Sharpe’s Enemy: The Defence of Portugal, Christmas 1812. Bernard Cornwell
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have kept quiet, but there was a pride in the Irishman and in his voice was a sneer. ‘How’s your poxed mother, Hakeswill?’
Hakeswill’s mother was the only person in the world he loved. Not that he knew her, not that he had seen her since he was twelve, but he loved her. He had forgotten the beatings, his whimpering as a small child beneath her anger, he remembered only that she had sent her brother to take him from the scaffold, and in his world that was the one act of love. Mothers were sacred. Harper laughed and Hakeswill bellowed in uncontrollable rage, lurched into a run, and his hand fumbled for the unfamiliar sword at his side.
The cloister was stunned by the size of this hatred, the force of it, the noise that echoed through the arches as the huge man charged at Harper.
The Sergeant stood calm. He let the flint down onto the steel of his gun, reversed it, and then thrust the heavy brass-bound butt into Hakeswill’s belly, stepped to one side and kicked him in the side.
The muskets of Pot-au-Feu’s men twitched into their shoulders, flints back, and Sharpe dropped to one knee, rifle steady, and the barrel was aimed straight between Pot-au-Feu’s eyes.
‘Non! Non!’ Pot-au-Feu screamed at his men, flapping a hand towards Sharpe. ‘Non!’
Hakeswill was on his feet again, eyes streaming in pain and anger, and the sword was in his hand and he whipped it at Harper’s face, the steel hissing and blurring in the sunlight, and Harper parried it with the butt of his gun, grinned, and no one moved to help Hakeswill for they feared the huge Rifleman. Dubreton looked at Bigeard, nodded.
It had to be ended. If Hakeswill died then Sharpe knew they were all doomed. If Harper died then Pot-au-Feu would die and his men would avenge him. Bigeard strode calmly behind the officers and Hakeswill screamed at him, shouted for help, but still no one moved. He lunged with the sword at Harper, missed, and swung helplessly towards the vast French Sergeant who seemed to laugh, moved with sudden speed, and Hakeswill was pinioned by the great arms. The Englishman fought with all his strength, wrenched at the hands which held him, but he was like a kitten in the Frenchman’s grip. Harper stepped forward, took the sword from Hakeswill’s hand, stepped back with it.
‘Sergeant!’ Dubreton’s tone was a warning. Sharpe still had his eyes on Pot-au-Feu.
Harper shook his head. He had no intention of killing this man yet. He held the sword handle in his right hand, the blade in his left, grinned at Hakeswill and then slammed the sword onto his knee. It broke in two and Harper threw the fragments onto the tiles. Bigeard grinned.
A scream cut through the Convent, an awful scream, agony slicing the air.
No one moved. The scream had come from within the Convent. A woman’s scream.
Pot-au-Feu looked at Sharpe’s rifle, then at Dubreton. He spoke in a reasonable tone, his deep voice placatory, and Dubreton looked at Sharpe. ‘He suggests we forget this small contretemps. If you lower your gun, he will call his man back.’
‘Tell him to call the man first.’ It was as if the scream had never happened.
‘Obadiah! Obadiah!’ Pot-au-Feu’s voice was wheedling. ‘Come ’ere, Obadiah! Come!’
Dubreton spoke to Bigeard and the French Sergeant slowly released his grip. For a second Sharpe thought Hakeswill would throw himself at Harper again, but Pot-au-Feu’s voice drew the shambling, yellow faced figure back towards him. Hakeswill stooped, picked up the fragment of sword with its handle, and thrust it pathetically into his scabbard so that at least it looked correct. Pot-au-Feu spoke softly to him, patted his arm, and beckoned to one of the three girls. She huddled next to Obadiah, stroking him, and Sharpe lowered his rifle as he stood up.
Pot-au-Feu spoke to Dubreton. The Colonel translated for Sharpe. ‘He says Obadiah is his loyal servant. Obadiah kills for him. He rewards Obadiah with drink, power and women.’
Pot-au-Feu laughed when Dubreton had finished. Sharpe could see the strain on the Colonel’s face and he knew the Frenchman was remembering the scream. His wife was held here. Yet neither officer had asked about the scream, for both knew that to do so was to play into Pot-au-Feu’s hands. He wanted them to ask.
It came again, wavering to a shrill intensity, sobbing in gasps to silence. Pot-au-Feu acted as if it had never sounded. His deep voice was talking to Dubreton again.
‘He says he will count the money, then the women will be brought.’
Sharpe had presumed that the table was for counting the money, but three men dragged the coins to a clear patch of tiles and began the laborious task of piling them and counting. The table had another purpose. Pot-au-Feu clapped his podgy hands and a fourth girl appeared who carried a tray. She put it on the table and the fat Frenchman fondled her, took the lid from the earthenware pot on the tray, and then spoke lengthily to Dubreton. The rumbling voice seemed full of pleasure; it lingered lasciviously on certain words as Pot-au-Feu spooned food into a bowl.
Dubreton sighed, turned to Sharpe, but his eyes looked into the sky. Smoke was rising where there had been none twenty minutes before. ‘Do you want to know what he said?’
‘Should I, sir?’
‘It’s a recipe for hare stew, Major.’ Dubreton gave a thin smile. ‘I suspect rather a good one.’
Pot-au-Feu was eating greedily, the thick sauce dripping onto his fat, white-breeched thighs.
Sharpe smiled. ‘I just cut them up, boil them in water and salt.’
‘I can truly believe that, Major. I had to teach my own wife to cook.’
Sharpe raised an eyebrow. There was an inflection in Dubreton’s words that was intriguing.
The Frenchman smiled. ‘My wife is English. We met and married during the Peace of Amiens, the last time I was in London. She has lived the ten years since in France and is now even a creditable cook. Not as good as the servants, of course, but it takes a lifetime to learn how simple cooking is.’
‘Simple?’
‘Of course.’ The Colonel glanced at Pot-au-Feu who was delicately picking up a lump of meat that had fallen onto his lap. ‘He takes his hares, cuts the flesh off the bones, and then soaks them for a full day in olive oil, vinegar and wine. You add garlic, Major, a little salt, some pepper, and a handful of juniper berries if you have them. You save the blood and you mix it with the livers which you have ground into a paste.’ There was an enthusiasm in Dubreton’s voice. ‘Now. After a day you take the flesh and you cook it in butter and bacon fat. Just brown it. Put some flour in the pan then put it all back into the sauce. Add more wine. Add the blood and the liver, and heat it up. Boil it. You will find it superb, especially if you add a spoonful of olive oil as you serve it.’
Pot-au-Feu chuckled. He had understood a good deal of what Dubreton had said, and as Sharpe looked the fat Frenchman smiled and lifted a small jug. ‘Oil!’ He patted his huge belly and broke wind.
The scream came once more, the third time, and there was a helplessness in the agony. A woman was being hurt, horribly hurt, and Pot-au-Feu’s men looked at the four strangers and grinned. These men knew what was happening and wanted to see the effect on the visitors. Dubreton’s voice was low. ‘Our time will come, Major.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hakeswill and his woman had crossed to the piles of money and he turned with a grin on his face. ‘All here, Marshal!’
‘Bon!’ Pot-au-Feu held out a hand and Hakeswill tossed him one of the golden guineas. The Frenchman held it up, turned it.
Hakeswill waited until the twitching of his face had subsided. ‘Want your woman now, Sharpy?’
‘That was the agreement.’
‘Oh! The agreement!’ Hakeswill laughed. He plucked at the girl beside him. ‘How about this one, Sharpy? Want this one, do you?’ The girl looked at Sharpe and laughed. Hakeswill was enjoying himself. ‘This one’s Spanish, Sharpy, just like your