Sharpe's Enemy (25 page)

‘That’s them. Crawling all over that area.’ Frederickson shrugged. ‘Nothing I can do it about it, sir. No patrol of mine can outrun those bastards.’

‘Send two men out tonight.’

‘Yes, sir. I hear we’re invited to dinner.’

Sharpe grinned. ‘You’re too ill to go. I’ll make your excuses for you.’ He talked for ten minutes, feeling the bitter cold seep back as the sun sank, and then he turned to go. He paused on the top step of the turret. ‘You don’t mind missing dinner?’

‘You’ll make it up to me.’ Frederickson sounded happy, the more Sharpe had talked the more imminent a fight seemed for the morrow, and tonight, while Sharpe dined, Frederickson had preparations to make, surprises to prepare.

Farthingdale had approved of all Sharpe’s efforts to prepare a defence of the Gateway of God, but his motive, Sharpe knew, was not because he feared an attack. Sir Augustus had sententiously quoted from his own book. ‘Busy troops, Sharpe, are troops not liable to make mischief.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Now, riding back to the Castle, Sharpe wondered if again he was letting his imagination run wild. He was convinced that tomorrow he might have to fight, yet there were no real reasons for thinking that. The French had reason to be in the valley, just as the British did, and within minutes the job both sides had come to do would be finished and there would seem no reason why either side should stay in the Gateway of God. Except. Except instinct. Farthingdale had mocked that instinct, accusing Sharpe of wanting a fight, and refusing to allow a Fusilier Lieutenant to be sent with a message across the border. ‘Making an alarm over a handful of cavalry and a small battalion! Don’t be ridiculous, Sharpe!’ Farthingdale had withdrawn to his rooms, the same ones that Pot-au-Feu had inhabited, and Sharpe had seen Josefina appear on a balcony that some late owner of the Castle had built high on the keep and facing west. The room and balcony would have a magnificent view.

Back in the Castle yard Sharpe relinquished the horse and asked a Rifleman to fetch him hot water. He stripped off his uniform jacket, peeled the overalls to his waist, then pulled off the dirty shirt. Daniel Hagman gave Sharpe a toothless smile and picked up the jacket. ‘Want me to brush it, sir?’

‘I’ll do it, Dan.’

‘God help us, but you’re a bloody awful Major, sir.’ Hagman was the oldest man in Sharpe’s Company, nearing fifty, and his age and loyalty gave him a freedom with Sharpe. ‘You have to learn to have things done for you, sir, like the nobs.’ Hagman began scraping at a bloodstain. ‘You’re eating with the quality, sir, and you can’t go looking like a tinker.’

Sharpe laughed. He took his razor from the pocket in his overalls, unfolded it, and looked with displeasure at its thin blade. He must get a new one. He stropped it half-heartedly on his boot, splashed water on his face, then, not bothering to find any soap, began shaving. ‘You still got my rifle, Dan?’

‘I have, sir. Do you want it?’

‘Not if I’m eating with the quality.’

‘You’ll probably get a knife and fork, sir.’

‘Probably, Dan.’

‘Squire used to eat with a fork.’ Hagman was from Cheshire, only in the army because he had finally lost his lifelong battle with the Squire’s gamekeepers. He spat on Sharpe’s jacket and rubbed vigorously. ‘Can’t see the call for a fork, sir, I can’t. Not after the good Lord gave us fingers.’

The Fusiliers lit a fire in the courtyard, the flame catching on straw fetched from the stable, the sudden flames accentuating the dusk. Sharpe wiped his face on his shirt, pulled it back on, and slowly did up the straps of his captured French overalls. Hagman beat the jacket on the ground to rid it of the last scraps of dust and held it out. ‘Smart as a whip, sir.’

‘That’ll be the day, Dan.’ Belt, crossbelt, ammunition pouch, sash, and sword completed Major Sharpe. He bashed out a dent in his shako as Hagman nodded towards the keep. ‘Here comes his Lordship, sir. Had us running up and down the bleeding stairs all afternoon with timber for his bleeding fire, food for his lady. She the lady you knew at Talavera, sir?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Does he know he’s not the first one to fire that musket?’

Sharpe smiled. ‘No.’

‘What you don’t know, don’t fret you.’ Hagman hurried away as Sir Augustus headed for Sharpe.

‘Sharpe!’ That indignantly voiced syllable was becoming the bane of Sharpe’s life.

‘Sir?’

‘I expect our party to be ready to leave in one hour. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Her Ladyship is accompanying me. Will you tell all officers that I expect them to remain sober and dignified. There are appearances to be kept up.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe suspected the admonition was aimed at him. Farthingdale did not believe Sharpe to be a gentleman, and therefore that he was prone to drunkenness.

‘Sir!’A shout from the gateway.

‘What is it?’ Farthingdale frowned at the interruption.

‘French officer coming, sir. With a detail.’

‘How many?’ Sharpe asked.

‘Dozen, sir.’

Sharpe would not have let them in, would have gone out of the gate so that the French would not have a chance to gauge the paltry defences of the Castle, but Farthingdale shouted at the sentries to let the Frenchmen pass. Sharpe glanced at the stable and waved the Rocket Troop out of sight. It was possible, he conceded, that Dubreton already knew of their existence. The soldiers of both sides had mixed freely, talked openly, and Sharpe’s only hope of keeping the rockets a surprise lay in the incredulity of the ordinary enemy soldier and the difficulties of translation.

The hooves of the French horses sparked on the cobbles of the archway, echoed loud from ancient stone, and then Dubreton led them into the courtyard. The sun was scarlet and glorious, low in the Christmas sky, its light lustrous on the flank of the Frenchman’s horse. He smiled at Sharpe. ‘I owe you a favour, Major Sharpe.’ His horse stopped, edged away from the sudden crackle of wood on the fire. Dubreton soothed it. ‘I have come to repay my debt in part, a very small part, but I hope it pleases you.’

He turned and beckoned to the Dragoons behind him who split apart, revealing Sergeant Bigeard uncomfortable and vast on horseback. Sharpe smiled. Bigeard’s right hand was twisted in dirty grey hair, the hair of Obadiah Hakeswill.

Sharpe smiled at the Frenchman. ‘I thank you, sir.’

Obadiah Hakeswill, captured and helpless, still dressed in the borrowed finery of a British infantry Colonel. Sergeant Bigeard nodded a greeting at Sharpe, released his grip of Hakeswill’s hair and booted him forward.

There was joy in this moment, such joy, the joy of nineteen years hatred come to this place, this hour, this helplessness of a man who had spent his life tormenting the weak and working evil. Obadiah Hakeswill, a prisoner, the yellow face twitching on its elongated neck, the bright blue eyes still darting about the courtyard as if hoping for some escape. Sharpe walked slowly forward, and still the eyes looked for a way out of this place, but then the eyes snapped to Sharpe because there was the sound of a sword scraping from a scabbard.

Sharpe smiled. ‘Private Hakeswill. You lost your Sergeantcy, did you know?’ The head twitched, the eyes blinked, and Sharpe waited till Hakeswill was still. ‘Shun!’

Automatically, a lifetime of soldiering behind him, Hakeswill slammed upright, hands at his side, and at the same instant, catching the fire of the sinking sun, the long sword went to his throat. The blade was held at Sharpe’s full arm’s length, its tip barely quivering at Hakeswill’s adam’s apple. Silence.

Men in the courtyard sensed the anger from the two men. Fusiliers and Riflemen stopped, turned, and watched the sword.

Only Farthingdale moved. He stepped forward, his eyes horribly caught by the level, unmoving sword, and he feared the sudden rush of bright blood in the sunset. ‘What are you doing, Sharpe?’

Sharpe spoke softly, each word clear and slow. ‘I was thinking of skinning the bastard alive, sir.’ His eyes stayed on Hakeswill.

Farthingdale looked at Sharpe and the setting sun lit the left side of the scarred face, a face implacable and frightening, and Farthingdale felt the fear. He feared cold-blooded death, and he feared that one word from him might provoke it. His protest, when it came, sounded feeble even to his own ears. ‘The man must be tried, Sharpe, by a Court-Martial. You can’t kill him!’

Sharpe smiled, still looking at Hakeswill. ‘I said I’d skin him alive, not dead. Do you hear that, Obadiah? I can’t kill you.’ He suddenly raised his voice. ‘This is the man who can’t be killed! You’ve all heard of him, well here he is! Obadiah Hakeswill. And soon you’ll see a miracle. You’ll see him dead! But not here, not now! In front of a firing squad.’

The great blade stayed where it was. The French Dragoons, who had spent too many aching hours strengthening their sword arms by doing just what Sharpe was doing, appreciated the strength of a man who could hold a heavy cavalry sword at full stretch for so long, and keep it so still.

Hakeswill coughed. He sensed death‘retreating from him and he looked at Farthingdale. ’Permission to speak, sir?‘ Farthingdale nodded and Hakeswill screwed his face into a smile. The red light of sun and fire was reflected onto his yellow skin by the sword. ’Welcome a Court-Martial, sir, welcome it. You gentlemen are fair, sir, I know that, sir.‘ He was at his most obsequious.

Farthingdale was at his most patronizing. Here, at last, was a soldier who understood how to address his superiors. ‘You shall have a fair trial, I promise you that.’

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.’ Hakeswill would have knuckled his forehead except that the sword still terrified him.

‘Mr Sharpe! Put him with the other prisoners!’ Farthingdale felt he had defused the situation, was in command again.

‘I will, sir, I will.’ Sharpe still looked at Hakeswill, his eyes had not moved since the sword was drawn. ‘What uniform is that, Private?’

‘Uniform, sir?’ Hakeswill pretended that he had never noticed the rank of his uniform. ‘Oh this, sir! I found it, sir, found it.’

‘You’re a Colonel, are you?’

‘No, sir. Course not, sir.’ Hakeswill looked at Sir Augustus and gave him the full benefit of his rotting grin. ‘I was forced to wear it, sir, forced! After they forced me to join them, sir!’

‘You’re a bleeding disgrace to that uniform, aren’t you?’

The blue eyes came back to Sharpe. ‘Yes, sir, ifyou say so, sir.’

‘I do, Obadiah, I do.’ Sharpe smiled again. ‘Take it off.’

Dubreton smiled and tossed a translation over his shoulder. Bigeard and the Dragoons grinned, settled forward on the pommels of their saddles.

‘Sir?’ Hakeswill appealed to Farthingdale, but the sword tip was pressed against his throat.

‘Strip, you bastard!’

‘Sharpe!’ That damned syllable.

‘Strip! You poxed bastard! Strip!’

The sword blade flickered, left and right, starting blood from the skin over Hakeswill’s adam’s apple, and the gross, lumpen man tore at the red officer’s sash, pulled at his belts, at the empty scabbard, and then scrambled out of the red jacket and dropped it on the cobbles.

‘Now trousers and boots, Private.’

Farthingdale protested. ‘Sharpe! Lady Farthingdale is watching! I insist this stops!’

Hakeswill’s eyes looked towards the balcony and Sharpe knew that by standing at the very end of the platform Josefina could see into the courtyard. Sharpe kept the sword steady. ‘If Lady Farthingdale doesn’t like the view, sir, I suggest she goes inside. In the meantime, sir, this man has disgraced his uniform, his country, and his Regiment. For the moment I can only take one of those things away from him. Strip!’

Hakeswill sat, pulled off the boots, then stood to remove the white trousers. He shivered slightly, dressed only in the long white shirt that was buttoned from neck to knees. The sun had dipped beneath the western ramparts.

‘I said strip.’

‘Sharpe!’

Sharpe hated this yellow-skinned, lank-haired, twitching man who had tried to kill his daughter, to rape his wife, this man who had once flogged Sharpe so that the ribs showed through the torn flesh, this man who had murdered Robert Knowles. Sharpe wanted to kill him here and now, in this courtyard with this blade, but he had long ago sworn that justice would be seen to kill the man who could not be killed. A firing party would do that thing, and then Sharpe could write the letter he had long wanted to write to Knowles’ parents and tell them their son’s murderer had met his end.

Hakeswill looked up at Josefina, back to Sharpe, then stepped back two paces as if he could escape the sword. Bigeard lashed out with his foot, throwing him forward, and Hakeswill looked at Sir Augustus. ‘Sir?’

The sword arm moved at last. Up, down, across, and the shirt was torn, blood seeping from the shallow cuts. ‘Strip!’

The hands tore at the shirt, ripping it, bursting buttons free, and Hakeswill stood there, the tatters of pride at his feet, and on his face a hatred that was strong as life itself.

Sharpe hooked the shirt towards him, wiped the tip of the blade, then rammed it into the scabbard. He stepped back. ‘Lieutenant Price!’

‘Sir?’

‘Four men to put Private Hakeswill into the dungeon! I want him tied up there!’

‘Yes, sir!’

The courtyard seemed to relax. Only Hakeswill, misshapen and naked, was tense with anger and hate. Riflemen pulled him away, the same Riflemen he had stripped of their greenjackets before the assault on Badajoz.

Dubreton gathered his reins. ‘I think, perhaps, you should have killed him.’

‘Perhaps, sir.’

Dubreton smiled. ‘On the other hand we have not killed Pot-au-Feu. He’s hard at work preparing your dinner.’

‘I look forward to it, sir.’

‘You should! You should! French cooks, Major Sharpe, have secrets. You, I’m sure, have none.’ He glanced at the stables, smiled, then raised a hand to Sir Augustus before turning his horse.
‘Au revoir!’