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.’
‘You checked?’
Hakeswill hesitated. His power was preserved through meticulous attention to military detail, but in his eagerness to strip off the green jackets, he had not inspected the rifles. His mind sorted through the problem and he smiled. ‘Not yet, Lieutenant, sir. But they’re not in the chest yet, sir, Lieutenant, are they? I’ll inspect them in a minute.’ He twitched furiously, the blue eyes blinking as he tried, vainly, to control his face.
Sharpe smiled, still courteous. ‘I’ll save you the trouble, Sergeant.’ He laid the first rifle down, carefully, and then picked up the others, one by one, and pointed each at Hakeswill’s vast belly. He cocked each flint, pulled each trigger, and Hakeswill’s face twitched each time. Sharpe’s eyes did not leave the Sergeant’s face, not even when he stooped to pick up another rifle, and he watched the spasm and saw the relief each time as the spark died in an empty pan. The Riflemen, humiliated by the Sergeant, grinned at the fear they saw in Hakeswill, but they were still nervous of him. He was the man who could not be killed and Sharpe knew that their nervousness had to be dispelled. He put the last rifle in the chest and, as carefully as he had put it down, picked up the first. Hakeswill stared as Sharpe pulled back the flint, past the half cock, back till the sear clicked into place. The Sergeant licked his lips, twitched, and flicked his eyes up to Sharpe’s face then back to the muzzle that was pointing at his belly.
Sharpe walked slowly towards Hakeswill. ‘You can’t be killed, is that right?’ Hakeswill nodded, tried to smile, but the huge muzzle was coming towards him. Sharpe walked slowly. ‘They tried to hang you, and you lived, is that right?’ Hakeswill nodded again, his mouth a
