'Quiet! Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood called for silence. The hunters were gathered in a perplexed knot where the two ditches met. 'Sergeant Lynch?

'Sir!

'You're sure it was here?

'Certain, sir.

Girdwood sent the eight dismounted sergeants westward. 'Form a line there! We'll drive him towards you. Gentlemen! He beckoned at his horsemen. 'Five yards apart! Go slowly!

It took a few moments for Girdwood to be satisfied with the alignment of his men, then, dropping his sabre as if he gave a signal on a battlefield, he walked his horsemen forward. 'Search every shadow!

Captain Finch was the southernmost horseman, the one closest to the camp, and the man whose advance would bring him directly to Harper's hiding place. Finch held his carbine with the reins in his left hand and the sword in his right. He probed with the long blade into every deep shadow and fingered the carbine's trigger in case his sword should roust the fugitive out of hiding.

Harper, when the hunters had gathered to hear Girdwood's orders, had slid a few feet further down the ditch. He waited now, knowing that the line was coming towards him, and knowing, too, that the swords and sabres that stabbed down were his danger. Thirty yards behind Harper, muskets loaded and primed, the sergeants waited.

Captain Finch spurred over a bare patch of grass and sliced his sword down into a shadow. As he did it, the shadow seemed to flicker and disappear, a new light challenged the moon, and he looked southwards and saw, to his horror, that the stables were exploding into flame. 'Fire!

Sergeant Bennet almost obeyed, his finger tightening convulsively on the trigger before he saw that the horsemen were staring at the camp and at the roiling smoke that billowed up from the burning wooden stables.

Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood, whose evening pleasure was already nightmarish enough, was trapped between his need to find the Irishman and his desperation to extinguish the sudden fire before it spread to the other buildings of his command. 'Stay here, Finch! Come with me, Sergeant Major!

Finch stared, appalled. He saw a horseman come out of the camp and trot towards the hunters, then the Colonel and Brightwell passed Finch, goading their horses into a canter on the treacherous ground. Finch, at the very edge of a small ditch that his sword would explore next, turned to shout orders to the remaining huntsmen when, inexplicably, his horse reared.

Finch leaned forward to soothe the horse, but still it rose, screaming in terror, then lurched sideways. The captain caught a glimpse of a man, black as the night, dripping and huge, who had erupted from the ditch to seize one of the horse's forelegs and now, with massive strength, was tipping the beast over. Finch tried to hit the man with his carbine, but his hand was seized and he was pulled with dreadful force to fall at his attacker's feet, while his frightened horse, released by Harper, skittered away.

'Don't move! Harper, stinking and filthy from the ditch, shouted at the sergeants. 'I'll kill him! They froze. The huge Irishman, dripping wet, had pulled the sword from Finch's right hand and now held it at the officer's throat.

Harper stripped the carbine from Finch, then pulled the ammunition pouch from the officer's belt, breaking it free with a massive tug as if the two leather loops that held it were no stronger than rotted cotton. He looked up at the sergeants. 'Step back! Step back! Then, from behind him, came the shout he had waited for.

'Patrick! Patrick!

Harper dropped the sword and dragged Finch backwards. He stumbled over the ditch, still watching the sergeants who, in turn, stared appalled as their prey, who had appeared from nowhere like an embodied shadow, dragged his hostage towards the lone horseman who came over the marsh.

Girdwood checked and turned his horse. He saw the Irishman dragging Finch backwards. He saw, too, the horseman who approached Harper's rear and the Colonel supposed that the rider must be one of his own men. 'Kill him! Kill him! But instead the rider dismounted beside the huge Irishman and Girdwood, frozen in indecision between the calamities on either hand, called out to his sergeants. 'Kill them!

One of the sergeants raised his musket, but Harper hauled Finch to his feet and held the sword at the officer's throat. 'One bullet and he's a dead man! Now step back!

Sharpe jumped down from the horse. He knew that Harper, who had been reared to ride the wild ponies of the Donegal Moors, was a much better horseman than himself. 'You take the horse, Patrick! Hold onto that bastard! Sharpe threw away the useless musket and took the carbine from Harper. He checked that the carbine was of the Heavy Dragoon pattern that took the same calibre bullet as those in his captured pouch, then, seeing that Harper was mounted with the unfortunate Finch draped over the horse in front of him, he started westwards.

Girdwood watched in horror. 'Fire! He shouted it to the sergeants who were closest to Sharpe and Harper, but none dared fire for fear of hitting Captain Finch. Girdwood stood in his stirrups. 'Stop them!

Yet not one of Girdwood's men wanted to be a hero this night, not in such an ignoble cause and not when they knew that the two fugitives merely fled towards the waiting picquet at the bridge. Beyond the bridge the militia cavalry waited, and so Girdwood's men, happy that others should rescue Captain Finch and apprehend the armed deserters, followed the fugitives without enthusiasm. Girdwood spurred his horse towards the laggard sergeants. 'Go on! Go on! Go on!

Sharpe heard the shout, turned, and brought the carbine into his shoulder. Girdwood could just spur these men into action and Sharpe knew they must be discouraged. He aimed at Girdwood's horse, closed his eye against the flash of powder, and fired.

Girdwood's horse swerved away, startled by the bullet, and Sharpe heard the sergeants swear. He reloaded, his hands swift in the old actions, and he astonished his pursuers by sending a second bullet to flutter the air just seconds after the first. He turned and sprinted after Harper and heard a single musket fire in reply. The ball went wide. No one now, not Girdwood, not his officers, and not one of the sergeants, wanted to hurry the pursuit into the face of such deadly skill. They let Sharpe and Harper stretch their lead and were confident that the militia or the picquet at the bridge would end this nonsense.

Sharpe caught up with Harper. 'All well?

'Bastard's quiet, sir! Harper had found a pistol in Finch's belt and had rapped the captain on the skull with its butt. 'Where to?

'This way! Sharpe, running hard, turned off the road and led Harper back to the marsh. They were still on Foulness, still pursued, and there were enemies ahead, but they were Riflemen, hardened by war, and they would use their skills in this night of moonshine and madness. They would fight.