Bernard Cornwell Box Set: Sharpe's Triumph , Sharpe's Tiger , Sharpe's Fortress

by Bernard Cornwell

  “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 inmates. 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 purpose.”

  “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 pack 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.”

  “I was raised in Yorkshire,” Sharpe lied. “Maybe you were up there once?”

  “I don’t travel to foreign places.” Hocking let go of Sharpe’s hand and stood. “Joe here will show you where to wait, but if I was you, Major, I’d watch the dogs for a while.”

  Joe was one of the two young men and he jerked his head to show that Sharpe should follow him through the tavern’s back door. Sharpe knew what to expect there, for when Beaky Malone had been alive Sharpe had helped in that back room which was little more than a long and gloomy shed raised above the yards of three houses. It stank of animals. There were storerooms at either end of the shed, but most of the space had been converted into a makeshift arena of banked wooden benches that enclosed a pit twelve feet in diameter. The pit’s floor was sand and was surrounded by a barrier of planks.

  “It’s in there,” Joe said, indicating one of the storerooms. “It ain’t luxury, but there’s a bed.”

  “I’ll wait out here,” Sharpe said.

  “When the dogs are done,” Joe explained, “wait in the room.”

  Sharpe climbed to the topmost bench where he sat close under the roof beams. Six oil lamps hung above the pit, which was spattered with blood. The shed stank of it, and of gin, tobacco and meat pies. There must have been a hundred men on the benches and a handful of women. Some of the spectators watched Sharpe as he climbed the steps. He did not fit in here and the silver buttons of his uniform coat made them nervous. All uniforms unsettled these folk, and spectators made room for him on the bench just as a tall man with a hooked nose climbed over the plank barrier. “The next bout, ladies and gentlemen,” the man bellowed, “is between Priscilla, a two-year-old bitch, and Nobleman, a dog of three years. Priscilla is by way of being the property of Mister Philip Machin”—the name provoked a huge cheer—“while Nobleman,” the man went on when there was silence, “was bred by Mister Roger Collis. You may place your wagers, gentlemen and ladies, and I do bids you all good fortune.”

  A boy climbed to Sharpe’s bench, wanting to take his money, but Sharpe waved the lad away. Jem Hocking had appeared on a lower bench now and the wagers were being carried to his clerk. Another man, as thin as the ringmaster, threaded his way up the crowded benches to sit beside Sharpe. He looked about thirty, had hooded eyes, long hair and a flamboyant red handkerchief knotted about his skinny neck. He slid a knife from inside a boot and began cleaning his fingernails. “Lumpy wants to know who the hell you are, Colonel,” he said.

  “Who’s Lumpy?” Sharpe asked.

  “Him.” The thin man nodded at the ringmaster.

  “Beaky’s son?”

  The man gave Sharpe a very suspicious look. “How would you know that, Colonel?”

  “Because he looks like Beaky,” Sharpe said, “and you’re Dan Pierce. Your mother lived in Shadwell and she only had one leg, but that never stopped her whoring, did it?” The knife was suddenly just beneath Sharpe’s ribs, its point pricking his skin. Sharpe turned and looked at Pierce. “You’d kill an old friend, Dan?”

  Pierce stared at Sharpe. “You’re not . . .” he began, then checked. The knife was still in Sharpe’s side. “No,” Pierce said, not trusting his suspicions.

  Sharpe grinned. “You and me, Dan? We used to run errands for Beaky.” He turned and looked at the ring where the dog and the bitch were being paraded. The bitch was excited, straining at the leash as she was led about the ring. “S
he looks lively,” Sharpe said.

  “A lovely little killer,” Pierce declared, “quick as a fish, she is.”

  “But too lively,” Sharpe said. “She’ll waste effort.”

  “You’re Dick Sharpe, aren’t you?” The knife vanished.

  “Jem doesn’t know who I am,” Sharpe said, “and I want it to stay that way.”

  “I’ll not tell the bastard. Is it really you?”

  Sharpe nodded.

  “An officer?”

  Sharpe nodded again.

  Pierce laughed. “Bloody hell. England’s run out of gentlemen?”

  Sharpe smiled. “That’s about it, Dan. Have you got money on the bitch?”

  “The dog,” Pierce said. “He’s good and steady.” He stared at Sharpe. “You really are Dick Sharpe.”

  “I really am,” Sharpe said, though it had been twenty years since he had last been in this rat pit. Beaky Malone had always prophesied that Sharpe would end up on the gallows, but somehow he had survived. He had run from London, gone to Yorkshire, murdered, joined the army to escape the law and there found a home. He had been promoted until, one hot day on a dusty battlefield in India, he had become an officer. Sharpe had come from this gutter and earned the King’s commission and now he was going back. The army did not want him, so he would say goodbye to the army, but first he needed money.

  He watched as the timekeeper held up a great turnip watch. A coin had been tossed and the bitch was to fight first. The dog was lifted out of the ring and two cages were handed across the planks. A small boy unlatched the cages, tipped them, then vaulted the planks.

  Thirty-six rats scuttled about the sand.

  “Are you up and ready?” the ringmaster shouted. The crowd cheered.

  “Five seconds!” the timekeeper, a drunken schoolmaster, called, then peered at his watch. “Now!”

  The bitch was released and Sharpe and Pierce leaned forward. The bitch was good. The first two rats died before the others even realized a predator was among them. She nipped them by the neck, shook them vigorously and dropped them promptly, but then her excitement overtook her and she wasted valuable seconds snapping at three or four rats in turn. “Shake them!” her owner bawled, his voice lost in the crowd’s cheers. She ran into a knot of the rats and started working again, ignoring the beasts that attacked her, but then she would not let go of a big black victim. “Drop it! Dead ’un!” her owner screamed. “Drop it! Drop it, you bastard bitch! It’s a dead ’un!”