Marriott did not argue, but instead slowed to such a dawdling pace that it would have taken them a full two days to dig the mud out from the boathouse. Sharpe approved. They were out of Sergeant Lynch’s sight, while the corporal in charge of this half of the squad was more concerned about keeping the mud from his shoes and trousers than how hard his men worked.
‘They shouldn’t do this to us,’ Marriott said.
‘Better than bloody drill.’ Sharpe was sitting on the brick walkway, wondering if he dared try and steal a few moments sleep.
‘Labourer’s work, this.’
‘We are bloody labourers,’ Sharpe yawned. A butterfly came down the garden steps, hovered bright in the boathouse entrance, then flew away. ‘We’re soldiers, lad. Our job is to clear up the bloody mess the politicians make. We’re the buggers no one wants until the politicians make their mistakes, then everyone’s grateful to us.’ He was surprised to hear himself say it, not because it was untrue, but because it did not tally with the character he had adopted in this squad. He pretended to be nothing more than a disappointed old soldier, unthinking and obedient, wise to the army’s ways and uncritical of its behaviour.
Marriott stared at him. ‘You know? You’re cleverer than you think.’ He said it patronisingly.
‘Bugger off,’ Sharpe said.
‘I’m going to. I shouldn’t be here.’ Marriott’s face was feverish. ‘I had this letter, see?’
‘A letter?’ Sharpe could not keep the astonishment out of his voice, an astonishment that made Marriott look curiously at him.
‘A letter, yes.’
‘How did they know where to send it?’
‘The depot at Chelmsford, of course.’ Marriott seemed as astonished as Sharpe that the matter should be worthy of surprise. ‘That’s where they told us letters should be sent.’
‘I can’t write, you see,’ Sharpe said, as if that explained his astonishment. It seemed obvious now that Girdwood, to prevent discovery of this camp, would order those men who wanted to send letters to use the Chelmsford address, their replies to be forwarded from there to some London clerk of Lord Fenner’s who, in turn, despatched the mail to Foulness.
‘It was from my girl.’ Marriott said it eagerly, wanting to share his good news with someone.
‘And?’ Sharpe was only half listening. He had heard a shout from the direction of the house.
‘She says she was wrong. She wants me to go back!’
The desperation in Marriott’s voice made Sharpe turn to him. ‘Listen. You’re in the bloody army. If you run, they’ll catch you. If they catch you, they’ll flog you. There are other girls, you know! Christ!’ He stared at the unhappy Marriott. ‘You’re bright, lad! You could be a bloody Sergeant in a year!’
‘I shouldn’t be in the bloody army.’
Sharpe laughed grimly. ‘Lad, you’re too bloody late.’ He turned away. He had heard a shout, but not just any shout. This was a bark of command, an order to quick march, and now, from the lawn above him, he could hear the voice shouting crisp drill orders and he wondered what on earth was happening in that wide, spacious garden of Sir Henry’s. ‘Where’s the corporal?’
Marriott peered out of the archway. ‘Twenty yards away.’
‘Watch him for me.’
Sharpe crept up the steps as slowly, as carefully as if he expected to find a French picquet at their top. He was hidden by the bulk of the boathouse from Sergeant Lynch beyond the creek, but there was precious little cover at the head of the steps to hide him from the house; nothing but a stone flowerpot in which grew bright red geraniums.
Yet he did not need to climb to the very top. From a few inches below the level of the upper step he could see what he wanted to see.
On the north lawn, two Companies of infantry were being drilled. They were dressed in fatigues, carried muskets and bayonets, and were commanded in their drill by Sergeant Major Brightwell of the Foulness Camp. Brightwell, a great bull of a man, did not concern himself with the lowly squads of new recruits, only with the Companies, like these two on the lawn, that were close to finishing their training.