Weller grinned at Sharpe, pushed in beside him, and the boy’s face showed all the excitement proper at the beginning of a great adventure. They collected the other recruits and their guards from the barn, then headed south for a soldier’s life.
At Grantham, where they were locked into the yard of the Magistrate’s Court, Sharpe watched Sergeant Havercamp strike a deal. Twelve prisoners were released to him, manacled men who were pushed into the back of the line. More bread was given to them and Sharpe watched young Tom, the half-wit, thrust the loaf at his mouth and gnaw at it. The boy grinned constantly, always watching for a cuff, a curse or a kick. If he was spoken to he giggled and smiled.
That night three men ran, two successfully getting away, almost certainly to find another recruiting party and gull another guinea from the King. The third was caught, brought to the yard where they had slept, and beaten by Corporal Clissot and Sergeant Havercamp. When the beating was over, and the man was lying bleeding and bruised on the yard’s cobbles, Sergeant Havercamp retrieved the King’s guinea, then kicked the man out into the road. There was small future in taking a jumper back to the Battalion for the man would doubtless only try to desert again.
Giles Marriott had stared in awe at the beating, flinching when the Corporal’s boots slammed into the man’s ribs. Marriott was pale by the time the punishment was given. He looked at Sharpe. ‘Are they allowed to do that?’
Sharpe was astonished that Marriott had spoken, the young man had hardly opened his mouth since he had come to the inn to get his shilling. ‘No,’ Sharpe shrugged. ‘But it’s quicker than turning him over to a magistrate.’
‘You’ve been in before?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘You’ll be all right.’ Sharpe smiled and drank the mug of tea that was their breakfast. ‘You can read and write. You’ll become a clerk.’
Charlie Weller was petting his dog. ‘I want to fight!’
Marriott still stared at Havercamp, who was shutting the yard gate on the bruised, bleeding man. ‘They shouldn’t behave like that.’
Sharpe wanted to laugh aloud at the hurt words, but instead he looked sympathetically at the frightened young man. ‘Listen! Havercamp’s not bad. You’re going to meet much worse than him. Just remember a few rules and they can’t touch you.’
‘What?’
‘Never step out of line, never complain, never look into a sergeant’s or an officer’s eyes, and never say anything except yes or no. Got it?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will,’ Harper said. He had come back from the pump in the yard under which he had dunked his head so that the water now streamed down his face and soaked his thin, torn shirt. ‘By God you will, lad.’
‘You! Paddy!’ It was Sergeant Havercamp’s voice, booming over the yard. ‘Turn round!’
Harper obeyed. The water had soaked the thin shirt to his hugely muscled back and showed, through its thin weave, the scars that lay over his spine. Sergeant Havercamp grinned beneath his red moustache. ‘Paddy, Paddy, Paddy! Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you what, Sarge?’
‘You served, didn’t you? You’re an old soldier, Paddy!’
‘You never asked me!’ Harper said indignantly.
‘What regiment?’
‘Fourth Dragoon Guards.’
Havercamp stared at him. ‘Now you didn’t scamper, did you, Paddy?’
‘No, Sarge.’
Havercamp stepped a pace closer. ‘And you’re not going to give me any trouble, are you, Paddy?’ Havercamp, wary of the huge man, was nevertheless resentful of all the beer he had poured into Harper’s throat in an attempt to make him join an army that, obviously, the big Irishman had wanted to rejoin all along.
‘No, Sarge.’
“Cos I’m bleeding watching you.’
Harper smiled, waited until Havercamp was a pace away, then spoke. ‘Bastard!’ He said it just loud enough for Havercamp to hear, and just softly enough for the Sergeant to pretend that he had not. Harper laughed and looked at Marriott. ‘I’ll tell you one other thing, lad.’
‘What?’ Marriott’s face was pale with worry.
‘Just remember that all the officers and a good few of the sergeants are bloody terrified of you.’