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, 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
