Bernard Cornwell – 1812 10 Sharpe’s Enemy

Hakeswill coughed. He sensed death retreating from him and he looked at Farthingdale. ‘Permission to speak, sir?’ Farthingdale nodded and Hakeswill screwed his face into a smile. The red light of sun and fire was reflected onto his yellow skin by the sword. ‘Welcome a Court-Martial, sir, welcome it. You gentlemen are fair, sir, I know that, sir.’ He was at his most obsequious.

Farthingdale was at his most patronizing. Here, at last, was a soldier who understood how to address his superiors. ‘You shall have a fair trial, I promise you that.’

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.’ Hakeswill would have knuckled his forehead except that the sword still terrified him.

‘Mr Sharpe! Put him with the other prisoners!’ Farthingdale felt he had defused the situation, was in command again.

‘I will, sir, I will.’ Sharpe still looked at Hakeswill, his eyes had not moved since the sword was drawn. ‘What uniform is that, Private?’

‘Uniform, sir?’ Hakeswill pretended that he had never noticed the rank of his uniform. ‘Oh this, sir! I found it, sir, found it.’

‘You’re a Colonel, are you?’

‘No, sir. Course not, sir.’ Hakeswill looked at Sir Augustus and gave him the full benefit of his rotting grin. ‘I was forced to wear it, sir, forced! After they forced me to join them, sir!’

‘You’re a bleeding disgrace to that uniform, aren’t you?’ The blue eyes came back to Sharpe. ‘Yes, sir, if you say so, sir.’

‘I do, Obadiah, I do.’ Sharpe smiled again. ‘Take it off.’ Dubreton smiled and tossed a translation over his shoulder. Bigeard and the Dragoons grinned, settled forward on the pommels of their saddles.

‘Sir?’ Hakeswill appealed to Farthingdale, but the sword tip was pressed against his throat. ‘Strip, you bastard!’Sharpe!’ That damned syllable. ‘Strip! You poxed bastard! Strip!’

The sword blade flickered, left and right, starting blood from the skin over Hakeswi’ll’s adam’s apple, and the gross, lumpen man tore at the red officer’s sash, pulled at his belts, at the empty scabbard, and then scrambled out of the red jacket and dropped it on the cobbles. ‘Now trousers and boots, Private.’

Farthingdale protested. ‘Sharpe! Lady Farthingdale is watching! I insist this stops!’

Hakeswill’s eyes looked towards the balcony and Sharpe knew that by standing at the very end of the platform Josefina could see into the courtyard. Sharpe kept the sword steady. ‘If Lady Farthingdale doesn’t like the view, sir, I suggest she goes inside. In the meantime, sir, this man has disgraced his uniform, his country, and his Regiment. For the moment I can only take one of those things away from him. Strip!’

Hakeswill sat, pulled off the boots, then stood to remove the white trousers. He shivered slightly, dressed only in the long white shirt that was buttoned from neck to knees. The sun had dipped beneath the western ramparts. ‘I said strip.’

‘Sharpe!’

Sharpe hated this yellow-skinned, lank-haired, twitching man who had tried to kill his daughter, to rape his wife, this man who had once flogged Sharpe so that the ribs showed through the torn flesh, this man who had murdered Robert Knowles. Sharpe wanted to kill him here and now, in this courtyard with this blade, but he had long ago sworn that justice would be seen to kill the man who could not be killed. A firing party would do that thing, and then Sharpe could write the letter he had long wanted to write to Knowles’ parents and tell them their son’s murderer had met his end.

Hakeswill looked up at Josefina, back to Sharpe, then stepped back two paces as if he could escape the sword. Bigeard lashed out with his foot, throwing him forward, and Hakeswill looked at Sir Augustus. ‘Sir?’

The sword arm moved at last. Up, down, across, and the shirt was torn, blood seeping from the shallow cuts. ‘Strip!’

The hands tore at the shirt, ripping it, bursting buttons free, and Hakeswill stood there, the tatters of pride at his feet, and on his face a hatred that was strong as life itself.

Sharpe hooked the shirt towards him, wiped the tip of the blade, then rammed it into the scabbard. He stepped back. ‘Lieutenant Price!’

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