hidden by blood, which was why he had not recognized the officer
standing beside the snake pit.
“I was a prisoner,” Hakeswill whined, ‘a prisoner.”
“You’re a bloody liar.”
“For the love of God, help me.” Obadiah pretended not to recognize
Sharpe, pretended to be mad. He twitched and moaned, let spittle
dribble from his mouth and twisted his hands in submission.
“Locked me up,” he said, ‘the heathen bastards locked me up. Ain’t
seen daylight in days.”
Sharpe leaned forward and snatched the coat that was bundled under
Hakeswill’s arm. Hakeswill stiffened, and Sharpe smiled as he saw the
flash of anger in the Sergeant’s eyes.
“Want the coat back, Obadiah? So fight me for it.”
“I was a prisoner,” Hakeswill insisted, no longer moaning like a mad
thing.
Sharpe shook the coat open.
“So why’s the jacket white, Obadiah?
You’re a bleeding liar.” He felt the coat’s pockets, felt the hard
lumps and knew his jewels were safe again. Hakeswill’s eyes glinted
with a terrible and frustrated rage.
“Go on, Obadiah,” Sharpe said, ‘fight me.”
“I was a prisoner,” Hakeswill said, and he glanced to his right, hoping
he could make a run for it, for though he might have lost the jewels in
the coat, he had others in his trousers. And Sharpe, he now saw,
had a wound in the hip. Perhaps Sharpe could not run. So run now, he
told himself, and then the flat of the claymore’s blade struck him hard
across the scalp. He yelped, then went still as the sword point
pricked at his throat.
“You sold me to Jama, didn’t you?” Sharpe said.
“But that was a mistake, Obadiah, because I beat his jet tis into pulp.
I’ll do that to you now. But take your clothes off first.”
“You can’t do this to me!” Hakeswill shouted, hoping to attract
attention. His face twitched.
“You can’t do this!
“Gainst regulations, it is!”
“Strip, Obadiah,” Sharpe said.
“There are rules! Regulations! Says so in the scriptures!”
The claymore’s point jabbed at Hakes wilTs throat, drawing blood from
the scar that had been left when they had tried to hang the young
Obadiah. The pain quietened the Sergeant, and Sharpe smiled.
“I half beat Captain Morris to death, Sergeant, so do you think it
worries me that there are rules which say I mustn’t touch you? Now
you’ve got a choice. You can strip naked, or you can let me strip your
corpse naked. I don’t care which it is. I don’t care if they bloody
hang me for your murder. It’d be worth it. So shut the hell up, and
get your bloody clothes off.”
Hakeswill looked for help, but there was none in sight, and the sword
point twisted in his broken skin and he gabbled that he was undressing
himself, and he scrabbled at the rope belt on his trousers, and tore
the buttons out of his shirt.
“Don’t kill me!” he shouted.
“I can’t be killed! I can’t die!” He pulled off the shirt, tugged off
his boots and pulled down his trousers.
“Now the foot cloths,” Sharpe said.
Hakeswill sat and unwrapped the filthy strips and so was left white and
naked under the terrible sun. Sharpe used the sword’s tip to pull the
clothes into a pile. He would search them, extract the gems, then
leave them.
“On your feet now, Obadiah,” he said, encouraging the naked man with
the sword’s reddened tip.
“I can’t die, Sharpie!” Hakeswill pleaded, his face racked by
twitches.
“I
can’t! You tried! The tigers wouldn’t eat me and the elephant
wouldn’t kill me. You know why? Because I can’t die! I’ve got an
angel, I do, my own soul’s angel and she looks after me.” He shouted
the words, and all the while he was being pressed backwards by the
sword tip, and he danced on the rocks because they were so hot and his
feet were bare.
“You can’t kill me. The angel looks after me. It’s Mother, Sharpie,
that’s who the angel is, it’s Mother all white and shiny. No, Sharpie,
no! I can’t die!” And the sword stabbed at his belly and Hakeswill
jumped back, and jumped back again when the tip slashed at his scrawny