Sharpe's Enemy

CHAPTER29

Only a fraction of the gold that Sharpe and Dubreton had fetched so laboriously to the Gateway of God had been found. Handfuls had been taken off the prisoners, lost forever into the pouches of French and British soldiers, but the bulk of it still lay in the Castle. It was hidden for gold was a useful thing to hide, a cache that could be retrieved at leisure when the enemy had gone, and Hakeswill had hidden it well. It was in the dungeon, behind the gore-splashed wall where he had tortured and murdered the men and women who had displeased him. Now he needed the gold.

He did not take all of it. Enough to last him a few weeks and enough to get him out of the Castle, and when he judged by the sound of the battle that the Castle keep was short of defenders, he acted.

He threw one coin. It clinked heavily, rolled down two steps, and shuddered to a halt. A sentry, nervous because of the battle sounds, stared disbelieving at the gold.

Another coin came from the darkness, caught the light of the straw torch, and bounced on the stone of the bottom step.

The sentry grinned, went down to the cellar floor, and a comrade, jealous of his luck, called out a sour warning to be careful, but then a shower of gold glittered in the light, fell in rich harvest on the stairs, and the sentries whooped for their luck and shouted at each other for someone else to watch the prisoners while they scooped the coins into their pouches.

More gold came. Gold that was more than a Fusilier could earn in five years service, gold flickering from the darkness, gold that rang heavy on the stones and Hakeswill watched the sentries go down on hands and knees to make themselves rich. 'Now!’

One sentry managed to scramble back, to pull a trigger and send a deserter backwards over the barricade with a bullet in his brain, but then he too was caught by the half naked men, men who stank in his nostrils, who beat him with fists and then stamped the life from him with the butt of his own musket.

'Stop! Hakeswill crouched halfway up the steps, next to the bloody body of the one man who had fought back. 'Wait, lads, wait.

He carried his bag of gold in his hand, crept up the stairs, and saw the passageway beyond the door empty. Packs and greatcoats were piled in the passage and, better still, muskets piled against a wall. The muskets had been put there by Sharpe for the final desperate defence of the Castle, muskets captured from Pot-au-Feu's men and now returned to them.

Hakeswill moved fast. He went left and peered into the inner courtyard and swore silently when he saw the picquet that guarded the southern exit. He went the other way, plucking a greatcoat as he went, and he saw that the courtyard was oddly empty except of French dead and strange, smoking cylinders that lay on the cobbles. He went back to the cellar steps. 'Coats up here, lads, and muskets. Get one each, then follow me. He would go through the courtyard, across the wall, then break right into the thorns. He prepared himself, steeled himself for the rush, planned the route he would take south. He grinned at his fellow deserters, waited for a twitching of his head to stop. 'They can't kill me, lads. Nor you, while you're with me.

He looked at the daylight in the Castle yard, at the smoking cylinders, at the dead, and he thought only of life. Of his new chance for life. He cackled to himself, and pushed lank hair from his eyes. Obadiah Hakeswill could not be killed. 'Come on!

They ran, naked feet slipping on the slick cobbles, but desperation forcing them on. They faced nothing but a firing squad if they were marched westward, and it was better to run into the savage southern hills in this winter than to face the line of muskets in some Portuguese field. They scrambled over the rubble, some hauling themselves by gripping the fallen Spanish gun, and then Hakeswill was in the open, turning right, and a Spanish soldier saw him, was scared of the huge, yellow-faced man who seemed naked beneath his unbuttoned coat, and the Spaniard jerked his unloaded musket into his shoulder.

The movement saved his life. Hakeswill saw only the threat of the bullet, saw the sky-blue uniforms in the thorns behind the man, and he broke left again, into the open valley and led his ragged, dirty band into the clear, clean air of Adrados' fields. 'Run!

They were like rats that had run from a fire only to find themselves ringed by fire. To the left were Fusiliers and Riflemen, to the right the Spaniards who still came through the thorns, and ahead were the French. Already the Spanish were cutting off the deserters, shouting at them to surrender, and even though the Spaniards did not know this was an enemy, they knew that this filthy, villainous crew were not friends.

Hakeswill ran into the open valley, his breath harsh in his ears, his feet numbed by the snow, and he glanced left and saw he had far outrun the Fusiliers, and he thought he saw Sharpe, but that was no concern for this moment, and then he saw the Riflemen beyond Sharpe and he feared their weapons so he cut right, sprinting in desperation, the gold in his greatcoat pocket, the musket heavy in his hand. The French! There was nowhere else to go, nowhere! He would offer his services to the French, desert properly, and though it was not much of a choice it was better than being cut down like a dog in this snowfield. He ran for the nearest Battalion of French infantry, a Battalion that retreated towards the village, and then he heard the hooves behind him.

The hooves had been muffled by the snow and he realized, desperately, that the horseman was close. He turned, toothless mouth aghast with the horror, and he saw the lifted weapon that threatened to crush his skull with a heavy brass hilt and he fumbled with his musket, brought it round as he fell away from the downward stroke, and pulled the trigger.

He laughed maniacally. Death, his master, had not deserted him, and this he had prayed for too! Not this way, perhaps, but he laughed as he saw the bullet lift the rider from the horse, a bullet that went through the lower throat, travelling upwards, and death was as swift as death can be. The body was lifted upwards, the horse swerved away, and the body fell, spread-eagled, thumping onto the snow and the rifle, unloaded, that had threatened his life with its brass-bound butt, fell into the coldness.

Hakeswill paused. It was a moment of sweet victory, a moment to be remembered in the days to come, and he gibbered his victory call at the low clouds and his half-naked body jigged with the joy of it! He had lived! Death was still favouring him! And then he turned and ran for the French ranks. 'Don't shoot! Don't shoot!

Hakeswill would live yet! He staggered into the French Battalion, gasping with pained lungs, and he grinned as his head twitched. He had escaped.