Sharpe's Prey

by Bernard Cornwell

Sharpe stood in the doorway of the old brewery, long closed down, and stared across the street at the workhouse walls. On the right was the poorhouse that mostly held folk too old to work, or else they were sick or had been abandoned by their children. Landlords turned them onto the street and the parish beadle brought them here, to Jem Hocking’s kingdom, where the men were put in one ward and the women in the other. They died here, husbands forbidden to speak with their wives, and all half starved until their corpses were carried in a knacker’s cart to a pauper’s grave. That was the poorhouse, and it was divided from the foundling home by a narrow, three-story brick house with white-painted shutters and an elegant wrought-iron lantern suspended above its well-scrubbed front steps. The Master’s house. Jem Hocking’s small palace which overlooked the foundling home which, like the poorhouse, had its own gate: a black slab of heavy timber smeared with tar and surmounted with rusted iron spikes four inches long. A prison, really, for orphans. The magistrates sent pregnant girls here, girls too poor to have a home or too sick to sell their swollen bodies on the streets. Their bastards were born here and the girls, as often as not, died of the fever. Those that survived went back to the streets, leaving their children in the tender care of Jem Hocking and his wife.

  It had been Sharpe’s home once. And now it was Friday.

  He crossed the street and hammered on the small wicket door set into the foundling home’s larger gate. Grace had wanted to come here. She had listened to Sharpe’s stories and believed she could change things, but there had never been time. So Sharpe would change things now. He lifted his hand to hammer again just as the wicket door opened to reveal a pale and anxious young man who flinched away from Sharpe’s fist. “Who are you?” Sharpe demanded as he stepped through the small opening.

  “Sir?” The young man had been expecting to ask that same question.

  “Who are you?” Sharpe asked. “Come on, man, don’t bloody dither! And where’s the Master?”

  “The Master’s in his house, but... “ The young man abandoned whatever he had been trying to say and instead attempted to stand in front of Sharpe. “You can’t go in there, mister!”

  “Why not?” Sharpe had crossed the small yard and now pushed open the door to the hall. When he had been a child he had thought it a vast room, big as a cathedral, but now it looked squalid and small. Scarce bigger than a company’s barrack room, he realized. It was supper ana some thirty or more children were sitting on the floor among the oakum and the tar-encrusted fenders that was their daily work. They scooped spoons in wooden bowls while another thirty children queued beside a table that held a cauldron of soup and a bread board. A woman, her red arms massive, stood behind the table while a young man, equipped with a riding crop, lolled on the hall’s low dais above which a biblical text arched across the brown-painted wall. Be sure your sin will find you out.

  Sixty pairs of eyes stared at Sharpe in astonishment. None of the children spoke for fear of the riding crop or a blow from the woman’s burly arm. Sharpe did not speak either. He was staring at the room, smelling the tar and fighting against the overwhelming memories. It had been twenty years since he had last been under this roof. Twenty years. It smelt the same, though. It smelt of tar and fear and rotten food. He stepped to the table and sniffed the soup.

  “Leek and barley gruel, sir.” The woman, seeing the silver buttons and the black braid and the saber, dropped a clumsy curtsey.

  “Looks like lukewarm water to me,” Sharpe said.

  “Leek and barley, sir.”

  Sharpe picked up a random piece of bread. Hard as brick. Hard as ship’s biscuit.

  “Sir?” The woman held out her hand. She was nervous. “The bread is counted, sir, counted.”

  Sharpe tossed it down. He was tempted to some extravagant gesture, but what would it do? Upsetting the cauldron merely meant the children would go hungry, while dropping the bread into the soup would achieve nothing. Grace would have known what to do. Her voice would have cracked like a whip and the workhouse servants would have been scurrying to fetch food, clothes and soap. But those things cost money and Sharpe only had a pocketful of copper.

  “And what have we here?” a strong voice boomed from the hall door. “What has the east wind blown in today?” The children whimpered and went very still while the woman dropped another curtsey. Sharpe turned. “And who are you?” the man demanded. “Colonel of the regiment, are you?”

  It was Jem Hocking. Come like the devil to the heart of hell.

  He was no devil to look at. See Jem Hocking in the street and a man might take him for a prosperous farmer up from the Vale of Kent. The years had whitened his hair and stretched his checkered waistcoat taut across a bulging belly, but he was still a bull of a man with wide shoulders, stout legs and a face as flat as a shovel. Thick jowls hung beneath bushy white side whiskers, a golden watch chain held a dozen seals, his tall boots were tasseled, his dark-blue coat was edged with velvet cuffs and he carried a varnished black staff with a silver knob. He was the Master and for a moment Sharpe could not speak. He was overwhelmed by hatred, by the memories of this man’s cruelty, even by fear. Twenty years and a battlefield commission had not taken away that fear. He wanted to imitate the children; he wanted to freeze, pretend not to exist, not even breathe in case he was noticed.

  “Does I know you?” Hocking demanded. The big man was frowning, trying to discern something familiar in Sharpe’s scarred face, but the memory would not come. He shook his head in puzzlement. “So who are you?”

  “My name is Dunnett,” Sharpe said, using the name of an officer in the greenjackets who held a particular dislike of Sharpe. “Major Warren Dunnett,” he said, promoting Dunnett from captain.

  “A major, eh? And what kind of uniform is that, Major? Red coats I know, and blue I’ve seen, but bless me, I ain’t seen green and black.” He stepped toward Sharpe, pushing the children’s skinny legs out of the way with his beadle’s staff. “Is it a new-fangled uniform, eh? Some kind of coat that gives a man the right to trespass on parish property?”

  “I was looking for the Master,” Sharpe said. “I was told he was a man of business.”

  “Business.” Hocking spat the word. “And what business do you have, Major, other than the killing of the King’s enemies?”

  “You want me to talk about it here?” Sharpe asked. He took one of the pennies from his coat pocket and spun it toward the ceiling. It glittered as it flew, watched by hungry, astonished children, then fell into Sharpe’s hand and vanished.

  The sight of the money, even a humble penny, was all the reassurance Hocking needed. The rest of his questions could wait. “I has business outside the poorhouse tonight,” he announced, “it being a Friday. You’ll take an ale with me, Major?”

  “That would be a pleasure, Master,” Sharpe lied.

  Or perhaps it was not a lie, for Sharpe was angry and revenge was a pleasure. And this revenge had been simmering in his dreams for twenty years. He glanced a last time at the text on the wall and wondered if Jem Hocking had ever considered the truth of it.

  Be sure your sin will find you out.

  Jem Hocking should have taken note and been on his knees in prayer.

  Because Richard Sharpe had come home.

  Chapter 2

  The tavern displayed no name. There was not even a painted sign hanging outside, nothing, indeed, to distinguish it from the neighboring houses except, perhaps, a slight air of prosperity that stood out in Vinegar Street

  like a duchess in a whorehouse. Some folk called it Malone’s Tavern because Beaky Malone had owned and run it, though Beaky had to be dead by now, and others called it the Vinegar Alehouse because it was in Vinegar Street, while some knew the house simply as the Master’s because Jem Hocking did so much of his business in its taproom.

  “I have interests,” Jem Hocking said grandly, “beyond those of the mere parish. I am a man of parts, Major.”

  Meaning, Sharpe thought, that Hocking persecuted more than the workhouse i
nmates. He had become rich over the years, rich enough to own scores of houses in Wapping, and Friday night was when the tenants brought him the rent. Pennies only, but pennies added up, and Hocking received them in the taproom where they vanished into a leather bag while a cowed white-haired clerk made notes in a ledger. Two young men, both tall, strongly built and armed with cudgels, were the taproom’s only other customers and they watched every transaction. “My mastiffs,” Hocking had explained the two young men.

  “A man of responsibility needs protection,” Sharpe had said, using two of his three shillings to buy a flagon of ale. The girl brought four tankards. The clerk, it seemed, was not to be treated to Major Dunnett’s largesse. Only Sharpe, Hocking and the two mastiffs were to drink.

  “It takes a man of authority to recognize responsibility,” Hocking said, then buried his face in the tankard for a few seconds. “What you are seeing, Major, is private business.” He watched a thin woman offer some coppers to the clerk. “But in my parish duties,” Hocking went on, watching the clerk count the coins, “I have responsibility for the disbursement of public funds and for the care of immortal souls. I take neither duty lightly, Major.” The public funds were fourpence three farthing a day for each pauper out of which Jem Hocking managed to purloin twopence, while the rest was grudgingly spent on stale bread, onions, barley and oatmeal. The care of souls yielded no profit, but did not require any outlay either.

  “You have a Board?” Sharpe asked, pouring himself and Hocking more ale.

  “I have a Board of Visitors,” Hocking agreed. He watched the ale being poured. “The law says we must. So we do.”

  “So where is the responsibility?” Sharpe asked. “With you? Or the Board?” He saw the question had offended Hocking. “I assume it is you, Master, but I have to be sure.”

  “With me,” Hocking said grandly. “With me, Major. The Board is appointed by the parish and the parish, Major, is infested with bleeding orphans. And not just our own! Some even gets stranded here by the ships. Only last week the mudlarks found a girl child, if you can imagine such a thing.” He shook his head and dipped his nose into the ale’s froth while Sharpe imagined the mudlarks, men and women who combed the Thames foreshore at low tide in search of scraps fallen overboard, bringing a child to Brewhouse Lane

  . Poor child, to end with Hocking as a guardian. “The Board, Major,” Hocking went on, “cannot cope with so many children. They confine themselves to a quarterly examination of the accounts which, you may be sure, add up to the exact penny, and the Board votes me an annual motion of thanks at Christmas time, but otherwise the Board ignores me. I am a man of business, Major, and I spare the parish the trouble of dealing with orphans. I have two score and sixteen of the little bastards in the house now, and what will the Board of Visitors do without me and Mrs. Hocking? We are a godsend to the parish.” He held up a hand to check anything Sharpe might say. This was not to deflect a compliment, but rather because a thin young man had come from the tavern’s back door to whisper in his ear. A raucous cheer sounded from behind the door. The cheers had been sounding ever since Sharpe had arrived in the tavern and he had pretended not to hear them. Now he ignored the young man who tipped a stream of coins into the clerk’s leather bag, then gave Hocking a pile of grubby paper slips that vanished into the big man’s pocket. “Business,” Hocking said gruffly.

  “In Lewes,” Sharpe said, “the parish offers three pounds to anyone who will take an orphan out of the workhouse.”

  “If I had such cash, Major, I could strip Brewhouse Lane

  of the little bastards in five minutes.” Hocking chuckled. “For a pound apiece! A pound! But we ain’t a rich parish. We ain’t Lewes. We ain’t got the funds to palm the little bastards off onto others. No, we relies on others paying us!” He sank half the ale, then gave Sharpe a suspicious look. “So what does you want, Major?”

  “Drummer boys,” Sharpe said. The 95th did not employ drummer boys, but he doubted Jem Hocking understood that.

  “Drummer boys,” Hocking said. “I’ve got lads that could beat a drum. They ain’t much good for anything, but they can beat a drum. But why come to me for them, Major? Why not go to Lewes? Why not get three pounds with every lad?”

  “Because the Lewes Board of Visitors won’t let the boys go to be soldiers.”

  “They won’t?” Hocking could not hide his astonishment.

  “There are women on the Board,” Sharpe said.

  “Ah, women!” Hocking exclaimed. He shook his head in exasperation and despair. “They’ll be the end of common sense, women will. There are none on our Board, I warrant you that. Women!”

  “And the Canterbury Board insists the boys go before a magistrate,” Sharpe said.

  “Canterbury?” Hocking was confused.

  “We have a second battalion at Canterbury,” Sharpe explained, “and we could get the boys from there, only the magistrates interfere.”

  Hocking was still confused. “Why wouldn’t the bloody magistrates want boys to be soldiers?”

  “The boys die,” Sharpe said, “they die like bloody flies. You have to understand, Mister Hocking, that the rifles are the troops nearest the enemy. Under their noses, we are, and the boys have to serve as cartridge carriers when they ain’t drumming. Back and forth, they are, and somehow they seem to be targets. Bang, bang. Always killing boys, we are. Mind you, if they live, it’s a fine life. They can become Chosen Men!”

  “A rare opportunity,” Hocking said, believing every word of Sharpe’s nonsense. “And I can assure you, Major, there’ll be no interference from Boards or magistrates here. None! You can take my word for it.” He poured himself more ale. “So what are we talking about here?”

  Sharpe leaned back, pretending to think. “Two battalions?” he suggested. “Twenty companies? Say we lose four boys a year to the enemy and another six die of fever or manage to grow up? Ten lads a year? They have to be eleven years old, or near enough to pass.”

  “Ten boys a year?” Hocking managed to hide his enthusiasm. “And you’d pay?”

  “The army will pay, Mister Hocking.”

  “Aye, but how much? How much?”

  “Two pounds apiece,” Sharpe said. He was amazed at his own glibness. He had dreamed of this revenge, plotting it in his imagination without ever thinking he would actually work it, yet now the lines were slipping off his tongue with convincing ease.

  Hocking stuffed a clay pipe with tobacco as he considered the offer. Twenty pounds a year was a fine sum, but a little too obvious. A little too tidy. He drew a candle toward him and lit the pipe. “The magistrates will want paying,” he observed.

  “You said there’d be no trouble from magistrates,” Sharpe objected.

  “That’s because they’ll be paid,” Hocking pointed out, “and there’ll be other costs, Major, other costs. Always are other costs.” He blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “Have you talked to your Colonel about this?”

  “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  Hocking nodded. Which meant Sharpe had negotiated a price with the Colonel, and Hocking was damned sure it was not two pounds a boy. Five pounds, more like, with the Colonel creaming a pair off the top and Sharpe taking a single. “Four pounds,” Hocking said.

  “Four!”

  “I don’t need you, Major,” Hocking said. “I’ve got chimney sweeps who like my lads, and those that don’t sweep chimneys can shovel up the pure.” He meant they could collect dog turds that they delivered to the city’s tanners who used the feces to cure leather. “Some boys go to sea,” Hocking said grandly, “some sweep chimneys, some scoop shit, some die, and the rest go to the gallows. They’re all scum, Major, but they’re my scum, and if you wants them then you pays my price. And you will, you will.”

  “I will, why?”

  “Because, Major, you don’t need to come to Wapping to get boys. You can find lads anywhere, magistrates or no magistrates.” Hocking turned his shrewd eyes on Sharpe. “No, Major, you came to me on pur
pose.”

  “I came to you for drummer boys,” Sharpe said, “and no awkward magistrates and no one caring that so many die.”

  Hocking still stared at him. “Go on,” he said.

  Sharpe hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind. “And girls,” he said.

  “Ah.” Hocking half smiled. He understood weakness and greed, and Sharpe, at last, was making sense.

  “We hear-“ Sharpe began.

  “Who’s we?”

  “The Colonel and me.”

  “And who told you?” Hocking asked fiercely.

  “No one told me,” Sharpe said, “but someone told the Colonel. He sent me.”

  Hocking leaned back and pulled at his bushy side whiskers as he considered the answer. He found it plausible and nodded. “Your Colonel likes ‘em young, eh?”

  “We both do,” Sharpe said, “young and untouched.”

  Hocking nodded again. “The boys will be four pounds apiece and the girls ten a time.”

  Sharpe pretended to consider the price, then shrugged. “I want a taste tonight.”

  “Girl or boy?” Hocking leered.

  “Girl,” Sharpe said.

  “You’ve got the money?”

  Sharpe patted his sack which stood on the sawdust-strewn floor. “Guineas,” he said.

  Another cheer sounded behind the back door and Hocking jerked his head in that direction. “I’ve got business in there, Major, and it’ll take me an hour or two to settle it. I’ll have the girl cleaned up while you wait. But I want five pounds now.”

  Sharpe shook his head. “You’ll see my money when I see the girl.”

  “Getting particular, are we?” Hocking sneered, though he did not insist on receiving any deposit. “What do you want, Major? A redhead? A blackbird? Fat? Skinny?”

  “Just young,” Sharpe said. He felt dirty even though he was merely pretending.

  “She’ll be young, Major,” Hocking said and held out his hand to seal the bargain. Sharpe took the hand and suppressed a shudder when Hocking held on to it. Hocking gripped hard, frowning. “It’s strange,” he said, “but you do look familiar.”