Sharpe himself, sitting in the corner, was ignored. It was not till dusk, when the drink had already made the three farm boys unsteady and silly, that Sergeant Havercamp came over to Sharpe’s corner.
The Sergeant sat down. Sharpe was about to lift the pot of ale to his mouth when Havercamp’s big hand came across the table and pushed Sharpe’s down.
The Sergeant’s face, hidden from his other victims, was suddenly knowing and unfriendly. He kept his hand on Sharpe’s wrist. ‘What’s your bloody game?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t blind me, you bastard! You’ve served, haven’t you?’
Sharpe stared into the small, blue eyes. At this distance he could see the broken veins in Havercamp’s skin, the knowing lines about his eyes. Sharpe nodded. ‘Thirty-third.’
‘Discharged?’
‘Wounded, Sarge. India.’
‘Or you bloody ran.’
Sharpe smiled. ‘I’d hardly be here, Sarge, if I was a scrambler, would I?’
Sergeant Havercamp stared at Sharpe suspiciously as though he might have discovered a deserter. His fingers tightened on Sharpe’s wrist. ‘So you’re not a scrambler, eh? A jumper?’
‘No, Sarge.’
‘You’d better not be, lad, or else I’ll tear your bloody eyes out and shove them up your arse.’ Havercamp feared this might be a man who signed up, took that part of the bounty which was given first, then absconded to repeat the trick with another recruiting sergeant.
‘No, Sarge, I’m not a jumper.’
‘No, Sarge, I’m not a jumper.’ Havercamp mimicked him cruelly. ‘So why are you here?’
Sharpe shrugged. ‘No work.’
‘When did you leave?’
‘Year back, maybe more.’
Havercamp stared at him. Finally he let go of Sharpe’s wrist and let him lift the ale to his lips. The Sergeant watched him as though he begrudged every sip Sharpe took. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Dick Vaughn.’
‘Read and write?’
Sharpe laughed. ‘No.’
‘Got a clean back?’
Sharpe shrugged, then shook his head. ‘No.’ He had been flogged years before, in India.
‘I’m watching you, Dick Vaughn. I’m watching you every bleeding step to the bleeding depot, you understand? You queer my pitch, lad, and I’ll have the rest of the skin off your bloody back. You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
Sergeant Havercamp reached into his pocket and took out a shilling piece. His expression, as he held the coin out, mocked Sharpe’s failure to survive outside the army. His voice was jeering. Take it.’
Sharpe nodded. Reluctantly, as though this was an act of desperation, as though every movement was an acknowledgement of his failure, he took the shilling.
‘There, lads!’ Havercamp turned round. ‘Dick here has joined up! Well done, Dick!’
The farm boys cheered him. ‘Well done, Dick!’ Buttons, half drunk and excited by the cheers, barked.
The half-wit was next, grabbing the shilling eagerly, and laughing as he bit it and pushed it into his rags. The young man in the broadcloth coat took his without any fuss, resigned to it, taking it as though he was bored.
‘Now, Paddy! What about you?’
Harper laughed. ‘You think I’m a fool, eh? Just because I’m Irish?’
One of the drummer boys, sitting on his drum, snored in a corner. Sergeant Havercamp watched as his two corporals, both of whom had taken their shillings obediently as they still pretended to be recruits, poured rum for the three boys in their smocks. He looked up at the big Irishman. ‘What’s the problem, Paddy? Tell me, eh?’
Harper traced patterns on the wooden table with spilt beer. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘Come on, tell me!’
‘Nothing!’
Havercamp rolled a shilling into the spilt beer. It fell onto its side. ‘Tell me why you won’t take it.’
Harper frowned. He bit his lip, shrugged, and looked at the Sergeant. ‘Do I get a bed?’
‘What?’
‘A bed? Do I get one? A bed?’
Havercamp stared at him, saw the intensity on the big face, and nodded. ‘Fit for a King, Paddy. You’ll get a bed with satin sheets and pillows big as bloody cows!’
‘That’s grand!’ Harper picked up the shilling. ‘I’m all yours!’
Sergeant Havercamp failed with the three farm boys. Charlie Weller was desperate to join up, but would not take the shilling unless his two friends joined with him, and they were reluctant. Sharpe watched Havercamp try all the tricks, even the old one of slipping the shillings into their beer so they would pick them out of the dregs in astonishment, but the three lads were wise to that one. They became drunker and drunker, so drunk that Sharpe was sure that one of them would take the preferred, glittering coin, yet at the very moment when it seemed that Charlie Weller would take his anyway, even without his friends, the door to the snug banged open and a woman stood there, screaming in rage, shouting at Havercamp and hitting with her fist at Charlie. ‘You little bastard!’