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

‘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, pipeclay, 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, Hakeswill, 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 tasselled, 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 TEN

‘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.’