Free Sharpe's Enemy by Bernard Cornwell

Pot-au-Feu, took off his hat, wondrously plumed in white, and revealed a face that was almost cherubic. An aging cherub with a halo of white curls, a face that beamed with goodwill and delight. ‘ Mes amis!’ He looked at Sharpe. ‘Parlez-vous Francais?’
    ‘No.’
    He wagged a finger at Sharpe. ‘You should learn the French. A beautiful language! Eh, Colonel?’ He smiled at Dubreton who said nothing. Pot-au-Feu shrugged, laughed, and looked again to Sharpe. ‘My English is very bad. You the Colonel meet, yes?’ He twisted his head as far as the rolls of fat on his neck would allow. ‘Mon Colonel! Mon brave! Ici!’
    ‘Coming, sir, coming! Coming! And here I am!’ The man with the yellow face, the toothless grin, the blue, child-like eyes, and the horrid ungovernable spasms, leaped grotesquely through the door. He was dressed in the uniform of a British Colonel, but the finery did nothing to hide the lumpen gross body or the brute strength that was in his arms and legs.
    The capering figure stopped, half crouching, and stared at Sharpe. The face twitched, the voice cackled, and then the mouth twisted into a smile. ‘Sharpy! Hello Sharpy!’ A string of spittle danced from his lips as the face jerked.
    Sharpe turned calmly towards Harper. ‘Don’t shoot, Sergeant.’
    ‘No, sir.’Harper’s voice was full of loathing. ‘Not yet, sir.’
    ‘Sir! Sir! Sir!’ The yellow face laughed at them as the man who called himself Colonel straightened up. ‘No “sirs” here, no. No bloody airs and bloody graces here.’ The cackle again, obscene and piercing.
    Sharpe had half expected this, and he suspected that Harper had expected it too, yet neither had voiced the fear. Sharpe had hoped that this man was dead, yet this man boasted he could not be killed. Here, in the sunlight of the cloister, spittle dangling from his mouth, stood ex-Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill. Hakeswill.

CHAPTER 5
    Obadiah Hakeswill, the Sergeant who had recruited Sharpe into the army, the man who had caused Sharpe to be flogged in a dusty Indian square. Hakeswill.
    The man who had Harper flogged earlier this same year, who had tried to rape Teresa, Sharpe’s wife, who had held a saw-backed bayonet at the throat of Sharpe’s baby daughter, Antonia. Obadiah Hakeswill.
    The head twitched on its long neck. The spittle dropped in a glittering cartwheel from his mouth. He hawked, spat, and shuffled sideways. This was the man who could not be killed.
    He had been hanged when he was twelve. It was a trumped-up charge of stealing sheep, trumped-up because the vicar whose daughter young Hakeswill had tried to molest did not want to drag his child’s reputation in the mud. The magistrates had been happy to oblige.
    He was the youngest of all the prisoners being hanged that day. The executioner, wanting to please the massed spectators, had not given any of his victims a neck-breaking drop. He had suspended them slowly, letting them hang and throttle themselves to death, letting the crowd enjoy each choking sound, each futile kick, and the executioner had tantalized the crowd by offering to tug on the ankles and responding to their shouts of yes or no. No one cared about the small boy at the end of the gibbet. Hakeswill had hung, feigning death, cunning even as he slipped into nightmare-ridden darkness, and then, before the end, the heavens had opened.
    The street outside the gaol was hammered and sluiced by the cloudburst, lightning slammed and bent the weathercock on the high church steeple, and the wide market street cleared as men, women and children ran for shelter. No one cared as Hakeswill’s uncle cut the small body down. They thought the boy was dead, that the body was being sold to a doctor eager for a fresh corpse to explore, but the uncle took Obadiah into an alleyway, slapped him into consciousness, and told the child to go away, never to return. Hakeswill had obeyed.
    He had started twitching that day and the twitching had not stopped in