He ran.
He did not run further east, perhaps realising at last that only the sea lay in that direction. Instead, half ducking to let the sea-rushes hide him from the men on the island, he ran down the far bank of the River Roach. He was running in front of Sergeant Lynch's squad, trying to escape south.
The river was too deep, and the flowing tide made it too fast for any man to cross. A good swimmer, stripped of his clothes, might have crossed the small channel, but neither Sergeant Lynch, nor his two corporals, attempted it. Instead the Sergeant shouted at the fugitive. 'Stand still, you bastard! Stand still!
Marriott ignored the command. The squad watched him in silence. He was thirty yards from them, running down the far bank towards a bend in the channel that would take him out of their sight. Sergeant Lynch ran opposite him, bellowing at him, splashing through the shallow river margin, screaming at him to halt, yet still Marriott ran.
'Your musket! Lynch shouted to the second corporal, standing beside Harper, and the corporal held out his unfired gun. 'Stop, you bastard! Lynch, with a quick, practised motion, brought the musket into his shoulder, cocked it, and Sharpe, at the far end of the line from Sergeant Lynch, supposed that the Sergeant intended only to put a shot in front of Marriott that would check the deserter's panicked flight.
Sharpe was wrong. He realised it as he saw Lynch leading the musket on the target, he opened his mouth as if he was an officer shouting at a man to hold his fire, but before he could utter a sound, Lynch fired.
The range was forty yards, a long shot for a smooth-bore musket, but the ball went perilously close to Marriott. It must, Sharpe guessed, have missed the small of the boy's back by inches, for he saw the flicker of the rushes beyond as the ball crashed home. It would have been murder, nothing less, for Marriott was already trapped by Girdwood's converging forces.
Lynch swore when he missed, threw the fired musket at the corporal, and shouted at his squad to follow the fugitive. They ran, stumbling in the marsh at the river's edge, and Sharpe saw that the sound of the three shots had attracted horsemen from the direction of Sir Henry's house and he prayed that Sir Henry was not among them.
'The wee bastard tried to kill him! Harper had waited for Sharpe to catch up with him, and his voice was incredulous.
'I saw it.
'God help him one day. Harper said it with relish.
Marriott's day of reckoning, if not Sergeant Lynch's, was close. The officer of the bridge guard had sent a squad of men north and they were ahead of Marriott. He saw them, knew that he was blocked in front and from both flanks, but he was panicked, his eyes wide and wild, and, though he was cornered, he refused to abandon his hopeless quest for freedom. He turned again.
He ran north, then saw that other men, advancing along the low sea wall that dyked Foulness against the tides, had headed him off. He stopped. Sergeant Lynch and his corporals were reloading their muskets. Marriott saw the ramrods thrusting down and, in panic and desperation, threw himself into the Roach and splashed out as though he would swim, not just to the opposite bank where Sergeant Lynch waited, but clean out to the wide, wind-fretted, tide-treacherous waters of the Crouch estuary.
And he floundered. He choked. His arms flayed the water and he called out desperately, flailed with his hands, and Sharpe, who had learned to swim in India, kicked off his mud-heavy shoes and plunged into the river, struggling through the muddy shallows towards the dark whorls of the seething deeper channel where, his footing gone, he splashed clumsily towards the drowning man.
He clutched Marriott. He had never tried to bring a drowning man out of water before, nor had he dreamed it could be so difficult. He thought that Marriott would pull him down, so viciously did the young man thrash and fight, and Sharpe, gulping great mouthfuls of salt-tainted river water, fought back to suppress Marriott's struggles.
'Let me go! Marriott wailed at Sharpe. He kicked, hit, and Sharpe flinched from one blow, then let go his hold in desperation as the boy's fingers clawed at his eyes. Sharpe was swallowing water, choking, but suddenly, from the bank, he heard Harper's voice raised in a shout of anger as though, instead of Private O'Keefe, he was once again Sergeant Major Patrick Harper and on a battlefield.
'Hold your fire! Don't shoot!
Harper was stumbling through the shallow river margin, shouting his order again at Sergeant Lynch. Harper had shouted because he had seen Lynch bring his reloaded musket into his shoulder, and the musket, Harper knew, could just as easily strike Sharpe as Marriott. 'Hold your fire!
Lynch glanced at the huge man, ignored him for the moment, then looked back down the length of the musket's browned barrel.
Sharpe had let go of Marriott and a whorl of the clashing currents had swept the boy away from him, carrying Marriott close to the western bank where, shin deep in the muddy water, Sergeant Lynch waited.
'Don't fire! Harper was still shouting, still too far from the Sergeant to do anything but shout, and the obstinate river current brought Marriott closer still to the bank. The boy thrust with his feet on the river bed, pushing himself towards the wider Crouch and, as Harper shouted his futile order yet once more, Lynch fired.
The bullet smashed Marriott's skull. Blood spurted eighteen inches into the air, fell to redden the river, spurted again, then mercifully the head rolled the wound beneath the water to hide the obscene, heart-pumped fountain. Marriott's hands splashed once, as if, from beneath the water, he tried to haul himself from its grasp, then he was still, floating calm in a great swirl of blood that drifted with the muddy water towards the sea. Charlie Weller, who had seen much blood on his father's farm, had never seen a man shot. He vomited, and Lynch laughed as he splashed back from the shallows.
Harper had checked at the shot. His temper, slow to rouse, but dreadful once it had been goaded, made his voice loud and terrible. 'You murderous bastard! You traitorous, murderous bastard! He moved towards the Sergeant, the other recruits shrinking back as Lynch reversed the musket to strike at the huge man, when a new voice made them all turn.
'Sergeant! It was Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood. He was spurring his horse over the marsh, picking his way carefully. 'You got him, Sergeant? Sir Henry Simmerson was close behind, his horse following Girdwood's path.
Sharpe was hauling the body to the bank. He thought he tasted Marriott's blood in the water, then huge hands reached for him, hands that pulled the weight of Marriott from him. Harper, turning away from Lynch, had plunged to his waist in the river and now dragged both Sharpe and the corpse to the bank. Sharpe, spitting water and blood, did not see the horsemen.
'Mud. Harper hissed it. Sharpe did not seem to understand. 'Sir! The Irishman hoped that word would attract Sharpe's attention, but still Sharpe had not seen Sir Henry, so Harper, in desperation, scooped up a handful of the sticky, black mud and, his action hidden from Lynch and the officers by his body, slapped it onto Sharpe's face. He smeared more on his own.
'Well done! a voice said. Sharpe knew that voice. As his vision cleared he saw two horses ahead of him and on one of them, the closer one, he saw Sir Henry Simmerson. Sir Henry glanced at Sharpe, then peered down at the body. 'Well done, Sergeant! A head shot!
'Thank you, sir. Lynch was reloading the musket.
Sir Henry barked at Sharpe. 'Stand back, man! Let me look!
'Stand back, filth! Lynch echoed. Sharpe stepped back, keeping his head low, but Sergeant Lynch shouted again. 'Look smart now, there's an officer present! Head up, man! Attention!