Читать книгу Sharpe 3-Book Collection 1: Sharpe’s Tiger, Sharpe’s Triumph, Sharpe’s Fortress - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 15

It seemed airless inside General Harris’s tent. It was a large tent, as big as a parish marquee, and though both its wide entrances had been brailed back there was no wind to stir the damp air trapped under the high ridge. The light inside the big tent was yellowed by the canvas to the colour of urine and gave the grass underfoot a dank unhealthy look.

Four men waited inside the tent. The youngest and most nervous was William Lawford who, because he was a mere lieutenant and by far the most junior officer present, was sitting far off to one side on a gilt chair of such spindly and fragile construction it seemed a miracle that it had survived its transport on the army’s wagons. Lawford scarcely dared move lest he draw attention to himself, and so he sat awkward and uncomfortable as the sweat trickled down his face and dripped onto the crown of his cocked hat which rested on his thighs.

Opposite Lawford, and utterly ignoring the younger man, sat his Colonel, Arthur Wellesley. The Colonel made small talk, but gruffly, as though he resented being forced to wait. Once or twice he pulled a watch from his fob pocket, snapped open the lid, glared at the revealed face, then restored the watch to his pocket without making a comment.

General Harris, the army’s commander, sat behind a long table that was spread with maps. The commander of the allied armies was a trim, middle-aged man who possessed an uncommon measure of common sense and a great deal of practical ability, and both were qualities he recognized in his younger deputy, Colonel Wellesley. George Harris was an affable man, but now, waiting in the tent’s yellow gloom, he seemed distracted. He stared at the maps, he wiped the sweat from his face with a big blue handkerchief, but he rarely looked up to acknowledge the stilted conversation. Harris was uneasy for, like Wellesley, he did not really approve of what they were about to do. It was not so much the irregularity of the action that concerned the two men, for neither was hidebound, but rather because they suspected that the proposed operation would fail and that two good men, or rather one good man and one bad, would be lost.

The fourth man in the tent refused to sit, but instead strode up and down between the tables and the scatter of flimsy chairs. It was this man who kept alive what little conversation managed to survive the tent’s stiff, damp and airless atmosphere. He jollied his companions, he encouraged them, he tried to amuse them, though every now and then his efforts would fail and then he would stride to one of the tent doorways and stoop to peer out. ‘Can’t be long now,’ he would say each time and then begin his pacing again. His name was Major General David Baird and he was the senior and older of General Harris’s two deputy commanders. Unlike his colleagues he had discarded his uniform coat and waistcoat, stripping down to a dirty, much-darned shirt and letting the braces of his breeches hang down to his knees. His dark hair was damp and tousled, while his broad face was so tanned that, to Lawford’s nervous gaze, Baird looked more like a labourer than a general. The resemblance was even more acute because there was nothing delicate or refined about David Baird’s appearance. He was a huge Scotsman, tall as a giant, broad shouldered and muscled like a coal-heaver. It had been Baird who had persuaded his two colleagues to act, or rather he had persuaded General Harris to act much against that officer’s better judgement, and Baird frankly did not give a tinker’s damn whether Colonel Arthur bloody Wellesley approved or not. Baird disliked Wellesley, and bitterly resented the fact that the younger man had been made into his fellow second-in-command. Baird, never a man to let his grudges simmer unspoken, had protested Arthur Wellesley’s appointment to Harris. ‘If his brother wasn’t Governor-General, Harris, you’d never have promoted him.’

‘Not true, Baird,’ Harris had answered mildly. ‘Wellesley has ability.’

‘Ability, my arse. He’s got family!’ Baird spat.

‘We all have family.’

‘Not prinking English popinjay families with too much bloody money.’

‘He was born in Ireland.’

‘Poor bloody Ireland, then, but he ain’t Irish, Harris, and you know it. The man doesn’t even drink, for God’s sake! A little wine, maybe, but nothing I’d call a proper drink. Have you ever met an Irishman so sober?’

‘Some, quite a few, a good number, to tell the truth,’ Harris, a fair-minded man, had answered honestly, ‘but is inebriation such a desirable quality in a military commander?’

‘Experience is,’ Baird had growled. ‘Hell, man, you and I have seen some service! We’ve lost blood! And what has Wellesley lost? Money! Nothing but money while he purchased his way up to colonel. Man’s never been in a battle!’

‘He will still make a very good second-in-command, and that’s all that matters,’ Harris had insisted, and indeed Harris had been well pleased with Wellesley’s performance. The Colonel’s responsibilities lay mainly with the army of the Nizam of Hyderabad, and he had proved adept at persuading that potentate to submit to Harris’s suggestions, a task Baird could never have performed even half so well for the Scotsman was notorious for his hatred of all Indians.

That hatred went back to the years Baird had spent in the dungeons of the Tippoo Sultan in Seringapatam. Seventeen years before, in battle against the Tippoo’s fierce father, Hyder Ali, the young David Baird had been captured. He and the other prisoners had been marched to Seringapatam and there endured forty-four humiliating months of hot, damp hell in Hyder Ali’s cells. For some of those months Baird had been manacled to the wall and now the Scotsman wanted revenge. He dreamed of carrying his Scottish claymore across the city’s ramparts and cornering the Tippoo, and then, by Christ, the hell of Seringapatam’s cells would be paid back a thousandfold.

It was the memory of that ordeal and the knowledge that his fellow Scotsman, McCandless, was now doomed to endure it, that had persuaded Baird that McCandless must be freed. Colonel McCandless had himself suggested how that release might be achieved for, before setting out on his mission, he had left a letter with David Baird. The letter, which had instructions penned on its cover saying that it should only be opened if McCandless failed to return, suggested that if the Colonel should be captured, and should General Harris feel it was important to make an attempt to release him, then a trusted man should be sent secretly into Seringapatam where he should contact a merchant named Ravi Shekhar. ‘If any man has the resources to free me, it is Shekhar,’ McCandless had written, ‘though I trust both you and the General will weigh well the risk of losing such a prized informant against whatever small advantages might be gained from my release.’

Baird had no doubts about McCandless’s worth. McCandless alone knew the identities of the British agents in the Tippoo’s service and no one in the army knew as much of the Tippoo as did McCandless, and Baird was aware that should the Tippoo ever discover McCandless’s true responsibilities then McCandless would be given to the tigers. It was Baird who had remembered that McCandless’s English nephew, William Lawford, was serving in the army, and Baird who had persuaded Lawford to enter Seringapatam in an effort to free McCandless, and Baird who had then proposed the mission to General Harris. Harris had initially scorned the idea, though he had unbent sufficiently to suggest that maybe an Indian volunteer could be found who would stand a much greater chance of remaining undetected in the enemy capital, but Baird had vigorously defended his choice. ‘This is too important to be left to some blackamoor, Harris, and besides, only McCandless knows which of the bastards can be trusted. Me, I wouldn’t trust any damned one of them.’

Harris had sighed. He led two armies, fifty thousand men, and all but five thousand of those soldiers were Indians, and if ‘blackamoors’ could not be trusted then Harris, Baird and everyone else was doomed, but the General knew he would make no headway against Baird’s stubborn dislike of all Indians. ‘I would like McCandless freed,’ Harris had allowed, ‘but, upon my soul, Baird, I can’t see a white man living long in Seringapatam.’

‘We can’t send a blackamoor,’ Baird had insisted. ‘They’ll take money from us, then go straight to the Tippoo and get more money from him. Then you can kiss farewell to McCandless and to this Shekhar fellow.’

‘But why send this young man Lawford?’ Harris had asked.

‘Because McCandless is a secretive fellow, sir, more cautious than most, and if he sees Willie Lawford then he’ll know that we sent him, but if it’s some other British fellow he might think it’s some deserter sent to trap him by the Tippoo. Never underestimate the Tippoo, Harris, he’s a clever little bastard. He reminds me of Wellesley. He’s always thinking.’

Harris had grunted. He had resisted the idea, but it had still tempted him, for the Havildar who had survived McCandless’s ill-starred expedition had returned to the army, and his story suggested that McCandless had met with the man he hoped to meet, and, though Harris did not know who that man was, he did know that McCandless had been searching for the key to the Tippoo’s city. Only a mission so important, a mission that could guarantee success, had persuaded Harris to allow McCandless to risk himself, and now McCandless was taken and Harris was being offered a chance to fetch him back, or at least to retrieve McCandless’s news, even if the Colonel himself could not be fetched out of the Tippoo’s dungeons. Harris was not so confident of British success in the campaign that he could disregard such a windfall. ‘But how in God’s name is this fellow Lawford supposed to survive inside the city?’ Harris had asked.

‘Easy!’ Baird had answered scornfully. ‘The Tippoo’s only too damned eager for European volunteers, so we dress young Lawford in a private’s uniform and he can pretend to be a deserter. He’ll be welcomed with open arms! They’ll be hanging bloody flowers round his neck and giving him first choice of the bibbis.’

Harris had slowly allowed himself to be persuaded, though Wellesley, once introduced to the idea, had advised against it. Lawford, Wellesley insisted, could never pass himself off as an enlisted man, but Wellesley had been overruled by Baird’s enthusiasm and so Lieutenant Lawford had been summoned to Harris’s tent where he had complicated matters by agreeing with his Colonel. ‘I’d dearly like to help, sir,’ he had told Harris, ‘but I’m not sure I’m capable of the pretence.’

‘Good God, man,’ Baird intervened, ‘spit and swear! It ain’t difficult!’

‘It will be very difficult,’ Harris had insisted, staring at the diffident Lieutenant. He was doubtful whether Lawford had the resources to carry off the deception, for the Lieutenant, while plainly a decent man, seemed guileless.

Then Lawford had complicated matters still further. ‘I think it would be more plausible, sir,’ he suggested respectfully, ‘if I could take another man with me. Deserters usually run in pairs, don’t they? And if the man is the genuine article, a ranker, it’ll be altogether more convincing.’

‘Makes sense, makes sense,’ Baird had put in encouragingly.

‘You have a man in mind?’ Wellesley had asked coldly.

‘His name is Sharpe, sir,’ Lawford said. ‘They’re probably about to flog him.’

‘Then he’ll be no damned use to you,’ Wellesley said in a tone which suggested the matter was now closed.

‘I’ll go with no one else, sir,’ Lawford retorted stubbornly, addressing himself to General Harris rather than to his Colonel, and Harris was pleased to see this evidence of backbone. The Lieutenant, it seemed, was not quite so diffident as he appeared.

‘How many lashes is this fellow getting?’ Harris asked.

‘Don’t know, sir. He’s standing trial now, sir, and if I wasn’t here I’d be giving evidence on his behalf. I doubt his guilt.’

The argument over whether to employ Sharpe had continued over a midday meal of rice and stewed goat. Wellesley was refusing to intervene in the court martial or its subsequent punishment, declaring that such an act would be prejudicial to discipline, but William Lawford stubbornly and respectfully refused to take any other man. It had, he said, to be a man he could trust. ‘We could send another officer,’ Wellesley had suggested, but that idea had faltered when the difficulties of finding a reliable volunteer were explored. There were plenty of men who might go, but few were steady, and the steady ones would be too sensible to risk their precious commissions on what Wellesley scathingly called a fool’s errand. ‘So why are you willing to go?’ Harris had asked Lawford. ‘You don’t look like a fool.’

‘I trust I’m not, sir. But my uncle gave me the money to purchase my commission.’

‘Did he, by God! That’s damned generous.’

‘And I hope I’m damned grateful, sir.’

‘Grateful enough to die for him?’ Wellesley put in sourly.

Lawford had coloured, but stuck to his guns. ‘I suspect Private Sharpe is resourceful enough for both of us, sir.’

The decision whether or not to employ Sharpe belonged, in the end, to General Harris who privately agreed with Wellesley that to spare a man his well-earned punishment was to display a dangerous laxity, but at last, persuaded that extraordinary measures were needed to save McCandless, the General surrendered to Baird’s enthusiasm and so, with a heavy heart, Harris had ordered the unfortunate Sharpe fetched to the tent. Which was why, at long last, Private Richard Sharpe limped into the wan, yellow light cast through the tent’s high canvas. He was dressed in a clean uniform, but everyone in the tent could see that he was still in dreadful pain. He moved stiffly, and the stiffness was not just caused by the yards of bandage that circled his torso, but by the agony of every movement of his body. He had tried to wash the blood out of his hair and had succeeded in taking out most of the powder as well so that when Colonel Wellesley told him to take off his shako he appeared with curiously mottled hair.

‘I think you’d better sit, man,’ General Baird suggested, with a glance at Harris for his permission.

‘Fetch that stool,’ Harris ordered Sharpe, then saw that the private could not bend down to pick it up.

Baird fetched the stool. ‘Is it hurting?’ he asked sympathetically.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It’s supposed to hurt,’ Wellesley said curtly. ‘Pain is the point of punishment.’ He kept his back to Sharpe, pointedly demonstrating his disapproval. ‘I do not like cancelling a flogging,’ Wellesley went on to no one in particular. ‘It erodes good order. Once men think their sentences can be curtailed, then God only knows what roguery they’ll be up to.’ He suddenly twisted in his chair and gave Sharpe an icy glare. ‘If I had my way, Private Sharpe, I’d march you back to the triangle and finish the job.’

‘I doubt Private Sharpe even deserved the punishment,’ Lawford dared to intervene, blushing as he did.

‘The time for that sentiment, Lieutenant, was during the court martial!’ Wellesley snapped, his tone suggesting that it would have been a wasted sentiment anyway. ‘You’ve been lucky, Private Sharpe,’ Wellesley said with distaste. ‘I shall announce that you’ve been spared the rest of your punishment as a reward for fighting well the other day. Did you fight well?’

Sharpe nodded. ‘Killed my share of the enemy, sir.’

‘So I’m commuting your sentence. And tonight, damn your eyes, you’ll reward me by deserting.’

Sharpe wondered if he had heard right, decided it was best not to ask, and so he looked away from the Colonel, composed his face, and stared fixedly at the wall of the tent.

‘Have you ever thought about deserting, Sharpe?’ General Baird asked him.

‘Me, sir?’ Sharpe managed to look surprised. ‘Not me, sir, no, sir. Never crossed my mind, sir.’

Baird smiled. ‘We need a good liar for this particular service. So maybe you’re an excellent choice, Sharpe. Besides, anyone who looks at your back will know why you wanted to desert.’ Baird liked that idea and his face betrayed a sudden enthusiasm. ‘In fact if you hadn’t already conveniently had yourself flogged, man, we might have had to give you a few lashes anyway!’ He smiled.

Sharpe did not smile back. Instead he looked warily from one officer to the other. He could see that Mister Lawford was nervous, Baird was doing his best to be friendly, General Harris’s face was unreadable, while Colonel Wellesley had turned away in disgust. But Wellesley had always been a cold fish, so there was no point in trying to gain his approval. Baird was the man who had saved him, Sharpe guessed, and that fitted with Baird’s reputation in the army. The Scotsman was a soldier’s general, a brave man and well liked by the troops.

Baird smiled again, trying to put Sharpe at his ease. ‘Let me explain why you’re running, Sharpe. Three days ago we lost a good man, a Colonel McCandless. The Tippoo’s forces captured him and, so far as we know, they took him back to Seringapatam. We want you to go to that city and be captured by the Tippoo’s forces. Are you understanding me this far?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe said obediently.

‘Good man. Now, when you reach Seringapatam the Tippoo will want you to join his army. He likes to have white men in his ranks, so you won’t have any trouble taking his shilling. And once you’re trusted your job is to find Colonel McCandless and bring him out alive. Are you still following me, now?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe said stoically, and wondered why they did not first ask him to hop over to London and steal the crown jewels. Bloody idiots! Put a bit of gold lace on a man’s coat and his brain turned to mush! Still, they were doing what he wanted them to do, which was kicking him out of the army and so he sat very still, very quiet and very straight, not so much out of respect, but because his back hurt like the very devil every time he moved.

‘You won’t be going alone,’ Baird told Sharpe. ‘Lieutenant Lawford volunteered your services and he’s going as well. He’ll pretend to be a private and a deserter, and your job is to look after him.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe said, and hid his dismay that perhaps things were not going to be quite so easy after all. He could not just run now, not with Lawford tied to his apron strings. He glanced at the Lieutenant, who gave him a reassuring smile.

‘The thing is, Sharpe,’ Lawford said, still smiling, ‘I’m not too certain I can pass myself off as a private. But they’ll believe you, and you can say I’m a new recruit.’

A new recruit! Sharpe almost laughed. You could no more pass the Lieutenant off as a new recruit than you could pass Sharpe off as an officer! He had an idea then, and the idea surprised him, not because it was a good idea, but because it implied he was suddenly trying to make this idiotic scheme work. ‘Better if you said you was a company clerk, sir.’ He muttered the words too softly, made shy by the presence of so many senior officers.

‘Speak up, man!’ Wellesley snarled.

‘It would be better, sir,’ Sharpe said so loudly that he was verging on insolence, ‘if the Lieutenant said he was a company clerk, sir.’

‘A clerk?’ Baird asked. ‘Why?’

‘He’s got soft hands, sir. Clean hands, sir. Clerks don’t muck about in the dirt like the rest of us. And recruits, sir, they’re usually just as filthy-handed as the rest of us. But not clerks, sir.’ Harris, who had been writing, looked up with a faint expression of admiration. ‘Put some ink on his hands, sir,’ Sharpe still spoke to Baird, ‘and he won’t look wrong.’

‘I like it, Sharpe, indeed I do!’ Baird said. ‘Well done.’

Wellesley sneered, then pointedly stared through one of the tent openings as though he found the proceedings tiresome. General Harris looked at Lawford. ‘You could manage to play the part of a disgruntled clerk, Lieutenant?’ he asked.

‘Oh, indeed, sir. I’m sure, sir.’ Lawford at last sounded confident.

‘Good,’ Harris said, laying down his pen. The General wore a wig to hide the scar where an American bullet had torn away a scrap of his skull on Bunker Hill. Now, unconsciously, he lifted a corner of the wig and scratched at that old scar. ‘And I suppose, once you reach the city, you contact this merchant. Remind me of his name, Baird?’

‘Ravi Shekhar, sir.’

‘And what if this fellow Shekhar ain’t there?’ Harris asked. ‘Or won’t help?’ There was silence after the question. The sentries outside the tent, moved far enough away so they could not overhear the conversation, stamped up and down. A dog barked. ‘You have to anticipate these things,’ Harris said mildly, scratching again under his wig. Wellesley offered a harsh laugh, but no suggestion.

‘If Ravi Shekhar won’t help us, sir,’ Baird suggested, ‘then Lawford and Sharpe must get themselves into McCandless’s jail, then find a way of getting themselves out.’ The Scotsman turned to Sharpe. ‘Were you by any chance a thief before you joined up?’

A heartbeat’s hesitation, then Sharpe nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘What kind of a thief?’ Wellesley asked in a disgusted voice as though he was astonished to discover the ranks of his battalion contained criminals, and, when Sharpe did not answer, the Colonel became even more irritable. ‘A diver? A scamp?’

Sharpe was surprised that his Colonel even knew such slang. He shook his head indignantly, denying he had ever been a mere pickpocket or a highwayman. ‘I was a house boner, sir,’ he said. ‘And proper trained too,’ he added proudly. In fact he had done his share on the highway, not so much holding up coaches as slicing the leather straps that held the passengers’ portmanteaus on the back of coaches. The job was done while the coach was speeding along a road so that the noise of the hooves and wheels would hide the sound of the tumbling luggage. It was a job for agile youngsters and Sharpe had been good at it.

‘A house boner means he was a burglar,’ Wellesley translated for his two senior officers, unable to hide his scorn.

Baird was pleased with Sharpe’s answers. ‘Do you still have a picklock, Private?’

‘Me, sir? No, sir. But I suppose I could find one, sir, if I had a guinea.’

Baird laughed, suspecting the true cost was nearer a shilling, but he still went to his coat which was hanging from a hook on one of the tent poles and fished out a guinea which he tossed onto Sharpe’s lap. ‘Find one before tonight, Private Sharpe,’ he said, ‘for who knows, it might be useful.’ He turned to Harris. ‘But I doubt it will come to that, sir. I pray it doesn’t come to that for I’m not sure that any man, even Private Sharpe here, can escape from the Tippoo’s dungeons.’ The tall General turned back to Sharpe. ‘I was near four years in those cells, Sharpe, and in all that time not one man escaped. Not one.’ Baird paced restlessly as he remembered the ordeal. ‘The Tippoo’s cells have barred doors with padlocks, so your picklock could take care of that, but when I was there we always had four jailers in the daytime, and some days there were even jettis on guard.’

‘Jettis, sir?’ Lawford asked.

‘Jettis, Lieutenant. The Tippoo inherited a dozen of the bastards from his father. They’re professional strongmen and their favourite trick is executing prisoners. They have several ways of doing it, none of them pleasant. You want to know their methods?’

‘No, sir,’ Lawford said hurriedly, blanching at the thought. Sharpe was disappointed, but dared not ask for the details.

Baird grimaced. ‘Very unpleasant executions, Lieutenant,’ he said grimly. ‘You still want to go?’

Lawford remained pale, but nodded. ‘I think it’s worth a try, sir.’

Wellesley snorted at the Lieutenant’s foolishness, but Baird ignored the Colonel. ‘At night the guards are withdrawn,’ he went on, ‘but there’s still a sentry.’

‘Just one?’ Sharpe asked.

‘Just one, Private,’ Baird confirmed.

‘I can take care of one sentry, sir,’ Sharpe boasted.

‘Not this one,’ Baird said grimly, ‘because when I was there he was eight feet long if he was an inch. He was a tiger, Sharpe. A man-eater, and the eight foot don’t count his tail. He used to be put in the corridor every night, so pray you don’t ever end up in the Tippoo’s cells. Pray that Ravi Shekhar will know how to get McCandless out.’

‘Or at the very least,’ Harris intervened, ‘pray that Shekhar can discover what McCandless knows and that you can get that news out to us.’

‘So that’s what we want of you!’ Baird said to Sharpe with a brusque cheerfulness. ‘Are you willing to go, man?’

Sharpe reckoned it was all idiocy, and he did not much like the sound of the tiger, but he knew better than to show any reluctance. ‘I reckon three is better than two thousand, sir,’ he said.

‘Three?’ Baird asked, puzzled.

‘Three stripes are better than two thousand lashes, sir. If we find out what you want to know or else fetch this Colonel McCandless out of jail, sir, can I be a sergeant?’ He asked the question of Wellesley.

Wellesley looked enraged at Sharpe’s presumption, and for a second it was plain that he proposed to turn him down, but General Harris cleared his throat and mildly remarked that it sounded a reasonable suggestion to him.

Wellesley thought about opposing the General, then decided that it was most unlikely that Sharpe would even survive this nonsense and so, albeit reluctantly, he nodded. ‘A sergeant’s stripes, Sharpe, if you succeed.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Sharpe said.

Baird dismissed him. ‘Go with Lieutenant Lawford now, Sharpe, he’ll tell you what to do. And one other thing …’ The Scotsman’s voice became urgent. ‘For God’s sake, man, don’t tell another soul what you’re doing.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,’ Sharpe said, flinching as he stood up.

‘Go then,’ Baird said. He waited till the two men were gone, then sighed. ‘A bright young fellow, that Sharpe.’ He spoke to Harris.

‘A rogue,’ Wellesley interjected. ‘I could provide you with a hundred others just as disreputable. Scum, all of them, and the only thing that keeps them from riot is discipline.’

Harris rapped the table to stop the squabbling of his two seconds-in-command. ‘But will the rogue succeed?’ he asked.

‘Not a chance,’ Wellesley said confidently.

‘A woefully small chance,’ Baird admitted dourly, then added more vigorously, ‘but even a small chance is worth it if we can get McCandless back.’

‘At the risk of losing two good men?’ Harris asked.

‘One man who might become a decent officer,’ Wellesley corrected the General, ‘and one man whose loss the world won’t mourn for a second.’

‘But McCandless might hold the key to the city, General,’ Baird reminded Harris.

‘True,’ Harris said heavily, then unrolled a map that had lain scrolled on the edge of his table. The map showed Seringapatam and whenever he gazed at it he wondered how he was to set about besieging the city. Lord Cornwallis, who had captured the city seven years before, had assaulted the north side of the island and then attacked the eastern walls, but Harris doubted that he would be given that route again. The Tippoo would have been forewarned by that earlier success, which meant this new assault must come from either the south or the west. A dozen deserters from the enemy’s forces had all claimed that the west wall was in bad repair, and maybe that would give Harris his best chance. ‘South or west,’ he said aloud, reiterating the problem he had already discussed a score of times with his two deputies. ‘But either way, gentlemen, the place is crammed with guns, thick with rockets and filled with infantry. And we’ll have only the one chance before the rains come. Just one. West or south, eh?’ He stared at the map, hoping against hope that McCandless could be fetched from his dungeon to offer some guidance, but that, he admitted to himself, was a most unlikely outcome, which meant the decision would inevitably be all his to make. The final decision could wait till the army was close to the city and Harris had been given a chance to view the Tippoo’s defences, but once the army was ready to make camp the choice would have to be made swiftly and, all things being equal, Harris was fairly sure which route he would choose. For weeks now his instinct had been telling him where to attack, but he worried that the Tippoo might have foreseen the weakness in his city’s defences. But there was no point in wondering whether the Tippoo was outfoxing him, that way lay indecision, and so Harris tapped his quill on the map. ‘My instincts tell me to attack here, gentlemen, right here.’ He was indicating the west wall. ‘Across the river shallows and right through the weakest stretch of the walls. It seems the obvious place.’ He tapped the map again. ‘Right here, right here.’

Right where the Tippoo had set his trap.

Allah, in His infinite mercy, had been good to the Tippoo Sultan, for Allah, in His immeasurable wisdom, had revealed the existence of a merchant who was sending information to the British army. The man dealt in common metals, in copper, tin and brass, and his wagons frequently passed through one of the city’s two main gates loaded with their heavy cargoes. God alone knows how many such cargoes had passed out of Seringapatam in the last three months, but at least the gate guards had searched the right wagon, the one that carried a coded letter which, under interrogation, the wretched merchant had admitted contained a report of the strange work that was being done in the old closed gateway of the western wall. That work should have been a close secret, for the only men allowed near the gateway were Gudin’s reliable European troops and a small band of the Tippoo’s Muslim warriors whom he regarded as utterly trustworthy. The merchant, not surprisingly, was a Hindu, but when his wife was brought into the interrogation room and threatened with the red-hot pincers, the merchant had confessed the name of the Muslim soldier who had allowed himself to be suborned by the merchant’s gold. And so much gold! A strongroom filled with the metal, far more than the Tippoo suspected could be earned from trading in tin, brass and copper. It was British gold, the merchant confessed, given him so he could raise rebellion inside Seringapatam.

The Tippoo did not consider himself a cruel man, but nor, indeed, did he think of himself as a gentle one. He was a ruler, and cruelty and mercy were both weapons of rulers. Any monarch who flinched from cruelty would not rule long, just as any ruler who forgot mercy would soon earn hatred, and so the Tippoo tried to balance mercy with cruelty. He did not want the reputation of being lenient any more than he wanted to be judged a tyrant, and so he tried to use both mercy and cruelty judiciously. The Hindu merchant, his confession made, had pleaded for mercy, but the Tippoo knew this was no time to show weakness. This was the time to let a shudder of horror ripple through the streets and alleys of Seringapatam. It was a time to let his enemies know that the price for treason was death, and so both the merchant and the Muslim soldier who had taken the merchant’s gold were now standing on the hot sand of the Inner Palace’s courtyard where they were being guarded by two of the Tippoo’s favoured jettis.

The jettis were Hindus, and their strength, which was remarkable, was devoted to their religion. That amused the Tippoo. Some Hindus sought the rewards of godliness by growing their hair and fingernails, others by denying themselves food, still others by abjuring all earthly pleasures, but the jettis did it by developing their muscles, and the results, the Tippoo admitted, were extraordinary. He might disagree with their religion, but he encouraged them all the same and like his father he had hired a dozen of the most impressive strongmen to amuse and serve him. Two of the finest now stood beneath the throne-room balcony, stripped to their waists and with their vast chests oiled so that their muscles shone dark in the early-afternoon sun. The six tigers, restless because they had been denied their midday meal of freshly slaughtered goat meat, glared with yellow eyes from the courtyard’s edges.

The Tippoo came from his prayers to the balcony where he threw open the filigree shutters so that he and his entourage could view the courtyard clearly. Colonel Gudin was in attendance, as was Appah Rao. Both men had been summoned from the city ramparts where they had been making the last preparations for the arrival of the British. Gun carriages were being repaired, ammunition being laid down in magazines deep enough to be shielded from the fall of enemy howitzer shells, while dozens of rockets were in the ready magazines on the ramparts’ firesteps. The Tippoo liked to tour his defences where he could imagine his rockets and shells searing down into the enemy ranks, but now, in the courtyard of his Inner Palace, he had an even more pleasurable duty to perform. He would kill traitors. ‘Both men betrayed me,’ he told Colonel Gudin through the interpreter, ‘and one is also a spy. What would you do in France with such men, Colonel?’

‘Send them to Madame Guillotine, Your Majesty.’

The Tippoo chuckled when the answer was translated. He was curious about the guillotine and at one time he had thought of having such a machine built in the city. He was fascinated by all things French and indeed, when the revolution had swept France and destroyed the ancien régime, the Tippoo had for a time embraced the new ideas of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity. He had erected a Tree of Liberty in Seringapatam, ordered his guards to wear the red hats of the revolution, and had even ordered revolutionary declarations to be posted in the city’s main streets, but the fascination had not endured. The Tippoo had begun to fear that his people might become too fond of liberty, or even infected with equality, and so he had removed the Tree of Liberty and had the declarations torn down, yet still the Tippoo treasured a love of France. He had never built the guillotine, not for lack of funds, but rather because Gudin had persuaded him that the machine was a device of mercy, constructed to end a criminal’s life with such swiftness that the victim would never even realize he was being killed. It was an ingenious device, the Tippoo admitted, but much too merciful. How could such a machine deter traitors?

‘That man’ – the Tippoo now pointed to the Muslim soldier who had betrayed the secrets of the gatehouse – ‘will be killed first and then his body will be fed to pigs. I can think of no fate worse for a Muslim, and believe me, Colonel, he fears the pigs more than he fears his death. The other man will feed my tigers and his bones will be ground to powder and delivered to his widow. Their deaths will be short, not perhaps as quick as your machine, Colonel, but still mercifully short.’ He clapped his hands and the two chained prisoners were dragged forward until they stood in the centre of the courtyard.

The Muslim soldier was forced to his knees. His tiger-striped uniform had been stripped from him and now he wore nothing but a short pair of loose cotton breeches. He stared up at the Tippoo who was gaudy in a yellow silk tunic and a jewelled turban, and the man raised his manacled hands in a mute appeal for clemency that the Tippoo ignored. Gudin tensed himself. He had seen the jettis at work before, but familiarity did not make the spectacle any more pleasant.

The first jetti placed a nail on the crown of the victim’s bare head. The nail was of black iron and had a six-inch shank that was topped by a flat head that was a good three inches wide. The man held the nail in place with his left hand, then looked up at the balcony. The doomed soldier, feeling the touch of the iron point on his scalp, called for forgiveness. The Tippoo listened for a second to the soldier’s desperate excuses, then pointed a finger at him. The Tippoo held the finger steady for a few seconds and the soldier held his breath as he dared to believe he might be forgiven, but then the Tippoo’s hand abruptly dropped.

The jetti raised his right hand, its palm facing downwards, then took a deep breath. He paused, summoning his huge strength, then he slapped the hand fast down so that his open palm struck the nail’s flat top. He shouted aloud as he struck, and at the very instant that his right hand slapped the nail so he snatched his left hand away from the long shank which was driven hard and deep into the soldier’s skull. It went so deep that the nail’s flat head crushed the prisoner’s black hair. Blood spurted from under the nail as its shank slammed home. The jetti stepped away, gesturing at the nail as if to show how much strength had been needed to so drive it through the thick bone of the skull. The traitor still lived. He was babbling and shrieking, and blood was spilling down his face in quick lacing rivulets as he swayed on his knees. His body was shaking, but then, quite suddenly, his back arched, he stared wide-eyed up at the Tippoo and then fell forward. His body shuddered twice, then was still. One of the six chained tigers stirred at the smell of blood and padded forward until its chain stretched to its full length and so held it back. The beast growled, then settled down to watch the second man die.

The Tippoo and his entourage applauded the first jetti’s skill, then the Tippoo pointed at the wretched Hindu merchant. This second prisoner was a big man, fat as butter, and his gross size would only make the second demonstration all the more impressive.

The first jetti, his execution successfully completed, fetched a stool from the gateway. He set it down and forced the fat, weeping merchant onto its seat. Then he knelt in front of the chair and pinned the man’s manacled arms down tight against his sagging belly so that he could not move. The chair faced the Tippoo and the kneeling jetti made certain he stayed low so that he would not spoil his master’s view. ‘It takes more strength than you would think,’ the Tippoo remarked to Gudin, ‘to drive a nail into a skull.’

‘So Your Majesty has been kind enough to inform me before,’ Gudin answered drily.

The Tippoo laughed. ‘You do not enjoy this, Colonel?’

‘The death of traitors is ever necessary, sire,’ Gudin said evasively.

‘But I should like to think you derive amusement from it. Surely you appreciate my men’s strength?’

‘I do admire it, sire.’

‘Then admire it now,’ the Tippoo said, ‘for the next death takes even more strength than the nail.’ The Tippoo smiled and turned back to look into the courtyard where the second jetti waited behind the prisoner. The Tippoo pointed at the merchant, held the gesture as before, then dropped his hand abruptly. The merchant screamed in anticipation, then began to shake like a leaf as the jetti placed his hands against the sides of the merchant’s skull. His touch was gentle at first, almost a caress. His palms covered the merchant’s ears as his fingers groped to find a purchase among the skull bones beneath the victim’s fat cheeks. Then the jetti suddenly tightened his grip, distorting the plump face, and the merchant’s scream became frantic until, at last, he had no breath left to scream and could only mew in terror. The jetti drew breath, paused to concentrate all his force, then gave a great shout that made the six tigers leap to their feet in alarm.

As he shouted the jetti twisted the merchant’s head. He was wringing his victim’s neck like a man would wring a chicken’s gullet, only this neck was thick and fat, but the jetti’s first great effort twisted it so far around that the face was already looking back across its right shoulder when the executioner made his second effort, marked by a grunt, which pulled the head all the way around and Gudin, flinching from the sight on the balcony, heard the distinct crack as the merchant’s spine was broken. The jetti let go of the head and sprang back, proud of his work as the dead merchant collapsed off the stool. The Tippoo applauded, then tossed down two small bags of gold. ‘Take that one to the pigs,’ he said, pointing at the Muslim. ‘And leave the other here. Let the tigers loose.’

The balcony shutters were closed. Somewhere deep in the palace, perhaps from the harem where the Tippoo’s six hundred wives, concubines and handmaidens all lived, a harp tinkled prettily, while down in the courtyard the tigers’ keepers used their long staves to herd the beasts as they released them from their chains. The Tippoo smiled at his followers. ‘Back to the walls, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We have work to do.’

The keepers released the last tiger, then followed the jettis out through the gateway. The dead soldier had been dragged away. For a moment the tigers watched the remaining body, then one of the beasts crossed to the merchant’s corpse and eviscerated the fat belly with one blow of its huge paw.

And so Ravi Shekhar had died. And now was eaten.

Sharpe was back with his company before sunset. He was greeted ebulliently by men who saw in his release from the flogging a small victory for the lower ranks against blind authority. Private Mallinson even clapped Sharpe on the back, and was rewarded with a stream of curses.

Sharpe ate with his usual six companions who, as ever, were joined by three wives and by Mary. The supper was a stew of beans, rice and salt beef, and it was at the end of the small meal, when they were sharing a canteen of arrack, that Sergeant Hakeswill appeared. ‘Private Sharpe!’ He was carrying a cane that he pointed towards Sharpe. ‘I wants you!’

‘Sergeant.’ Sharpe acknowledged Hakeswill, but did not move.

‘A word with you, Private. On your feet now!’

Sharpe still did not move. ‘I’m excused company duties, Sergeant. Colonel’s orders.’

Hakeswill’s face wrenched itself in a grotesque twitch. ‘This ain’t your duty,’ the Sergeant said, ‘this is your bleeding pleasure. So get on your bloody feet and come here.’

Sharpe obediently stood, flinching as his coat tugged at his grievously wounded back. He followed the Sergeant to an open space behind the surgeon’s tent where Hakeswill turned and rammed his cane into Sharpe’s chest. ‘How the hell did you escape that flogging, Sharpie?’

Sharpe ignored the question. Hakeswill’s broken nose was still swollen and bruised, and Sharpe could see the worry in the Sergeant’s eyes.

‘Didn’t you hear me, boy?’ Hakeswill shoved the cane’s tip into Sharpe’s belly. ‘How come you was cut down?’

‘How come you were cut down from the scaffold, Sergeant?’ Sharpe asked.

‘No lip from you, boy. No lip, or by God I’ll have you strapped to the tripod again. Now tell me what the General wanted.’

Sharpe shook his head. ‘If you want to know that, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘you’d better ask General Harris yourself.’

‘Stand still! Stand straight!’ Hakeswill snapped, then cut with his cane at a nearby guy rope. He sniffed, wondering how best to worm the information out of Sharpe and decided, for a change, to try gentleness. ‘I admire you, Sharpie,’ the Sergeant said hoarsely. ‘Not many men have the guts to walk after getting two hundred tickles of the whip. Takes a strong man to do that, Sharpie, and I’d hate to see you getting even more tickles. It’s in your best interest to tell me, Sharpie. You know that. It’ll go bad with you else. So why was you released, lad?’

Sharpe pretended to relent. ‘You know why I was released, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘The Colonel announced it.’

‘No, I don’t know, lad,’ Hakeswill said. ‘Upon my soul, I don’t. So you tell me now.’

Sharpe shrugged. ‘Because we fought well the other day, Sergeant. It’s a reward, like.’

‘No, it bleeding ain’t!’ Hakeswill shouted, then dodged to one side and slashed his cane onto Sharpe’s wounded back. Sharpe almost screamed with the pain. ‘You don’t get called away to a general’s tent for that, Sharpie!’ Hakeswill said. ‘Stands to reason! Never heard nothing like it in all my born days. So you tell me why, you bastard.’

Sharpe turned to face his persecutor. ‘You lay that cane on me again, Obadiah,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll tell General Harris about you. I’ll have you skinned of your stripes, I will, and turned back into a private. Would you like that, Obadiah? You and me in the same file? I’d like that, Obadiah.’

‘Stand still!’ Hakeswill spat.

‘Shut your face, Sergeant,’ Sharpe said. He had called Hakeswill’s bluff, and there was pleasure in that. The Sergeant had doubtless thought he could bully the truth out of Sharpe, but Sharpe held all the trump cards here. ‘How’s your nose?’ he asked Hakeswill.

‘Be careful, Sharpie. Be careful.’

‘Oh, I am, Sergeant, I am. I’m real careful. Have you done now?’ Sharpe did not wait for an answer, but just walked away. The next time he faced Obadiah, he thought, he would have the stripes on his sleeve, and God help Hakeswill then.

He talked to Mary for half an hour, then it was time to make the excuses that Lieutenant Lawford had rehearsed with him. He picked up his pack, took his musket, and said he had to report to the paymaster’s tent. ‘I’m on light duties till the stripes heal,’ he told his mates, ‘doing sentry-go on the money. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Major General Baird had made all the arrangements. The camp’s western perimeter was guarded by men he could trust, and those men had orders to disregard anything they saw, while next day, Baird promised Lawford, the army would take care not to send any cavalry patrols directly west in case those patrols discovered the two fugitives. ‘Your job is to go as far west as you can tonight,’ Baird told Sharpe and Lawford when he met them close to the western picquet line, ‘and then keep walking west in the morning. You understand now?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Lawford answered. The Lieutenant, beneath a heavy cloak that disguised his uniform, was now dressed in the common soldier’s red wool coat and white trousers. Sharpe had tugged Lawford’s hair back, then wrapped it round the leather pad to form the queue, and after that he had smothered it with a mix of grease and powder so that Lawford looked no different from any other private except that his hands were still too soft, but at least they now had ink under the fingernails and ground into the pores. Lawford had grimaced as Sharpe had tugged at his hair, and protested when Sharpe had gouged two marks in his neck where a stock would have scraped twin calluses, but Baird had hushed him. Lawford winced again when he put on the leather stock and realized just what discomfort the ordinary soldier endured daily. Now, safe out of sight of the soldiers about their campfires, he dropped the cloak, pulled on a pack and picked up his musket.

Baird hauled a huge watch from his pocket and tilted its face to the half moon. ‘Eleven o’clock,’ the General said. ‘Time you fellows were away.’ He put two fingers in his mouth and sounded a shrill quick whistle and the picquet, visible in the pale moonlight, magically parted north and south to leave an unguarded gap in the camp’s perimeter. Baird had shaken Lawford’s hand, then patted Sharpe’s shoulder. ‘How’s your back, Sharpe?’

‘Hurts like hell, sir.’ It did too.

Baird looked worried. ‘You’ll manage, though?’

‘I ain’t soft, sir.’

‘I never supposed you were, Private.’ Baird patted Sharpe’s shoulder again, then gestured into the dark. ‘Off you go, lads, and God be with you.’ Baird watched the two men run across the open ground and disappear into the darkness on the farther side. He waited for a long time, hoping to catch a last glimpse of the two men’s shadows, but he saw nothing, and his best judgement suggested that he would probably never see either soldier again and that reflection saddened him. He sounded the whistle again and watched as the sentries reformed the picquet line, then he turned and walked slowly back to his tent.

‘This way, Sharpe,’ Lawford said when they were out of earshot of the sentries. ‘We’re following a star.’

‘Just like the wise men, Bill,’ Sharpe said. It had taken Sharpe an extraordinary effort to use Mister Lawford’s first name, but he knew he had to do it. His survival, and Lawford’s, depended on everything being done right.

But the use of the name shocked Lawford, who stopped and stared at Sharpe. ‘What did you call me?’

‘I called you Bill,’ Sharpe said, ‘because that’s your bleeding name. You ain’t an officer now, you’re one of us. I’m Dick, you’re Bill. And we ain’t following any bloody star. We’re going to those trees over there. See? The three big buggers?’

‘Sharpe!’ Lawford protested.

‘No!’ Sharpe turned savagely on Lawford. ‘My job is to keep you alive, Bill, so get one thing straight. You’re a bleeding private now, not a bloody officer. You volunteered, remember? And we’re deserters. There ain’t no ranks here, no “sirs”, no bloody salutes, no gentlemen. When we get back to the army I promise you I’ll pretend this never happened and I’ll salute you till my bloody arm drops off, but not now, and not till you and me get out of this bloody nonsense alive. So come on!’

Lawford, stunned by Sharpe’s confidence, meekly followed. ‘But this is south of west!’ he protested, glancing up at the stars to check the direction Sharpe was taking.

‘We’ll go west later,’ Sharpe said. ‘Now get your bleeding stock off.’ He ripped his own off and tossed it into some bushes. ‘First thing any runner does, sir’ – the ‘sir’ was accidental, a habit, and he silently cursed himself for using it – ‘is take off his stock. Then mess your hair. And get those trousers dirty. You look like you’re standing guard on Windsor bleeding Castle.’ Sharpe watched as Lawford did his best to obey. ‘So where did you join up, Bill?’ he asked.

Lawford was still resentful of this sudden reversal of roles, but he was sensible enough to realize Sharpe was right. ‘Join up?’ he repeated. ‘I didn’t.’

‘Of course you did! Where did they recruit you?’

‘My home’s near Portsmouth.’

‘That’s no bloody good. Navy would press you in Portsmouth before a recruiting sergeant could get near to you. Ever been to Sheffield?’

‘Good Lord, no!’ Lawford sounded horrified.

‘Good place, Sheffield,’ Sharpe said. ‘And there’s a pub on Pond Street called The Hawle in the Pond. Can you remember that? The Hawle in the Pond in Sheffield. It’s a favourite hunting hole for the 33rd’s recruiters, especially on market days. You was tricked there by some bleeding sergeant. He got you drunk and before you knew it you’d taken the King’s shilling. He was a sergeant of the 33rd, so what did he have on his bayonet?’

‘His bayonet?’ Lawford, fumbling to release the leather binding of his newly clubbed hair, frowned in perplexity. ‘Nothing, I should hope.’

‘We’re the 33rd, Bill! The Havercakes! He carried an oat-cake on his bayonet, remember? And he promised you’d be an officer inside two years because he was a lying bastard. What did you do before you met him?’

Lawford shrugged. ‘A farmer?’

‘No one would ever believe you laboured on a farm,’ Sharpe said scornfully. ‘You ain’t got a farmer’s arms. That General Baird now, he’s got proper arms. Looks as if he could hoist hay all day long and not feel a damn thing, but not you. You were a lawyer’s clerk.’

Lawford nodded. ‘I think we should go now,’ he said, trying to reassert his rapidly vanishing authority.

‘We’re waiting,’ Sharpe said stubbornly. ‘So why the hell are you running?’

Lawford frowned. ‘Unhappiness, I suppose.’

‘Bleeding hell, you’re a soldier! You ain’t supposed to be happy! No, let’s think now. You boned the Captain’s watch, how about that? Got caught, and you faced a flogging. You saw me flogged and didn’t fancy you could survive, so you and me, being mates like, ran.’

‘I really do think we must go!’ Lawford insisted.

‘In a minute, sir.’ Again Sharpe cursed himself for using the honorific. ‘Just let my back settle down.’

‘Oh, of course.’ Lawford was immediately contrite. ‘But we can’t wait too long, Sharpe.’

‘Dick, sir. You call me Dick. We’re friends, remember?’

‘Of course.’ Lawford, as uncomfortable with this sudden intimacy as with the need to waste time, settled awkwardly by Sharpe at the base of a tree. ‘So why did you join up?’ he asked Sharpe.

‘The harmen were after me.’

‘The harmen? Oh yes, the constables.’ Lawford paused. Somewhere in the night a creature shrieked as it was caught by a predator, while off to the east the sergeants called to their sentries. The sky glowed with the light of the army’s myriad fires. ‘What had you done?’ Lawford asked.

‘Killed a man. Put a knife in him.’

Lawford gazed at Sharpe. ‘Murdered him, you mean?’

‘Oh, aye, it was murder right enough, even though the bugger deserved it. But the judge at York Assizes wouldn’t have seen it my way, would he? Which meant Dick Sharpe would have been morris-dancing at the end of a rope so I reckoned it was easier to put on the scarlet coat. The harmen don’t bother a man once he’s in uniform, not unless he killed one of the gentry.’

Lawford hesitated, not sure whether he should enquire too deeply, then decided it was worth a try. ‘So who was the fellow you killed?’

‘Bugger kept an inn. I worked for him, see? It was a coaching inn so he knew what coaches were carrying good baggage and my job was to snaffle the stuff once the coach was on the road. That and some prigging.’ Lawford did not like to ask what prigging was, so kept quiet. ‘He were a right bastard,’ Sharpe went on, ‘but that wasn’t why I stuck him. It was over a girl, see? And he and I had a disagreement about who should keep her blanket warm. He lost and I’m here and God knows where the lass is now.’ He laughed.

‘We’re wasting time,’ Lawford said.

‘Quiet!’ Sharpe snapped, then picked up his musket and pointed it towards some bushes. ‘Is that you, lass?’

‘It’s me, Richard.’ Mary Bickerstaff emerged from the shadows carrying a bundle. ‘Evening, Mr Lawford, sir,’ she said shyly.

‘Call him Bill,’ Sharpe insisted, then stood and shouldered his musket. ‘Come on, Bill!’ he said. ‘No point in wasting time here. There’s three of us now and wise men always travel in threes, don’t they? So find your bleeding star and let’s be moving.’

They walked all night, following Lawford’s star towards the western skyline. Lawford took Sharpe aside at one point and, insisting on his ever-more precarious authority, ordered Sharpe to send the woman back. ‘That’s an order, Sharpe,’ Lawford said.

‘She won’t go,’ Sharpe retorted.

‘We can’t take a woman!’ Lawford snapped.

‘Why not? Deserters always take their valuables, sir. Bill, I mean.’

‘Christ, Private, if you mess this up I’ll make sure you get all the stripes you escaped yesterday.’

Sharpe grinned. ‘It won’t be me who messes it. It’s the damn fool idea itself.’

‘Nonsense.’ Lawford strode ahead, forcing Sharpe to follow. Mary, guessing that they were arguing about her, kept a few paces behind. ‘There’s nothing wrong with General Baird’s notion,’ Lawford said. ‘We fall into the Tippoo’s hands, we join his wretched army, find this man Ravi Shekhar, then leave everything to him. And just what part does Mrs Bickerstaff play in that?’ He asked the question angrily.

‘Whatever part she wants,’ Sharpe said stubbornly.

Lawford knew he should argue, or rather that he should impose his authority on Sharpe, but he sensed he could never win. He was beginning to wonder whether it had been such a good idea to bring Sharpe after all, but from the first moment when Baird had suggested this desperate endeavour, Lawford had known he would need help and he had also known which of the Light Company’s soldiers he wanted. Private Sharpe had always stood out, not just because of his height, but because he was by far the quickest-witted man in the company. But even so, Lawford had not been ready for the speed or force with which Sharpe had taken over this mission. Lawford had expected gratitude from Sharpe, and also deference; he even believed he deserved that deference purely by virtue of being an officer, but Sharpe had swiftly torn that assumption into tatters. It was rather as if Lawford had harnessed a solid-looking draught horse to his gig only to discover it was a runaway racer, but why had the racehorse insisted on bringing the filly? That offended Lawford, suggesting to him that Sharpe was taking advantage of the freedom offered by this mission. Lawford glanced at Sharpe, noting how pale and strained he looked, and he guessed that the flogging had taken far more from the Private than he realized. ‘I still think Mrs Bickerstaff should go back to the army,’ he said gently.

‘She can’t,’ Sharpe said curtly. ‘Tell him, Mary.’

Mary ran to catch up. ‘I’m not safe while Hakeswill’s alive,’ she told Lawford.

‘You could have been looked after,’ Lawford suggested vaguely.

‘Who by?’ Mary asked. ‘A man looks after a woman in the army and he wants his price. You know that, sir.’

‘Call him Bill!’ Sharpe snarled. ‘Our lives might depend on it! If one of us calls him “sir” then they’ll feed us to their bloody tigers.’

‘And it isn’t just Hakeswill,’ Mary went on. ‘Sergeant Green wants to marry me now, which is at least more than Hakeswill does, but I don’t want either. I just want to be left in peace with Richard.’

‘God knows,’ Lawford said bitterly, ‘but you’ve probably jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.’

‘I’ll take my chances,’ Mary said obstinately, though she had taken what care she could to reduce her chances of being raped. She had dressed herself in a torn dark frock and a filthy apron, both garments as drab and greasy as she could find. She had smeared ashes and dirt into her hair, but she had done nothing to disguise the lively beauty in her face. ‘Besides,’ she said to Lawford, ‘neither you nor Richard speak any of the languages. You need me. And I brought some more food.’ She hoisted the cloth bundle.

Lawford grunted. Behind them the horizon was now marked with a pale glow that silhouetted trees and bushes. He guessed they had travelled about a dozen miles and, as the pale glow turned brighter and the dawn’s light seeped across the landscape, he suggested they stop and rest. Mary’s bundle held a half-dozen loaves of flat unleavened bread and had two canteens of water which they shared as their breakfast. After he had eaten, Lawford went into the bushes for privacy and, as he came back, he saw Sharpe hit Mary hard in the face. ‘For God’s sake, man,’ Lawford shouted, ‘what are you doing?’

‘Blacking my eye,’ Mary answered. ‘I asked him to.’

‘Dear God!’ Lawford said. Mary’s left eye was already swelling, and tears were running down her cheeks. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Keep the buggers off her, of course,’ Sharpe said. ‘Are you all right, love?’

‘I’ll live,’ Mary said. ‘You hit hard, Richard.’

‘No point in hitting softly. Didn’t mean to hurt you, though.’

Mary splashed water on her eye, then they all started walking again. They were now in an open stretch of country that was dotted with groves of bright-blossomed trees. There were no villages in sight, though they did come to an aqueduct an hour after dawn and wasted another hour trying to find a way across before simply plunging into the weed-filled water and wading through. Seringapatam lay well below the horizon, but Lawford knew the city was almost due west and he planned to angle southwards until he reached the Cauvery and then follow that river to the city.

The Lieutenant’s spirits were low. He had volunteered for this mission readily enough, but in the night it had begun to dawn on him just how risky the errand was. He felt lonely too. He was only two years older than Sharpe and he envied Sharpe Mary’s companionship, and he still resented the Private’s lack of deference. He did not dare express that resentment, for he knew it would be scorned, but nor did he really wish to express it, for he had discovered that he wanted Sharpe’s admiration rather than his deference. Lawford wanted to prove that he was as tough as the Private, and that desire kept him stoically walking on towards the horrid unknown.

Sharpe was equally worried. He liked Lawford, but suspected he would have to work hard to keep the Lieutenant out of trouble. He was a quick study, the Lieutenant, but so ignorant of the world’s ways that he could easily betray the fact that he was no common soldier. As for the Tippoo, he was an unknown danger, but Sharpe was canny enough to know that he would have to do whatever the Tippoo’s men wanted. He worried about Mary too. He had persuaded her to come on this fool’s errand, and she had not taken much persuading, but now she was here Sharpe was concerned that he could not protect both her and Lawford. But despite his worries he still felt free. He was, after all, off the army’s leash and he reckoned he could survive so long as Lawford made no mistake, and if Sharpe survived he knew how to prosper. The rules were simple: trust no one, be ever watchful and if trouble came hit first and hit hard. It had worked for him so far.

Mary too had doubts. She had persuaded herself she was in love with Sharpe, but she sensed a restlessness in him that made her think he might not always be in love with her. Still, she was happier here than back with the army, and that was not just because of Sergeant Hakeswill’s threat but because, although the army was the only life Mary had ever known, she sensed the world could offer her more. She had grown up in Calcutta and, though her mother had been Indian, Mary had never felt at home in either the army or in India. She was neither one thing nor the other. To the army she was a bibbi, while to the Indians she was outside their castes, and she was acceptable to neither. She was a half-breed, suspended in a purgatory of distrust, with only her looks to help her survive, and though the army was the place that provided the friendliest company, it hardly offered a secure future. Ahead of her stretched a succession of husbands, each one succeeding as the previous one was killed in battle or else died of a fever, and when she was too old to attract another man she would be left with her children to fend as best she could. Mary, just like Sharpe, wanted to find some way up and out of that fate, but how she was to do it she did not know, though this expedition at least gave her a chance to break temporarily out of the trap.

Lawford led them to a slight hill from where, screened by flowering bushes, he scanned the country ahead. He thought he could see a gleam of water to the south and the small glimpse was sufficient to persuade him that it must be the River Cauvery. ‘That way,’ he said, ‘but we’ll have to avoid the villages.’ There were two in sight, both barring the direct path to the river.

‘The villagers will see us anyway,’ Mary said. ‘They don’t miss much.’

‘We’re not here to trouble them,’ Lawford said, ‘so perhaps they’ll leave us alone?’

‘Turn our coats, Bill,’ Sharpe suggested.

‘Turn our coats?’

‘We’re running, aren’t we? So put your coat on back to front as a sign that you’re on the run.’

‘The villagers will hardly realize the significance of that,’ Lawford observed tartly.

‘Bugger the villagers,’ Sharpe said. ‘It’s the Tippoo’s bloody men I’m worried about. If those bastards see red coats, they’ll shoot before they ask questions.’ Sharpe had already undone his crossbelts and was shrugging off the wool coat, grunting with the pain that the exertion gave to his back. Lawford, watching, saw that blood had seeped through the thick bandages to stain the dirty shirt.

Lawford was reluctant to turn his coat. A turned coat was a sign of disgrace. Battalions that had let the army down in battle were sometimes forced to turn their coats as a badge of shame, but once again the Lieutenant saw the wisdom of Sharpe’s argument and so he stripped and turned his coat so that its grey lining was outermost. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t carry the muskets?’ he suggested.

‘No deserter would throw away his gun,’ Sharpe answered. He buckled his belt over the turned coat and picked up his gun and pack. He had carried the pack in his hand all night rather than have its weight press on his wounds. ‘Are you ready?’

‘In a moment,’ Lawford said, then, to Sharpe’s surprise, the Lieutenant went on one knee and said a silent prayer. ‘I don’t pray often,’ Lawford admitted as he stood, ‘but maybe some help from on high would be providential today.’ For today, Lawford guessed, would be the day they would meet the Tippoo’s patrols.

They walked south towards the gleam of water. All three were tired, and Sharpe was plainly weakened by the loss of blood, but anticipation gave them all a nervous energy. They skirted the nearest village, watched by cows with pendulous folds of skin hanging beneath their necks, then they walked through groves of cocoa trees as the sun climbed. They saw no one. A deer skittered away from their path in the late morning and an hour later an excited troupe of small monkeys scampered beside them. At midday they rested in the small shade offered by a grove of bamboos, then pressed on again beneath the baking sun. By early afternoon the river was in sight and Lawford suggested they should rest on its bank. Mary’s eye had swollen and blackened, giving her the grotesque look she believed would protect her.

‘I could do with a rest now,’ Sharpe admitted. The pain was terrible and every step was now an agony. ‘And I need to wet the bandages.’

‘Wet them?’ Lawford asked.

‘That’s what that bastard Micklewhite said. Said to keep the bandages damp or else the stripes won’t heal.’

‘We’ll wet them at the river,’ Lawford promised.

But they never reached the river bank. They were walking beside some beech trees when a shout sounded behind them and Sharpe turned to see horsemen coming from the west. They were fine-looking men in tiger-striped tunics and with spiring brass helmets who couched their lances and galloped hard towards the three fugitives. Sharpe’s heart pounded. He stepped ahead of his companions and held up a hand to show they meant no harm, but the leading lancer only grinned in reply and lowered his lance point as he pricked back his spurs.

Sharpe shook his head and waved, then realized the man intended to skewer the spear into his belly. ‘Bastard!’ Sharpe shouted, and dropped his pack and put both hands on his musket as though it was a quarterstaff. Mary screamed in terror.

‘No!’ Lawford shouted at the galloping lancers. ‘No!’

The lancer thrust his blade at Sharpe who knocked the spear point aside with the muzzle of the gun, then swung the gun fast back so that its butt smacked hard onto the horse’s head. The beast whinnied and reared, throwing its rider backwards. The other lancers laughed, then sawed their reins to swerve past the fallen man. Mary was shouting at them in a language Sharpe did not understand, Lawford was waving his hands desperately, but the lancers bored on in, concentrating on Sharpe who stepped backwards from their wicked-looking spear points. He slashed a second lance aside, then a third man rammed his spurs back and attempted to drive his spear hard into Sharpe’s belly. Sharpe half managed to edge away from the blow and, instead of skewering his stomach, the lance sliced through the skin of his waist, through his coat and into the tree behind him. The lancer left his spear buried in the beech and wheeled his horse away. Sharpe was pinned to the bark, his back a sheet of agony where it was forced against the tree. He tugged at the lance, but his loss of blood had made him far too weak and the weapon would not budge, and then another lancer spurred towards him with his spear point aimed at Sharpe’s eyes. Mary shouted frantically.

The spear point paused an inch from Sharpe’s left eyeball. The lancer looked at Mary, grimaced at her filthy state, then said something.

Mary answered.

The lancer, who was evidently an officer, looked back to Sharpe and seemed to be debating whether to kill or to spare him. Finally he grinned, leaned down and grasped the spear pinning Sharpe to the tree. He dragged it free.

Sharpe swore foully, then collapsed at the foot of the tree.

There were a score of horsemen and they all now gathered around the fugitives. Two of them held their razor-sharp lances at Lawford’s neck while the officer spoke to Mary. She answered defiantly, and to Sharpe, who was struggling to stand, it seemed that the conversation went on for a long time. Nor did the lancers seem friendly. They were magnificent-looking men and Sharpe, despite his pain, noted how well they maintained their weapons. There was no rust on the lance heads, and the shafts were oiled smooth. Mary argued with the officer, and he seemed indifferent to her pleading, but at last she must have made her point for she turned and looked at Lawford. ‘He wants to know if you’re willing to serve in the Tippoo’s forces,’ she told the Lieutenant.

The lance tips were tickling Lawford’s neck, and as a recruiting device they worked wonders. The Lieutenant nodded eagerly. ‘Absolutely!’ he said. ‘Just what we want! Volunteers! Tell him we’re ready to serve! Both of us! Long live the Tippoo!’

The officer did not need the enthusiastic reply translated. He smiled and ordered his lancers to take their weapons from the redcoat’s neck.

And thus Sharpe joined the enemy’s army.