The door bulged under Harper's boot, the crash spinning Hakeswill round, and then the bolt sheared, the door shook on its hinges, and Hakeswill held the bayonet vertically above Antonia's throat. 'Stop!
Teresa had reached for the rifle. She froze. Harper was through the door and his momentum drove him on to the cot and then he, too, was utterly motionless as he sprawled, on all fours, and stared at the seventeen inch bayonet. Sharpe, the girl behind him, stopped in the doorway and his sword, which had been reaching towards Hakeswill, was suspended in mid lunge so that its blood-thickened tip quivered in the room’s centre.
Hakeswill laughed. 'Bit late, aren't you, Sharpy. They called you that, didn't they, Sharpy? Or Dick. Lucky Sharpe. I remember. Clever little Sharpy, but it didn't stop you being flogged, did it?
Sharpe looked to Harper, Teresa, then back to Hakeswill. He gestured slowly at Knowles's body. 'Did you do this?
Hakeswill cackled and his shoulders heaved. 'Clever little bastard, aren't you, Sharpy? Of course I bloody did it. The little bastard came to protect your lady. He sneered at Teresa. 'My lady, now. Her dress was open at the neck and Hakeswill could see a slim gold cross against her brown skin. He wanted her, he wanted that skin beneath his hands, and he would have her! And kill her! And Sharpe could watch, because none of them would dare touch him while he still threatened the baby.
The girl behind Sharpe moaned and Hakeswill's head twitched towards the door. 'You got a whore there, Sharpy? You have! Bring her in! The girl stepped over Knowles's body and into the room. She moved slowly, terrified of the yellow-skinned, belly-paunched man who held the heaving, sob-racked baby. She went to stand by Harper, her foot kicking Hakeswill's shako mat had fallen from the upset cot. The hat rolled to a stop, upended, by Harper's hand. Hakeswill watched her. 'Very nice. Pretty little missy. He cackled. 'You like the Irishman, do you, dearie? She was shaking at the sight of him, and Hakeswill laughed. 'He's a pig. They all are, the bloody Irish, dirty great pigs. You're better off with me, missy. The blue eyes went back to Sharpe. 'Shut the door, Sharpy. Gently now.
Sharpe shut the door, careful not to alarm the twitching man who held his baby. He could not see Antonia's face, just the great saw-backed bayonet that was above the bundle of bed-clothes. Hakeswill laughed at him. 'Very good. You can watch now, Sharpy. He looked at Harper, frozen grotesquely where he had tripped. 'And you, pig. You can watch. Stand up.
Hakeswill was not sure how he would do this, but he would work something out because he knew that, as long as the child was in his power, then all these people were in it, too. He liked the new girl, Harper's girl by the look of it, and he could take her with him, out into the city, but he would have to kill Sharpe and Harper first because they knew he had killed
Knowles. He shook his head. He would kill them because he hated them! He laughed, then saw that Harper had not moved. 'I told you to stand up, you Irish bastard! Stand!
Harper stood up, his heart beating at the risk, and in his hands he held the shako. He had seen the picture in the crown and he had no real idea who it was, but he stood up, one hand holding the hat, the other reaching inside it. He saw Hakeswill's face show alarm. The bayonet quivered. 'Give it to me. The voice had become whining. 'Give it to me!
'Put the baby down.
No one else moved. Teresa did not understand, nor did Sharpe, and Harper had only the vaguest idea; a hunch, a straw that was the only thing to clutch in this whirling madness. Hakeswill shook, his face jerking spasmodically. 'Give it to me! He was sobbing. 'My Mammy! My Mammy! Give her to me!
The Ulster voice was soft, growling deep from the massive chest. 'I have my nails on her eyes, Hakeswill, soft eyes, soft eyes, and I will claw them out, Hakeswill, claw them out, and your Mammy will scream.
'No! No! No! Hakeswill was swaying, crying, cringing. The baby was crying with him. The yellow face looked at Harper, the voice was pleading. 'Don't do it. Don't do it. Not to my Mammy.
'I will, so I will, and I will, unless you put the baby down, you put the baby down. He spoke in a rhythm, as to a child, and Hakeswill swayed with the rhythm. The head went into violent twitches and, suddenly, the fear was gone and he looked at Harper.
'You think I'm a fool?
'Mother's hurting.
'No! The madness was back, instantly, and Sharpe watched, appalled, as the great shambling man retreated into the insanity that had always seemed close. He was crouching now, knees below the baby, and rocking himself as he wept, though the bayonet was still above the child and Sharpe still dared not move.
'Your Mother's talking to me, Obadiah. The Ulster voice turned Hakeswill's head back to Harper. He was holding the hat by his ear. 'She wants you to put the baby down, put the baby down, she wants you to help her, help her, because she likes her eyes. They're nice eyes, Obadiah, Mother's eyes.
The Sergeant was breathing in short, fast gasps, and he nodded his head. 'I will, I will. Give me my Mother!
'She's coming to you, so she is, but put the baby down, down, down. Harper took one gentle step towards the Sergeant and held the hat out, not far enough, and Hakeswill's face was the face of a child who will do anything not to be whipped. He nodded eagerly, the tears coursing down his cheeks.
'I'm putting baby down, Mother, putting baby down. Obadiah never wanted to hurt baby. And the great blade came up from the throat, the hat was inched nearer, and then Hakeswill, still crying and twitching, put the baby on the bed's coverlet and turned, bullet fast, to snatch at the hat.
'You bastard! Harper pulled the hat back and threw a huge punch. Teresa snatched the child to safety, at the head of the bed, and then turned, the rifle in her hands and she was clawing at the flint. Sharpe lunged with the sword, but Hakeswill was going back from the punch and the blade missed. Hakeswill had fallen, still without the hat, and he reached for it again. The rifle fired, the range less than a yard, but he was still going for the hat and Harper kicked him, sending him backwards, and Sharpe's second blow missed again.
'Stop him! Harper threw the hat behind him and grabbed at Hakeswill. Teresa, not believing that she could have missed with the rifle bullet, swung the empty gun at the Sergeant and the barrel, scything through the air, knocked Harper's arm so that his snatch missed and all he could touch was Hakeswill's haversack. He gripped it, pulled at it, and Hakeswill bellowed at them, swung his own fist, pulled away so that the haversack straps broke and it was left in Harper's hand. Hakeswill looked for the hat. It was gone, beyond Sharpe and his sword, and Hakeswill gave a long, low moan because he had only found his Mother a few days before, and now she was gone. His Mother, the only person who had loved him, who had sent her brother to rescue him from the scaffold, and now he had lost her. He moaned again, slashing with the bayonet, and then jumped for the shattered window, splintered the remains of the shutter, and threw a leg over the balcony. Three people reached for him, but he swung the bayonet, raised his other leg, and jumped.
'Stop! Harper's bellow was not at Hakeswill, but at Sharpe and Teresa who were blocking him. He pushed them aside, unslung the seven-barreled gun that he had not fired in the breach, and put it to his shoulder. Hakeswill was sprawling in the roadway, scrambling to his feet, and it was a shot Harper could not miss. He felt his lips curl into a smile, he pulled the trigger, the gun smacked into his shoulder like a mule's kick, and the window was blotted by smoke. 'Got the bastard!
The cackle came from the road, the jeering cackle, and Harper fanned at the smoke, leaned from the balcony, and there, in the shadows, the lumpen figure was moving away, hatless and gross, the footsteps lost in the city's screaming. He was alive. Harper shook his head. 'You can't kill that bastard!