'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 rictus. Sharpe was limping from the bullet wound in his thigh. 'Are you going to live for ever, Sergeant? One of the Riflemen sniggered and Hakeswill darted a look to see which one, but Sharpe jerked the barrel up and the movement brought the eyes back. 'Are you going to live for ever?
'Don't know, sir.
'Not 'Lieutenant, sir'? Lost your tongue, Hakeswill?
'No, sir.
Sharpe smiled. He was very close to the Sergeant and the rifle was pointed up beneath Hakeswill's chin. 'I think you're going to die, Sergeant. Shall I tell you why?
The blue, child-like eyes flicked left and right as if searching for help. Hakeswill expected to be attacked by night, in the shadows, but never in bright daylight among hundreds of potential witnesses. Yet no one was taking any notice! The rifle jerked, touching his sweated skin. 'Sir!
'Look at me, Sergeant. I'm telling you a secret.
Hakeswill looked at Sharpe, their eyes level. 'Sir?
The Riflemen watched and Sharpe spoke clearly for them. 'I think, Sergeant, that no one can kill you. Except. He spoke slowly, as if to a child. 'Except, Sergeant, someone whom you had tried to kill, and whom you failed to kill. The fear was obvious on the sweating face, the yellow paling. 'Can you think of anyone like that, Sergeant?
The face twitched, shook, and the rifle jerked up again into the chin. 'No, sir!
'Good! The stubby foresight of the Baker was cold on Hakeswill's skin. Sharpe dropped his voice so that only the Sergeant could hear him. 'You're a dead man, Obadiah. The magic's gone. He suddenly shouted. 'Bang!
Hakeswill leaped back, startled, let out a pathetic yelp like a whipped child, and stumbled on to the grass. Sharpe laughed at him, pointed the gun and pulled the trigger on to an empty, unloaded pan. Hakeswill sprawled on the grass, his face murderous, but Sharpe turned away from him to his grinning Riflemen. 'Shun!
They snapped to attention. Sharpe spoke to them again, but this time his voice was crisp. 'Remember, I've made you a promise. You'll get your rifles back, your jackets back, and you'll get me back! He did not know how he could do it, but he would. He turned back to the Sergeant and pointed at the seven-barreled gun on Hakeswill's shoulder. 'Give me that!
Hakeswill handed it over meekly, with its ammunition pouch, and Sharpe slung the gun on his own shoulder next to his rifle. He looked down at the Sergeant. 'I'm coming back, Sergeant. Remember that. He scooped the jackets into an awkward bundle, put them under his arm, and limped away. He knew that Hakeswill would exact a revenge on the Riflemen, but he knew, too, that the Sergeant had been humiliated, shown to be vulnerable, and the Company, Sharpe's Company, needed to know that much.
It was a small victory, a petty victory even, but it was a start on the long fight back, a fight that he knew must end in the breach at Badajoz.
PART FOUR
Saturday, April 4th to Monday, April 6th 1812
CHAPTER 21
News came that the French, at last, were moving; not against Wellington at Badajoz, but towards the new Spanish garrison in Ciudad Rodrigo. The reports came from the Partisans and from the dispatches they had captured, some still stained with the blood of enemy messengers, and told of disagreements among the French Generals, of delays in gathering their troops, and their difficulties in replacing the French siege artillery, all of which had been captured inside the northern fortress. The news spurred Wellington into greater speed; he wanted the siege of Badajoz done, and he could not be persuaded that the French chances of retaking Ciudad Rodrigo were remote. He did not trust the Spaniards in the town and wanted to march the army north to bolster his allies' resolve. Speed! Speed! Speed! For the six days after Easter he pounded the message at his Generals and staff officers. Give me Badajoz! For the six days the new batteries built in the ruins of the Picurina Fort had fired incessantly at the breaches, at first with small effect until, almost unexpectedly, the loosened stone had cascaded into the ditch and was followed by a dust-spewing avalanche of rubble from the wall's core. The sweating, powder-stained gun crews had cheered, while the infantry, guarding the batteries against another French sortie, stared at the incipient breaches and wondered what welcome the French were preparing for the assault.
By night the French tried to repair the damage. The Picurina guns sprayed the two breaches with grapeshot, but still, each morning, the broken edges of the stonework had been padded with thick bales of wool
