‘Another river, sir!’ Harper called out and Sharpe, to his consternation, saw that they had succeeded in leaving Foulness only to gain the dubious refuge of this smaller island, scarcely more than a great stand of reeds among the water. This next crossing was wider and looked deeper, the moon-sheened water swirling menacingly as it swept seawards. ‘Take the bridle for me, sir!’
Sharpe led the horse into the deeper water and the current snatched at him. He supposed this must be the Roach, where Marriott had so nearly drowned him, and then he was half swimming, half being dragged by the panicked horse, until, with relief, he felt the beast heaving itself up the far bank and dragging him with it. He let go of the bridle, shook the water from his hair, then saw Sir Henry’s house and, running straight towards it, the path on the sea wall that they had trodden that morning.
‘Sir!’
‘What is it?’
‘Cavalry.’ It was odd, suddenly, but it felt like Spain. Harper slid from the horse, his right hand feeling in the carbine pan to check that it was loaded. ‘Skirmish line of the bastards, sir. Half a mile.’ He pointed west. ‘Haven’t seen us yet, but they will if we’re mounted.’
‘Moving?’
‘No.’ Harper grinned in the moonlight. ‘Dozy bastards.’
It was a fine decision that had to be made. If Sharpe or Harper rode the horse, and the other ran alongside grasping the stirrup to keep up, they would be seen in this flat land by the searching cavalry. Their journey would be faster, but the militia, unencumbered by double-mounting or stirruping, would be faster still. If they went on foot they would be hidden, but the journey from here to the creek would take twice as long; twice as much time in which they might be found. It was visibility and speed against deception. Sharpe looked back the way they had come, but he could see no one and hear nothing. Finch must still be stunned by the blow Harper had given him.
Sharpe took the gun and ammunition. ‘Hobble the horse. We walk.’
‘We bloody run.’ Harper was unbuckling the bridle. He tied the horse’s front feet together. It whinnied nervously, and the Irishman soothed it. ‘I’m ready.’
They crouched low. The embankment, on which the path ran so clear and straight towards Sir Henry’s house, gave them cover. They were bent over, tripping sometimes on the tussocks, cursing as they stumbled, but always pushing on in the bank’s shadow. Sharpe stopped only once to peer through the grass at the embankment’s top. He could see the moonlight shining on the sabres and helmets of the cavalry, who, strung in a long line, searched the shadows and reed beds a quarter mile away. Sharpe caught Harper up. ‘The buggers are closer, but they won’t catch us.
‘Where are we going anyway?’
‘We’re stealing one of Sir Henry’s punts. We’ll cross the river.’ He stopped, crouching by nettles that bordered the road before Sir Henry’s house. The road was white in the moonlight, as was the pointing of the bricks in the high wall that fronted the garden. Sharpe tapped Harper’s shoulder. ‘You first.’
The big Irishman slithered over the road, showing the scarcest profile, and moved fast into the ditch at the far side. No cavalry trumpet sounded, no shout echoed on the flat land. ‘Patrick!’
Sharpe threw the carbine across the road, then the ammunition. He looked behind once, saw the cavalry still far away, then half ran, half rolled over the dry road into the ditch. ‘Come on!’
It was simple now to slip into the shadows of the half-cleared creek bed. The three duck-shooting punts, that Sharpe and Marriott had hauled onto the eastern bank just that morning, still lay in their tangle of awnings and hoops. ‘Break the bottoms of two of them, Patrick, get paddles, take the third to the river. I’ll join you.’
‘Sir!’
Mercifully the barred gate of the boathouse was still unlocked. If Jane Gibbons had left the food and money then it could only take an instant to find them, and Sharpe groped along the brick ledge that ran the length of the tunnel. It was pitch black under the arched roof. His hands explored the empty walkway, finding nothing. There was no bundle, no food, no money. He heard the splinter of boards behind him as Harper pushed his foot through the bottom of one of the punts.