The magistrate took the paper and scribbled his own name on it. “I, Charles Meredith Harvey, one of His Majesty’s Justices of the Peace of the borough of Sleaford do hereby certify, that Dick Vaughn appeared to be 32 years old, six feet — inches high, Dark Complexion, Blue Eyes, Black Hair, came before me at Sleaford on the Fourth Day of August One thousand Eight Hundred and Thirteen and stated himself to be of the Age of Thirty-Two years, and that he had no Rupture, and was not troubled with Fits, and was no ways disabled by Lameness, Deafness, or otherwise, but had the perfect Use of his Limbs and Hearing, and was not an Apprentice; and acknowledged that he had voluntarily inlisted himself, for the Bounty of Twenty-Three pounds Seventeen shillings and Sixpence to serve His Majesty King George III, in the ———— Regiment of ———— commanded by ———— until he should be legally discharged.”
Sharpe noticed that, although the clerk filled in the personal details of each man as they stood at the table, and though the magistrate’s blanks were all filled, strangely the South Essex’s name did not appear in its proper place. At the end of the document there was an attestation that he had received one guinea of his bounty which was pressed into his hand by the clerk. ‘Next!’
He was in. Sworn in. He had taken the King’s Shilling, and accepted a new-fangled, scruffy pound note to make it into a guinea, and he watched silently as the other men went forward. More money, he saw, passed hands as the magistrate left, presumably so that worthy official would ignore the absence of any regiment noted down on the attestation form, then Sergeant Havercamp was bawling at them to get outside, into the inn yard, and there each man was given a chance to drink at the pump and half a loaf of stale bread was pushed into their hands.
The two corporals, grinning in their red jackets, helped push the nine men into two crude ranks. The drummer boys, yawning and sticky-eyed, banged their drums and, before the sun was risen properly, they were marching through the detritus of the hiring fair. The young man in broadcloth, who had given his name to the clerk as Giles Marriott, walked in front of Sharpe. He did not speak a word to his neighbour, the half-wit, Tom. Sharpe noticed, as they crossed the market place in the grey dawn, how Marriott stared at a fine, brick-built house.
‘Move it! Come on!’ Corporal Terence Clissot pushed Marriott. ‘Get a bloody move on!’
Yet still Marriott stared back, half-tripping as he walked, and Sharpe turned to look at the house, wondering what it was that made the young, good-looking man stare so fixedly at it. The drums still rattled and it was, perhaps, their sound that made one of the shutters open on the upper floor.
A girl stared out. Sharpe saw her, looked at Marriott, and thought there was a glistening in the man’s eye. Marriott lifted a hand half-heartedly, then seemed to decide that the small gesture was futile in the face of this huge gesture he had just made to spite the girl who had jilted him. He dropped his hand and walked on. Yet the half-gesture, so feebly made and so quickly retracted, had not escaped Sergeant Havercamp. He saw the girl, looked at Marriott, and laughed.
They marched south. The hedgerows were thick with dew. The drums, now they were out of the town, fell silent. None of the nine men spoke.
A dog barked. Nothing unusual in a country dawn, except this dog was chasing after them and Sergeant Havercamp turned, snarled, raised his boot to kick at it, then checked his foot.
It was Buttons. Behind the dog, running just as hard, smock flapping and with a bundle on his shoulder, was Charlie Weller. ‘Wait for me! Wait for me!’
Havercamp laughed. ‘Come on, lad!’
Weller looked behind, as if to make sure that his mother was not following him, but the lane was clear. ‘Can I join, Sergeant?’
‘You’re welcome, lad! Into line! We’ll swear you in at the next town!’