‘Sir!’ A shout from the gateway.
‘What is it?’ Farthingdale frowned at the interruption.
‘French officer coming, sir. With a detail.’
‘How many?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Dozen, sir.’
Sharpe would not have let them in, would have gone out of the gate so that the French would not have a chance to gauge the paltry defences of the Castle, but Farthingdale shouted at the sentries to let the Frenchmen pass. Sharpe glanced at the stable and waved the Rocket Troop out of sight. It was possible, he conceded, that Dubreton already knew of their existence. The soldiers of both sides had mixed freely, talked openly, and Sharpe’s only hope of keeping the rockets a surprise lay in the incredulity of the ordinary enemy soldier and the difficulties of translation.
The hooves of the French horses sparked on the cobbles of the archway, echoed loud from ancient stone, and then Dubreton led them into the courtyard. The sun was scarlet and glorious, low in the Christmas sky, its light lustrous on the flank of the Frenchman’s horse. He smiled at Sharpe. ‘I owe you a favour, Major Sharpe.’ His horse stopped, edged away from the sudden crackle of wood on the fire. Dubreton soothed it. ‘I have come to repay my debt in part, a very small part, but I hope it pleases you.’
He turned and beckoned to the Dragoons behind him who split apart, revealing Sergeant Bigeard uncomfortable and vast on horseback. Sharpe smiled. Bigeard’s right hand was twisted in dirty grey hair, the hair of Obadiah Hakeswill.
Sharpe smiled at the Frenchman. ‘I thank you, sir.’
Obadiah Hakeswill, captured and helpless, still dressed in the borrowed finery of a British infantry Colonel. Sergeant Bigeard nodded a greeting at Sharpe, released his grip of Hakeswill’s hair and booted him forward.
There was joy in this moment, such joy, the joy of nineteen years hatred come to this place, this hour, this helplessness of a man who had spent his life tormenting the weak and working evil. Obadiah Hakeswill, a prisoner, the yellow face twitching on its elongated neck, the bright blue eyes still darting about the courtyard as if hoping for some escape. Sharpe walked slowly forward, and still the eyes looked for a way out of this place, but then the eyes snapped to Sharpe because there was the sound of a sword scraping from a scabbard.
Sharpe smiled. ‘Private Hakeswill. You lost your Sergeantcy, did you know?’ The head twitched, the eyes blinked, and Sharpe waited till Hakeswill was still. ‘Shun!’
Automatically, a lifetime of soldiering behind him, Hakeswill slammed upright, hands at his side, and at the same instant, catching the fire of the sinking sun, the long sword went to his throat. The blade was held at Sharpe’s full arm’s length, its tip barely quivering at Hakeswill’s adam’s apple. Silence.
Men in the courtyard sensed the anger from the two men. Fusiliers and Riflemen stopped, turned, and watched the sword.
Only Farthingdale moved. He stepped forward, his eyes horribly caught by the level, unmoving sword, and he feared the sudden rush of bright blood in the sunset. ‘What are you doing, Sharpe?’
Sharpe spoke softly, each word clear and slow. ‘I was thinking of skinning the bastard alive, sir.’ His eyes stayed on Hakeswill.
Farthingdale looked at Sharpe and the setting sun lit the left side of the scarred face, a face implacable and frightening, and Farthingdale felt the fear. He feared cold-blooded death, and he feared that one word from him might provoke it. His protest, when it came, sounded feeble even to his own ears. ‘The man must be tried, Sharpe, by a Court-Martial. You can’t kill him!’
Sharpe smiled, still looking at Hakeswill. ‘I said I’d skin him alive, not dead. Do you hear that, Obadiah? I can’t kill you.’ He suddenly raised his voice. ‘This is the man who can’t be killed! You’ve all heard of him, well here he is! Obadiah Hakeswill. And soon you’ll see a miracle. You’ll see him dead! But not here, not now! In front of a firing squad.’
The great blade stayed where it was. The French Dragoons, who had spent too many aching hours strengthening their sword arms by doing just what Sharpe was doing, appreciated the strength of a man who could hold a heavy cavalry sword at full stretch for so long, and keep it so still.