He checked at the sight of the bayonet. She was holding it low, ready to rip it upwards, and there was no sign of trembling. He thought of rushing her, but the bitch looked as if she might do real damage, so he backed away, keeping himself between her and the door, and looked around for the pitchfork that had to be in a stable. He wanted this girl. She was beautiful, and he wanted her, and he would have her, and his face twitched, and the words hammered in his head. He would have her, have her, have her, and then he saw the pitchfork and went back fast, turned, and grabbed at it.
The girl was nearly on to him. She had guts, for a Portuguese bitch, and he twisted to one side to avoid the lunge of the bayonet. Damn her! She had passed him, was by the door, but instead of opening it she stopped, turned, and taunted him. She spoke to him in Spanish, a language of rich insult, and laughed at her own words.
Hakeswill assumed it was Portuguese, a language of which he was as ignorant as he was of Spanish, but one thing was sure. He was not being complimented. He put the pitchfork out ahead of him and stalked towards her. There was no way she could beat this attack and he grinned at her. ‘Make it easy for yourself, missy, drop the spike. Come on, drop it!’
Teresa wanted to kill him, not leave it to Sharpe, and she switched to English so she might provoke an angered, unthinking charge. She had to assemble the sentence carefully, make sure it was right in her head, and then she laughed at him. ‘Your mother was a sow, sold to a toad. ‘
He bellowed, the anger exploding like powder. ‘Mother!’ He ran at her, swinging the pitchfork, and she would have placed the bayonet with the precision of a Bishop pinning down a mortal sin if the door of the stable had not opened, the wood caught the pitchfork’s tines, and the ugly Sergeant was tipped off balance, fell and the bayonet stabbed into empty air.
Hakeswill spun as he fell, momentarily dazzled by the sun streaming through the doorway, and had an impression of a giant shadow. A boot caught him; he was kicked as he had never been kicked before, lifted off the ground, slammed backwards, but he kept hold of the pitchfork and snarled at his assailant. The bloody Irish Sergeant! He picked himself up and lunged at the Irishman, but Harper simply caught the pitchfork by its two tines and bent them outwards and apart. Hakeswill pushed forward, using all his strength, but Harper was rock solid and the fork did not move except for the metal which was bent straight as if it was made from wet willow wands.
‘What the hell’s happening?’ Sharpe stood in the doorway, holding it open.
Teresa smiled at him over the bayonet. ‘Sergeant Obadiah wanted to have me, then carve me in little pieces. ‘
Harper pulled the pitchfork away from Hakeswill and tossed it on the ground. ‘Permission to commit murder, sir?’
‘Denied. ‘ Sharpe came forward, letting the door swing shut. ‘Latch that door. ‘
Hakeswill watched as Harper looped the string over the peg. So this was Sharpe’s bloody woman? It looked like that, from the way she smiled at him, touched his arm, and Hakeswill knew he should have pushed the bayonet through the slut’s throat when he had a chance. God, but she was beautiful, and he felt the desire still there and he would have her, by God, he would have her! Then he looked at Sharpe’s face, tight with anger, and Hakeswill shrugged. So he was about to have the hell beaten out of him? He had been beaten before, and a beating meant no rape charges, and anyway the girl was the only witness and she was obviously unharmed. His face twitched violently, and he could not stop it, and then he remembered how the girl had angered him, made him rush his attack, and he decided that the same tactics would work on an angry Sharpe. ‘Whores for the officers, does she, Captain? How much? I can pay for her filth. ‘
Harper growled, Teresa started forward, but Sharpe checked them both. He looked only at Hakeswill, took two paces towards him, and it seemed as if he had not heard what the Sergeant had said. He cleared his throat, spoke mildly. ‘Sergeant Hakeswill. You and I, through no choice of mine, find ourselves in the same Company. Do you understand?’ Hakeswill nodded. So the jumped-up little bastard was going to do his officer act! Sharpe spoke calmly. ‘We have three rules in this Company, Sergeant, are you listening?’
‘Yes, sir!’ Hakeswill fancied the bitch. He would have her, too, when the time came.
‘Those rules are as follows, Sergeant. ‘ Sharpe spoke in sweet reasonableness, as a Captain to a valued noncommissioned officer, though whether he was a Captain or no, he still had no idea. ‘First, that you fight well, that you fight to win. I know you can do that, Sergeant, I’ve watched you. ‘
‘Yes, sir!’ Hakeswill barked the response.
‘Second, that no man gets drunk without my permission. ‘ Sharpe wondered if his permission would be worth a used musket ball in a few hours, but then let Rymer look after Lieutenant Price. ‘Understand?’
‘Yessir!’
‘Good. And third, Sergeant.’ Sharpe was now two paces from Hakeswill, ignoring the muttered Spanish threats from Teresa. ‘Third, Sergeant, that you steal nothing, except from the enemy, and except when you’re starving. Understand?’
‘Sir!’ Hakeswill was laughing inside. Sharpe had turned as soft as bloody butter!
‘I’m glad you understand, Sergeant. Shun!’
Hakeswill sprang to attention and Sharpe kicked him between the legs. Hakeswill snapped forward and the officer’s right hand cracked into his face, too high, but with enough force to send him staggering backwards.
‘Shun! I’ll tell you when to move, you bastard!’
Habit froze the Sergeant, as Sharpe had known it would. Hakeswill’s survival in the army depended on absolute obedience to orders. Beyond that, anything could be done, but to disobey orders was to risk losing his stripes, his privileges, and his position to torment others. Hakeswill was hurting badly, but he stood still. Perhaps, the Sergeant thought, Sharpe had not gone quite as soft as he thought, but no man had got the better of Obadiah Hakeswill and lived to boast of it. Sharpe faced him again. ‘I’m glad you understand, Sergeant, because that will make our life easier. Don’t you agree?’
‘Sir!’ It came out as a grunt of pain.
‘Good. What were you doing to my woman?’
‘Sir?’
‘You heard, Sergeant.’
‘Getting acquainted, sir.’
Sharpe hit him again, hard in the great belly, and again Hakeswill bent forward and again Sharpe brought up the heel of his hand into the face, this time on the Sergeant’s nose so that blood started from it. ‘Still!’
Hakeswill was shaking with anger, the years of discipline fighting the desire to hit back, but he stilled himself, stood to attention, and then the involuntary twitching spasm jerked his head and Sharpe bellowed again. ‘Still! I didn’t give you permission to move!’ Sharpe stepped closer, almost inviting Hakeswill to hit him. ‘What happens next, Hakeswill? I suppose the Company will begin to lose things. Spare boots, camp kettles, pipe clay, brushes, belts, and good Sergeant Hakeswill will be reporting the losses, am I right?’ Hakeswill did not move. ‘And then it will be sabotage on weapons. Threads stripped on the flint screws, missing tumblers, wet mud down barrels. I know your tricks. How many floggings do you want before they’re all paying you money? Three, four?’
There was silence in the stable. Outside there was the sound of dogs, yelping excitedly, but Sharpe ignored the sound. Teresa came forward. ‘Why don’t you kill him? Let me.’
‘I don’t know.’ Sharpe stared at the ravaged, malevolent face. ‘Because he says he can’t be killed, and when I kill him, I want it to be in public. I want his victims to know he died, that someone took revenge for them, and if we do it now it will have to be in secret. I don’t want that. I want a thousand eyes watching, and then I’ll kill him.’ He turned his back on the Sergeant, looked at Harper. ‘Open the door.’
Sharpe stood to one side, turned back to Hakeswill. ‘Get out, and keep going. Just leave here, Sergeant, and keep walking. Eleven more miles and you can put on a blue uniform. Do something for your country, H
akeswill, desert.’
The blue eyes looked at Sharpe. ‘Permission to go, sir!’ He was still hurting.
‘Go.’
Harper held the door ajar. He was disappointed. He wanted to crush Hakeswill, to obliterate him, and as the Sergeant marched past he spat at him. Hakeswill began to sing, very softly. ‘His father was an Irishman, his mother was a pig...’
Harper lashed out. Hakeswill blocked the blow and turned on the vast Irishman. They were of a size, but Hakeswill was still hurting. He kicked out, missed, and felt the blows crash on his forearms and head. God! But the Irishman was a strong brute!
‘Stop it!’ Sharpe bellowed.
They were too far gone. Harper hit and hit again, butted with his head, and then a hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him off. ‘ I said stop it!’
Hakeswill could see nothing after the butting. He swung a fist at a vaguely green uniform and Sharpe stepped back, brought up a leg, and pushed it into Hakeswill’s belly. The Sergeant fell backwards, out into the sunlight, splashing into a yellow puddle of horse urine. Sharpe looked at Harper. He was unhurt, but staring into the yard, over the fallen Hakeswill’s head, and the Irishman’s face was astonished, stunned.
Sharpe looked into the sunlight. The yard seemed full of dogs, foxhounds, some of whom, their tails busy in ecstasy, explored the fallen man in the beautiful-smelling puddle. In the centre of the dogs was a horse; a black horse, big and beautifully groomed, and on the horse’s back was a Lieutenant Colonel who wore, beneath his bicorne hat, an expression of savage distaste. The Lieutenant Colonel looked down on the Sergeant who was bleeding from wrist, nose, and cheek, and then the flinty eyes came back to Sharpe. The rider’s hands gripped a crop, his boots were exquisitely tasseled, while his face, above the crowned epaulette, was the kind of face Sharpe expected to see over the bench of a county court. It was a knowing face, lined with experience, and Sharpe guessed this man could set a plough blade as handily as he quelled a riot. ‘I assume you are Mr. Sharpe?’
‘Yes, sir. ‘
‘Report to me at half-past twelve, Sharpe.’ The eyes flicked round the group, from Sharpe to the Irish Sergeant, then to the girl with the bayonet. The Lieutenant Colonel’s crop flicked at the horse, it stepped obediently away and the dogs forsook Hakeswill and followed. The horseman had not introduced himself, nor had he needed to. Across a puddle of urine, in the middle of a brawl over a woman, Sharpe had just met his new Colonel.
Chapter 9
‘Soon, Richard?’
‘Soon. ‘
‘You know where to find me?’
He nodded. ‘In the house of Moreno, in a narrow street behind the Cathedral.’
She smiled, bent down to pat her horse’s neck. ‘And there are two orange trees in the court in front of the house. It’s easy to find.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘Of course.’ She glanced at the Portuguese sentries who held open the main gate. ‘I must go, Richard. Be happy.’
‘I will. And you. ‘ He found it difficult to smile, and the next words sounded awkward. ‘Give the baby my love.’
She smiled down at him. ‘I will. You’ll see her soon.’
‘I know.’ And then she was gone, her horse’s hooves echoing in the dark, curving tunnel of the gateway, and he watched as the Portuguese soldiers wound down the portcullis and slammed the inner gates. He was alone; no, not really alone, for Harper waited for him up the street, but he felt alone. At least he believed that Teresa would be safe. Merchants were still trading from Badajoz, their convoys still going north, east and south, and Teresa would circle the city, find such a convoy, and ride safely back to the house with the two orange trees. It was just eleven miles away, an easy walk, but he felt as if it were on the far side of the world.
Harper fell into step beside him, his face long. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
The Sergeant sighed. ‘I know you wanted to make a good impression on the Colonel. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault. I should have killed that bastard in the stable. ‘
Harper grinned. ‘Aye, you should. Do you want me to?’
‘No. He’s mine, and in public.’ They edged past ox carts loaded high with spades, gabions and great timber baulks that would become gun platforms. Elvas was filling with material for the siege; only the guns were missing, still being dragged on the roads from the River Tagus and bringing with them the promise of another breach, another Forlorn Hope.
‘Sir?’ Harper was embarrassed.
‘Yes?’
‘Is it true, sir?’
‘Is what true?’
The Irishman looked down on Sharpe from his huge height. ‘That you’re losing the Company? I hear there’s a new Captain, some youngster from the 51st?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The lads won’t like it, sir, nor will they.’
‘The lads will just have to bloody put up with it.’
‘God save Ireland.’ They climbed a few paces in silence, up towards the town’s centre. ‘So it is true?’
‘Probably.’
Harper shook his head, massively and slowly. ‘God save Ireland. I would never have believed it. Will you talk to the General?’
Sharpe shook his head. He had thought of it, but instantly dismissed the thought. He had once saved Wellington’s life, but the debt had long been repaid and the General had already promoted him Captain once. It was not Wellington’s fault that the gazette had been refused, if it had, or that a lawyer had sold a commission illegally. It happened all the time. ‘I can’t run to him every time there’s trouble.’ He shrugged. ‘Something’ll turn up, Patrick, it always does.’
Harper, unappeased, slammed a fist against a wall, startling a sleeping dog. ‘I don’t believe it! They can’t do it!’
‘They can.’
Then they’re fools.’ Harper thought for a second. ‘Would you be thinking of moving on?’
‘Where?’
‘Back to the Rifles?’
‘I don’t know. Nothing’s certain yet. Anyway, the Rifles have all the officers they need, and then more.’
‘So you have thought about it.’ Harper nodded to himself. ‘Would you promise me something?”
Sharpe smiled. ‘I know, and the answer’s yes.’
‘By God, I’ll not stay on here without you. I’ll go back to the Rifles with you. You need someone sensible near you.’
They parted at the officers’ house, just as the great cloud bank engulfed Elvas in shadow and a promise of rain. Sharpe paused in the archway. ‘I’ll see you at four.’
‘Aye, sir, I hope it’s you.’ There was to be a parade at four at which Colonel Windham would inspect his new battalion.
Sharpe nodded. ‘So do I. Make it a good turn-out.’
He did not know where Windham would be, so he paused in the hallway and saw the array of clean, new shakoes on the table. He could not face the big room, the Mess, the pitying glances of his fellow-officers and the inevitable confrontation with Rymer, so he stayed in the hall and stared at a huge, gloomy painting of a white-cassocked priest who was being burned at a stake. The soldiers who stoked the faggots were mean-faced, weaselly, and obviously intended to be the English, while the suffering priest had an ethereal look of forgiveness and martyrdom. Sharpe hoped the bastard had hurt.
‘Captain Sharpe?’ He turned. A small Major with a clipped moustache was looking at him from a doorway.
‘Sir?’
‘Collett. Major Collett. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sharpe. Heard of you, of course. This way.’
Sharpe was regretting his lack of charity to the long burned priest, wondering if the evil wish would bring him bad luck, so he looked up at the painting and winked at the man. ‘Sorry.’
‘What’s that, Sharpe?’
‘Nothing, sir, nothing.’ He followed Collett into the parlor of the house; a room hung with more gloomy, religious pictures and with vast, brown curtains t
hat seemed to enclose the room in premature night. Colonel Windham was at a low table, feeding scraps of meat to his dogs, and he did not look up as Collett led Sharpe into the room.
‘Sir! This is Sharpe, sir!’ Collett could have been Windham’s twin; the same bowed, horseman’s legs, the same leathery skin, and the same cropped grey hair, but, as the Colonel looked up, Sharpe saw shrewd lines on Windham’s face that were lacking on the Major. The Colonel nodded affably. ‘You like dogs, Sharpe?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Faithful beasts, Sharpe. Feed ‘em regular, kick ‘em often, and they’ll do anything for you. Just like soldiers, yes?’
‘Yes, sir. ‘ He was standing awkwardly, shako in hand, and Windham waved him towards a chair.
‘Brought the beasts with me. I hear there’s some decent sport to be had. Do you hunt, Sharpe?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Fine sport! Fine sport!’ He was holding a scrap of beef high, teasing a hound with it so that the dog jumped vainly, higher and higher, until Windham dropped the food and the dog snapped it in mid air, and took it, growling, beneath the table. ‘Shouldn’t spoil ‘em, of course. Bad for them. That’s Jessica, my wife. ‘ He was pointing to the table.
‘Your what, sir?’
‘Wife, Sharpe, wife. Wife’s called Jessica. Colonel’s Lady, and that sort of thing. Mrs. Windham.’ He offered the various categories of his wife in a rapid voice and Sharpe understood that he was not referring to the dog beneath the table, but to an oval portrait, about six inches high, that stood above the dog. The portrait was mounted in a superb filigree silver frame and it showed a woman with dark, severe hair, a receding chin, and an expression of terrifying disapproval. Sharpe had the distinct feeling that the chewing dog would be a better companion, but the Colonel’s face softened as he looked at the painting. ‘A good woman, Sharpe, a good woman. A force for the good in society.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe was beginning to feel slightly confused. He had come to the meeting expecting to be told about the Company, about Rymer, even to be reprimanded for the fracas at the stable yard, but, instead, the new Colonel of the Battalion was extolling the virtues of a good wife.
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