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

‘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!’

Which was Rymer. Sharpe’s anger subsided. He was being punished not for his own failure, but for Rymer’s and all three men knew it. He forced a rueful smile. ‘Yes, sir.’

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 TWENTY

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 away 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.’