They were close now. Sharpe, as the ostler backed the fresh horses into the harness, called Harper and the two officers to his side. ‘Remember why we’re here. We need their record books, and we have to take the men away from Foulness so Fenner can’t hide them again. That’s all. We’re not going to punish anyone.’ They nodded. It was the twentieth time he had told them, but he was nervous. He planned to find the proof which he was sure existed, proof that he could send to the green-eyed lady who wanted her vengeance on Fenner, then he would march the men to Chelmsford and there formally enlist them into the First Battalion and protect them while the proof worked its magic in London. ‘Remember. We’re not punishing anyone.’
‘I’m still looking forward to it.’ Harper laughed. ‘By God, I am!’
Sharpe smiled. ‘There is a vengeful streak in you, Sergeant Harper.’
‘By God, sir, and you’re right.’ Harper grinned, and they went on to Foulness.
At six o’clock, as always, Lieutenant Colonel Bartholomew Girdwood sat in his office and wrote, in his small, neat hand, the progress reports of his Companies. ‘Number four’s ready for musket training?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Captain Smith sat stiffly in front of the desk.
‘Good, good!’ Girdwood made a mark on his chart. From the parade ground came the bellow of orders. He tapped his newly-tarred moustache with the shaft of his pen, making a sharp, rapping noise. ‘How many men did Havercamp bring today?’
‘Ten, sir.’
Girdwood grunted. ‘Getting near harvest. Always a bad time. Is he leaving tomorrow?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Issue him with funds.’ He frowned. ‘Is that a coach?’
‘Sounds like it, sir.”
Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood presumed Sir Henry had come, as he often did of an early evening, to inspect the camp. He would find nothing amiss, except, of course, the burned-out stables. The memory of the fire, and the thought of the two deserters, hurt him. One of them, the Irishman, had dared to fire at him! ‘I suppose it would be expecting too much to have any news from the militia?’
‘Nothing as yet, sir.’
‘My God! Real soldiers would have found those bastards days ago. They’ve gone, Smith!’ Girdwood shook his head sadly. ‘We won’t see them again!’
Hooves sounded outside. The noise, coupled with the jangling of the coach’s trace chains, reminded Girdwood that Sir Henry was planning to stay in London until after the Prince Regent’s victory parade, and he glanced stiffly towards the door. ‘See who it is, Smith.’ No one, in Girdwood’s view, had any business coming here, no one. The vicar of Great Wakering had arrived once, having talked his way past the bridge guard to offer spiritual solace to the camp, but Girdwood had ordered the man away and told him never to come back. He wondered if this was the vicar returning and he shouted through the open door after the Captain. ‘And see the filth off, Smith! Smartly!’
‘Sir!’ The shout was a despairing one, cut off almost as soon as it was begun, then the door was snatched open and Girdwood, gripping the table’s edge, saw a tall man silhouetted in the doorway. Instantly a pang of guilt stabbed through him, for the man wore uniform and a sword, and the moment that Girdwood had feared despite all Sir Henry’s reassurances seemed to have come. An officer had come to arrest him!
‘See what filth off?’ the man asked.
Girdwood stood. He could see, now that the man had walked into the room and shut the door, that the unwelcome visitor was a Rifle Major. Girdwood outranked him, and despite the fear he still felt, he made his voice harsh. ‘You will leave this office, Major! Now! You did not have my permission to enter.’
The Major took off the shako that had shadowed his face and dropped it casually onto a chair. He put his hands on Girdwood’s table, leaned forward, and smiled into the Lieutenant Colonel’s face. ‘Remember me, Bartholomew?’
Girdwood stared, not sure if the face was familiar or not. The two fresh scars on the Rifleman’s face were dark with dried blood, and the sight of them, and something about the eyes that stared so implacably at him, brought to Girdwood’s mind a memory of the two deserters. ‘No.’ He had not meant to speak aloud. He shook his head, shrank back in his chair. ‘No!’
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