlet coat. The harmen don’t bother a man once he’s in uniform, not unless he killed one of the gentry.’
Lawford hesitated, not sure whether he should enquire too deeply, then decided it was worth a try. ‘So who was the fellow you killed?’
‘Bugger kept an inn. I worked for him, see? It was a coaching inn so he knew what coaches were carrying good baggage and my job was to snaffle the stuff once the coach was on the road. That and some prigging.’ Lawford did not like to ask what prigging was, so kept quiet. ‘He were a right bastard,’ Sharpe went on, ‘but that wasn’t why I stuck him. It was over a girl, see? And he and I had a disagreement about who should keep her blanket warm. He lost and I’m here and God knows where the lass is now.’ He laughed.
‘We’re wasting time,’ Lawford said.
‘Quiet!’ Sharpe snapped, then picked up his musket and pointed it towards some bushes. ‘Is that you, lass?’
‘It’s me, Richard.’ Mary Bickerstaff emerged from the shadows carrying a bundle. ‘Evening, Mr Lawford, sir,’ she said shyly.
‘Call him Bill,’ Sharpe insisted, then stood and shouldered his musket. ‘Come on, Bill!’ he said. ‘No point in wasting time here. There’s three of us now and wise men always travel in threes, don’t they? So find your bleeding star and let’s be moving.’
They walked all night, following Lawford’s star towards the western skyline. Lawford took Sharpe aside at one point and, insisting on his ever-more precarious authority, ordered Sharpe to send the woman back. ‘That’s an order, Sharpe,’ Lawford said.
‘She won’t go,’ Sharpe retorted.
‘We can’t take a woman!’ Lawford snapped.
‘Why not? Deserters always take their valuables, sir. Bill, I mean.’
‘Christ, Private, if you mess this up I’ll make sure you get all the stripes you escaped yesterday.’
Sharpe grinned. ‘It won’t be me who messes it. It’s the damn fool idea itself.’
‘Nonsense.’ Lawford strode ahead, forcing Sharpe to follow. Mary, guessing that they were arguing about her, kept a few paces behind. ‘There’s nothing wrong with General Baird’s notion,’ Lawford said. ‘We fall into the Tippoo’s hands, we join his wretched army, find this man Ravi Shek-har, then leave everything to him. And just what part does Mrs Bickerstaff play in that?’ He asked the question angrily.
‘Whatever part she wants,’ Sharpe said stubbornly.
Lawford knew he should argue, or rather that he should impose his authority on Sharpe, but he sensed he could never win. He was beginning to wonder whether it had been such a good idea to bring Sharpe after all, but from the first moment when Baird had suggested this desperate endeavour, Lawford had known he would need help and he had also known which of the Light Company’s soldiers he wanted. Private Sharpe had always stood out, not just because of his height, but because he was by far the quickest-wilted man in the company. But even so, Lawford had not been ready for the speed or force with which Sharpe had taken over this mission. Lawford had expected gratitude from Sharpe, and also deference; he even believed he deserved that deference purely by virtue of being an officer, but Sharpe had swiftly torn that assumption into tatters. It was rather as if Lawford had harnessed a solid-looking draught horse to his gig only to discover it was a runaway racer, but why had the racehorse insisted on bringing the filly? That offended Lawford, suggesting to him that Sharpe was taking advantage of the freedom offered by this mission. Lawford glanced at Sharpe, noting how pale and strained he looked, and he guessed that