Early that evening, Abigail brushed her hair inside the spartan guest tent she'd been assigned to after first arriving in camp. She and her cousins had been the dinner guests of Colonel Windham, who had unsurprisingly turned out to be a pompous windbag as well as a pretentious snob, as Abigail usually found most men of his class to be.
While growing up as a vicar's daughter, Abigail had come in contact with people from every station in life. As part of the church work expected of her, she'd been acquainted with her so-called social "betters", as well as the poor, whom society considered to be beneath her. As far as she was concerned, no one was better than her simply by accident of birth and she very much resented having to pretend it was so in order to get along in society.
In the short time she'd been at this army camp, she'd seen that the social divisions were clearly drawn here as well, though perhaps not quite so rigidly as back in England. Abigail had noticed that Mr Sharpe did not speak as a gentleman, nor act like one, yet he was an officer.
At dinner, she'd learned that her suspicions about him had been accurate. John had asked why Mr Sharpe had not been invited to dinner and had been told that "he really wasn't our type at all" by Colonel Windham. As she continued to brush her hair, Abigail idly wondered what extraordinary feat Sharpe had done to warrant being raised from the ranks.
A moment later, there was a knock on the tent pole, which startled Abigail from her woolgathering. She moved to push the flap open to find John there, almost looking agitated.
Not waiting for her to speak, he urged, "Come on, now, Abigail! Cease dithering around in your tent at once! Put your bonnet on and accompany me and Marianne to go speak with the men around the camp fires. After all, it's what we came here for!"
Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, Abigail merely replied, "Yes, John, of course. Give me a moment to properly put my hair back up before I join you."
Ten minutes later, she accompanied her cousins to the center of camp, where a large group of men and camp followers were gathered around multiple camp fires in a long row between two groups of tents. She immediately noticed Mr Sharpe and Sergeant Harper, surrounded by several green coated men in a prominent spot, along with many other soldiers and camp women .
John marched right over to Sharpe, having deduced the man was an atheist, which represented an irresistible challenge to him. He thought it a good a place to start as any.
One of the green jacketed men was playing a tin whistle, with several in the group raucously singing a bawdy ditty along with the music. At the same time, some were passing a bottle around.
Abigail was enchanted by the easy camaraderie within the group, not even blushing at the bawdy lyrics. As she watched the group, she realized that the fact that Sharpe was out here socialising comfortably with the enlisted man was yet further proof that he was no gentleman. It did not matter to her, one way or the other, but it was a most fascinating departure from the usual, expected thing.
She glanced over at John, who was predictably fuming, no doubt offended by the song and the fact that it was being sung in mixed company. He stood with a rigid posture that matched his outlook on life. Marianne was oblivious to the song, as she was to most things; her eyes were focused on Sharpe, no doubt admiring his appearance.
As the group continued to sing, Abigail idly let her eyes wander around the camp, looking to see if she could spot the bald sergeant she'd seen earlier. After a few moments of scanning the area, she frowned when she did not see the man. She hoped he would turn up later, as she didn't care to spend the entire evening doing John's bidding.
No sooner than the song finished than John hustled up to Sharpe. "Lieutenant Sharpe, have you considered where your soul will go if you happen to be killed in the upcoming battle?"
Sharpe rolled his eyes before answering. "First of all, I don't waste my time worrying about things that might not ever happen," he began. Narrowing his eyes, he added, "And let's get something clear before you go any further. You're wasting your breath trying to convert me. A better man than you tried to do it more than ten years ago in India, and you're surely not going to succeed where he failed, 'cos he was a man I respected as a good soldier, even if I had no use for all his God talk."
John was flummoxed, not knowing quite how to respond to Sharpe's blunt comments.
Sharpe wasn't finished with him, however. "You're here because the Colonel allowed it. If it had been up to me, I'd have sent you on your way. You can talk to the men, just so long as they want to listen to you. If they don't, you leave them be. They work hard during the day and this is their time to relax."
Knowing there was nothing for it, John pressed his lips together tightly, then turned on his heel and left in search of more likely prospects, gesturing for the women to do the same. Marianne trailed hesitantly behind her husband, waiting for his instructions.
Abigail lingered near Sharpe and his men, not really wanting to bother the soldiers, who looked as if they were having a good time. More songs were sung, interspersed with lively conversation, which she found infinitely more interesting than the stilted insincere conversations from when she went calling with her mother back home.
She strolled for a bit among the soldiers, to make it look as if she was talking with the men about spiritual matters as John expected her to do but, in reality, she kept looking to see if the bald headed sergeant would appear.
Finally, after a long interval, she spotted the sergeant on the periphery of the group, alone near a large grouping of tents. Though the man was in the shadows and his features could not clearly be seen, Abigail got the distinct impression that he was lonely, even though she had no rational basis for that thought. She had instinctively recognised the loneliness in him that matched her own.
"Who is that sergeant standing in the shadows there?" Abigail asked Sharpe, pointing. "I believe Sergeant Harper called him Obadiah earlier this afternoon?"
"That's Obadiah Hakeswill," Sharpe answered, his tone of voice clearly indicating his hatred of the man. "He's a bad one, not worth your time."
"Nonsense!" Abigail retorted, taken a bit aback by Sharpe's venom. "God loves everyone."
"Begging your pardon, ma'am," Sergeant Harper put in, overhearing the conversation. "But if I were you, I'd take seriously what Mr Sharpe is telling you, so I would. He's known Obadiah for a long time and knows what he's talking about."
"With all due respect, Sergeant, it is precisely the most disagreeable among us who need God's love the most," she insisted stoutly. "He is exactly the sort of person I should be talking with."
Exhaling loudly in exasperation, Sharpe replied, "I didn't want to have to be so blunt with you, but the truth is that Sergeant Hakeswill isn't fit company for a lady. If you value your virtue and your reputation, you'll avoid being alone with him."
"Surely, you exaggerate," she said, appalled. "I'm in an army camp surrounded by hundreds of people."
"You're an adult and I can't tell you what to do," Sharpe told her, his patience near the breaking point. "If you want to play with fire, go ahead. But don't say I didn't warn you when you get burned."
"I'll be perfectly all right," Abigail insisted, as she turned to walk off in the direction of where Obadiah Hakeswill still stood.