Sharpe nodded and held out his hand. It was no musket bullet. The grey ball was just half an inch across and Sharpe remembered the fore-shortened yellow flame. The seven-barrelled gun used half-inch bullets. ‘Doctor?’
‘Sharpe?’
‘The other wound. Is the bullet still in?’
‘No.’ The doctor was wiping his hands on his apron, already stiff with blood. It was the mark of seniority in his profession. ‘Straight through, Sharpe, all it did was break the skin. Here.’ He held out a tumbler of brandy.
Sharpe drank it and leaned back on the table while the orderly washed and bandaged his leg. He felt no particular anger that Hakeswill had tried to kill him, merely a curiosity and a thankfulness that he had survived. He was certainly not shocked. Had he been holding the volley gun, and had he seen Hakeswill, he would have pulled the trigger and sent the Sergeant spinning to the devil, and all without a second thought. He looked at the doctor. ‘What’s the time, sir?’
‘Dawn, Sharpe, dawn. An Easter dawn, when all men should rejoice.’ He sneezed violently. ‘You should take things gently.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He swung his legs off the table and pulled on the cavalry overalls. There was a neat hole in the leather reinforcements of the right inner thigh where the bullet had entered. The doctor looked at the hole and laughed.
‘Three inches higher and you’d have been the last of your line.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Very droll. He tested his weight and found his leg could take it. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘For nothing, Sharpe, except my small skill and humble duty. Half a bottle of rum and you’ll be skipping like a lamb. A credit to the Medical Board and the Apothecary General whose obedient servant I am.’ He pulled open the flap of his tent. ‘Come and see me if you ever need a limb removed.’
‘I shall see no one else, sir.’
The troops had stood down from the morning alert, had piled arms, and were finishing meagre breakfasts. The guns were hard at work, firing now at the Santa Maria bastion as well as the Trinidad, and Sharpe imagined the smoke lying over the lake. Damn the powder! The amount of powder needed had been grossly under-estimated otherwise Sharpe, Harper and the Riflemen would be heroes this morning. As it was they were pariahs. Trouble was brewing, Sharpe could smell it. The night’s failure needed scapegoats.
Bells clamoured from the city. Easter. Sharpe limped towards his shelter and, to his right, saw a group of Portuguese or Spanish women, followers of the army, picking small, white flowers from a ditch bank. Spring was softening the landscape. Soon it would open the roads and the rivers to the French armies and Sharpe wondered if it was his imagination or were the guns today firing at a faster tempo? Pounding at a city that the British must take if they were to carry the war into the heart of Spain. The guns of Badajoz could be heard by the troops far to the north, at Alcantara and Caceres, and east at Merida, where British outposts stared down the empty roads waiting for a French relief army and listened to the growl of the distant thunder. The guns. They dominated the Easter service, wrenching the thoughts of the people in the cathedral away from the celebrations. The High Altar was resplendent in a white and gold facing, the Virgin draped in gorgeous, bejewelled robes, but the sound of the guns started dust from the high, gold-painted cornice that circled the Cathedral’s interior, sifted it down past the Stations of the Cross, and the women prayed, told their beads, and the guns foretold a bloody assault. Badajoz knew what was to come; the city had a long memory of other sieges when Moors and Christians had taken turns to massacre the inhabitants. Be with us now and in the hour of our need.
‘Sharpe!’ Major Collett, tired and irascible, gestured from Windham’s tent.
‘Sir?’
‘How’s the leg?’ The question was grudging.
‘It hurts.’
Collett offered no sympathy. ‘The Colonel wants you.’
The light was yellowed inside the tent, the canvas giving Windham’s face a tint of jaundice. He nodded at Sharpe, not unfriendlily, and gestured at a wooden crate. ‘You’d better sit.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The leg was shooting pain into his groin. He was hungry.
Collett came in behind Sharpe and pulled the flap shut. The Major was short enough to stand upright beneath the ridgepole. For a few seconds there was silence and it struck Sharpe, suddenly, that Windham was embarrassed. He felt a sympathy for the Colonel. It was not Windham’s fault that Rymer had purchased the commission, it was not his choice to follow Lawford, and Windham, in the little Sharpe knew of him, seemed a decent enough man. He looked up at the Colonel. ‘Sir?’
The word broke the silence. Windham gestured irritably. ‘Last night, Sharpe. A pity.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Whatever the Colonel meant by a pity. The dam not being broken? Matthews’ death?
‘The General’s disappointed. Not with us. We did our job. We got the powder to the dam, we blew it up, and there wasn’t enough damn powder. It’s the Engineers to blame, not us.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe knew that Windham was beating round a very thorny bush. He had not brought Sharpe into the tent to tell him this. Collett gave a pointed cough and the Colonel cleared his throat.
‘It seems there was chaos at the dam, Sharpe, is that right?’
The word must have come from Captain Rymer, Sharpe thought, so he shrugged. ‘Night attacks are prone to confusion, sir.’
‘I know that, Sharpe, I know that. God damn it, man, I wasn’t breeched yesterday!’ The Rifleman made Windham nervous, the Colonel remembered his first meeting, back in Elvas, when he had felt the same reluctance to ride straight at the fence. He glared at Sharpe. ‘I sent you to bring me back news, nothing else, is that right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Instead of which you usurped Rymer’s authority, organized an attack, stirred up the French, and had one of my officers killed.’
Sharpe could sense his own anger flaring and he fought it. He ignored the reference to Matthews. ‘Stirred up the French, sir?’
‘Damn it, man, you fired at them!’
‘Captain Rymer told you that, sir?’
‘I’m not here to argue with you! Did you or didn’t you?’
‘I returned their fire, sir.’
Silence. Rymer had obviously told a different story. Windham glanced at Collett, who shrugged. Both men believed Sharpe, but Rymer’s authority had to be backed up. Windham changed tack. ‘But nevertheless you disobeyed my orders?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Silence again. Windham had not expected the answer, or perhaps he had expected excuses, and Sharpe had made a simple admission of disobedience. But to ask the reason why, was to invite a criticism of Rymer that the Colonel did not want to hear. He looked at Sharpe. The Rifleman seemed so damned confident. He sat there, seemingly unworried, the strong, scarred face spoke of a competence and trustworthiness that disarmed the Colonel. Windham shook his head. ‘Damn it, Sharpe, Rymer’s in an impossible position. He’s trying to establish his authority over a company and he’s finding it difficult while you’re on his heels.’
Collett stirred, perhaps disapprovingly, but Sharpe nodded slowly. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘The rifles, for instance.’
Sharpe felt a flicker of alarm. ‘The rifles, sir?’
Collett broke in, his voice harsh. ‘Rymer’s opinion is that they led to our casualties last night. They’re too slow to load and last night they let us down. Muskets would have been faster, more effective.’
Sharpe nodded. ‘True, but that was only last night.’
‘And that’s only your opinion. Rymer disagrees.’ Collett paused. ‘And Rymer has the Company.’
‘Which he must run as he sees fit.’ Windham took up from Collett. ‘Which means the rifles must go.’
Sharpe’s voice, for the first time, rose. ‘We need more rifles, sir, not less.’
‘Which is what I am talking about!’ Windham’s voice rose as well. ‘You cannot run the Light Company. One man must do it!’
Silence again. Sharpe could feel that there was one more thing to be said, one thing the Colonel was shying from, and he had had enough. He would make it easy, get the damned interview over. ‘So what happens now, sir?’
‘Happens? We go on, Sharpe, we go on!’ Windham was avoiding the answer, but then he plunged in. ‘Major Hogan talked to us. He was upset.’ The Colonel paused. He had plunged in at the wrong place, but Sharpe could guess at what had happened. Windham wanted rid of Sharpe, at least for the moment, and Hogan had engineered an answer that Windham was hesitant about mentioning.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘He’d like your assistance, Sharpe. For a few days, anyway. The Engineers are short-handed, always are, damn them, and he asked for your help. I said yes.’
‘So I’m to leave the Battalion, sir?’
‘For a few days, Sharpe, for a few days.’
Collett stirred by the tent pole. ‘Damn it, Sharpe, they’ll be handing out Captaincies like pound notes on election day soon.’
Sharpe nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ Collett had made the point. Sharpe was an embarrassment, not just to Rymer, but to all the Captains who saw him sniffing at their heels. If he could leave the Battalion now, go to Hogan, then there would be no difficulty in bringing him back, after the assault, into a Captaincy. And the assault would be soon. Wellington was not patient in a siege, the fine weather was bringing the possibility of a French counter-move, and Sharpe sensed that the infantry would be hurled against the city very soon. Too soon, probably. Collett was right; there would be vacancies, too many vacancies, made by the French guns in Badajoz.
Windham seemed relieved by Sharpe’s evident acceptance. ‘That’s it, then, Sharpe. Good luck; good hunting!’ He barked an embarrassed laugh. ‘We’ll see you back!’
‘Yes, sir.’ But not, Sharpe thought, in the way Windham planned. The Rifleman, as he limped from the tent, did not object to the Colonel’s solution, or rather Hogan’s solution, but he was damned if he would be nothing more than a pawn to be pushed round a board and sacrificed. He had lost his Company, and now he was pushed out of the Battalion, and he felt an anger inside him. He was superfluous. Then damn them all. He would make the Forlorn Hope. He would live and they would take him back, not as a convenient replacement for a dead Captain, but as a soldier they could not ignore. He would fight back! God damn them, he would fight back, and he knew where he was going to start. He heard a cackle come from the Battalion’s supply dump. Hakeswill! Bloody Hakeswill who had emptied the seven-barrelled gun at him in the darkness. Sharpe turned towards the sound, winced as the pain seared his leg, and marched towards the enemy.
CHAPTER 20
Hakeswill cackled. ‘You bloody fairies! You’re not bloody soldiers. Stand still!’
The twelve Riflemen stood still. Each would have gladly killed the Sergeant, but not here, not in the supply dump that was open to the gaze of the whole camp. The murder would have to be done at night, in secret, but somehow Hakeswill seemed always to be awake, or alert to the smallest sound. Perhaps he was right, he could not be killed.
Hakeswill walked slowly down the rank. Each man was stripped to his shirt, the green jackets lying on the ground in front of them. He stopped by Hagman, the old poacher, and pushed at the jacket with his foot. ‘What’s this, then?’ His toe was pointing at the black stripe sewn on the sleeve.
‘Senior Rifleman’s badge, Sergeant.’
‘Senior Rifleman’s badge, Sergeant.’ Hakeswill imitated Hagman. The yellow face twitched. ‘Bloody decrepit, you are!’ He pushed the sleeve into the mud. ‘Senior bloody Rifleman! From now on you’re a bloody soldier.’ He cackled, letting his foetid breath wash over Hagman’s face. The Rifleman did not move or react; to do so was to invite punishment. Hakeswill twitched and moved on. He was feeling pleased with himself. The Riflemen had annoyed him because they seemed to him to form an élite group, a close-knit group, and he had wanted to smash them. He had suggested to Rymer as they straggled back from the dam that the rifles were a hindrance; he had hinted that Rymer could begin to establish his ascendency over Sharpe’s old Company by disbanding the Riflemen, and it had worked. ‘You! About turn! You poxed Irish pig! Turn!’ His spittle sprayed Harper.
Harper paused for a fraction of a second, and saw an officer watching. He had no wish to end his days in front of a firing squad. He turned round.
Hakeswill drew his bayonet. ‘How’s your back, Private?’
‘Fine, Sergeant.’
‘Fine, fine.’ Hakeswill mimicked the Donegal accent. ‘That’s good, Private.’ He put the flat of the bayonet high on Harper’s back and drew the blade downwards, over the unhealed cuts, over the scabs, and blood welled out to stain the shirt. ‘You’ve got a dirty shirt, Private, a dirty, Irish shirt.’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’ Harper kept the pain out of his voice. He had promised he would kill this man, and he would.
‘Wash it!’ Hakeswill sheathed his bayonet. ‘About turn!’
The twelve Riflemen watched the Sergeant. He was mad, there was no doubt about that. In the past few days he had taken to a new habit, of sitting by himself, taking off his hat, and talking into it. He talked to his shako as if it was a friend. He told it his plans and his hopes, how he would find Teresa, and his eyes would flick up to the Company to catch them looking at him as they listened. Then he would cackle. ‘I’m going to have her.’ His eyes would go back to the shako’s greasy interior. ‘I’m going to have the pretty lady, oh yes, Obadiah’s going to have her!’
Hakeswill stalked in front of the twelve. ‘You’re going to wear red coats, now, not bloody green. You’re going to carry muskets, not those toys!’ He gestured at the twelve rifles that were stacked by the unlocked arms chest. He laughed. ‘You’re going to be real soldiers, like Sergeant Hakeswill, your friend, me.’ He cackled. ‘You hate me, don’t you?’ The face twitched involuntarily. ‘I like that. Because I hate you!’ He took his hat off, looked inside, and his voice became whining, obsequious. ‘I hate them, I really do.’ He looked up, his voice going back to normal. ‘You think I’m mad?’ He laughed. ‘Not so I don’t know.’ He saw their eyes flicker to the left and turned. The bastard Sharpe was approaching. Limping. Hakeswill put his hat on and saluted. ‘Lieutenant, sir.’
Sharpe returned the salute. ‘Sergeant.’ His voice was civil. ‘Stand the men at ease.’
‘But, sir, Lieutenant, sir…’
‘At ease, Sergeant.’
Hakeswill twitched. He could not fight Sharpe through the formal hierarchy, only in the dark lanes of his hatred. ‘Sir!’ He turned to the Riflemen. ‘Detail! Stand at ease!’
Sharpe looked at the Riflemen, his Riflemen, the men he had led from Corunna, and he saw the misery in their faces. They were being stripped of their pride along with their green jackets. Now they must take one more shock. He hated making speeches, he felt tongue-tied, inadequate. ‘I’ve just come from the Colonel’s tent and, well, I shall be leaving the Battalion. Today.’ He saw the expressions change into something approaching despair. ‘I wanted to be the one to tell you. Sergeant!’
Hakeswill, elated at the news, stepped forward, but saw that Sharpe was talking to Harper. Hakeswill stopped. He could sense a danger in the air, but he could not pin it down.
‘Sir?’ Harper’s voice was tense.
‘Pick up the green jackets. Bring them here.’ Sharpe was talking calmly, almost casually, the only man who seemed unaware of the tension.
‘Lieutenant, sir!’
Sharpe turned. ‘Sergeant Hakeswill?’
‘My orders are to take the jackets, sir.’
‘Where, Sergeant?’
Hakeswill cackled. ‘To the gunners, Lieutenant, sir. To be used as swabs.’
‘I’ll save you the trouble, Sergeant.’ Sharpe’s voice was almost friendly. He turned a
way and waited till Harper brought the jackets. ‘Put them there.’ He pointed at the ground next to him.
Harper bent down. He remembered Hakeswill’s crazy words, spoken into his shako, and Harper was sure what they meant, and now he tried to warn Sharpe. ‘He’s after Teresa, sir. He knows where she is.’ He muttered it, sure that Sharpe had heard the news, but the officer’s face stayed calm and relaxed. Harper wondered if he had spoken too softly. ‘Sir?’
‘I heard you, Sergeant, and thank you. Rejoin the rank.’ Sharpe still did not react, instead he smiled at the twelve men. ‘We’ve been together for seven years, some of us, and I don’t think this will be the finish of that.’ Hope flickered into their faces. ‘But if it is, then I want to thank you. You’re good soldiers, good Riflemen, the best.’ Now their faces showed some pleasure, but he did not look at them, nor at Hakeswill, but crossed to the arms chest and picked a rifle at random. He held it up. ‘I’m sorry you’re losing these. I make you one promise. You’ll get them back, as you’ll get back your jackets.’
They smiled openly, Hakeswill cackled and then saw Sharpe’s face. Sharpe was staring, in horror, at the lock of the rifle. He looked up at Hakeswill. ‘Sergeant?’
‘Lieutenant, sir?’
‘Whose rifle is this?’
‘Rifle, sir? Don’t know, sir.’ He twitched. He could feel a threat somewhere.
‘It’s loaded, Sergeant.’
‘Loaded, sir? Can’t be, sir.’
‘You checked?’
Hakeswill hesitated. His power was preserved through meticulous attention to military detail, but in his eagerness to strip off the green jackets, he had not inspected the rifles. His mind sorted through the problem and he smiled. ‘Not yet, Lieutenant, sir. But they’re not in the chest yet, sir, Lieutenant, are they? I’ll inspect them in a minute.’ He twitched furiously, the blue eyes blinking as he tried, vainly, to control his face.
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy Page 19