Sharpe's Tiger by Bernard Cornwell

never forgotten his dying mother’s words. “No one will ever get rid of Obadiah,” she had said, “not my Obadiah. Death’s too good for him.” The gallows had proved that. Touched by God, he was, indestructible!
    A groan sounded near Hakeswill and the Sergeant snapped out of his reverie to see a tiger-striped Indian struggling to turn onto his belly. Hakeswill scurried over, forced the man onto his back again and placed his halberd’s spear point at the man’s throat. “Money?” Hakeswill snarled, then held out his left hand and motioned the counting of coins. “Money?”
    The man blinked slowly, then said something in his own language.
    â€œI’ll let you live, you bugger,” Hakeswill promised, leering at the wounded man. “Not that you’ll live long. Got a goolie in your belly, see?” He pointed at the wound in the man’s belly where the bullet had driven home. “Now where’s your money? Money! Pice? Dan? Pagodas? Annas? Rupees?”
    The man must have understood for his hand fluttered weakly toward his chest.
    â€œGood boy, now,” Hakeswill said, smiling again, then his face jerked in its involuntary spasms as he pushed the spear point home, but not too quickly for he liked to see the realization of death on a man’s face. “You’re a stupid bugger, too,” Hakeswill said when the man’s death throes had ended, then he cut open the tunic and found that the man had strapped some coins to his chest with a cotton sash. He undid the sash and pocketed the handful of copper change. Not a big haul, but Hakeswill was not dependent on his own plundering to fill his purse. He would take a cut from whatever the soldiers of the Light Company found. They knew they would have to pay up or else face punishment.
    He saw Sharpe kneeling beside a body and hurried across. “Got a sword there, Sharpie?” Hakeswill asked. “Stole it, did you?”
    â€œI killed the man, Sergeant.” Sharpe looked up.
    â€œDoesn’t bleeding matter, does it, lad? You ain’t permitted to carry a sword. Officer ’s weapon, a sword is. Mustn’t get above your station, Sharpie. Get above yourself, boy, and you’ll be cut down. So I’ll take the blade, I will.” Hakeswill half expected Sharpe to resist, but the Private did nothing as the Sergeant picked up the silver-hilted blade. “Worth a few bob, I dare say,” Hakeswill said appreciatively, then he laid the sword’s tip against the stock at Sharpe’s neck. “Which is more than you’re worth, Sharpie. Too clever for your own good, you are.”
    Sharpe edged away from the sword and stood up. “I ain’t got a quarrel with you, Sergeant,” he said.
    â€œBut you do, boy, you do.” Hakeswill grimaced as his face went into spasm. “And you know what the quarrel’s about, don’t you?”
    Sharpe backed away from the sword. “I ain’t got a quarrel with you,” he repeated stubbornly.
    â€œI think our quarrel is called Mrs. Bickerstaff,” Hakeswill said, and grinned when Sharpe said nothing. “I almost got you with that flint, didn’t I? Would have had you flogged raw, boy, and you’d have died of a fever within a week, A flogging does that in this climate. Wears a man down, a flogging does. But you got a friendly officer, don’t you? Mister Lawford. He likes you, does he?” He prodded Sharpe’s chest with the sword’s tip. “Is that what it is? Officer’s pet, are you?”
    â€œMister Lawford ain’t nothing to me,” Sharpe said.
    â€œThat’s what you say, but my eyes tell different.” Hakeswill giggled. “Sweet on each other, are you? You and Mister Lawford? Ain’t that nice, Sharpie, but it don’t make you much use to Mrs. Bickerstaff, does it? Reckon she’d be better off with a real man.”
    â€œShe ain’t your