Bernard Cornwell - Sharpe’s Triumph - The Battle of Assaye, September 1803

‘No, sir,’ Morris said.

‘Miscounted, sir,’ Hakeswill said, ‘on account of it being dark, sir.’ Hakeswill had indeed summoned Morris to the armoury after dark, and there he had hit the Captain with a baulk of timber and, for good measure, had added the contents of a chamber pot that Major Stokes had left outside his office. The sentries had been sheltering from the rain in the guardhouse and none had questioned the sight of Hakeswill dragging the recumbent Morris back to his quarters, for the sight of drunken officers being taken home by sergeants or privates was too common to be remarkable. The important thing was that Morris had not seen who assaulted him and was quite prepared to believe Hakeswill’s version, for Morris relied utterly on Hakeswill in everything. ‘I blames myself, sir,’ Hakeswill went on, ‘on account of not chasing Sharpie, but I thought my duty was to look after my Captain, sir, on account of him being drenched by a slop pot.’

‘Enough, Sergeant!’ Gore said.

‘It ain’t a Christian act, sir,’ Hakeswill muttered resentfully. ‘Not with a jakes pot, sir. Says so in the scriptures.’

Gore rubbed his face. The rain had taken the edge off the damp heat, but not by much, and he found the atmosphere horribly oppressive. Maybe the itch was just a reaction to the heat. He rubbed his hand across his belly, but it did not help. ‘Why would Sergeant Sharpe assault you without warning, Captain?’ he asked.

Morris shrugged. ‘He’s a disagreeable sort, sir,’ he offered weakly.

‘He never liked the Captain, sir, Sharpie didn’t,’ Hakeswill said, ‘and it’s my belief, sir, that he thought the Captain had come to summon him back to the battalion, where he ought to be soldiering instead of living off the fat of the land, but he don’t want to come back, sir, on account of being comfortable, sir, like he’s got no right to be. He never did know his place, sir, not Sharpe, sir. Got above himself, sir, he has, and he’s got cash in his breeches. On the fiddle, I dare say.’

Gore ignored the last accusation. ‘How badly are you hurt?’ he asked Morris.

‘Only cuts and bruises, sir.’ Morris straightened in the chair. ‘But it’s still a court-martial offence, sir.’

‘A capital offence, sir,’ Hakeswill said. ‘Up against the wall, sir, and God have mercy on his black soul, which I very much doubts God will, God having better things to worry about than a sorry piece of scum like Sharpie.’

Gore sighed. He suspected there was a great deal more to the story than he was hearing, but whatever the real facts Captain Morris was still right. All that mattered was that Sergeant Sharpe was alleged to have struck an officer, and no excuse in the world could explain away such an offence. Which meant Sergeant Sharpe would have to be tried and very probably shot, and Gore would regret that for he had heard some very good things of the young Sergeant Sharpe. ‘I had great hopes of Sergeant Sharpe,’ the Colonel said sadly.

‘Got above himself, sir,’ Hakeswill snapped. ‘Just ’cos he blew the mine at Seringapatam, sir, he thinks he’s got wings and can fly. Needs to have his feathers clipped, sir, says so in the scriptures.’

Gore looked scornfully at the twitching Sergeant. ‘And what did you do at the assault of the city, Sergeant?’ he asked.

‘My duty, sir, my duty,’ Hakeswill answered. ‘What is all I ever expects any other man to do, sir.’

Gore shook his head regretfully. There really was no way out of this dilemma. If Sharpe had struck an officer, then Sharpe must be punished. ‘I suppose he’ll have to be fetched back here,’ Gore admitted.

‘Of course,’ Morris agreed.

Gore frowned in irritation. This was all such a damned nuisance! Gore had desperately hoped that the 33rd would be attached to Wellesley’s army, which was about to plunge into Mahratta territory, but instead the battalion had been ordered to stay behind and guard Mysore against the bandits who still plagued the roads and hills. Now, it seemed, over-stretched as the battalion was, Gore would have to detach a party to arrest Sergeant Sharpe. ‘Captain Lawford could go for him,’ he suggested.

‘Hardly a job for an officer, sir,’ Morris said. ‘A sergeant could do the thing just as well.’

Gore considered the matter. Sending a sergeant would certainly be less disruptive to the battalion than losing an officer, and a sergeant could surely do the job as well as anyone. ‘How many men would he need?’ Gore asked.

‘Six men, sir,’ Hakeswill snapped. ‘I could do the job with six men.’

‘And Sergeant Hakeswill’s the best man for the job,’ Morris urged. He had no particular wish to lose Hakeswill’s services for the few days that it would take to fetch Sharpe, but Hakeswill had hinted that there was money in this business. Morris was not sure how much money, but he was in debt and Hakeswill had been persuasive. ‘By far the best man,’ he added.

‘On account of me knowing the little bugger’s cunning ways, sir,’ Hakeswill explained, ‘if you’ll excuse my Hindi.’

Gore nodded. He would like nothing more than to rid himself of Hakeswill for a while, for the man was a baleful influence on the battalion. Hakeswill was hated, that much Gore had learned, but he was also feared, for the Sergeant declared that he could not be killed. He had survived a hanging once, indeed the scar of the rope was still concealed beneath the stiff leather stock, and the men believed that Hakeswill was somehow under the protection of an evil angel. The Colonel knew that was a nonsense, but even so the very presence of the Sergeant made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I’ll have my clerk write the orders for you, Sergeant,’ the Colonel said.

‘Thank you, sir!’ Hakeswill said. ‘You won’t regret it, sir. Obadiah Hakeswill has never shirked his duty, sir, not like some as I could name.’

Gore dismissed Hakeswill who waited for Captain Morris under the building’s porch and watched the rain pelt onto the street. The Sergeant’s face twitched and his eyes held a peculiar malevolence that made the single sentry edge away. But in truth Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill was a happy man. God had put Richard Sharpe into his grasp and he would pay Sharpe back for all the insults of the last few years and especially for the ghastly moment when Sharpe had hurled Hakeswill among the Tippoo Sultan’s tigers. Hakeswill had thought the beasts would savage him, but his luck had held and the tigers had ignored him. It seemed they had been fed not an hour before and thus the guardian angel who preserved Hakeswill had once again come to his rescue.

So now Obadiah Hakeswill would have his revenge. He would choose six men, six bitter men who could be trusted, and they would take Sergeant Sharpe, and afterwards, somewhere on the road home from Seringapatam where there were no witnesses, they would find Sharpe’s money and then finish him. Shot while attempting to escape, that would be the explanation, and good riddance too. Hakeswill was happy and Sharpe was condemned.

Colonel McCandless led Sharpe north towards the wild country where the frontiers of Hyderabad, Mysore and the Mahratta states met. ‘Till I hear otherwise,’ McCandless told Sharpe, ‘I’m assuming our traitor is in Ahmednuggur.’

‘What’s that, sir? A city?’

‘A city and a fort next to each other,’ the Colonel said. McCandless’s big gelding seemed to eat up the miles, but Sharpe’s smaller mare offered a lumpy ride. Within an hour of leaving Seringapatam Sharpe’s muscles were sore, within two he felt as though the backs of his thighs were burning, and by late afternoon the stirrup leathers had abraded through his cotton trousers to grind his calves into bloody patches. ‘It’s one of Scindia’s frontier strongholds,’ the Colonel went on, ‘but I doubt it can hold out long. Wellesley plans to capture it, then strike on north.’