'You, lad!' He pointed to a thin, tall country boy dressed in an embroidered smock. 'Where are you sleeping tonight?'

The boy, embarra.s.sed to be picked out, merely blushed.

'Where, lad? Home, I'll be bound! Home, eh? All alone, yes? Or are you keeping a milkmaid warm, are you doing that now?'

The crowd laughed at the boy, whose face was now scarlet.

Sergeant Havercamp grinned at the boy. 'You'll never sleep alone again in the army, lad. The women? They'll be dropping off the trees for you! Now look at me, would you call me a handsome man?' He got the answer he deserved and wanted from the crowd. He raised his hands. 'Of course not. No one ever called Horatio Havercamp a handsome man, but, lad, let me tell you, there's many a la.s.s been through these hands, and why? Because of this! This!' He plucked at his red jacket with its bright yellow facings. 'A uniform! A soldier's uniform!' The drummer boys rattled a quick tattoo with their sticks.

The embarra.s.sed farm boy had wormed his way out of the crowd and now wandered towards the Methodists who offered joys of a different sort. Sergeant Havercamp did not mind. He had the attention of enough young men in the crowd and he looked about for another b.u.t.t. He could hardly miss Patrick Harper, a full head and shoulders taller than most of the people who pressed towards the inn where the Sergeant had his pitch. 'Look at him!'

Sergeant Havercamp cried. 'He could win the war single-handed. You ever thought of being a soldier?'

Harper said nothing. His sandy hair made him look younger than his twenty-eight years. Sergeant Havercamp rubbed his hands in glee. 'How much money have you got, lad?'

Harper shook his head as though too embarra.s.sed to say anything.

'Nothing, I'll be bound! Look at me, now!' Sergeant Havercamp produced two golden guineas from his pocket and dexterously rolled them between his fingers so that the gold glittered mesmerically as he skilfully wove the two coins in and out of his knuckles. 'Money! Soldier's money! You heard of the battle at Vitoria, lad? We took treasure there, we took gold, we took jewels, we took more money than you'll dream of in a lifetime of dreams!'

Harper, who had fought at Vitoria, and taken a king's ransom from that battlefield, gaped convincingly.

Sergeant Havercamp juggled the two coins with one hand, tossing one up, then catching the other while the first twinkled beside his whiskers. 'Rich! That's what you can be as a soldier! Rich! Women, glory, money, and victory, lads!' The two drummer boys performed another obedient drum-roll, and the young men in the crowd stared bewitched at the gold coins.

'You'll never be hungry again! You'll never be without a woman! You'll never be poor again! You can walk with your head up and never fear again, because you will be a soldier!'

The drum-roll again, and still the gold coins went up and down beside Sergeant Havercamp's smiling, confiding, friendly face.

'You've heard of us, lads! You know of us! We're the South Ess.e.x. We're the lads who tweaked Bonaparte's nose! That monkey loses sleep because of us. The South Ess.e.x! We've put fear into the heart of an Emperor, and you can belong to us! Yes! We'll even pay you!'

The drum-roll once more. The coins stopped in Havercamp's raised right hand. He took off his shako, revealing red hair, and, holding the inverted shako in his left hand, as the drummer boys struck one sharp blow on their skins, he tossed one of the golden guineas into the hat. A second drumbeat marked the second guinea joining the first and, still without saying a word, Sergeant Havercamp produced more guineas from his pouch and tossed them, one by one, into the shako.

'Three!' A small, weasel-faced man who had wriggled his way close to Sharpe and Harper shouted, 'Four! Five!' Another man took up the count and, as the guineas mounted, the crowd called the numbers aloud to drown the thin hymn singing of the Methodists.

'Fifteen! Sixteen! Seventeen! Eighteen! Nineteen! Twenty! Twenty-one! Twenty-two!'

The count stopped. Sergeant Havercamp grinned at them. He put his hand into his pouch and brought out a half-guinea, held it up to the crowd, then tossed it into the hat. The drummers beat their skins. The Sergeant followed the half-guinea with a quick shower of shillings and pence, raised the hat, then shook it to let the crowd hear the heavy sound of the money inside.

'Twenty-three pounds, seventeen shillings, and sixpence! That's what we'll pay you! Twenty-three pounds, seventeen shillings, and sixpence! Just to join the army! We'll pay you!' He shook the hat again. 'Now, lads, I was young once!' He held up a hand to check the good-natured jeers. 'True! Even I, Sergeant Horatio Havercamp was young once, and let me tell you something!' He paused dramatically, looking from face to face in the crowd. 'I never did meet, not ever will, a pretty girl who could resist the sound of money! Now, lads! If they'll kiss you for a shilling, what will they do for a guinea, eh?' He raised one finger, licked it, and laughed. 'Twenty-three pounds, seventeen shillings, and sixpence!'

'I'll marry you for that!' a woman called out, provoking laughter, but the young men in the crowd were remembering the golden stream of coins that added up to more than six months' wages for most of them. Six months' wages! All at once, and just for signing up!

Sergeant Havercamp shook his head sadly. 'I know what you're thinking, lads! I know! You've heard stories! You've heard the lies they put about!' He shook his head again in silent sadness at the sinfulness of a world that could tell lies about the army. 'They say the army's a harsh place! They say there's disease and worse but, oh, my lads! Oh, my lads! My own mother begged me. She did! She said "Horatio! Don't you go for a soldier, don't you go!" She threatened never to talk to me again. But I did! Ah, I'll admit I was young and I was headstrong and I was too tempted by the girls and the glory and the money; and my old mother, G.o.d bless her grey hairs, she said I'd broken her heart! Broken her very heart!' He let the enormity of this sink into them, then slowly smiled. 'But, my friends, my dear mother today lives in her own cottage and with every breath she takes, my friends, she blesses the name of Horatio Havercamp! And why? Why?' He paused dramatically. 'Because, my friends, it was I who bought her the cottage and I who planted her wallflowers and I who have given her the rest she so richly deserves.'

He smiled modestly. 'Only the other day the General pa.s.ses by her garden gate. "Mother Havercamp," he said, "I sees your son Horatio has done you bravely!" "He has," she says, "and all because he went for a soldier."'

Horatio Havercamp opened his pouch and tipped the money glintingly inside. He put his shako on his head, tapped it down, and drew himself up to his considerable height. 'Well, lads! The chance is yours! Money! Glory! Riches! Fame! Women! I won't be here long! There's a war that has to be fought and there are women that wait for us and if you don't come to us today then perhaps your chance will never come! You'll grow old and you'll rue the day that you let Horatio Havercamp go out of your life! Now, lads, I've spoken long enough and I've a thirst like a dry dog in a smithy, so I'm spending some of that money the army gives me on some pots of ale in the Green Man! So come and see me! No persuasion, lads, just some free froth on your lips and a wee chat!'

The drummers gave a last, loud roll, and Sergeant Havercamp jumped down to the roadway.

The small, weasel-faced man who had led the chanting as the guineas were thrown, looked up at Patrick Harper. 'Are you going with him?'

Sharpe guessed the man was a corporal, one of Havercamp's a.s.sistants salted into the crowd to snare the likeliest recruits. He wore a corduroy coat over a moleskin waistcoat, but his grey trousers looked suspiciously like standard issue.

Harper shrugged. 'Who wants to be a soldier?'

'You're Irish?' The small man said it delightedly as though, all his life, he had nurtured a love for the Irish and had never, before this moment, had a chance to display it. 'Come on! You must be thirsty!'

'The ale's free?'

'He said so, didn't he? Besides, what can he do to us?'

Harper looked at Sharpe. 'You want to go, d.i.c.k?' He blushed like an eight year old as he used Sharpe's name.

The small, sharp-featured man looked at Sharpe. The scar, and Sharpe's older face, made him pause, then he grinned. 'Three of us, eh? We can always walk away if we don't take to the fellow! You're called d.i.c.k?'

Sharpe nodded. The man looked up at the huge Irishman. 'You?'

'Patrick.'

'I'm Terry. Come on, eh, Paddy? d.i.c.k?'

Sharpe scratched the thick, stiff bristles of his unshaven chin. 'Why not? I could drink a b.l.o.o.d.y barrel.'

Sharpe and Harper went to join the army.

Sergeant Horatio Havercamp had been wonderfully successful. Five lads, other than Sharpe and Harper, were in the Green Man's snug where the good Sergeant ordered quarts of ale and gla.s.ses of rum to chase the beer down. A window opened onto the street and the Sergeant sat close by it so he could shout pleasantries to any likely looking young man who wandered towards the fair's attractions. He had also, Sharpe noted, positioned himself close enough to the door so that he could cut off the retreat of any of his prospective recruits.

The Sergeant made a great show of giving Harper two quarts of beer. 'So you're Irish, Paddy?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You don't call me "sir"! Lord love you, boy! Call me Horatio, just like my mother does! You're a big lad, Paddy! What's your other name?'

'O'Keefe.'

'A great name, eh?' Sergeant Havercamp paused to shout for more beer, then glanced suspiciously at Sharpe who had sat himself in the darkest corner of the room. Havercamp was wise to the men who drank free beer and tried to escape at the evening's end, and he jerked his head in a tiny, almost imperceptible motion that made Terry move his pot of ale and sit at Sharpe's side. Then Havercamp smiled confidingly at Harper. 'It's a great regiment for the Irish, you know!'

The South Ess.e.x?'

'Aye, lad.' Sergeant Havercamp lowered most of his quart pot, wiped his moustache, and patted his belly. 'You've heard of Sergeant Harper?'

Harper choked, blowing the froth off the ale into the table, then, with sheer amazement on his broad, good-natured face, he gaped at Horatio Havercamp. 'Aye, I've heard of him.'

'Took an Eagle, lad! A hero, that's what he is, a hero. No one minds him being Irish, not in the South Ess.e.x. Home from home, you'll find it!'

Harper drank his first quart in one go. He looked at the smiling Sergeant. 'Would you be knowing Sergeant Harper yourself, sir?'

'Don't call me "sir"!' Havercamp chuckled. 'Would I be knowing him, you ask! Would I just! Like that, we are!' He crossed two of his fingers, nodded, and an expression of regret for the good times that were in his past flickered over his face. 'Many's a night I've sat with him, within earshot of the enemy, lad, just talking. "Horatio," he'd say to me, "we've been through a lot together." Aye, lad I know him well.'

'He's big, I hear?'

Havercamp laughed. 'Big! He'd give you six inches, Paddy, and you're not a shrimp, eh?' He watched with approval as Harper downed the second quart. Havercamp pushed the rum towards him. 'Get yourself on the outside of that, Paddy, and I'll buy you some more ale.'

Harper listened wide-eyed as the wonders of the army were unfolded before him. Havercamp seemed to embrace all of his potential recruits as he expanded on the future that waited for them. They would be sergeants, he said, before the snow fell, and as likely as not, they would all be officers within the year. Havercamp laughed. 'I'll have to salute you, yes?' He threw a salute to a bony, hungry boy who drank his beer as though he had not taken sustenance in a week. 'Sir!' The boy laughed. Havercamp saluted Harper. 'Sir!'

'Sounds grand,' Harper said wistfully. 'An officer?'

'I can see it in you now, Paddy.' Havercamp slapped the rump of the girl who had brought a tray of ale pots. He distributed them around the table and ordered more. 'Now you've all heard of our Major Sharpe, haven't you?'

Two or three of the boys nodded. Havercamp blew at the froth on his pot, sipped, then leaned back. 'Started in the ranks, he did. I remember him like it was yesterday. I said to him, I said, "Richard," I said, "you'll be an officer soon." "Will I, sarge?" he says?' Havercamp laughed. 'He didn't believe me! But there he is! Major Sharpe!'

'You know him?' Harper asked.

The fingers twined again. 'Like that, Paddy. Like that. I call him, "sir" and he says, "Horatio, there's no call for a "sir" to me. You taught me half I know. You call me Richard!"'

The potential recruits stared in awe at the Sergeant. The drinks came fast. Three of the boys were farmers' lads, dressed in smocks, all of them, Sharpe judged, likely to become good, solid men if only Horatio could persuade them to take the shilling. One of the farm boys had a bright, lively face and a small terrier that shared his ale. The dog, he said, was called b.u.t.tons. b.u.t.tons' owner was named Charlie Weller. Horatio Havercamp ordered a bowl of ale specially for b.u.t.tons.

'Can I bring my dog?' Charlie Weller asked.

'Of course you can, lad!' Havercamp smiled. Weller, Sharpe guessed, was seventeen. He was st.u.r.dy, cheerful, and any Battalion would be pleased to have him.

'Will we fight?' Weller asked.

'You want to, lad?'

'Aye!' Weller grinned. 'I want to go to Spain!'

'You will! You will!'

The hungry boy, called Tom, was half-witted. His eyes flicked about the small room as though he expected at any moment to be hit. The last of the five was a sad-faced, frowning man of twenty-three or four, dressed in a faded coat of broadcloth with a decent but shabby shirt beneath. This last man, whose face and hands suggested he had never worked in the open air, hardly spoke. Sharpe guessed that he had already made up his mind to join and that this drinking and j.a.pery were not to his taste.

Tom, the half-wit, Sharpe judged, would join simply so as not to be hungry. He would fatten up in the army and could be taught to stand in the musket line and perform his duty. Havercamp, Sharpe could see, was worried about Harper and the three farm lads. They were the ones he wanted, the ones he wanted to see drunk, the ones he wanted to snare before sobriety drove sense into their head.

Sharpe himself, sitting in the corner, was ignored. It was not till dusk, when the drink had already made the three farm boys unsteady and silly, that Sergeant Havercamp came over to Sharpe's corner.

The Sergeant sat down. Sharpe was about to lift the pot of ale to his mouth when Havercamp's big hand came across the table and pushed Sharpe's down.

The Sergeant's face, hidden from his other victims, was suddenly knowing and unfriendly. He kept his hand on Sharpe's wrist. 'What's your b.l.o.o.d.y game?'

'Nothing.'

'Don't blind me, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d! You've served, haven't you?'

Sharpe stared into the small, blue eyes. At this distance he could see the broken veins in Havercamp's skin, the knowing lines about his eyes. Sharpe nodded. 'Thirty-third.'

'Discharged?'

'Wounded, Sarge. India.'

'Or you b.l.o.o.d.y ran.'

Sharpe smiled. 'I'd hardly be here, Sarge, if I was a scrambler, would I?'

Sergeant Havercamp stared at Sharpe suspiciously as though he might have discovered a deserter. His fingers tightened on Sharpe's wrist. 'So you're not a scrambler, eh? A jumper?'

'No, Sarge.'

'You'd better not be, lad, or else I'll tear your b.l.o.o.d.y eyes out and shove them up your a.r.s.e.' Havercamp feared this might be a man who signed up, took that part of the bounty which was given first, then absconded to repeat the trick with another recruiting sergeant.

'No, Sarge, I'm not a jumper.'

'No, Sarge, I'm not a jumper.' Havercamp mimicked him cruelly. 'So why are you here?'

Sharpe shrugged. 'No work.'

'When did you leave?'

'Year back, maybe more.'

Havercamp stared at him. Finally he let go of Sharpe's wrist and let him lift the ale to his lips. The Sergeant watched him as though he begrudged every sip Sharpe took. 'What's your name?'

'd.i.c.k Vaughn.'

'Read and write?'

Sharpe laughed. 'No.'

'Got a clean back?'

Sharpe shrugged, then shook his head. 'No.' He had been flogged years before, in India.

'I'm watching you, d.i.c.k Vaughn. I'm watching you every bleeding step to the bleeding depot, you understand? You queer my pitch, lad, and I'll have the rest of the skin off your b.l.o.o.d.y back. You know what I mean.'

'Yes, Sarge.'

Sergeant Havercamp reached into his pocket and took out a shilling piece. His expression, as he held the coin out, mocked Sharpe's failure to survive outside the army. His voice was jeering. Take it.'

Sharpe nodded. Reluctantly, as though this was an act of desperation, as though every movement was an acknowledgement of his failure, he took the shilling.

'There, lads!' Havercamp turned round. 'd.i.c.k here has joined up! Well done, d.i.c.k!'

The farm boys cheered him. 'Well done, d.i.c.k!' b.u.t.tons, half drunk and excited by the cheers, barked.

The half-wit was next, grabbing the shilling eagerly, and laughing as he bit it and pushed it into his rags. The young man in the broadcloth coat took his without any fuss, resigned to it, taking it as though he was bored.