‘So I’m to leave the Battalion, sir?’
‘For a few days, Sharpe, for a few days.’
Collett stirred by the tent pole. ‘Damn it, Sharpe, they’ll be handing out Captaincies like pound notes on election day soon. ‘
Sharpe nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ Collett had made the point. Sharpe was an embarrassment, not just to Rymer, but to all the Captains who saw him sniffing at their heels. If he could leave the Battalion now, go to Hogan, then there would be no difficulty in bringing him back, after the assault, into a Captaincy. And the assault would be soon. Wellington was not patient in a siege, the fine weather was bringing the possibility of a French counter-move, and Sharpe sensed that the infantry would be hurled against the city very soon. Too soon, probably. Collett was right; there would be vacancies, too many vacancies, made by the French guns in Badajoz.
Windham seemed relieved by Sharpe’s evident acceptance. ‘That’s it, then, Sharpe. Good luck; good hunting!’ He barked an embarrassed laugh. ‘We’ll see you back!’
‘Yes, sir.’ But not, Sharpe thought, in the way Windham planned. The Rifleman, as he limped from the tent, did not object to the Colonel’s solution, or rather Hogan’s solution, but he was damned if he would be nothing more than a pawn to be pushed round a board and sacrificed. He had lost his Company, and now he was pushed out of the Battalion, and he felt an anger inside him. He was superfluous. Then damn them all. He would make the Forlorn Hope. He would live and they would take him back, not as a convenient replacement for a dead Captain, but as a soldier they could not ignore. He would fight back! God damn them, he would fight back, and he knew where he was going to start. He heard a cackle come from the Battalion’s supply dump. Hakeswill! Bloody Hakeswill who had emptied the seven-barreled gun at him in the darkness. Sharpe turned towards the sound, winced as the pain seared his leg, and marched towards the enemy.
CHAPTER 20
Hakeswill cackled. ‘You bloody fairies! You’re not bloody soldiers. Stand still!’
The twelve Riflemen stood still. Each would have gladly killed the Sergeant, but not here, not in the supply dump that was open to the gaze of the whole camp. The murder would have to be done at night, in secret, but somehow Hakeswill seemed always to be awake, or alert to the smallest sound. Perhaps he was right, he could not be killed.
Hakeswill walked slowly down the rank. Each man was stripped to his shirt, the green jackets lying on the ground in front of them. He stopped by Hagman, the old poacher, and pushed at the jacket with his foot. ‘What’s this, then?’ His toe was pointing at the black stripe sewn on the sleeve.
‘Senior Rifleman’s badge, Sergeant.’
‘Senior Rifleman’s badge, Sergeant. ‘ Hakeswill imitated Hagman. The yellow face twitched. ‘Bloody decrepit, you are!” He pushed the sleeve into the mud. ‘Senior bloody Rifleman! From now on you’re a bloody soldier.’ He cackled, letting his fetid breath wash over Hagman’s face. The Rifleman did not move or react; to do so was to invite punishment. Hakeswill twitched and moved on. He was feeling pleased with himself. The Riflemen had annoyed him because they seemed to him to form an elite group, a close-knit group, and he had wanted to smash them. He had suggested to Rymer as they straggled back from the dam that the rifles were a hindrance; he had hinted that Rymer could begin to establish his ascendancy over Sharpe’s old Company by disbanding the Riflemen, and it had worked. ‘You! About turn! You poxed Irish pig! Turn!’ His spittle sprayed Harper.
Harper paused for a fraction of a second, and saw an officer watching. He had no wish to end his days in front of a firing squad. He turned round.
Hakeswill drew his bayonet. ‘How’s your back, Private?’
‘Fine, Sergeant.’
‘Fine, fine.’ Hakeswill mimicked the Donegal accent. ‘That’s good, Private.’ He put the flat of the bayonet high on Harper’s back and drew the blade downwards, over the unhealed cuts, over the scabs, and blood welled out to stain the shirt. ‘You’ve got a dirty shirt, Private, a dirty, Irish shirt. ‘