It seemed to Sharpe that they must be skirting Sir Henry's estate. They worked their way east, then north, and Sharpe was glad to see a creek between themselves and the house of the one man who might recognise him in this corner of Essex. Nevertheless his worry increased as, pace by pace, Sergeant Lynch led them closer and closer to the big, splendid house.

It looked peaceful on this bright summer's day. The morning sun caught the gleaming white paint of the window and door frames that faced east. Before the east facade was a terrace that sloped down to a wide, close cut lawn that ended with a brick retaining wall. The top of the wall was level with the lawn, while at its base was the muddy channel of the creek.

The channel was silted and choked, the mud banked and overgrown with plants. Sergeant Lynch, stopping by a belt of sea rushes, ordered the men to halt. 'Listen, filth!" His voice was softer than usual, perhaps because he did not want to offend the ears of the English gentry beyond the silted creek. 'You are going to clear out this bloody channel! Start there! He gestured with his pacing stick to the end of the garden wall, 'and you will work it down to that marker!" He pointed behind him and Sharpe saw, some two hundred yards away, a wooden pole that leaned in the marsh. 'You will work in silence! Corporal Mason!

'Sergeant!

'Take the odd-numbered men and start at the marker!

'Sir!

Sharpe and Harper, because they paraded beside each other, had consecutive numbers, so that Harper, who as the tallest man in the squad was number one, was taken with the corporal to the far marker. Sharpe, as number two, went with the second corporal through the rushes and down into the channel beside Sir Henry's wall. Sergeant Lynch, impeccable in his regimentals, decided to stay on the dry bank.

It was hard, messy work. The mud was overgrown with rice grass that had to be tugged up, its spreading, linked roots hard to drag out of the slime, then the men with shovels, working behind, deepened the channel so that the slimy water, stinking of old vegetation, gurgled and seeped about their shins. Sharpe was sweating quickly, though oddly he found the work enjoyable, perhaps because it was so mindless and because there was a strange pleasure working in the sucking, thick cool mud.

It was clear that Sir Henry Simmerson had requested the channel cleared, not just so that his east lawn should be edged with water as if by a moat, but because, halfway down the brick, moss-grown wall, there was an archway that led into a boathouse. A barred gate, rusted and padlocked, faced the creek, while behind the bars Sharpe could see three old punts that would need this channel excavated if they were ever again to float. Beyond the punts Sharpe could see a stone stairway that must lead up to the garden.

'You! You, filth! Sergeant Lynch was pointing at Sharpe. 'Vaughn!

'Sergeant?

'Wait there, filth!

It seemed to Sharpe that he had been singled out for punishment, though for what he could not think, but instead he saw, through the bars of the water gate, a man descend into the boathouse. He felt a second's panic, fearing that it was Sir Henry himself, but instead it was a servant who, stooping along a brick walk built at one side of the tunnel that formed the arched dock, came and unlocked the padlock. The key took a deal of turning, so stiff was the lock, but finally it was undone and the gate creaked open.

The man sniffed, as though it was beneath his dignity to talk to a mere muddy soldier. 'It has to be cleared out. He gestured at the boathouse. 'Deep enough for the craft to float at high tide. Do you comprehend me? He frowned, as if Sharpe was an animal who might not understand English.

'Yes.

Sergeant Lynch sent Marriott to help Sharpe, and first they had to lift the punts out of the tunnel and put them on the bank of the creek. Next there was a mess of tarpaulins, poles, fishing lines, paddles and awning hoops to drag out of the dark, dank tunnel, and only then could they begin to dig at the stinking, clinging mud.

Marriott attacked the mud like a maniac, flinging it with his shovel out into the creek. Sharpe protested, telling him to slow down.

'Slow down?

'They can't see us in here! We take our bloody time. It was strange, Sharpe thought, how he slipped back into the ways of the ranks. As a Major his job was to make men work, but now, at the bottom of the army's heap, he found himself looking for ways to avoid undue exertion.

Marriott did not argue, but instead slowed to such a dawdling pace that it would have taken them a full two days to dig the mud out from the boathouse. Sharpe approved. They were out of Sergeant Lynch's sight, while the corporal in charge of this half of the squad was more concerned about keeping the mud from his shoes and trousers than how hard his men worked.

'They shouldn't do this to us, Marriott said.

'Better than bloody drill. Sharpe was sitting on the brick walkway, wondering if he dared try and steal a few moments sleep.

'Labourer's work, this.

'We are bloody labourers, Sharpe yawned. A butterfly came down the garden steps, hovered bright in the boathouse entrance, then flew away. 'We're soldiers, lad. Our job is to clear up the bloody mess the politicians make. We're the buggers no one wants until the politicians make their mistakes, then everyone's grateful to us. He was surprised to hear himself say it, not because it was untrue, but because it did not tally with the character he had adopted in this squad. He pretended to be nothing more than a disappointed old soldier, unthinking and obedient, wise to the army's ways and uncritical of its behaviour.

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.