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.
They seemed to be giving a display of drill to a group of seated officers who sipped drinks as they watched the two Companies. Behind the officers, standing stiffly at ease, was a line of sergeants.
Sharpe watched for ten whole minutes, watching a comprehensive display of Company drill that finished with some crisp musket movements. The officers, sitting in wrought iron chairs, clapped politely. A servant brought more drinks on a silver tray.
Sergeant Major Brightwell ordered the parade to attention, to open order, to order arms, then there was silence.
The officers stood. Sharpe, his face half hidden by the geranium pot, saw Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood walk forward and, next to him, the unmistakeable figure of Sir Henry Simmerson who was, this fine summer's day, dressed in his old uniform. Somehow there was no surprise in this proof that Sir Henry was allied to Girdwood. The two men, followed by the other officers, strolled up and down the paraded ranks.
'What are you doing? Marriott whispered.
'Shut up!
Sergeant Major Brightwell ordered a half-dozen men out of the ranks. They seemed to have been selected at random by the officers and the six were lined at the bottom of the garden, facing north, and the Sergeant Major took cartridges from his pouch and handed them to the men. Sharpe watched as the six, with reasonable proficiency, fired two small volleys into the empty marshland. The muskets sounded flat in this wide, damp landscape. The smoke, in small white clouds, drifted over the scythed lawn. Two of the visiting officers turned back to the house. Both were laughing, both holding drinks in their hand, and Sharpe saw that both had buff facings on their red jackets. He had not seen many officers at Foulness, but whoever these men were, they were not of the South Essex.
Two more officers turned back towards the house. One had white facings, the other red, and suddenly Sharpe understood why officers from other regiments were brought to this remote place. He understood, and the realisation made him slide back down the steps so he was hidden, and he wondered if he could be right, yet knew that he was, and part of him was filled with admiration for such a clever, profitable scheme. Sir Henry Simmerson and Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood were nothing but crimpers, goddamned bloody crimpers! And what was more, Lord Fenner was with them.
Crimping was not an honourable trade. The army was chronically short of recruits. In 1812, Sharpe knew, it had lost more than twenty-five thousand men through disease or war, and less than five thousand had come forward in Britain to take their place. A good regiment, like the Rifles, was never short of volunteers, but for most regiments of foot there was always a shortage that was combated with extravagant promises of lavish bounty, promises that were never sufficient to fill the ranks who fought in India, in Spain and in America, and who garrisoned forts from the Far East to the Fever Islands. The army was short of recruits, and crimping was one answer to that simple, eternal fact.
A crimp was a contractor, a man paid so much a head for recruits, and Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood and Sir Henry Simmerson had turned the Second Battalion of the South Essex into just such a contractor! Sharpe knew he was right. They were raising the recruits, using the achievements of the First Battalion as a lure, training the men, then selling them to those unfashionable, unsuccessful regiments who could not attract their own recruits. What Sharpe had just seen on this lawn was the end of the process, the display of the goods, and now, he supposed, in Sir Henry's drawing room, the money would be paid over. Seven years before, Sharpe knew, a crimper could fetch twenty-five pounds for a man. The price must have doubled since then!
He guessed there were close to two hundred men on the north lawn. If each man fetched fifty pounds then there was a profit this day alone of ten thousand pounds! Enough to keep a man in solid comfort for two lifetimes! Add to that the stolen bounty and the other peculations of the Foulness Camp and it seemed to Sharpe that Sir Henry and Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood could be making a profit of close to seventy pounds a man.
Crimping was not illegal. The army often contracted with a businessman to raise recruits, but crimping by a regiment was definitely outside the law. It was clever, it was profitable, and it was starving the South Essex to death. Sharpe felt a sudden, fierce exultation because he had solved the problem, he knew it, and just as he felt that soaring pulse of success, he felt fear too.
He felt fear because a dog, a tiny, white, fierce little handful of a dog, came scampering down the steps from the lawn, saw him, and began barking at him in a shrill yelp.
'Shut up! he hissed. 'Bugger off!
'Rascal! It was a girl's voice. 'You know the Colonel hates you! Rascal! Come here!
Sharpe, sitting on the stone steps, slithered urgently towards the cover of the boathouse's tunnel, but suddenly there was a shadow on the stone and a voice above him. 'It's all right, he won't hurt you. It's just that the Colonel's terrified of dogs. She laughed.