Bernard Cornwell – 1812 10 Sharpe’s Enemy

Hakeswill ran into the open valley, his breath harsh in his ears, his feet numbed by the snow, and he glanced left and saw he had far outrun the Fusiliers, and he thought he saw Sharpe, but that was no concern for this moment, and then he saw the Riflemen beyond Sharpe and he feared their weapons so he cut right, sprinting in desperation, the gold in his greatcoat pocket, the musket heavy in his hand. The French! There was nowhere else to go, nowhere! He would offer his services to the French, desert properly, and though it was not much of a choice it was better than being cut down like a dog in this snowfield. He ran for the nearest Battalion of French infantry, a Battalion that retreated towards the village, and then he heard the hooves behind him.

The hooves had been muffled by the snow and he realized, desperately, that the horseman was close. He turned, toothless mouth aghast with the horror, and he saw the lifted weapon that threatened to crush his skull with a heavy brass hilt and he fumbled with his musket, brought it round as he fell away from the downward stroke, and pulled the trigger.

He laughed maniacally. Death, his master, had not deserted him, and this he had prayed for too! Not this way, perhaps, but he laughed as he saw the bullet lift the rider from the horse, a bullet that went through the lower throat, travelling upwards, and death was as swift as death can be. The body was lifted upwards, the horse swerved away, and the body fell, spread-eagled, thumping onto the snow and the rifle, unloaded, that had threatened his life with its brass-bound butt, fell into the coldness.

Hakeswill paused. It was a moment of sweet victory, a moment to be remembered in the days to come, and he gibbered his victory call at the low clouds and his half-naked body jigged with the joy of it! He had lived! Death was still favouring him! And then he turned and ran for the French ranks. ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’

Hakeswill would live yet! He staggered into the French Battalion, gasping with pained lungs, and he grinned as his head twitched. He had escaped.

CHAPTER 30

Sharpe had watched Hakeswill break into the open field, had sworn, but then a voice had hailed him from behind and he turned to see Major General Nairn beaming at him from a horse. ‘Sharpe! My dear Sharpe!’

‘Sir!’

Nairn groaned as he slid from the horse. ‘Major Sharpe! You’ve had a full-scale war while my back is turned!’

‘Looks that way, sir.’ Sharpe grinned.

‘You disturb my Christmas, force me to drag weary bones up into the snows of winter!’ He smiled a huge smile. ‘I thought you’d all be gone by now!’

‘It crossed my mind, sir.’

‘Sir Augustus said you’d be dead.’

‘He did?’

Nairn laughed at Sharpe’s tone. ‘I sent him packing with his lady wife. She’s a rare looker, Sharpe!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Mind you, your lady wife told me she was too fat! Told me something else, too, which I’m sure can’t be true. Something to do with the fact that the lady’s not a lady at all! Can you believe that, Sharpe?’

‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’

Nairn grinned, but said nothing. He was looking at the French back at the village, and he glanced left and right where his first troops had secured the wreckage of the Convent and now reinforced the watchtower hill. Nairn stamped his feet on the ground. ‘I think our froggie friends will call that a day! Don’t you?’ He clapped his hands in delight. ‘They won’t attack again, and in a couple of hours I’ll be in a position to attack them.’ He looked at Sharpe. ‘Well done, Major! Well done!’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Sharpe was not looking at Nairn. He was looking up the valley at a loose horse, at a dark figure on the snow, and his voice was far away, distracted.

‘Sharpe?’

‘Sir?’ But Sharpe was already walking away, and the walk broke into a run, and he still stared at the figure on the snow.

The hair was black against the pure whiteness, long and black. He had seen it like that on a white pillow when she had teasingly raised her head and splayed her hair in a great tempting fan. The blood at her throat was like a broken necklace of rubies, half spilt onto the snow, and her eyes stared unseeing at the clouds.

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