That morning, when Sergeant Lynch had marched them off the island, Sharpe had noted a drainage ditch that angled north west from the road and pointed, like a straight line on a map, towards Sir Henry's house. It was beside that ditch that he and Harper now went. 'We're going to the creek! You go ahead! Sharpe reloaded the carbine, watching to see if the pursuers pressed close, but his earlier shots had taken what small courage they had and destroyed it. He felt a moment's shame that these men wore the uniform of the South Essex, then turned and ran after Harper.

The Sergeant had stopped beside the creek which edged the island. 'Can we lose this bastard, sir? He plucked at Finch's jacket tails.

'Drop him! The pursuit was too far behind for them to need a hostage now, and Harper hit Finch again, to keep him quiet, then tipped the officer into the mud. He coaxed the horse forward to the water. 'Give me the gun, sir!

Sharpe handed up the carbine and his belt with its ammunition pouch. The tide was low, the water scarcely up to his knees, but if he tripped and soaked the cartridges they would be defenceless. The horse, nervous in the water, eagerly climbed up to the great reed bed that banked the creek. Sharpe followed, his shoes sticking in the thick mud.

'Another river, sir! Harper called out and Sharpe, to his consternation, saw that they had succeeded in leaving Foulness only to gain the dubious refuge of this smaller island, scarcely more than a great stand of reeds among the water. This next crossing was wider and looked deeper, the moon-sheened water swirling menacingly as it swept seawards. 'Take the bridle for me, sir!

Sharpe led the horse into the deeper water and the current snatched at him. He supposed this must be the Roach, where Marriott had so nearly drowned him, and then he was half swimming, half being dragged by the panicked horse, until, with relief, he felt the beast heaving itself up the far bank and dragging him with it. He let go of the bridle, shook the water from his hair, then saw Sir Henry's house and, running straight towards it, the path on the sea wall that they had trodden that morning.

'Sir!

'What is it?

'Cavalry. It was odd, suddenly, but it felt like Spain. Harper slid from the horse, his right hand feeling in the carbine pan to check that it was loaded. 'Skirmish line of the bastards, sir. Half a mile. He pointed west. 'Haven't seen us yet, but they will if we're mounted.

'Moving?

'No. Harper grinned in the moonlight. 'Dozy bastards.

It was a fine decision that had to be made. If Sharpe or Harper rode the horse, and the other ran alongside grasping the stirrup to keep up, they would be seen in this flat land by the searching cavalry. Their journey would be faster, but the militia, unencumbered by double-mounting or stirruping, would be faster still. If they went on foot they would be hidden, but the journey from here to the creek would take twice as long; twice as much time in which they might be found. It was visibility and speed against deception. Sharpe looked back the way they had come, but he could see no one and hear nothing. Finch must still be stunned by the blow Harper had given him.

Sharpe took the gun and ammunition. 'Hobble the horse. We walk.

'We bloody run. Harper was unbuckling the bridle. He tied the horse's front feet together. It whinnied nervously, and the Irishman soothed it. 'I'm ready.

They crouched low. The embankment, on which the path ran so clear and straight towards Sir Henry's house, gave them cover. They were bent over, tripping sometimes on the tussocks, cursing as they stumbled, but always pushing on in the bank's shadow. Sharpe stopped only once to peer through the grass at the embankment's top. He could see the moonlight shining on the sabres and helmets of the cavalry, who, strung in a long line, searched the shadows and reed beds a quarter mile away. Sharpe caught Harper up. 'The buggers are closer, but they won't catch us.

'Where are we going anyway?

'We're stealing one of Sir Henry's punts. We'll cross the river. He stopped, crouching by nettles that bordered the road before Sir Henry's house. The road was white in the moonlight, as was the pointing of the bricks in the high wall that fronted the garden. Sharpe tapped Harper's shoulder. 'You first.

The big Irishman slithered over the road, showing the scarcest profile, and moved fast into the ditch at the far side. No cavalry trumpet sounded, no shout echoed on the flat land. 'Patrick!

Sharpe threw the carbine across the road, then the ammunition. He looked behind once, saw the cavalry still far away, then half ran, half rolled over the dry road into the ditch. 'Come on!

It was simple now to slip into the shadows of the half-cleared creek bed. The three duck-shooting punts, that Sharpe and Marriott had hauled onto the eastern bank just that morning, still lay in their tangle of awnings and hoops. 'Break the bottoms of two of them, Patrick, get paddles, take the third to the river. I'll join you.

'Sir!

Mercifully the barred gate of the boathouse was still unlocked. If Jane Gibbons had left the food and money then it could only take an instant to find them, and Sharpe groped along the brick ledge that ran the length of the tunnel. It was pitch black under the arched roof. His hands explored the empty walkway, finding nothing. There was no bundle, no food, no money. He heard the splinter of boards behind him as Harper pushed his foot through the bottom of one of the punts.

'Major Sharpe?

He jumped, scared by the sudden voice, and then a cloth bundle was pushed at him and he saw, dim in the darkness, a hooded shape. 'Miss Gibbons? Is that you?

'Yes! I have to talk to you!

Sharpe climbed onto the ledge. He saw Harper look nervously southwards as he stove in the second punt. Sharpe was holding the bundle while Jane Gibbons' gloved hand, in an unconscious gesture of nervousness, rested on his arm. She was silent now, staring past Sharpe at the huge man who wrestled to turn the third punt over.

He smiled. 'Thank you for this.

She shook her head. 'I wanted to help. Are the militia out?

'Yes.

'They'll come here. They always warn us. She took her hand from his arm. She was standing on the platform that was built at the end of the tunnel, the stage from which someone could step down into the boats. 'You are going to stop them?

'The auctions? Yes.

'What happens to my uncle?

Somehow the question surprised him; he had thought of her as an ally, a conspirator, but suddenly he saw what he had not seen all day, that the disgrace of her uncle would reflect upon this household. 'I don't know. It was a feeble answer. He was tempted to tell her of the men who waited in Pasajes, of the disgrace they would suffer if their pride was to be laid up and they were to be denied a victory for which they had suffered and endured these long years.

'And Colonel Girdwood? Will he be finished?

There was a hollow knocking of wood as Harper tossed two paddles into the punt, then began to drag it towards the far marker that showed where this creek joined the River Crouch. Sharpe nodded. 'He'll be finished. Disgraced.

'Good! She hissed the word, revelling in it. For a moment she was silent. The boathouse was in shadow, but her eyes glistened with the pale reflection of moonlight. She stared at Sharpe almost defiantly. They want me to marry him.

It was like the moment when, on a clear day, a twelve pounder enemy shot thumps the air close by, astonishing and sudden, threatening and unexpected. Sharpe only gaped. They what?

'We're supposed to marry!

'Him?

'My uncle demands it, she paused, her eyes bright in her shadowed face, 'but if he's in disgrace. .

'He'll be finished. Sharpe heard a clinking sound, the fall of a hoof on the road. At the same moment came the call of a nightjar, soft and insistent. 'Cu-ick, cu-ick, cu-ick. Sharpe had never heard a nightjar in marshland. It was Harper sounding a warning. 'I have to go! For a second, a mad second, he wanted to take her with him. 'I shall come back. You understand?