‘Whore!’ He reached for her under the horse, but the bitch had his bayonet and stabbed at him, so he was forced back, and then she swore at him in fast, fluent English, and he wiped blood from his face and spat at her.
She laughed, crouching beyond the horse, and she leveled the blade at him. ‘Come and get it, Obadiah. ‘
He stood up and backed into the passageway between the stalls. He was still between her and the door, and there were more ways than one of skinning a cat. He felt his face. The wound was small enough, and his wrist was usable. He grinned at her. ‘I’ll have you, missy, then I’ll carve you into little pieces. ‘ He cackled, feeling his head twitch. ‘Bloody little Portuguese whore!’ She was still between the horse and the wooden partition and he went forward as she stood up, his bayonet still in her hand, and she was smiling.
He checked at the sight of the bayonet. She was holding it low, ready to rip it upwards, and there was no sign of trembling. He thought of rushing her, but the bitch looked as if she might do real damage, so he backed away, keeping himself between her and the door, and looked around for the pitchfork that had to be in a stable. He wanted this girl. She was beautiful, and he wanted her, and he would have her, and his face twitched, and the words hammered in his head. He would have her, have her, have her, and then he saw the pitchfork and went back fast, turned, and grabbed at it.
The girl was nearly on to him. She had guts, for a Portuguese bitch, and he twisted to one side to avoid the lunge of the bayonet. Damn her! She had passed him, was by the door, but instead of opening it she stopped, turned, and taunted him. She spoke to him in Spanish, a language of rich insult, and laughed at her own words.
Hakeswill assumed it was Portuguese, a language of which he was as ignorant as he was of Spanish, but one thing was sure. He was not being complimented. He put the pitchfork out ahead of him and stalked towards her. There was no way she could beat this attack and he grinned at her. ‘Make it easy for yourself, missy, drop the spike. Come on, drop it!’
Teresa wanted to kill him, not leave it to Sharpe, and she switched to English so she might provoke an angered, unthinking charge. She had to assemble the sentence carefully, make sure it was right in her head, and then she laughed at him. ‘Your mother was a sow, sold to a toad. ‘
He bellowed, the anger exploding like powder. ‘Mother!’ He ran at her, swinging the pitchfork, and she would have placed the bayonet with the precision of a Bishop pinning down a mortal sin if the door of the stable had not opened, the wood caught the pitchfork’s tines, and the ugly Sergeant was tipped off balance, fell and the bayonet stabbed into empty air.
Hakeswill spun as he fell, momentarily dazzled by the sun streaming through the doorway, and had an impression of a giant shadow. A boot caught him; he was kicked as he had never been kicked before, lifted off the ground, slammed backwards, but he kept hold of the pitchfork and snarled at his assailant. The bloody Irish Sergeant! He picked himself up and lunged at the Irishman, but Harper simply caught the pitchfork by its two tines and bent them outwards and apart. Hakeswill pushed forward, using all his strength, but Harper was rock solid and the fork did not move except for the metal which was bent straight as if it was made from wet willow wands.
‘What the hell’s happening?’ Sharpe stood in the doorway, holding it open.
Teresa smiled at him over the bayonet. ‘Sergeant Obadiah wanted to have me, then carve me in little pieces. ‘
Harper pulled the pitchfork away from Hakeswill and tossed it on the ground. ‘Permission to commit murder, sir?’
‘Denied. ‘ Sharpe came forward, letting the door swing shut. ‘Latch that door. ‘