LITMIR.BIZ

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still too soft, but at least they now had ink under the fingernails and ground into the pores. Lawford had grimaced as Sharpe had tugged at his hair, and protested when Sharpe had gouged two marks in his neck where a stock would have scraped twin calluses, but Baird had hushed him. Lawford winced again when he put on the leather stock and realized just what discomfort the ordinary soldier endured daily. Now, safe out of sight of the soldiers about their campfires, he dropped the cloak, pulled on a pack and picked up his musket.

      Baird hauled a huge watch from his pocket and tilted its face to the half moon. ‘Eleven o’clock,’ the General said. ‘Time you fellows were away.’ He put two fingers in his mouth and sounded a shrill quick whistle and the picquet, visible in the pale moonlight, magically parted north and south to leave an unguarded gap in the camp’s perimeter. Baird had shaken Lawford’s hand, then patted Sharpe’s shoulder. ‘How’s your back, Sharpe?’

      ‘Hurts like hell, sir.’ It did too.

      Baird looked worried. ‘You’ll manage, though?’

      ‘I ain’t soft, sir.’

      ‘I never supposed you were, Private.’ Baird patted Sharpe’s shoulder again, then gestured into the dark. ‘Off you go, lads, and God be with you.’ Baird watched the two men run across the open ground and disappear into the darkness on the farther side. He waited for a long time, hoping to catch a last glimpse of the two men’s shadows, but he saw nothing, and his best judgement suggested that he would probably never see either soldier again and that reflection saddened him. He sounded the whistle again and watched as the sentries reformed the picquet line, then he turned and walked slowly back to his tent.

      ‘This way, Sharpe,’ Lawford said when they were out of earshot of the sentries. ‘We’re following a star.’

      ‘Just like the wise men, Bill,’ Sharpe said. It had taken Sharpe an extraordinary effort to use Mister Lawford’s first name, but he knew he had to do it. His survival, and Lawford’s, depended on everything being done right.

      But the use of the name shocked Lawford, who stopped and stared at Sharpe. ‘What did you call me?’

      ‘I called you Bill,’ Sharpe said, ‘because that’s your bleeding name. You ain’t an officer now, you’re one of us. I’m Dick, you’re Bill. And we ain’t following any bloody star. We’re going to those trees over there. See? The three big buggers?’

      ‘Sharpe!’ Lawford protested.

      ‘No!’ Sharpe turned savagely on Lawford. ‘My job is to keep you alive, Bill, so get one thing straight. You’re a bleeding private now, not a bloody officer. You volunteered, remember? And we’re deserters. There ain’t no ranks here, no “sirs”, no bloody salutes, no gentlemen. When we get back to the army I promise you I’ll pretend this never happened and I’ll salute you till my bloody arm drops off, but not now, and not till you and me get out of this bloody nonsense alive. So come on!’

      Lawford, stunned by Sharpe’s confidence, meekly followed. ‘But this is south of west!’ he protested, glancing up at the stars to check the direction Sharpe was taking.

      ‘We’ll go west later,’ Sharpe said. ‘Now get your bleeding stock off.’ He ripped his own off and tossed it into some bushes. ‘First thing any runner does, sir’ – the ‘sir’ was accidental, a habit, and he silently cursed himself for using it – ‘is take off his stock. Then mess your hair. And get those trousers dirty. You look like you’re standing guard on Windsor bleeding Castle.’ Sharpe watched as Lawford did his best to obey. ‘So where did you join up, Bill?’ he asked.

      Lawford was still resentful of this sudden reversal of roles, but he was sensible enough to realize Sharpe was right. ‘Join up?’ he repeated. ‘I didn’t.’

      ‘Of course you did! Where did they recruit you?’

      ‘My home’s near Portsmouth.’

      ‘That’s no bloody good. Navy would press you in Portsmouth before a recruiting sergeant could get near to you. Ever been to Sheffield?’

      ‘Good Lord, no!’ Lawford sounded horrified.

      ‘Good place, Sheffield,’ Sharpe said. ‘And there’s a pub on Pond Street called The Hawle in the Pond. Can you remember that? The Hawle in the Pond in Sheffield. It’s a favourite hunting hole for the 33rd’s recruiters, especially on market days. You was tricked there by some bleeding sergeant. He got you drunk and before you knew it you’d taken the King’s shilling. He was a sergeant of the 33rd, so what did he have on his bayonet?’

      ‘His bayonet?’ Lawford, fumbling to release the leather binding of his newly clubbed hair, frowned in perplexity. ‘Nothing, I should hope.’

      ‘We’re the 33rd, Bill! The Havercakes! He carried an oat-cake on his bayonet, remember? And he promised you’d be an officer inside two years because he was a lying bastard. What did you do before you met him?’

      Lawford shrugged. ‘A farmer?’

      ‘No one would ever believe you laboured on a farm,’ Sharpe said scornfully. ‘You ain’t got a farmer’s arms. That General Baird now, he’s got proper arms. Looks as if he could hoist hay all day long and not feel a damn thing, but not you. You were a lawyer’s clerk.’

      Lawford nodded. ‘I think we should go now,’ he said, trying to reassert his rapidly vanishing authority.

      ‘We’re waiting,’ Sharpe said stubbornly. ‘So why the hell are you running?’

      Lawford frowned. ‘Unhappiness, I suppose.’

      ‘Bleeding hell, you’re a soldier! You ain’t supposed to be happy! No, let’s think now. You boned the Captain’s watch, how about that? Got caught, and you faced a flogging. You saw me flogged and didn’t fancy you could survive, so you and me, being mates like, ran.’

      ‘I really do think we must go!’ Lawford insisted.

      ‘In a minute, sir.’ Again Sharpe cursed himself for using the honorific. ‘Just let my back settle down.’

      ‘Oh, of course.’ Lawford was immediately contrite. ‘But we can’t wait too long, Sharpe.’

      ‘Dick, sir. You call me Dick. We’re friends, remember?’

      ‘Of course.’ Lawford, as uncomfortable with this sudden intimacy as with the need to waste time, settled awkwardly by Sharpe at the base of a tree. ‘So why did you join up?’ he asked Sharpe.

      ‘The harmen were after me.’

      ‘The harmen? Oh yes, the constables.’ Lawford paused. Somewhere in the night a creature shrieked as it was caught by a predator, while off to the east the sergeants called to their sentries. The sky glowed with the light of the army’s myriad fires. ‘What had you done?’ Lawford asked.

      ‘Killed a man. Put a knife in him.’

      Lawford gazed at Sharpe. ‘Murdered him, you mean?’

      ‘Oh, aye, it was murder right enough, even though the bugger deserved it. But the judge at York Assizes wouldn’t have seen it my way, would he? Which meant Dick Sharpe would have been morris-dancing at the end of a rope so I reckoned it was easier to put on the scarlet coat. The harmen don’t bother a man once he’s in uniform, not unless he killed one of the gentry.’

      Lawford hesitated, not sure whether he should enquire too deeply, then decided it was worth a try. ‘So who was the fellow you killed?’

      ‘Bugger kept an inn. I worked for him, see? It was a coaching inn so he knew what coaches were carrying good baggage and my job was to snaffle the stuff once the coach was on the road. That and some prigging.’ Lawford did not like to ask what prigging was, so kept quiet. ‘He were a right bastard,’ Sharpe went on, ‘but that wasn’t why I stuck him. It was over a girl, see? And he and I had a disagreement about who should keep her blanket warm. He lost and I’m here and God knows where the lass is now.’ He laughed.

      ‘We’re

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