“I blames myself, sir,” Hakeswill went on, ‘on account of not chasing Sharpie, but I thought my duty was to look after my Captain, sir, on account of him being drenched by a slop pot.”
“Enough, Sergeant!” Gore said.
“It ain’t a Christian act, sir,” Hakeswill muttered resentfully.
“Not with a jakes pot, sir. Says so in the scriptures.”
Gore rubbed his face. The rain had taken the edge off the damp heat, but not by much, and he found the atmosphere horribly oppressive.
Maybe the itch was just a reaction to the heat. He rubbed his hand across his belly, but it did not help.
“Why would Sergeant Sharpe assault you without warning, Captain?” he asked.
Morris shrugged.
“He’s a disagreeable sort, sir,” he offered weakly.
“He never liked the Captain, sir, Sharpie didn’t,” Hakeswill said, ‘and it’s my belief, sir, that he thought the Captain had come to summon him back to the battalion, where he ought to be soldiering instead of living off the fat of the land, but he don’t want to come back, sir, on account of being comfortable, sir, like he’s got no right to be.
He never did know his place, sir, not Sharpe, sir. Got above himself, sir, he has, and he’s got cash in his breeches. On the fiddle, I dare say.”
Gore ignored the last accusation.
“How badly are you hurt?” he asked Morris.
“Only cuts and bruises, sir.” Morris straightened in the chair.
“But it’s still a court-martial offence, sir.”
“A capital offence, sir,” Hakeswill said.
“Up against the wall, sir, and God have mercy on his black soul, which I very much doubts God will, God having better things to worry about than a sorry piece of scum like Sharpie.”
Gore sighed. He suspected there was a great deal more to the story than he was hearing, but whatever the real facts Captain Morris was still right. All that mattered was that Sergeant Sharpe was alleged to have struck an officer, and no excuse in the world could explain away such an offence. Which meant Sergeant Sharpe would have to be tried and very probably shot, and Gore would regret that for he had heard some very good things of the young Sergeant Sharpe.
“I had great hopes of Sergeant Sharpe,” the Colonel said sadly.
“Got above himself, sir,” Hakeswill snapped.
“Just ‘cos he blew the mine at Seringapatam, sir, he thinks he’s got wings and can fly. Needs to have his feathers clipped, sir, says so in the scriptures.”
Gore looked scornfully at the twitching Sergeant.
“And what did you do at the assault of the city, Sergeant?” he asked.
“My duty, sir, my duty,” Hakeswill answered.
“What is all I ever expects any other man to do, sir.”
Gore shook his head regretfully. There really was no way out of this dilemma. If Sharpe had struck an officer, then Sharpe must be punished.
“I suppose he’ll have to be fetched back here,” Gore admitted.
“Of course,” Morris agreed.
Gore frowned in irritation. This was all such a damned nuisance!
Gore had desperately hoped that the 33rd would be attached to Wellesley’s army which was about to plunge into Mahratta territory, but instead the battalion had been ordered to stay behind and guard Mysore against the bandits who still plagued the roads and hills. Now, it seemed, overstretched as the battalion was, Gore would have to detach a party to arrest Sergeant Sharpe.
“Captain Lawford could go for him,” he suggested.
“Hardly a job for an officer, sir,” Morris said.
“A sergeant could do the thing just as well.”
Gore considered the matter. Sending a sergeant would certainly be less disruptive to the battalion than losing an officer, and a sergeant could surely do the job as well as anyone.
“How many men would he need?” Gore asked.
“Six men, sir,” Hakeswill snapped.
“I could do the job with six men.”
“And Sergeant Hakeswill’s the best man for the job,” Morris urged.
He had no particular wish to lose Hakeswill’s services for the few days that it would take to fetch Sharpe, but Hakeswill had hinted that there was money in this business. Morris was not sure how much money, but he was in debt and Hakeswill had been persuasive.