Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe’s Company, Sharpe’s Sword, Sharpe’s Enemy. Bernard Cornwell
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spreading defences. Impressive as were the Portuguese walls, they were small compared with the Spanish fortifications that barred the road to Madrid. Sharpe knew it was fanciful, but there seemed something sinister about the huge fortress to the east and he hated to think of Teresa going behind the towering walls and wide ditches. Yet she had to return to the child, his child, and he would have to find her and protect her when the moment came.
His thoughts of Teresa and Antonia suddenly stopped, wrenched violently away, replaced by a loathing thick as vomit. His past was here, in Elvas, a hated past. The same yellow face, with the same twitch, and the same cackle! My God! Here, in his Company? Their eyes met, and Sharpe saw the insolent grin that seemed to verge on total insanity.
‘Halt!’ The Sergeant glared at the replacements. ‘Left turn! Still, you bastards! Keep your bloody mouth shut, Smithers, or I’ll use it to clean out the stables!’ The Sergeant turned smartly, marched to Sharpe, and crashed to a halt. ‘Sir!’
Ensign Matthews looked between the two tall men. ‘Sir? This is Sergeant …’
‘I know Sergeant Hakeswill.’
The Sergeant cackled, showing his few yellow teeth. Spittle dribbled on to his stubbled chin. Sharpe tried to work out the Sergeant’s age. Hakeswill had to be forty, at least, maybe forty-five, but the eyes were still the eyes of a cunning child. They looked unblinkingly at Sharpe with amusement and scorn. Sharpe was aware that Hakeswill was trying to outstare him so he turned away and saw Harper buckling his belt as he came into the courtyard. He nodded at the Irishman. ‘Stand them easy, Sergeant. They need sleeping space and food.’
‘Sir.’
Sharpe turned back to Hakeswill ‘You’re joining this Company?’
‘Sir!’ He barked the reply, and Sharpe remembered how punctilious Hakeswill had always been in the etiquette of the army. No soldier drilled more exactly, replied more formally, yet every action seemed imbued with a kind of contempt. It was impossible to pin it down, yet it had something to do with the expression in those childlike eyes, as if there was a freak inside the rigorously correct soldier that watched and laughed as it fooled the army. Hakeswill’s face twitched into a grin. ‘Surprised, sir?’
Sharpe wanted to kill the man on the spot, to blot out those offensive eyes, still for ever the twitch and the teeth-grinding, the cackle and the grin. Many men had tried to kill Obadiah Hakeswill. The scar on his neck with its fiery red folds of skin had been put there when he was just twelve years old. He had been sentenced to death by hanging for stealing a lamb. He had been innocent of the charge. His real offence was that he had forced the vicar’s daughter to undress for him by holding a viper at her neck, its tongue flickering, and she had fumbled off her clothes and screamed as the boy attacked her. Her father had rescued the girl and it had been simpler to accuse the boy of stealing a lamb, more certain to end in death, and the deal had been struck with the Justices. No one, even then, had wanted Obadiah Hakeswill to live except, perhaps, his mother, and the vicar, if he could have thought of a way, would have gladly strung her alongside her foul son.
He had lived somehow. They had strung him up, but he was still alive, with the stretched, scrawny neck and its livid scar to prove he had once been hanged. He had found his way into the army and into a way of life that suited him. He put up a hand and rubbed the scar below his left ear. ‘Be all right, sir, now that I’m here.’
Sharpe knew what he meant. There was a legend that Hakeswill the indestructible man, the survivor of a judicial execution, could not be killed and the legend did not diminish with time. Sharpe had seen two files of men blown away by grapeshot, yet Hakeswill, standing immediately to their front, had not been touched.
Hakeswill’s face twitched, hiding the laugh that was prompted by Sharpe’s unexpressed hatred. The twitch stopped. ‘I’m glad I’m here, sir. Proud of you, I am, proud. My best recruit.’ He had spoken loudly, letting the courtyard know of their joint history; and there was a challenge, too, as unspoken as their hatred, which announced that Hakeswill would not submit easily to the discipline of a man he had once drilled and tyrannized.
‘How’s Captain Morris, Hakeswill?’
The Sergeant grinned, then cackled into Sharpe’s face so that the officer caught the foul breath. ‘Remember him, sir, do you? He’s a Major now, sir, so I hear. In Dublin. Mind you, sir, you was a naughty boy, you’ll pardon an old soldier for saying so.’
There was silence in the courtyard. Every man was listening to the words, aware of the hostility between the two men. Sharpe dropped his voice, so no one but Hakeswill could hear. ‘If you lay a finger on any man in this Company, Sergeant, I’ll bloody kill you.’ Hakeswill grinned, was about to reply, but Sharpe was faster. ‘Shun!’ Hakeswill snapped upright, his face suddenly clouded with anger because he had been denied his reply. ‘About turn!’
Sharpe left him there, facing a wall. God damn it! Hakeswill! The scars were on Sharpe’s back because of Hakeswill and Morris, and Sharpe had sworn on that far-off day that he would inflict as much pain on them as they had on him. Hakeswill had beaten a Private into bloody insensibility; the man had recovered his consciousness, but never his senses, and Sharpe had been a witness. He had tried to stop the hammering and, for his efforts, was accused by Morris and Hakeswill of the beating. He had been tied to a cart’s wheel and flogged.
Now, suddenly face to face with his enemy after all these years, he felt an uneasy sense of helplessness. Hakeswill seemed untouchable. He had the confidence of a man who simply did not care what happened to him, because he knew he was indestructible. The Sergeant went through life with a suppurating hatred of other men, and, from behind his mask of military conformity, spread poison and fear throughout the companies he served. Hakeswill, Sharpe knew, would not have changed, any more than his appearance had changed. The same great belly, perhaps a few inches bigger, a few more lines on the face, another tooth or two missing, yet still the same yellow skin and the mad stare, and Sharpe remembered, uncomfortably, that once Hakeswill had told him they were alike. Both on the run, both without family, and the only way to survive, the Sergeant said, was to hit hard and hit first.
He looked at the recruits. They were wary, as well they might be, cautious of this new Company. Sharpe, though they could not know it, shared their unease. Hakeswill, of all people, in his Company? Then he remembered the gazette, and knew that the Company might not be his, and he felt his thoughts begin their profitless descent into gloom so he snapped them away. ‘Sergeant Harper?’
‘Sir?’
‘What’s happening today?’
‘Football, sir. Grenadier Company playing the Portuguese. Heavy casualties expected.’
Sharpe knew that Harper was trying to cheer up the newcomers and so he dutifully smiled. ‘A light day, then, for your first day. Enjoy it. Tomorrow we work.’ Tomorrow he would be without Teresa, tomorrow would be a day nearer Badajoz and tomorrow he might be a Lieutenant. He realized the recruits, some of whom he had found himself, were waiting for him to continue. He forced another smile. ‘Welcome to the South Essex. I’m glad you’re here. This is a good Company and I’m sure it will stay that way.’ The words sounded incredibly lame, even to himself, as if he knew they were untrue.
He nodded at Harper. ‘Carry on, Sergeant.’
The Irishman’s eyes flicked towards Hakeswill, still facing the wall, and Sharpe pretended not to see. Damn Hakeswill, he could stay there, but then he relented. ‘Sergeant Hakeswill!’
‘Sir!’
‘Dismiss!’
Sharpe walked into the street, wanting to be alone, but Leroy was leaning on the gatepost and the American lifted an amused eyebrow. ‘Is that how the Hero of the Field of Talavera welcomes recruits? No calls to glory? No bugles?’
‘They’re lucky to get a welcome at all.’
Leroy drew on his cigar and fell into step beside Sharpe. ‘I suppose this unhappiness is caused by your lady leaving us?’
Sharpe shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’