Bernard Cornwell – 1807 09 Sharpe’s Prey

There was a knock on the door. “Mister Hocking?” a voice called.

“We’re just settling the money,” Sharpe shouted, “aren’t we, Jem? On the table or I’ll bloody fillet you.”

“You ain’t an officer, are you? You dress up, don’t you, but you picked the wrong man this time, son.”

“I’m an officer,” Sharpe said, and drew blood from Hocking’s neck. “A real officer,” he added. “Now empty your pockets.”

Hocking dropped the satchel on the table, then thrust a hand into his greatcoat pocket. Sharpe waited to hear the chink of coins, but there was no such sound and so, as Hocking brought his hand out of the pocket, Sharpe slashed down hard with the saber. He slit the ball of Hocking’s thumb, then slashed the blade again and Hocking, who had been drawing a small pistol from his coat pocket, let the weapon go to clutch at his wounded fingers. The pistol fell to the floor.

“Empty your damned pockets,” Sharpe said.

Hocking hesitated, wondering whether to call for help, but there was an implacability about Sharpe that suggested he had best humor him. He flinched as he used his wounded right hand to pull coins from his pocket. The door rattled as someone tried the latch. “Wait!” Sharpe called. He saw gold coins among the silver and copper. “Keep going, Jem,” he said.

“You’re a dead man,” Hocking grumbled, but found more cash that he piled on the table. “That’s all,” he said.

“Back against the cages, you bastard,” Sharpe said and prodded Hocking toward the badgers. Then, still holding the saber in his right hand, Sharpe forced handfuls of the coins into the satchel. He could not look closely at the money, for he needed to watch Hocking, but he reckoned there was at least eighteen or nineteen pounds there.

The click saved Sharpe. It came from behind him and he recognized the sound of a pistol being cocked and he stepped to one side and risked a quick glance to see that there was a hole in the wooden wall. Lumpy’s peephole, no doubt, and one of the young men outside must have seen what was happening and Sharpe stepped to the bed just as a pistol flamed through the hole to mist the room with smoke. Emily screamed from beneath her blanket and Jem Hocking snatched a badger cage and hurled it at Sharpe.

The cage bounced heavily off Sharpe’s shoulder. Hocking was scrabbling for the pistol when Sharpe kicked him in the face, then slashed the saber across his head. Hocking sprawled by the table. Sharpe snatched up the small pistol and fired it at the wall beside the peephole. The timber splintered, but no shout sounded on the far side. Then he knelt on Hocking’s belly and held the saber against the big man’s throat. “You do know me,” Sharpe said. “You bloody do know me.”

He had not intended to reveal his name. He had told himself he would rob Hocking, but now, smelling the gun smoke, he knew he had always wanted to kill the bastard. No, he had wanted more. He had wanted to see Hocking’s face when the man learned that one of his children had come back, but come back as a jack pudding. Sharpe smiled, and for the first time there was fear on Hocking’s face. “I really am an officer, Jem, and my name’s Sharpe. Dick Sharpe.” He saw the disbelief on Hocking’s face. Disbelief, astonishment and fear. That was reward enough. Hocking stared, wide-eyed, recognizing Sharpe and, at the same time, unable to comprehend that one of his boys was now an officer. Then the incomprehension turned to terror for he understood that the boy wanted revenge. “You bastard,” Sharpe said, “you goddamned piece of shit.” The anger was livid now. “Remember whipping me?” he asked. “Whipping me till the blood ran? I remember, Jem. That’s why I came back.”

“Listen, lad.”

“Don’t you bloody lad me,” Sharpe said. “I’m grown now, Jem. I’m a soldier, Jem, an officer, and I’ve learned to kill.”

“No!”

“Yes,” Sharpe said, and the bitterness was unassuageable now, drenching him, consuming him, and the years of pain and misery were driving his right arm as he sawed the blade hard and fast across Hocking’s throat. Hocking’s last shout was abruptly cut short as a fountain of blood sprang up. The big man heaved, but Sharpe was snarling and still slicing down with the blade, cutting through muscle and gullet and a flood of blood until the steel juddered against the bone. Hocking’s breath bubbled at his opened neck as Sharpe stood and stabbed the saber down so hard that the blade flexed as its tip drove into the back of Hocking’s skull. “One in the eye, Jem,” Sharpe snarled, “you bastard.” The door shook as the men outside tried to force the bolt from its seating. Sharpe kicked the door. “We ain’t done,” he shouted.

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