One month after running from the tavern in Skipton, Richard Sharpe cautiously entered Sowerby Bridge. In the last few weeks, he'd been very careful not to get caught, sleeping in barns by day, travelling by night, and stealing food wherever he could. It had been slow progress, and it was only now that he was beginning to feel that it was safe to show his face by day.
After four weeks on the run, Richard Sharpe knew one thing: something had to change and soon. He could not hide indefinitely; he was sure he'd end up starving to death if he had to carry on like this much longer.
As he made his way warily into the town, several wagons passed him, as well as more than the average amount of people on foot. Many of the wagons were filled with produce and other food items and most of the female pedestrians were carrying empty baskets and bags.
Watching the procession, he realized that it must be market day. He followed the people heading to market, knowing that he'd have a better chance of successfully stealing some food if there was a crowd to distract the vendors and which he could disappear into afterward.
As the vendors set up their booths and shoppers gathered, he wandered around aimlessly, his eyes following any pretty girls he saw, which helped him to forget about his troubles for a few minutes, at least.
He relaxed somewhat as he realized that no one in the crowd was paying any particular attention to him. Sharpe decided to spend the day here before moving on to put more distance between himself and the scene of his most recently committed murder.
He'd get himself as much food as he could possibly steal without getting caught, and would try to snaffle some clothing items as well, if an opportunity presented itself. As the young man walked amongst the booths, he looked down ruefully at his toes peeking out of the hole in one boot, so boots would be the first order of business. If he was going to continue to run, he'd need a better pair than what he had on.
It wasn't until Dick Sharpe had made several circuits of the market square that he was able to seize an opportunity to steal some food. And even then, he very nearly got caught when he quickly sneaked up to a vendor selling sausage when the man's back was momentarily turned. If it hadn't been for a fellow about his own age, in equally shabby clothing, distracting the vendor, young Sharpe was certain he would have been caught in the act. The lad had asked the vendor a question, just as he was about to turn back around, while Sharpe was in the middle of nabbing half a dozen sausages,
A few moments later, as he was about to slip into an alley to enjoy his ill-gotten gains, he nearly collided with his rescuer coming from the other direction.
Acknowledging him, Sharpe said, "Hey, I appreciate what you did back there; distracting that old bastard while I snaffled me some sausages. He would have caught me for sure if you'd not done that"
"If you really appreciate it, then you'll give me some," the other boy said laconically. "I ain't had nothing to eat today. It's the least you can do."
"Neither have I," Sharpe replied. Indicating the alley with a jerk of his thumb, he said, "Come on, then."
Once inside the alley, the two found crates behind rubbish bins to sit on while they shared the pilfered sausages.
"Name's Sam Carter," Sharpe's new companion said, extending a hand. "You a runaway, too, eh?"
"Dick Sharpe," Sharpe responded, shaking Sam's hand. "How could you tell?"
"Easy," Sam told him. "You look like you ain't eaten or slept much in days, you've got straw in your hair from sleeping in barns, your shoes are falling apart, and you keep looking 'round like you expect someone to be following you."
"Makes sense," Sharpe conceded. "So, why are you running?
"I was working as a footman at this fancy estate," Sam explained. "Got caught rogering the viscount's mistress, I did, so I had to run to save my bollocks. I barely got away with my life, I tell you."
Sharpe chuckled appreciatively, well able to understand Sam's predicament.
"How about you, then?" Sam demanded. "Why are you on the run?"
"I killed the man I worked for," Sharpe said flatly. "I caught the bastard hurting one of the serving girls; trying to rape her. So I had to run 'fore I ended up swinging from a rope." After taking a bite of his sausage, he added, "I've been on the run for about a month now. Don't really know where to go or what to do, other than steal to keep myself fed."
"I've been thinking of joining the army," Sam said, somewhat hesitantly. "Don't want to be a servant no more."
"I'm not sure if I could do that," Sharpe demurred. "Nor sure I could handle not being able to come and go as I please. Can't imagine it would be easy to just quit if I don't like it none."
"But they'll feed and clothe us and give us a place to sleep," Sam pointed out. "And it surely beats swinging at the end of a rope."
"That it does," Sharpe conceded, scratching his chin, which was bristly with adolescent stubble. "It's something to think about if something better don't come along."
"I heard there's supposed to be a recruiting party here today," Sam told him. "Why don't you come along with me and at least hear what they have to say, eh?"
"All right," Sharpe grudgingly agreed. "It's not as if I have anything better to do."
A few minutes later as they finished their pilfered meal, they heard the muffled sound of a drum in the distance.
"That's them," Sam said, cocking an ear. "Do you hear it?"
"I hear it," Sharpe said, yawning. "How do you know it's the army?"
"I've seen recruiting parties before," Sam explained. "They always use a drummer boy to attract a crowd." Heading to the mouth of the alley, he prodded, "Are you coming?"
"Right behind you."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/
Earlier that same day, Obadiah Hakeswill yawned loudly as he sat up in bed to stretch before rising. The night before, he'd managed to get a barmaid sufficiently drunk on gin to persuade her into his bed, where he'd managed to get his itch thoroughly scratched.
Not a handsome man to begin with, the prominent hanging scar around Obadiah's neck and his uncontrollable twitch, both acquired when he'd been unsuccessfully hanged at age twelve, served to make him even more unattractive to women. Though thus far unable to find a woman who wanted him to court her, he had three means of getting his physical needs met: by getting a woman drunk, by paying a whore, or by bullying the wives of the men under his command to have sex with him. Of the three methods, he much preferred the one he'd employed the previous night.
Obadiah had sent the girl on her way hours ago, knowing he needed to get at least a few hours sleep before beginning the long day of recruiting. It was a good thing that Lt. Chambers was not a stickler about rising early or else the young sergeant would have been very late in reporting for duty.
After dressing, shaving and a quick trip to the jakes, he headed to the tavern for his breakfast. His bed partner of the previous night was nowhere to be seen, nor was the lieutenant, but the drummer boy was blearily working on a bowl of porridge at a small table in the corner.
"Finish up quickly, boy, 'fore the lieutenant gets down here," Hakeswill told the drummer gruffly, twitching briefly. "He'll want to get started right after he eats his breakfast, so he don't need to be held up waitin' for the likes of you."
Not waiting for the boy's response, Obadiah sauntered over to the bar, where he would soon hold court with the prospective recruits that the lieutenant would send in to him to close the deal. He expected a fair amount of recruits, with this being a market town and all.
No sooner had Sergeant Hakeswill started eating his own breakfast, than Lt Chambers appeared, looking slightly hung over and worse for wear. He and Obadiah were of a similar age, but came from totally different worlds. Horace Chambers came from a privileged background and was a younger son, whose father had bought him a commission six scant months ago and had never served in combat. And though he'd be loath to admit it to anyone, the young officer depended heavily on the seasoned Obadiah Hakeswill, constantly asking him for advice.
Obadiah took advantage of his superior's ignorance every chance he got, while at the same time appearing to respect the naïve and inexperienced officer. They'd been to a dozen small towns just like this one on this latest recruitment drive, with the young lieutenant willingly following the experienced sergeant's lead. It worked out well.
"Don't get up, Sergeant," Chambers said briskly as Hakeswill rose from his seat to salute the officer as he approached. "Finish your breakfast. We have plenty of time."
"Thank you, sir," Obadiah said, settling down again as the young officer went to find a seat elsewhere, as was fitting and proper. Officers did not share their meals with enlisted men, even NCOs, if they could at all help it. Nor did most NCOs, Hakeswill included, want to socialize with the officers.
Forty-five minutes later, Lt Chambers reluctantly rose from the table and went to collect the drummer boy, Dawson. "Time to start the music," he said quietly, as the youth followed him to the door. "Sgt. Hakeswill, I trust you're ready to begin?"
"Always ready, sir," Obadiah assured him, twitching. "I'll be waitin' for you to send 'em in." As Chambers and Dawson headed out the front door, he reached into one of his pockets to bring out a supply of shillings and handed them to the barman in readiness for the first batch of recruits. It was going to be a long day.