Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy

by Bernard Cornwell

  On the left of the courtyard there was just the one door beneath a window dark with stained glass. It was a large door, ornate with decoration, larger than the door on the western side which Sharpe had tried, pushed, and found firmly barred from the far side. He tried the lever handle of the decorated door and it moved. Harper shook his head, gestured at the seven-barrelled gun, and took Sharpe’s place. He looked questioningly at his officer.

  Sharpe nodded.

  Harper shouted as he jumped through the door, a fearful screaming challenge designed to terrify anyone within the building, and he threw himself to one side, crouched, and swept the seven-barrelled gun around the gloom. His voice died away. He was in the chapel and it was empty. ‘Sir?’

  Sharpe went inside. He could see little. The stoup that had held holy water was empty and dry, its bowl lined with dust and tiny fragments of stone. The light fell on the tiles of the chapel floor by the doorway and Sharpe could see an untidy brown stain that flaked at the edges of the tiles. Blood.

  ‘Look, sir.’

  Harper was standing at a great iron grille that made the area they were standing in into a kind of ante-chamber to the chapel proper. There was a door pierced in the grille, but the door was padlocked shut. Harper fingered the lock. ‘New, sir.’

  Sharpe craned his head back. The grille went to the ceiling where gold paint shone dully on the beams. ‘Why’s it here?’

  ‘To stop outsiders getting into the chapel, sir. This is as far as anyone could go. Only the nuns were allowed in there, sir. When it was a convent, that is.’

  Sharpe pressed his face against the cold bars. The chapel ran left and right, altar to the left, and as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw that the chapel had been defaced. Blood was splashed on the painted walls, statues had been torn from their niches, the light of the Eternal Presence ripped from its hanging chains. It seemed a pointless kind of destruction, but then Pot-au-Feu’s band was desperate, men who had run and had nowhere else to flee to, and such men would wreak their vengeance on anything that was beautiful, valued, and good. Sharpe wondered if Lady Farthingdale was even alive.

  Horses’ hooves came faintly from outside the Convent. The two Riflemen froze, listened.

  The hooves were coming closer. Sharpe could hear voices. ‘This way!’

  They moved quickly, quietly, out into the cloister. The hooves were closer. Sharpe pointed across the courtyard and Harper, astonishingly silent for a huge man, disappeared into the dark shadow beneath the arches. Sharpe stepped backwards, into the chapel, and pulled the door close so that he and his rifle looked through a slit onto the entrance tunnel.

  Silence in the courtyard. Not even a wind to stir the dead leaves of the hornbeam on the green and yellow tiles. The hooves stopped outside, the creak of a saddle as a man dismounted, the crunch of boots on the roadway, and then silence.

  Two sparrows flew down into the raised pool and pecked among the dead weeds.

  Sharpe moved slightly to his right, searching for Harper, but the Irishman was invisible in the shadows. Sharpe crouched so that his shape, if seen through the crack, would be confusing to whoever came out of the dark tunnel.

  The gate creaked. Silence again. The sparrows flew upwards, their wings loud in the cloister, and then Sharpe almost jumped in alarm because the silence was shattered by a bellowed shout, a challenge, and a man leaped into the cloister, moving fast, his musket jerking round to cover the dark shadows where assailants might wait, and then the man crouched at the foot of a pillar by the entrance and called softly behind him.

  He was a huge man, as big as Harper, and he was dressed in French blue with a single gold ring on his sleeve. The uniform of a French Sergeant. He called again.

  A second man appeared, as wary as the first, and this man dragged saddlebags behind him. He was in the uniform of a French officer, a senior officer, his red-collared blue jacket bright with gold insignia. Was this Pot-au-Feu? He carried a cavalry carbine, despite his infantry uniform, and at his side, slung on silver chains, was a cavalry sabre.

  The two Frenchmen stared round the cloister. Nothing moved, nobody.

  ‘Allons.’ The Sergeant took the saddlebag and froze, pointing. He had seen Harper’s bag beside the pool.

  ‘Stop!’ Sharpe yelled, kicking the door open with his right foot as he stood up. ‘Stop!’ the rifle pointed at them. They turned.

  ‘Don’t move!’ He could see their eyes judging the distance of the rifle shot fired from the hip. ‘Sergeant!’

  Harper appeared to their flank, a vast man moving like a cat, grinning, the huge gun gaping its bunched barrels at them.

  ‘Keep them there, Sergeant.’

  ‘Sir!’

  Sharpe moved past them, skirting them, and went into the tunnel. Five horses were tied outside the convent beside the three he and Harper had brought and, having noticed them, he pushed the Convent door shut, then went back to look at the two prisoners. The Sergeant was huge, built like an oak tree, with a tanned skin behind his vast black moustache. He stared hatred at Sharpe. His hands looked large enough to strangle an ox.

  The man in officer’s uniform had a thin face, sharp eyed and sharp featured, with intelligent eyes. He looked at Sharpe with disdain and condescension.

  Sharpe kept the rifle pointing between them. ‘Take their guns, Sergeant.’

  Harper came behind them, plucked the carbine from the officer then pulled the musket from the Sergeant. Sharpe sensed the massive resistance of the huge Sergeant, twitched his rifle towards the brute of a man, and the Sergeant reluctantly let the musket go. Sharpe looked back to the officer. ‘Who are you?’

  The reply was in good English. ‘My name is not for deserters.’

  Sharpe said nothing. Five horses, but just two riders. Saddlebags just as he and Harper had carried. He stepped forward, his eyes on the officer, and kicked the saddlebags. Coins sounded inside. The French officer’s thin face sneered at him. ‘You will find it all there.’

  Sharpe stepped back three paces and lowered his rifle. He sensed Harper’s surprise. ‘My name is Major Richard Sharpe, 95th Regiment, an officer of his Britannic Majesty. Sergeant!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Put the gun down.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Do as I say.’

  The French officer watched the seven barrels sink down, then looked at Sharpe. ‘Your honour, M’sieu?‘

  ‘My honour.’

  The Frenchman’s heels clicked together. ‘I am Chef du Battalion Dubreton, Michel Dubreton. I have the honour to command a Battalion of the Emperor’s 54th of the Line.’

  Chef du Battalion, two heavy gold epaulettes, a full Colonel no less. Sharpe saluted and it felt strange. ‘My apologies, sir.’

  ‘Not at all. You were rather impressive.’ Dubreton smiled at Harper. ‘Not to mention your Sergeant.’

  ‘Sergeant Harper.’

  Harper nodded familiarly at the French officer. ‘Sir!’

  Dubreton smiled. ‘I think mine’s taller.’ He looked from his own Sergeant to Harper and shrugged. ‘Maybe not. You will find his name appropriate. Sergeant Bigeard.’

  Bigeard, reassured by his officer’s tone of voice, stiffened to attention and nodded fiercely at Sharpe. The Rifleman gestured to Harper. ‘Their guns, Sergeant.’

  ‘Thank you, Major.’ Dubreton smiled courteously. ‘I assume that gesture means we are enjoying a truce, yes?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘How wise.’ Dubreton slung the carbine on his shoulder. He might be a Colonel, but he looked as if he could use the weapon with skill and familiarity. He looked at Harper. ‘Do you speak French, Sergeant?’

  ‘Me, sir? No, sir. Gaelic, English and Spanish, sir.’ Harper seemed to find nothing odd in meeting two enemy in the Convent.

  ‘Good! Bigeard speaks some Spanish. Can I suggest the two of you stand guard while we talk?’

  ‘Sir!’ Harper seemed to find nothing odd in taking orders from the enemy.

 
; The French Colonel turned his charm onto Sharpe. ‘Major?’ He gestured towards the centre of the cloister, bent down and dragged his saddlebags until they rested beside the one Sharpe had brought. Dubreton nodded at it. ‘Yours?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Gold?’

  ‘Five hundred guineas.’

  Dubreton raised his eyebrows. ‘I presume you have hostages here, yes?’

  ‘Just one, sir.’

  ‘An expensive one. We have three.’ His eyes were looking at the roofline, searching down into the shadows, while his hands brought out a ragged cheroot that he lit from his tinder box. It took a few seconds for the charred linen to catch fire. He offered a cheroot to Sharpe. ‘Major?’

  ‘No thank you, sir.’

  ‘Three hostages. Including my wife.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘So’m I.’ The voice was mild, light even, but the face was hard as flint. ‘Deron will pay.’

  ‘Deron?’

  ‘Sergeant Deron, who now styles himself Marshal Pot-au-Feu. He was a cook, Major, and rather a good one. He’s quite untrustworthy.’ The eyes came down from the roofline to look at Sharpe. ‘Do you expect him to keep his word?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Nor I, but it seemed worth the risk.’

  Neither spoke for a moment. There was still silence beyond the Convent, and silence within the walls. Sharpe pulled the watch out of his pocket. Twenty-five minutes to twelve. ‘Were you ordered here at a specific time, sir?’

  ‘Indeed, Major.’ Dubreton blew a stream of smoke into the air. ‘Twenty-five minutes past eleven.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps our Sergeant Deron has a sense of humour. I suspect he thought we might fight each other. We very nearly did.’

  Harper and Bigeard, either side of the cloister, watched the roofs and doors. They made a frightening pair and encouraged Sharpe to believe that they all might leave alive. Two such men as the Sergeants would take a deal of killing. He looked again at the French Colonel. ‘Can I ask how your wife was captured, sir?’

  ‘Ambushed, Major, in a convoy going from Leon to Salamanca. They stopped it by using French uniforms, no one suspected anything, and the bastards went off with a month’s supplies. And three officers’ wives who were coming to join us for Christmas.’ He walked over to the door in the western wall that Sharpe had already tried to open, tugged at it, then came back to Sharpe. He smiled. ‘Would you be Sharpe of Talavera? Of Badajoz?’

  ‘Probably, sir.’

  Dubreton looked at the Rifle, at the huge Cavalry sword that Sharpe chose to carry high in its slings, and then at the scarred face. ‘I think I could do the Empire a great service by killing you, Major Sharpe.’ He said the words without offence.

  ‘I’m sure I could do Britain an equal service by killing you, sir.’

  Dubreton laughed. ‘Yes, you could.’ He laughed again, pleased at his immodesty, but despite the laughter he was still tense, still watchful, the eyes rarely leaving the doors and roof.

  ‘Sir!’ Harper growled from behind them, pointing his gun at the chapel door. Bigeard had swung round to face it. There was a small noise from inside, a grating noise, and Dubreton threw his cheroot away. ‘Sergeant! To our right!’

  Harper moved fast as Dubreton waved Bigeard to stand behind the officers and to their left. The Colonel looked at Sharpe. ‘You were in there. What’s there?’

  ‘A chapel. There’s a bloody great grille behind the door. I think it’s being unlocked.’

  The chapel doors were pulled open and facing them, curtseying, were two girls. They giggled, turned, and fetched a table from behind them which they carried out the door, beneath the cloister, and placed in the sunlight. One looked at Bigeard, then at Harper, and made a face of mock surprise at their height. They giggled again.

  A third girl appeared with a chair which she placed beside the table. She too curtseyed towards the officers then blew them a kiss.

  Dubreton sighed. ‘I fear we must endure whatever they have planned for us.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Boots clattered in the chapel and soldiers filed out, left and right, into the cloisters. They wore uniforms of Britain, France, Portugal and Spain, and their muskets were tipped with bayonets. Their faces were mocking as they filed to line three of the four walls. Only the wall behind Dubreton and Sharpe was unguarded. The three girls stood by the table. They wore low cut blouses, very low, and Sharpe guessed they must be cold.

  ‘Mes amis! Mes amis!’ The voice boomed from within the chapel. It was a deep voice, gravelly, a great bass voice. ‘Mes amis!’

  A ludicrous figure came out of the shadow, through the cloister’s arch, to stand by the table. He was short and immensely fat. He spread his arms, smiled. ‘Mes amis!’

  His legs were cased in tall .black leather boots, cut away behind the knees, and then in white breeches that were dangerously tight about his huge fat thighs. His belly wobbled as he laughed silently, ripples of fat running up his body beneath the flowered waistcoat he wore beneath a blue uniform jacket that was lavishly adorned with gold leaves and looping strands. The jacket could not button over his immense front, instead it was held in place by a golden waist sash, while a red sash was draped across his right shoulder. At his neck, below the multitude of chins, an enamelled gold cross hung. The tassels of his gold epaulettes rested on his fat arms.

  Sergeant Deron, now calling himself Marshal Pot-au-Feu, took off his hat, wondrously plumed in white, and revealed a face that was almost cherubic. An aging cherub with a halo of white curls, a face that beamed with goodwill and delight. ‘Mes amis!’ He looked at Sharpe. ‘Parlez-vous Francais?’

  ‘No.’

  He wagged a finger at Sharpe. ‘You should learn the French. A beautiful language! Eh, Colonel?’ He smiled at Dubreton who said nothing. Pot-au-Feu shrugged, laughed, and looked again to Sharpe. ‘My English is very bad. You the Colonel meet, yes?’ He twisted his head as far as the rolls of fat on his neck would allow. ‘Mon Colonel! Mon brave! Ici!’

  ‘Coming, sir, coming! Coming! And here I am!’ The man with the yellow face, the toothless grin, the blue, child-like eyes, and the horrid ungovernable spasms, leaped grotesquely through the door. He was dressed in the uniform of a British Colonel, but the finery did nothing to hide the lumpen gross body or the brute strength that was in his arms and legs.

  The capering figure stopped, half crouching, and stared at Sharpe. The face twitched, the voice cackled, and then the mouth twisted into a smile. ‘Sharpy! Hello Sharpy!’ A string of spittle danced from his lips as the face jerked.

  Sharpe turned calmly towards Harper. ‘Don’t shoot, Sergeant.’

  ‘No, sir.’Harper’s voice was full of loathing. ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Sir! Sir! Sir!’ The yellow face laughed at them as the man who called himself Colonel straightened up. ‘No “sirs” here, no. No bloody airs and bloody graces here.’ The cackle again, obscene and piercing.

  Sharpe had half expected this, and he suspected that Harper had expected it too, yet neither had voiced the fear. Sharpe had hoped that this man was dead, yet this man boasted he could not be killed. Here, in the sunlight of the cloister, spittle dangling from his mouth, stood ex-Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill. Hakeswill.

  Chapter 5

  Obadiah Hakeswill, the Sergeant who had recruited Sharpe into the army, the man who had caused Sharpe to be flogged in a dusty Indian square. Hakeswill.

  The man who had Harper flogged earlier this same year, who had tried to rape Teresa, Sharpe’s wife, who had held a saw-backed bayonet at the throat of Sharpe’s baby daughter, Antonia. Obadiah Hakeswill.

  The head twitched on its long neck. The spittle dropped in a glittering cartwheel from his mouth. He hawked, spat, and shuffled sideways. This was the man who could not be killed.

  He had been hanged when he was twelve. It was a trumped-up charge of stealing sheep, trumped-up because the vicar whose daughter young Hakeswill had tried to molest did not want to drag his child’s
reputation in the mud. The magistrates had been happy to oblige.

  He was the youngest of all the prisoners being hanged that day. The executioner, wanting to please the massed spectators, had not given any of his victims a neck-breaking drop. He had suspended them slowly, letting them hang and throttle themselves to death, letting the crowd enjoy each choking sound, each futile kick, and the executioner had tantalized the crowd by offering to tug on the ankles and responding to their shouts of yes or no. No one cared about the small boy at the end of the gibbet. Hakeswill had hung, feigning death, cunning even as he slipped into nightmare-ridden darkness, and then, before the end, the heavens had opened.

  The street outside the gaol was hammered and sluiced by the cloudburst, lightning slammed and bent the weathercock on the high church steeple, and the wide market street cleared as men, women and children ran for shelter. No one cared as Hakeswill’s uncle cut the small body down. They thought the boy was dead, that the body was being sold to a doctor eager for a fresh corpse to explore, but the uncle took Obadiah into an alleyway, slapped him into consciousness, and told the child to go away, never to return. Hakeswill had obeyed.

  He had started twitching that day and the twitching had not stopped in thirty years. He had found the army, a refuge for men like himself, and in its ranks he had discovered a simple code for survival. To those who were superior, the officers, Hakeswill was the perfect soldier. He was punctilious in his duty, in his respect, and he was made into a Sergeant. No officer with Hakeswill as his Sergeant needed worry about discipline. Sergeant Hakeswill terrorized his Companies into obedience and the price of freedom from that tyranny was paid to the ugly Sergeant in money, liquor or women. It never ceased to amaze Hakeswill what a married woman would do to keep her soldier husband from a flogging. His life was dedicated to revenge upon a fate that had made him ugly, unloved, a creature loathed by its fellows, useful only to its superiors.