Sharpe's Enemy

'Sir! Harper seemed to find nothing odd in taking orders from the enemy.

The French Colonel turned his charm onto Sharpe. 'Major? He gestured towards the centre of the cloister, bent down and dragged his saddlebags until they rested beside the one Sharpe had brought. Dubreton nodded at it. 'Yours?’

’Yes, sir.’

’Gold?’

’Five hundred guineas.

Dubreton raised his eyebrows. 'I presume you have hostages here, yes?

'Just one, sir.

'An expensive one. We have three. His eyes were looking at the roofline, searching down into the shadows, while his hands brought out a ragged cheroot that he lit from his tinder box. It took a few seconds for the charred linen to catch fire. He offered a cheroot to Sharpe. 'Major?

'No thank you, sir.

'Three hostages. Including my wife.

'I'm sorry, sir.

'So'm I. The voice was mild, light even, but the face was hard as flint. 'Deron will pay.

'Deron?

'Sergeant Deron, who now styles himself Marshal Pot-au-Feu. He was a cook, Major, and rather a good one. He's quite untrustworthy. The eyes came down from the roofline to look at Sharpe. 'Do you expect him to keep his word?

'No, sir.

'Nor I, but it seemed worth the risk.

Neither spoke for a moment. There was still silence beyond the Convent, and silence within the walls. Sharpe pulled the watch out of his pocket. Twenty-five minutes to twelve. 'Were you ordered here at a specific time, sir?

'Indeed, Major. Dubreton blew a stream of smoke into the air. 'Twenty-five minutes past eleven. He smiled. 'Perhaps our Sergeant Deron has a sense of humour. I suspect he thought we might fight each other. We very nearly did.

Harper and Bigeard, either sicle of the cloister, watched the roofs and doors. They made a frightening pair and encouraged Sharpe to believe that they all might leave alive. Two such men as the Sergeants would take a deal of killing. He looked again at the French Colonel. 'Can I ask how your wife was captured, sir?

'Ambushed, Major, in a convoy going from Leon to Salamanca. They stopped it by using French uniforms, no one suspected anything, and the bastards went off with a month's supplies. And three officers' wives who were coming to join us for Christmas. He walked over to the door in the western wall that Sharpe had already tried to open, tugged at it, then came back to Sharpe. He smiled. 'Would you be Sharpe of Talavera? Of Badajoz?

'Probably, sir.

Dubreton looked at the Rifle, at the huge Cavalry sword that Sharpe chose to carry high in its slings, and then at the scarred face. 'I think I could do the Empire a great service by killing you, Major Sharpe. He said the words without offence.

'I'm sure I could do Britain an equal service by killing you, sir.

Dubreton laughed. 'Yes, you could. He laughed again, pleased at his immodesty, but despite the laughter he was still tense, still watchful, the eyes rarely leaving the doors and roof.

'Sir! Harper growled from behind them, pointing his gun at the chapel door. Bigeard had swung round to face it. There was a small noise from inside, a grating noise, and Dubreton threw his cheroot away. 'Sergeant! To our right!

Harper moved fast as Dubreton waved Bigeard to stand behind the officers and to their left. The Colonel looked at Sharpe. 'You were in there. What's there?

'A chapel. There's a bloody great grille behind the door. I think it's being unlocked.

The chapel doors were pulled open and facing them, curtseying, were two girls. They giggled, turned, and fetched a table from behind them which they carried out the door, beneath the cloister, and placed in the sunlight. One looked at Bigeard, then at Harper, and made a face of mock surprise at their height. They giggled again.

A third girl appeared with a chair which she placed beside the table. She too curtseyed towards the officers then blew them a kiss.

Dubreton sighed. 'I fear we must endure whatever they have planned for us.

'Yes, sir.

Boots clattered in the chapel and soldiers filed out, left and right, into the cloisters. They wore uniforms of Britain, France, Portugal and Spain, and their muskets were tipped with bayonets. Their faces were mocking as they filed to line three of the four walls. Only the wall behind Dubreton and Sharpe was unguarded. The three girls stood by the table. They wore low cut blouses, very low, and Sharpe guessed they must be cold.

'Mes amis! Mes amis!’ The voice boomed from within the chapel. It was a deep voice, gravelly, a great bass voice. 'Mes amis.’

A ludicrous figure came out of the shadow, through the cloister's arch, to stand by the table. He was short and immensely fat. He spread his arms, smiled. 'Mes amis!

His legs were cased in tall black leather boots, cut away behind the knees, and then in white breeches that were dangerously tight about his huge fat thighs. His belly wobbled as he laughed silently, ripples of fat running up his body beneath the flowered waistcoat he wore beneath a blue uniform jacket that was lavishly adorned with gold leaves and looping strands. The jacket could not button over his immense front, instead it was held in place by a golden waist sash, while a red sash was draped across his right shoulder. At his neck, below the multitude of chins, an enamelled gold cross hung. The tassels of his gold epaulettes rested on his fat arms.

Sergeant Deron, now calling himself Marshal Pot-au-Feu, took off his hat, wondrously plumed in white, and revealed a face that was almost cherubic. An aging cherub with a halo of white curls, a face that beamed with goodwill and delight. 'Mes amis! He looked at Sharpe. 'Parlez-vous Francais?

'No.

He wagged a finger at Sharpe. 'You should learn the French. A beautiful language! Eh, Colonel? He smiled at Dubreton who said nothing. Pot-au-Feu shrugged, laughed, and looked again to Sharpe. 'My English is very bad. You the Colonel meet, yes? He twisted his head as far as the rolls of fat on his neck would allow. 'Mon Colonel! Mon brave!’

'Coming, sir, coming! Coming! And here I am! The man with the yellow face, the toothless grin, the blue, child-like eyes, and the horrid ungovernable spasms, leaped grotesquely through the door. He was dressed in the uniform of a British Colonel, but the finery did nothing to hide the lumpen gross body or the brute strength that was in his arms and legs.

The capering figure stopped, half crouching, and stared at Sharpe. The face twitched, the voice cackled, and then the mouth twisted into a smile. 'Sharpy! Hello Sharpy! A string of spittle danced from his lips as the face jerked.

Sharpe turned calmly towards Harper. 'Don't shoot, Sergeant.

'No, sir. Harper's voice was full of loathing. 'Not yet, sir.

'Sir! Sir! Sir! The yellow face laughed at them as the man who called himself Colonel straightened up. 'No ‘sirs’ here, no. No bloody airs and bloody graces here. The cackle again, obscene and piercing.

Sharpe had half expected this, and he suspected that Harper had expected it too, yet neither had voiced the fear. Sharpe had hoped that this man was dead, yet this man boasted he could not be killed. Here, in the sunlight of the cloister, spittle dangling from his mouth, stood ex-Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill. Hakeswill.

CHAPTER 5

Obadiah Hakeswill, the Sergeant who had recruited Sharpe into the army, the man who had caused Sharpe to be flogged in a dusty Indian square. Hakeswill.