'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!

Sharpe obeyed, hoping that Harper's quick thinking with the mud would suffice. He found Sir Henry staring at him.

Sharpe had won battles by letting the enemy see what they expected to see, by lulling them to false security. He had once hoisted old rags onto two bare staffs and, because the enemy expected to see a full Battalion with Colours flying, they saw in the ragged symbols of Sharpe's rain-obscured garments evidence of an overpowering force instead of the ammunitionless half-Battalion which, in reality, was all that barred their escape. He had once let his Riflemen lie in the open, without support, close to an overwhelming enemy, but, because the French expected to see dead men where the crumpled bodies lay, they gave the Riflemen no thought until the bullets tore their gun-team apart and gave the victory to Sharpe.

Men see what they expect to see, and though his niece had recognised Sharpe, Sir Henry did not. The mud clung to Sharpe's face, he let his mouth loll open and Sir Henry, who had spent a whole summer locked into a mutual dislike with Sharpe, and who now stared with distaste at his old enemy, saw only what he expected to see; a muddy, gawping recruit. Jane Gibbons, perhaps because she had thought of Sharpe as frequently as he of her, had recognised him instantly, while Sir Henry, who had been assured by Lord Fenner that Major Sharpe had been killed in London and thus prevented from carrying on with his inconvenient search for replacements, did not expect to see Sharpe and so did not. 'You're filthy, man. Clean yourself up!

Sir Henry tugged at his reins and, as he turned away, Sharpe heard him complain querulously to Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood that this business had delayed his journey to London. 'Still, it's over! Bury him, Girdwood! Where he is!

Girdwood wished Sir Henry a safe journey then, when Simmerson was on his way back to the house and out of earshot, he looked down on Sergeant Lynch. 'How in God's name did it happen, Sergeant?

Sergeant Lynch was standing rigid, his trousers muddied to his thighs. 'My belief is that he had help, sir. O'Keefe! The mention of the Irish name was sufficient to cause Girdwood to make the odd, growling sound in his throat.

'Help, Sergeant?

'O'Keefe tried to stop me apprehending the filth, sir! Tried to hit me, sir!