Читать книгу Sharpe’s Fortress: The Siege of Gawilghur, December 1803 - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 10

Major General Sir Arthur Wellesley rode northwards among a cavalcade of officers whose horses kicked up a wide trail of dust that lingered in the air long after the horsemen had passed. Two troops of East India Company cavalry provided the General’s escort. Manu Bappoo’s army might have been trounced and its survivors sent skeltering back into Gawilghur, but the Deccan Plain was still infested with Mahratta cavalry ready to pounce on supply convoys, wood-cutting parties or the grass-cutters who supplied the army’s animals with fodder and so the two troops rode with sabres drawn. Wellesley set a fast pace, revelling in the freedom to ride in the long open country. ‘Did you visit Colonel Stevenson this morning?’ he called back to an aide.

‘I did, sir, and he’s no better than he was.’

‘But he can get about?’

‘On his elephant, sir.’

Wellesley grunted. Stevenson was the commander of his smaller army, but the old Colonel was ailing. So was Harness, the commander of one of Wellesley’s two brigades, but there was no point in asking about Harness. It was not just physical disease that assaulted Harness, for the Scotsman’s wits were gone as well. The doctors claimed it was the heat that had desiccated his brains, but Wellesley doubted the diagnosis. Heat and rum, maybe, but not the heat alone, though he did not doubt that India’s climate was bad for a European’s health. Few men lived long without falling prey to some wasting fever, and Wellesley was thinking it was time he left himself. Time to go back home before his health was abraded and, more important, before his existence was forgotten in London. French armies were unsettling all Europe and it could not be long before London despatched an army to fight the old foe, and Wellesley wanted to be a part of it. He was in his middle thirties and he had a reputation to make, but first he had to finish off the Mahrattas, and that meant taking Gawilghur, and to that end he was now riding towards the great rampart of cliffs that sealed off the plain’s northern edge.

An hour’s ride brought him to the summit of a small rise which offered a view northwards. The plain looked dun, starved of water by the failed monsoon, though here and there patches of millet grew tall. In a good year, Wellesley guessed, the millet would cover the plain from horizon to horizon, a sea of grain bounded by the Gawilghur cliffs. He dismounted on the small knoll and took out a telescope that he settled on his horse’s saddle. It was a brand new glass, a gift from the merchants of Madras to mark Wellesley’s pacification of Mysore. Trade now moved freely on India’s eastern flank, and the telescope, which had been specially ordered from Matthew Berge of London, was a generous token of the merchants’ esteem, but Wellesley could not get used to it. The shape of the eyepiece was less concave than the one he was used to, and after a moment he snapped the new telescope shut and pulled out his old glass which, though lower powered, was more comfortable. He stared for a long time, gazing at the fort which crowned the rock promontory. The black stone of the fortress walls looked particularly sinister, even in the sunlight. ‘Good God,’ the General muttered after a while. Fail up there, he thought, and there would be no point in going home. He could go to London with some victories under his belt, and men would respect him even if the victories had not been against the French, but go with a defeat and they would despise him. Gawilghur, he thought sourly, had the look of a career-breaker.

Colonel Wallace, Wellesley’s healthy brigade commander, had also dismounted and was inspecting the fortress through his own glass. ‘Devil of a place, Sir Arthur,’ Wallace said.

‘How high is it, Blackiston?’ Wellesley called to one of his aides, an engineer.

‘I took a triangulation yesterday, sir,’ Blackiston said, ‘and discovered the fortress walls are eighteen hundred feet above the plain.’

‘Is there water up there?’ Colonel Butters, the chief engineer, asked.

‘We hear there is, sir,’ Blackiston said. ‘There are tanks in the fort; huge things like lakes.’

‘But the water level must be low this year?’ Butters suggested.

‘I doubt it’s low enough, sir,’ Blackiston murmured, knowing that Butters had been hoping that thirst might defeat the garrison.

‘And the rascals will have food, no doubt,’ Wellesley commented.

‘Doubtless,’ Wallace agreed drily.

‘Which means they’ll have to be prised out,’ the General said, then bent to the glass again and lowered the lens to look at the foothills below the bluff. Just south of the fort was a conical hill that rose almost halfway up the flank of the great promontory. ‘Can we get guns on that near hill?’ he asked.

There was a pause while the other officers decided which hill he was referring to. Colonel Butters flinched. ‘We can get them up there, sir, but I doubt they’ll have the elevation to reach the fort.’

‘You’ll get nothing bigger than a twelve-pounder up there,’ Wallace said dubiously, then slid the telescope’s view up the bluff to the walls. ‘And you’ll need bigger shot than twelve-pounders to break down that wall.’

‘Sir Arthur!’ The warning call came from the officer commanding the East India Company cavalry who was pointing to where a group of Mahratta horsemen had appeared in the south. They had evidently been following the lingering dust cloud left by the General’s party and, though the approaching horsemen only numbered about twenty men, the sepoy cavalry wheeled to face them and spread into a line.

‘It’s all right,’ Wellesley called, ‘they’re ours. I asked them to meet us here.’ He had inspected the approaching horsemen through his telescope and now, waving the sepoy cavalry back, he walked to greet the silladars. ‘Syud Sevajee,’ Wellesley acknowledged the man in the shabby green and silver coat who led the cavalrymen, ‘thank you for coming.’

Syud Sevajee nodded brusquely at Wellesley, then stared up at Gawilghur. ‘You think you can get in?’

‘I think we must,’ Wellesley said.

‘No one ever has,’ Sevajee said with a sly smile.

Wellesley returned the smile, but slowly, as if accepting the implied challenge, and then, as Sevajee slid down from his saddle, the General turned to Wallace. ‘You’ve met Syud Sevajee, Wallace?’

‘I’ve not had that pleasure, sir.’

Wellesley made the introduction, then added that Syud Sevajee’s father had been one of the Rajah of Berar’s generals.

‘But is no longer?’ Wallace asked Sevajee.

‘Beny Singh murdered him,’ Sevajee said grimly, ‘so I fight with you, Colonel, to gain my chance to kill Beny Singh. And Beny Singh now commands that fortress.’ He nodded towards the distant promontory.

‘So how do we get inside?’ Wellesley asked.

The officers gathered around Sevajee as the Indian drew his tulwar and used its tip to draw a figure eight in the dust. He tapped the lower circle of the eight, which he had drawn far larger than the upper. ‘That’s what you’re looking at,’ he said, ‘the Inner Fort. And there are only two entrances. There’s a road that climbs up from the plain and goes to the Southern Gate.’ He drew a squiggly line that tailed away from the bottom of the figure eight. ‘But that road is impossible. You will climb straight into their guns. A child with a pile of rocks could keep an army from climbing that road. The only possible route into the Inner Fort is through the main entrance.’ He scratched a brief line across the junction of the two circles.

‘Which will not be easy?’ Wellesley asked drily.

Sevajee offered the General a grim smile. ‘The main entrance is a long corridor, barred by four gates and flanked by high walls. But even to reach it, Sir Arthur, you will have to take the Outer Fort.’ He tapped the small upper circle of the figure eight.

Wellesley nodded. ‘And that, too, is difficult?’

‘Again, two entrances,’ Sevajee said. ‘One is a road that climbs from the plain. You can’t see it from here, but it twists up the hills to the west and it comes to the fort here.’ He tapped the waist of the figure eight. ‘It’s an easier climb than the southern road, but for the last mile of the journey your men will be under the guns of the Outer Fort. And the final half-mile, General, is steep.’ He stressed the last word. ‘On one side of the road is a cliff, and on the other is a precipice, and the guns of the Outer Fort can fire straight down that half-mile of road.’

Colonel Butters shook his head in gloomy contemplation of Sevajee’s news. ‘How come you know all this?’ he asked.

‘I grew up in Gawilghur,’ Sevajee said. ‘My father, before he was murdered, was killadar of the fortress.’

‘He knows,’ Wellesley said curtly. ‘And the main entrance of the Outer Fort?’

‘That,’ Sevajee said, ‘is the fortress’s weakest point.’ He scratched a line that pierced the uppermost curve of the small circle. ‘It’s the only level approach to the fortress, but it’s very narrow. On one side’ – he tapped the eastern flank of the line – ‘the ground falls steeply away. On the other side is a reservoir tank. So to reach the fort you must risk a narrow neck of land that is swept by two ramparts of guns, one above the other.’

‘Two walls?’ Wallace asked.

‘Set on a steep hill,’ Sevajee said, nodding. ‘You must fight uphill across both walls. There is an entrance, but it’s like the Inner Fort’s entrance: a series of gates with a narrow passage leading from one to the other, and men above you on both sides hurling down rocks and round shot.’

‘And once we’ve captured the Outer Fort,’ Wellesley asked, ‘what then?’

Sevajee offered a wolfish smile. ‘Then your troubles are just beginning, Sir Arthur.’ He scuffed out the diagram he had made in the dust and scratched another, this one showing two circles, one large and one small, with a space between them. ‘The two forts are not connected. They are separated here’ – he tapped the space between the circles with his tulwar – ‘and that is a ravine. A deep ravine. So once you have the Outer Fort, you still have to assault the Inner Fort, and its defences will be untouched. It has a wall which stands at the top of the ravine’s cliff, and that is where your enemy will be taking refuge; inside the wall of the Inner Fort. My father reckoned no enemy could ever capture Gawilghur’s Inner Fort. If all India should fall, he said, then its heart would still beat at Gawilghur.’

Wellesley walked a few paces north to stare at the high promontory. ‘How big is the garrison?’

‘Normally,’ Sevajee said, ‘about a thousand men, but now? It could be six or seven times that many. There is room inside for a whole army.’

And if the fort did not fall, Wellesley thought, then the Mahrattas would take heart. They would gather a new army and, in the new year, raid southwards again. There would be no peace in western India till Gawilghur fell. ‘Major Blackiston?’

‘Sir?’

‘You’ll make an exploration of the plateau.’ The General turned to Sevajee. ‘Will you escort Major Blackiston up into the hills? I want sketches, Blackiston, of the neck of land leading to the main entrance. I want you to tell me where we can place breaching batteries. I need to know how we can get guns up to the tops of the hills, and I need to know it all within two days.’

‘Two days?’ Blackiston sounded appalled.

‘We don’t want the rascals to take root up there, do we? Speed, Blackiston, speed! Can you leave now?’ This question was directed at Sevajee.

‘I can,’ Sevajee answered.

Wellesley waved Blackiston on his way. ‘Two days, Major! I want you back tomorrow evening!’

Colonel Butters frowned at the far hills. ‘You’re taking the army to the top?’

‘Half the army,’ Wellesley said, ‘the other half will stay on the plain.’ He would need to hold Gawilghur between his redcoats like a nut, and hope that when he squeezed it was the nut, and not the nutcracker, that broke. He pulled himself back into the saddle, then waited as the other officers mounted. Then he turned his mare and started back towards the camp. ‘It’ll be up to the engineers to get us onto the heights,’ he said, ‘then a week’s hard carrying to lift the ammunition to the batteries.’ The thought of that job made the General frown. ‘What’s the problem with the bullock train?’ he demanded of Butters. ‘I’m hearing complaints. Over two thousand muskets stolen from convoys, and Huddlestone tells me there are no spare horseshoes; that can’t be right!’

‘Torrance says that bandits have been active, sir,’ Butters said. ‘And I gather there have been accidents,’ he added lamely.

‘Who’s Torrance?’ Wellesley asked.

‘Company man, sir, a captain. He took over poor Mackay’s duties.’

‘I could surmise all that for myself,’ the General said acidly. ‘Who is he?’

Butters blushed at the reproof. ‘His father’s a canon at Wells, I think. Or maybe Salisbury? But more to the point, sir, he has an uncle in Leadenhall Street.’

Wellesley grunted. An uncle in Leadenhall Street meant that Torrance had a patron who was senior in the East India Company, someone to wield the influence that a clergyman father might not have. ‘Is he as good as Mackay?’

Butters, a heavy-set man who rode his horse badly, shrugged. ‘He was recommended by Huddlestone.’

‘Which means Huddlestone wanted to be rid of him,’ Wellesley snapped.

‘I’m sure he’s doing his best,’ Butters said defensively. ‘Though he did ask me for an assistant, but I had to turn him down. I’ve no one to spare. I’m short of engineers already, sir, as you well know.’

‘I’ve sent for more,’ Wellesley said.

Wallace intervened. ‘I gave Torrance one of my ensigns, Sir Arthur.’

‘You can spare an ensign, Wallace?’

‘Sharpe, sir.’

‘Ah.’ Wellesley grimaced. ‘Never does work out, does it? You lift a man from the ranks and you do him no favours.’

‘He might be happier in an English regiment,’ Wallace said, ‘so I’m recommending he exchanges into the Rifles.’

‘You mean they’re not particular?’ Wellesley asked, then scowled. ‘How the devil are we to fight a war without horseshoes?’ He kicked back at the mare, angry at the predicament. ‘My God, Butters, but your Captain Torrance must do his job!’ Wellesley, better than anyone, knew that he would never take Gawilghur if the supply train failed.

And Gawilghur had never been taken.

Dear God, Wellesley thought, but how was it ever to be done?

‘Big buggers,’ Sergeant Eli Lockhart murmured as they neared the two green tents. The cavalryman was speaking of the guards who lolled in chairs outside Naig’s tents. There were four in view, and two of them had bare, oiled chests that bulged with unnatural muscle. Their hair was never cut, but was instead coiled around their heads. They were keeping guard outside the larger of the tents, the one Sharpe guessed was Naig’s brothel. The other tent might have been the merchant’s living quarters, but its entrance was tightly laced, so Sharpe could not glimpse inside.

‘The two greasy fellows are the jettis,’ Sharpe said.

‘Big as bloody beeves, they are,’ Lockhart said. ‘Do they really wring your neck?’

‘Back to front,’ Sharpe said. ‘Or else they drive a nail into your skull with their bare hand.’ He swerved aside to go past the tents. It was not that he feared to pick a fight with Naig’s guards, indeed he expected a scrap, but there was no point in going bald-headed into battle. A bit of cleverness would not go amiss. ‘I’m being canny,’ he explained to Lockhart, then turned to make sure that Ahmed was keeping up. The boy was holding Sharpe’s pack as well as his musket.

The four guards, all of them armed with firelocks and tulwars, watched the British soldiers walk out of sight. ‘They didn’t like the look of us,’ Lockhart said.

‘Mangy buggers, they are,’ Sharpe said. He was glancing about the encampment and saw what he wanted just a few paces away. It was some straw, and near it was a smouldering campfire, and he screwed a handful of the straw stalks into a spill that he lit and carried to the rear of the smaller tent. He pushed the flaming spill into a fold of the canvas. A child watched, wide-eyed. ‘If you say anything,’ Sharpe told the half-naked child, ‘I’ll screw your head off back to front.’ The child, who did not understand a word, grinned broadly.

‘You’re not really supposed to be doing this, are you?’ Lockhart asked.

‘No,’ Sharpe said. Lockhart grinned, but said nothing. Instead he just watched as the flames licked at the faded green canvas which, for a moment or two, resisted the fire. The material blackened, but did not burn, then suddenly it burst into fire that licked greedily up the tent’s high side. ‘That’ll wake ’em up,’ Sharpe said.

‘What now?’ Lockhart asked, watching the flame sear up the tent’s side.

‘We rescue what’s inside, of course.’ Sharpe drew his sabre. ‘Come on, lads!’ He ran back to the front of the tent. ‘Fire!’ he shouted. ‘Fire! Fetch water! Fire!’

The four guards stared uncomprehendingly at the Englishman, then leaped to their feet as Sharpe slashed at the laces of the small tent’s doorway. One of them called a protest to Sharpe.

‘Fire!’ Lockhart bellowed at the guards who, still unsure of what was happening, did not try to stop Sharpe. Then one of them saw the smoke billowing over the ridge of the tent. He yelled a warning into the larger tent as his companions suddenly moved to pull the Englishman away from the tent’s entrance.

‘Hold them off!’ Sharpe called, and Lockhart’s six troopers closed on the three men. Sharpe slashed at the lacing, hacking down through the tough rope as the troopers thumped into the guards. Someone swore, there was a grunt as a fist landed, then a yelp as a trooper’s boot slammed into a jetti’s groin. Sharpe sawed through the last knot, then pushed through the loosened tent flaps. ‘Jesus!’ He stopped, staring at the boxes and barrels and crates that were stacked in the tent’s smoky gloom.

Lockhart had followed him inside. ‘Doesn’t even bother to hide the stuff properly, does he?’ the Sergeant said in amazement, then crossed to a barrel and pointed to a 19 that had been cut into one of the staves. ‘That’s our mark! The bugger’s got half our supplies!’ He looked up at the flames that were now eating away the tent roof. ‘We’ll lose the bloody lot if we don’t watch it.’

‘Cut the tent ropes,’ Sharpe suggested, ‘and push it all down.’

The two men ran outside and slashed at the guy ropes with their sabres, but more of Naig’s men were coming from the larger tent now. ‘Watch your back, Eli!’ Sharpe called, then turned and sliced the curved blade towards a jetti’s face. The man stepped back, and Sharpe followed up hard, slashing again, driving the huge man farther back. ‘Now bugger off!’ he shouted at the vast brute. ‘There’s a bloody fire! Fire!’

Lockhart had put his attacker on the ground and was now stamping on his face with a spurred boot. The troopers were coming to help and Sharpe let them deal with Naig’s men while he cut through the last of the guy ropes, then ran back into the tent and heaved on the nearest pole. The air inside the tent was choking with swirling smoke, but at last the whole heavy array of canvas sagged towards the fire, lifting the canvas wall behind Sharpe into the air.

‘Sahib!’ Ahmed’s shrill voice shouted and Sharpe turned to see a man aiming a musket at him. The lifting tent flap was exposing Sharpe, but he was too far away to rush the man, then Ahmed fired his own musket and the man shuddered, turned to look at the boy, then winced as the pain in his shoulder struck home. He dropped the gun and clapped a hand onto the wound. The sound of the shot startled the other guards and some reached for their own muskets, but Sharpe ran at them and used his sabre to beat the guns down. ‘There’s a bloody fire!’ he shouted into their faces. ‘A fire! You want everything to burn?’ They did not understand him, but some realized that the fire threatened their master’s supplies and so ran to haul the half-collapsed burning canvas away from the wooden crates.

‘But who started the fire?’ a voice said behind Sharpe, and he turned to see a tall, fat Indian dressed in a green robe that was embroidered with looping fish and long-legged water-birds. The fat man was holding a half-naked child by the hand, the same small boy who had watched Sharpe push the burning straw into a crease of the canvas. ‘British officers,’ the fat man said, ‘have a deal of freedom in this country, but does that mean they can destroy an honest man’s property?’

‘Are you Naig?’ Sharpe asked.

The fat man waved to his guards so that they gathered behind him. The tent had been dragged clear of the crates and was burning itself out harmlessly. The green-robed man now had sixteen or seventeen men with him, four of them jettis and all of them armed, while Sharpe had Lockhart and his battered troopers and one defiant child who was reloading a musket as tall as himself. ‘I will give you my name,’ the fat man said unpleasantly, ‘when you tell me yours.’

‘Sharpe. Ensign Sharpe.’

‘A mere ensign!’ The fat man raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought ensigns were children, like this young man.’ He patted the half-naked boy’s head. ‘I am Naig.’

‘So perhaps you can tell me,’ Sharpe said, ‘why that tent was stuffed full of our supplies?’

‘Your supplies!’ Naig laughed. ‘They are my goods, Ensign Sharpe. Perhaps some of them are stored in old boxes that once belonged to your army, but what of that? I buy the boxes from the quartermaster’s department.’

‘Lying bastard,’ Sergeant Lockhart growled. He had prised open the barrel with the number 19 incised on its side and now flourished a horseshoe. ‘Ours!’ he said.

Naig seemed about to order his guards to finish off Sharpe’s small band, but then he glanced to his right and saw that two British officers had come from the larger tent. The presence of the two, both captains, meant that Naig could not just drive Sharpe away, for now there were witnesses. Naig might take on an ensign and a few troopers, but captains carried too much authority. One of the captains, who wore the red coat of the Scotch Brigade, crossed to Sharpe. ‘Trouble?’ he asked. His revels had plainly been interrupted, for his trousers were still unbuttoned and his sword and sash were slung across one shoulder.

‘This bastard, sir, has been pilfering our supplies.’ Sharpe jerked his thumb at Naig then nodded towards the crates. ‘It’s all marked as stolen in the supply ledgers, but I’ll wager it’s all there. Buckets, muskets, horseshoes.’

The Captain glanced at Naig, then crossed to the crates. ‘Open that one,’ he ordered, and Lockhart obediently stooped to the box and levered up its nailed lid with his sabre.

‘I have been storing these boxes,’ Naig explained. He turned to the second captain, an extraordinarily elegant cavalryman in Company uniform, and he pleaded with him in an Indian language. The Company Captain turned away and Naig went back to the Scotsman. The merchant was in trouble now, and he knew it. ‘I was asked to store the boxes!’ he shouted at the Scotsman.

But the infantry Captain was staring down into the opened crate where ten brand new muskets lay in their wooden cradles. He stooped for one of the muskets and peered at the lock. Just forward of the hammer and behind the pan was an engraved crown with the letters GR beneath it, while behind the hammer the word Tower was engraved. ‘Ours,’ the Scotsman said flatly.

‘I bought them.’ Naig was sweating now.

‘I thought you said you were storing them?’ the Scotsman said. ‘Now you say you bought them. Which is it?’

‘My brother and I bought the guns from silladars,’ Naig said.

‘We don’t sell these Tower muskets,’ the Captain said, hefting the gun that was still coated with grease.

Naig shrugged. ‘They must have been captured from the supply convoys. Please, sahib, take them. I want no trouble. How was I to know they were stolen?’ He turned and pleaded again with the Company cavalry Captain who was a tall, lean man with a long face, but the cavalryman turned and walked a short distance away. A crowd had collected now and watched the drama silently, and Sharpe, looking along their faces, suspected there was not much sympathy for Naig. Nor, Sharpe thought, was there much hope for the fat man. Naig had been playing a dangerous game, but with such utter confidence that he had not even bothered to conceal the stolen supplies. At the very least he could have thrown away the government issue boxes and tried to file the lock markings off the muskets, but Naig must have believed he had powerful friends who would protect him. The cavalryman seemed to be one of those friends, for Naig had followed him and was hissing in his ear, but the cavalryman merely pushed the Indian away, then turned to Sharpe. ‘Hang him,’ he said curtly.

‘Hang him?’ Sharpe asked in puzzlement.

‘It’s the penalty for theft, ain’t it?’ the cavalryman insisted.

Sharpe looked to the Scottish Captain, who nodded uncertainly. ‘That’s what the General said,’ the Scotsman confirmed.

‘I’d like to know how he got the supplies, sir,’ Sharpe said.

‘You’ll give the fat bastard time to concoct a story?’ the cavalryman demanded. He had an arrogance that annoyed Sharpe, but everything about the cavalryman irritated Sharpe. The man was a dandy. He wore tall, spurred boots that sheathed his calves and knees in soft, polished leather. His white breeches were skin tight, his waistcoat had gold buttons, while his red tail coat was clean, uncreased and edged with gold braid. He wore a frilled stock, a red silk sash was draped across his right shoulder and secured at his left hip by a knot of golden braid, his sabre was scabbarded in red leather, while his cocked hat was plumed with a lavishly curled feather that had been dyed pale green. The clothes had cost a fortune, and clearly his servants must spend hours on keeping their master so beautifully dressed. He looked askance at Sharpe, a slight wrinkle of his nostrils suggesting that he found Sharpe’s appearance distressing. The cavalryman’s face suggested he was a clever man, but also that he despised those who were less clever than himself. ‘I don’t suppose Sir Arthur will be vastly pleased when he hears that you let the fellow live, Ensign,’ he said acidly. ‘Swift and certain justice, ain’t that the penalty for theft? Hang the fat beast.’

‘That is what the standing orders say,’ the Scotch Brigade Captain agreed, ‘but does it apply to civilians?’

‘He should have a trial!’ Sharpe protested, not because he was so committed to Naig’s right to a hearing, but because he feared the whole episode was getting out of hand. He had thought to find the supplies, maybe have a mill with Naig’s guards, but no one was supposed to die. Naig deserved a good kicking, but death?

‘Standing orders apply to anyone within the picquet lines,’ the cavalry Captain averred confidently. ‘So for God’s sake get on with it! Dangle the bastard!’ He was sweating, and Sharpe sensed that the elegant cavalryman was not quite so confident as he appeared.

‘Bugger a trial,’ Sergeant Lockhart said happily. ‘I’ll hang the bastard.’ He snapped at his troopers to fetch a nearby ox cart. Naig had tried to retreat to the protection of his guards, but the cavalry Captain had drawn a pistol that he now held close to Naig’s head as the grinning troopers trundled the empty ox cart into the open space in front of the pilfered supplies.

Sharpe crossed to the tall cavalryman. ‘Shouldn’t we talk to him, sir?’

‘My dear fellow, have you ever tried to get the truth out of an Indian?’ the Captain asked. ‘They swear by a thousand gaudy gods that they’ll tell the truth, then lie like a rug! Be quiet!’ Naig had begun to protest and the cavalryman rammed the pistol into the Indian’s mouth, breaking a tooth and gashing Naig’s gum. ‘Another damned word, Naig, and I’ll castrate you before I hang you.’ The cavalryman glanced at Sharpe, who was frowning. ‘Are you squeamish, Ensign?’

‘Don’t seem right, sir. I mean I agree he deserves to be hung, but shouldn’t we talk to him first?’

‘If you like conversation so much,’ the cavalryman drawled, ‘institute a Philosophical Society. Then you can enjoy all the hot air you like. Sergeant?’ This last was to Lockhart. ‘Take the bastard off my hands, will you?’

‘Pleasure, sir.’ Lockhart seized Naig and shoved him towards the cart. One of the cavalry troopers had cut a length of guy rope from the burnt remnants of the tent and he now tied one end to the tip of the single shaft that protruded from the front of the ox cart. He made a loop in the rope’s end.

Naig screamed and tried to pull away. Some of his guards started forward, but then a hard voice ordered them back and Sharpe turned to see that a tall, thin Indian in a black and green striped robe had come from the larger tent. The newcomer, who looked to be in his forties, walked with a limp. He crossed to the cavalry Captain and spoke quietly, and Sharpe saw the cavalryman shake his head vehemently, then shrug as if to suggest that he was powerless. Then the Captain gestured to Sharpe and the tall Indian gave the Ensign a look of such malevolence that Sharpe instinctively put his hand on his sabre’s hilt. Lockhart had pulled the noose over Naig’s head. ‘Are you sure, sir?’ he asked the cavalry Captain.

‘Of course I’m sure, Sergeant,’ the cavalryman said angrily. ‘Just get on with it.’

‘Sir?’ Sharpe appealed to the Scots Captain, who frowned uncertainly, then turned and walked away as though he wanted nothing more to do with the affair. The tall Indian in the striped robe spat into the dust, then limped back to the tent.

Lockhart ordered his troopers to the back of the cart. Naig was attempting to pull the noose free of his neck, but Lockhart slapped his hands down. ‘Now, boys!’ he shouted.

The troopers reached up and hauled down on the back-board so that the cart tipped like a seesaw on its single axle and, as the troopers pulled down, so the shaft rose into the air. The rope stretched and tightened. Naig screamed, then the cavalryman jumped up to sit on the cart’s back and the shaft jerked higher still and the scream was abruptly choked off. Naig was dangling now, his feet kicking wildly under the lavishly embroidered robe. None of the crowd moved, none protested.

Naig’s face was bulging and his hands were scrabbling uselessly at the noose which was tight about his neck. The cavalry officer watched with a small smile. ‘A pity,’ he said in his elegant voice. ‘The wretched man ran the best brothel I ever found.’

‘We’re not killing his girls, sir,’ Sharpe said.

‘That’s true, Ensign, but will their next owner treat them as well?’ The cavalryman turned to the big tent’s entrance and took off his plumed hat to salute a group of sari-clad girls who now watched wide-eyed as their employer did the gallows dance. ‘I saw Nancy Merrick hang in Madras,’ the cavalryman said, ‘and she did the jig for thirty-seven minutes! Thirty-seven! I’d wagered on sixteen, so lost rather a lot of tin. Don’t think I can watch Naig dance for half an hour. It’s too damned hot. Sergeant? Help his soul to perdition, will you?’

Lockhart crouched beneath the dying man and caught hold of his heels. Then he tugged down hard, swearing when Naig pissed on him. He tugged again, and at last the body went still. ‘Do you see what happens when you steal from us?’ the cavalry Captain shouted at the crowd, then repeated the words in an Indian language. ‘If you steal from us, you will die!’ Again he translated his words, then gave Sharpe a crooked grin. ‘But only, of course, if you’re stupid enough to be caught, and I didn’t think Naig was stupid at all. Rather the reverse. Just how did you happen to discover the supplies, Ensign?’

‘Tent was on fire, sir,’ Sharpe said woodenly. ‘Me and Sergeant Lockhart decided to rescue whatever was inside.’

‘How very public-spirited of you.’ The Captain gave Sharpe a long, speculative look, then turned back to Lockhart. ‘Is he dead, Sergeant?’

‘Near as makes no difference, sir,’ Lockhart called back.

‘Use your pistol to make sure,’ the Captain ordered, then sighed. ‘A shame,’ he said. ‘I rather liked Naig. He was a rogue, of course, but rogues are so much more amusing than honest men.’ He watched as Lockhart lowered the shaft, then stooped over the prostrate body and put a bullet into its skull. ‘I suppose I’ll have to find some carts to fetch these supplies back where they belong,’ the Captain said.

‘I’ll do that, sir,’ Sharpe said.

‘You will?’ The Captain seemed astonished to discover such willingness. ‘Why on earth would you want to do that, Ensign?’

‘It’s my job, sir,’ Sharpe said. ‘I’m Captain Torrance’s assistant.’

‘You poor benighted bastard,’ the Captain said pityingly.

‘Poor, sir? Why?’

‘Because I’m Captain Torrance. Good day to you, Ensign.’ Torrance turned on his heel and walked away through the crowd.

‘Bastard,’ Sharpe said, for he had suddenly understood why Torrance had been so keen to hang Naig.

He spat after the departed Captain, then went to find some bullocks and carts. The army had its supplies back, but Sharpe had made a new enemy. As if Hakeswill were not enough, he now had Torrance as well.

The palace in Gawilghur was a sprawling one-storey building that stood on the highest point within the Inner Fort. To its north was a garden that curled about the largest of the fortress’s lakes. The lake was a tank, a reservoir, but its banks had been planted with flowering trees, and a flight of steps led from the palace to a small stone pavilion on the lake’s northern shore. The pavilion had an arched ceiling on which the reflections of the lake’s small waves should have rippled, but the season had been so dry that the lake had shrunk and the water level was some eight or nine feet lower than usual. The water and the exposed banks were rimed with a green, foul-smelling scum, but Beny Singh, the Killadar of Gawilghur, had arranged for spices to be burned in low, flat braziers so that the dozen men inside the pavilion were not too offended by the lake’s stench.

‘If only the Rajah was here,’ Beny Singh said, ‘we should know what to do.’ Beny Singh was a short, plump man with a curling moustache and nervous eyes. He was the fortress commander, but he was a courtier by avocation, not a soldier, and he had always regarded his command of the great fortress as a licence to make his fortune rather than to fight the Rajah’s enemies.

Prince Manu Bappoo was not surprised that his brother had chosen not to come to Gawilghur, but had instead fled farther into the hills. The Rajah was like Beny Singh, he had no belly for a fight, but Bappoo had watched the first British troops creep across the plain beneath the fort’s high walls and he welcomed their coming. ‘We don’t need my brother here to know what we must do,’ he said. ‘We fight.’ The other men, all commanders of the various troops that had taken refuge in Gawilghur, voiced their agreement.

‘The British cannot be stopped by walls,’ Beny Singh said. He was cradling a small white lap dog which had eyes as wide and frightened as its master’s.

‘They can, and they will,’ Bappoo insisted.

Singh shook his head. ‘Were they stopped at Seringapatam? At Ahmednuggur? They crossed those city walls as though they had wings! They are – what is the word your Arabs use? – djinns!’ He looked about the gathered council and saw no one who would support him. ‘They must have the djinns on their side,’ he added weakly.

‘So what would you do?’ Bappoo asked.

‘Treat with them,’ Beny Singh said. ‘Ask for cowle