‘You stupid bastards!’ Hakeswill appeared in the darkness, his voice like the croaking of the thousands of frogs that lived upstream. He sneered at them, punched at Harper. ‘You pig-brained Irish bastard! Move!’ He thrust at them with the squat barrels of the huge gun and Harper, still helping Sharpe, smelt the burnt powder from the seven barrels. The gun had been fired and Harper had a vague memory, no more than an impression, of bullets coming from the ravine that had struck Sharpe down. Harper turned to look for Hakeswill, but the Sergeant had gone into the night and Sharpe, his leg bleeding and hurt, slipped and the Irishman had to hold him and pull him up the slope.
His words were drowned by a sudden clamor of bells. Each bell in Badajoz, from every church, hammered into the darkness and for a second Harper thought they were celebrating the failure of the night’s fight. Then he remembered. Midnight had turned and now it was Sunday, Easter Sunday, and the bells rejoiced for the greatest of all miracles. Harper listened to the cacophony and promised himself a most unchristian promise. He would perform his own miracle. He would kill the man who had tried to kill Sharpe. If it was the last thing he would do on this earth, he would kill the man who could not die. Dead.
CHAPTER 19
‘Hold still!’ the doctor muttered, not so much to Sharpe who was rigid, but because he always said the words when operating. He twiddled the probe in his fingers, looking at it, then wiped it on his apron before pushing it delicately into the wound in Sharpe’s thigh. ‘You’ve been wounded a fair bit, Mr. Sharpe.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe hissed the words. His leg felt as if a serpent with red hot fangs was tearing at him.
The doctor grunted, pushed down. ‘Ah! Splendid! Splendid!’ Blood welled from the bullet wound. ‘I have it.’ He pushed, feeling the bullet grate beneath the probe’s tip.
‘Jesus!’
‘A very present help in trouble.’ The doctor said the words automatically. He straightened up, leaving the probe in the wound. ‘You’re a lucky man, Mr. Sharpe.’
‘Lucky, sir?’ His leg was on fire, streaking pain from ankle to groin.
‘Lucky.’ The doctor picked up a glass of claret that his orderly kept always full. He stared at the probe. ‘To leave or not to leave, that is the question.’ He glanced at Sharpe. ‘You’re a healthy bastard, yes?’
‘Yes, sir.’ It came out as a groan.
The doctor sniffed. His cold had not improved since Harper’s flogging. ‘It could stay in there, Mr. Sharpe, but I think not. You’re lucky. It’s not deep. The ball must have lost most of its force. ‘ He looked behind him and selected a long, thin pair of pincers. He inspected the ridged tips, spotted a piece of dirt, and spat on the instrument, wiping it dry on his sleeve. ‘Right! Hold still, think of England!’ He pushed the forceps into the wound, following the track of the probe, and Sharpe hissed imprecations at him which the doctor ignored. He felt (or the bullet, brought out the probe, pushed down again with the forceps, and then tightened his grip. ‘Splendid! A moment more!’ He twisted, Sharpe’s leg exploded with agony, and the doctor pulled out the forceps and dropped them, the bullet in their jaws, on the table behind him. ‘Splendid! Nelson should have known me. Right. Tie him up, Harvey. ‘
‘Yes, sir.’ The orderly let go of Sharpe’s ankles and rooted around under the table looking for a clean bandage.
The doctor took the bullet, still in the forceps, and shook the blood from it in a pail of discolored water. ‘Ah!’ He held the bullet up.’ A pistol bullet! No wonder it didn’t penetrate. The range must have been too great. Do you want it?’
Sharpe nodded and held out his hand. It was no musket bullet. The grey ball was just half an inch across and Sharpe remembered the fore-shortened yellow flame. The seven-barreled gun used half-inch bullets. ‘Doctor?’
‘Sharpe?’
‘The other wound. Is the bullet still in?’
‘No.’ The doctor was wiping his hands on his apron, already stiff with blood. It was the mark of seniority in his profession. ‘Straight through, Sharpe, all it did was break the skin. Here. ‘ He held out a tumbler of brandy.