her, and she kicked at it as she scrambled, fast as a hare, under the belly of her horse.
‘Whore!’ He reached for her under the horse, but the bitch had his bayonet and stabbed at him, so he was forced back, and then she swore at him in fast, fluent English, and he wiped blood from his face and spat at her.
She laughed, crouching beyond the horse, and she levelled the blade at him. ‘Come and get it, Obadiah.’
He stood up and backed into the passageway between the stalls. He was still between her and the door, and there were more ways than one of skinning a cat. He felt his face. The wound was small enough, and his wrist was usable. He grinned at her. ‘I’ll have you, missy, then I’ll carve you into little pieces.’ He cackled, feeling his head twitch. ‘Bloody little Portuguese whore!’ She was still between the horse and the wooden partition and he went forward as she stood up, his bayonet still in her hand, and she was smiling.
He checked at the sight of the bayonet. She was holding it low, ready to rip it upwards, and there was no sign of trembling. He thought of rushing her, but the bitch looked as if she might do real damage, so he backed away, keeping himself between her and the door, and looked around for the pitchfork that had to be in a stable. He wanted this girl. She was beautiful, and he wanted her, and he would have her, and his face twitched, and the words hammered in his head. He would have her, have her, have her, and then he saw the pitchfork and went back fast, turned, and grabbed at it.
The girl was nearly on to him. She had guts, for a Portuguese bitch, and he twisted to one side to avoid the lunge of the bayonet. Damn her! She had passed him, was by the door, but instead of opening it she stopped, turned, and taunted him. She spoke to him in Spanish, a language of rich insult, and laughed at her own words.
Hakeswill assumed it was Portuguese, a language of which he was as ignorant as he was of Spanish, but one thing was sure. He was not being complimented. He put the pitchfork out ahead of him and stalked towards her. There was no way she could beat this attack and he grinned at her. ‘Make it easy for yourself, missy, drop the spike. Come on, drop it!’
Teresa wanted to kill him, not leave it to Sharpe, and she switched to English so she might provoke an angered, unthinking charge. She had to assemble the sentence carefully, make sure it was right in her head, and then she laughed at him. ‘Your mother was a sow, sold to a toad.’
He bellowed, the anger exploding like powder. ‘Mother!’ He ran at her, swinging the pitchfork, and she would have placed the bayonet with the precision of a Bishop pinning down a mortal sin if the door of the stable had not opened, the wood caught the pitchfork’s tines, and the ugly Sergeant was tipped off balance, fell and the bayonet stabbed into empty air.
Hakeswill spun as he fell, momentarily dazzled by the sun streaming through the doorway, and had an impression of a giant shadow. A boot caught him; he was kicked as he had never been kicked before, lifted off the ground, slammed 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.