He twisted to stare at the review. He could see the Ring and, flanking it, the two lines of carriages. No one looked his way. He was far from the Hyde Park Gate, but he could see no golden-haired girl in that direction, only a few grooms who exercised horses behind the carriage parks and who thought nothing strange this day about soldiers waiting by the Serpentine. Sharpe stared a long time, looking for Jane Gibbons, but he did not see her. He turned back. ‘The main thing, gentlemen, is to enjoy this.’
‘Enjoy it, sir?’ Smith asked.
‘Of course, Captain. We’re going to win a battle.’ Sharpe laughed, though he felt despair too. ‘To your Companies, gentlemen!’ She had not come. She had not come, and his best hope was gone. Now he must fight.
Sharpe took his place at the head of his men. He was glad to hear the bands playing for it filled him with the right warlike spirit. The music; heart-stirring martial tunes, came faint over the park’s grassland, and the big drums punched the warm air like cannon fire. Regimental Sergeant Major Harper, marching Sharpe’s force towards the review, unconsciously called the steps to match the music’s rhythm. The men marched in silence, muskets shouldered, and, though they marched in the heart of England itself, they were marching to war.
CHAPTER 19
Jane Gibbons’ journey to London had not been hard, a carter from Great Wakering had carried her to Rochford, and from there she had paid to travel in a stage that dropped her at Charing Cross, but London filled her with dread. She had visited it before, but never on her own, and she knew no one. She had money, eight of the guineas were left of those that, in a dew-wet dawn, she had rescued from the table in the pergola.
She carried two bags, a reticule, a parasol, and Rascal was on a leash. She was glad of the small white dog. The smells of the city were strange, the people frightening, and the noise overwhelming. She had never seen so many cripples. On her previous visits, insulated from the misery by the glass windows of her uncle’s coach, she had not realised how much horror stirred and shuffled on London’s pavements. She stooped to pat the dog. ‘It’s all right, Rascal, it’s all right.’ She wondered how she was to find him food, let alone shelter for herself.
‘Missy!’
She looked up to see a well-dressed man tipping his hat to her. ‘Sir?’
‘You look lost, Missy. From out of town?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And in need of lodgings, I warrant?’ He smiled, and because three of his teeth were missing and the others so blackened that it was hard to see them, she shuddered. He stooped for her large bag. ‘You’ll allow me to carry it?’
‘Leave it!’
‘Now, Miss, I can tell . . .’
‘No!’ Her voice attracted curious glances. She turned away from the man, struggling with her ungainly luggage and wondering whether it had been truly necessary to pack so many dresses, as well as the silver backed hair-brushes and the picture of the boats she liked so much. She had her jewellery, those small few pieces of her mother’s that Sir Henry had not taken, and she had her parents’ portraits. She had the first two cantos of Childe Harold, her paints, and a vast iron flintlock pistol taken from her uncle’s library wall which she was not sure would work, and for which she had no ammunition, but which she thought might frighten away any assailants. She lugged it all west, past the Royal Mews where, it was said, a great space would be made to commemorate Nelson and Trafalgar. She turned into Whitehall.
Twice again men offered her lodgings. Clean lodgings, they said, respectable, run by a gentlewoman, but Jane Gibbons was not so foolish as to accept. Other men smiled at her, struck by her innocence and beauty, and it was those errant looks, as much as the bolder approach of the pimps, that drove her to seek refuge.
She chose sensibly. She picked her helpers as carefully as Richard Sharpe chose his battlegrounds, and the chosen pair was a gaitered cleric, red-faced and amiable, and his middle-aged wife who, like her husband, gaped at the London sights.