The Tippoo stopped a half-dozen paces short of Sharpe and Lawford. He stared at them for a few seconds, then spoke softly to his interpreter. 'Turn round,' the interpreter ordered Sharpe.
Sharpe obediently turned, showing his back to the Tippoo, who, fascinated by the open wounds, stepped close so he could inspect the damage. Sharpe could feel the Tippoo's breath on the back of his neck, he could smell the man's subtle perfume, and then he felt a spider-soft touch as the Tippoo fingered a strip of hanging skin.
Then a sudden pain like the blow of a red-hot poker slammed through Sharpe. He almost cried aloud, but instead he stiffened and flinched. The Tippoo had thrust the tiger hilt of his sword against the deepest wound to see Sharpe's reaction. He ordered Sharpe to turn around and peered up to see whether there were any tears showing. Tears were pricking at Sharpe's eyes, but none spilt onto his cheeks.
The Tippoo nodded approval and stepped back. 'So tell me about them,' he ordered Gudin.
'Ordinary deserters,' Gudin said in French to the interpreter. 'That one'—he indicated Sharpe—'is a tough soldier who'd probably be a credit to any army. The other one's just a clerk.'
Lawford tried not to show his disapproval of the judgement. The Tippoo glanced at him, saw nothing to interest him, and looked at Mary instead. 'The woman?' he asked Gudin.
'She's with the tall one,' Gudin said, again indicating Sharpe, then waited as the interpreter turned his answer into Persian.
The Tippoo gave Mary a brief inspection. She was slouching, trying to accentuate her drab, bruised and dirty appearance, but when she saw his pensive gaze she became flustered and tried to make a curtsey. The Tippoo seemed amused by the gesture, then looked back to Gudin. 'So what do they know of the British plans?' he asked, gesturing at Lawford and Sharpe.
'Nothing.'
'They say they know nothing,' the Tippoo corrected Gudin. 'And they're not spies?'
Gudin shrugged. 'How can one tell? But I think not.'
'I think we can tell,' the Tippoo said. 'And I think we can discover what kind of soldiers they are too.' He turned and rapped some orders to an aide, who bowed, then ran out of the courtyard.
he aide returned with a pair of hunting muskets. The long-barrelled weapons were like no guns Sharpe had ever seen, for their stocks were crusted with jewels and inlaid with a delicate ivory filigree. The jewelled butts had an extravagant flair at their shoulder pieces and the two guns' trigger guards were rimmed with small rubies. The dogheads that held the flints had been fashioned into tiger heads with diamonds for the tigers' eyes. The Tippoo took the guns, made sure their flints were properly seated within the tiger jaws, then tossed one gun to Lawford and the other to Sharpe. The aide then placed a pot filled with black powder on the ground and beside it a pair of musket balls that Sharpe could have sworn were made of silver. 'Load the guns,' the interpreter said.
A British soldier, like any other, learned to load with a paper cartridge, but there was no mystery about using naked powder and ball. Plainly the Tippoo wished to see how proficient the two men were and, while Lawford hesitated, Sharpe stooped to the pot and took out a handful of powder. He straightened up and let the black powder trickle down the gun's chased barrel. The powder was extraordinarily fine and a fair bit blew away on the small wind, but he had enough to spare and, once the charge was safe inside the barrel, he stooped again, picked up the bullet, shoved it into the muzzle and scraped the ramrod out of its three golden hoops. He twirled the ramrod, let it slide through his hand onto the bullet and then slammed the missile hard down onto the powder charge. The Tippoo had provided no wadding, but Sharpe guessed it did not matter. He pulled the ramrod out, reversed it and let it fall into the precious loops beneath the long barrel. Then he stooped again, took a pinch of powder, primed the gun, closed the frizzen and stood to attention with the gun's jewelled butt grounded beside him. 'Sir!' he said, signifying he was done.
Lawford was still trying to trickle powder into the muzzle. The Lieutenant was just as proficient at loading a gun as Sharpe, but being an officer he was never required to do it quickly, for that was the one indispensable skill of a private soldier. Lawford only loaded guns while hunting, but in the army he had a servant who loaded his pistols and never in his life had he needed to be quick with a gun and now he demonstrated a lamentable slowness. 'He was a clerk, sir,' Sharpe explained to Gudin. He paused to lick the powder residue off his fingers. 'He never needed to fight, like.'
The interpreter translated the words for the Tippoo who waited patiently as Lawford finished loading the musket. The Tippoo, like his entourage, was amused at the Englishman's slowness, but Sharpe's explanation that Lawford had been a clerk seemed to convince them. Lawford at last finished and, very self-consciously, stood to attention.
'You can evidently load,' the Tippoo said to Sharpe, 'but can you shoot?'
'Aye, sir,' Sharpe answered the interpreter.
The Tippoo pointed over Sharpe's shoulder. 'Then shoot him.'
Sharpe and Lawford both turned to see an elderly British officer being escorted through the courtyard's gate. The man was weak and pale, and he stumbled as the bright sunlight struck his eyes. He cuffed with a manacled hand at his face, then looked up and recognized Lawford. For a second an expression of disbelief crossed his face, then he managed to hide whatever emotion he was feeling. The officer was white-haired and dressed in a kilt and red jacket, both garments stained with dust and damp, and Sharpe, horrified to see a British officer so dishevelled and humiliated, presumed this had to be Colonel McCandless.
'You can't shoot . . .' Lawford began.
'Shut up, Bill,' Sharpe said and brought the musket up to his shoulder and swung its muzzle to face the horrified Scots officer.
'Wait!' Gudin shouted, then spoke urgently to the Tippoo.
The Tippoo laughed away Gudin's protest. Instead he had his interpreter ask Sharpe what he thought about British officers.
'Scum, sir,' Sharpe said loudly enough for Colonel McCandless to hear. 'Goddamn bloody scum, sir. Think they're better than us because the bastards can read and were born with a bit of money, but there ain't one I couldn't beat in a fight.'
'You are willing to shoot that one?' the interpreter asked.
'I'd pay for the chance,' Sharpe said vengefully. Lawford hissed at him, but Sharpe ignored the warning. 'Pay for it,' he said again.
'His Majesty would like you to do it very close,' the interpreter said. 'He wants you to blow the man's head off.'
'It'll be a bloody pleasure,' Sharpe said enthusiastically. He cocked the gun as he walked towards the man he presumed he had been sent to save. He stared at McCandless as he approached and there was nothing but brute pleasure on Sharpe's hard face. 'Stuck-up Scotch bastard,' Sharpe spat at him. He looked at the two guards who still flanked the Colonel. 'Move out the way, you stupid sods, else you'll be smothered in the bastard's blood.' The two men stared blankly at him, but neither moved and Sharpe guessed that neither man spoke any English. Doctor Venkatesh, who had been trying to hide in the gateway's shadows, shook his head in horror at what was about to happen.
Sharpe raised the musket so that its muzzle was no more than six inches from McCandless's face. 'Any message for General Harris?' he asked softly.
McCandless again hid his reaction, other than sparing one glance at Lawford. Then he looked back to Sharpe and spat at him. 'Attack anywhere but from the west,' the Scotsman said quietly, and then, much louder, 'May God forgive you.'
'Bugger God,' Sharpe said, then pulled the trigger. The flint fell, it snapped its spark on the frizzen and nothing else happened. McCandless's face jerked back as the flint sparked, then an expression of pure relief crossed his face. Sharpe hesitated a second, then drove the gun's muzzle into the Colonel's belly. The blow looked hard, but he checked it at the last moment. McCandless still doubled over, gasping, and Sharpe raised the jewelled butt to bring it hard down on the officer's grey head.
'Stop!' Gudin shouted.
Sharpe paus
ed and turned. 'I thought you wanted the bugger dead.'
The Tippoo laughed. 'We need him alive for a while. But you passed your test.' He turned and spoke to Gudin, and Gudin answered vigorously. It seemed to Sharpe that they were discussing his fate, and he prayed he would be spared a painful initiation into one of the Tippoo's cushoons. Another Indian officer, a tall man in a silk tunic decorated with the Tippoo's tiger stripes, was talking to Mary while Sharpe still stood above the crouching McCandless.
'Did Harris send you?' McCandless asked softly.
'Yes,' Sharpe hissed, not looking at the Colonel. Mary was shaking her head. She glanced at Sharpe, then looked back to the tall Indian.
'Beware the west,' McCandless whispered. 'Nothing else.' The Scotsman groaned, pretending to be in much more pain than he was. He retched dryly, tried to stand and instead toppled over. 'You're a traitor,' he said loudly enough for Gudin to hear him, 'and you'll die a traitor's death.'
Sharpe spat on McCandless. 'Come here, Sharpe!' Gudin, disapproval plain in his voice, ordered him.
Sharpe marched back to Lawford's side where one of the Tippoo's attendants took back the two muskets. The Tippoo gestured at McCandless's guards, evidently signifying that the Scotsman was to be returned to his cell. The Tippoo then gave Sharpe an approving nod before turning and leading his entourage out of the courtyard. The tall Indian in the silk tiger stripes beckoned to Mary.
'I'm to go with him, love,' she explained to Sharpe.
'I thought you were staying with me!' Sharpe protested.
'I'm to earn my keep,' she said. 'I'm to teach his little sons English. And sweep and wash, of course,' she added bitterly.
Colonel Gudin intervened. 'She will join you later,' he told Sharpe. 'But for now you are both, how do you say it? On test?'
'Probation, sir?' Lawford offered.
'Exactly,' Gudin said. 'And soldiers on probation are not permitted wives. Don't worry, Sharpe. I'm sure your woman will be safe in General Rao's house. Now go, Mademoiselle.'
Mary stood on tiptoe and kissed Sharpe's cheek. 'I'll be all right, love,' she whispered, 'and so will you.'
'Look after yourself, lass,' Sharpe said, and watched her follow the tall Indian officer out of the courtyard.
Gudin gestured towards the archway. 'We must let Doctor Venkatesh finish your back, Sharpe, then give you both new uniforms and muskets. Welcome to the Tippoo Sultan's army, gentlemen. You earn a haideri each every day.'
'Good money!' Sharpe said, impressed. A haideri was worth half a crown, far above the miserable tuppence a day he received in the British army.
'But doubtless in arrears,' Lawford said sarcastically. He was still angry at Sharpe for having tried to shoot McCandless, and the musket's misfire had not placated him.
'The pay is always in arrears,' Gudin admitted cheerfully, 'but in what army is the pay ever on time? Officially you earn a haideri a day, though you will rarely receive it, but I can promise you other consolations. Now come.' He summoned Doctor Venkatesh who retrieved his basket and followed Gudin out of the palace.
Thus Sharpe went to meet his new comrades and readied himself to face a new enemy. His own side.
General David Baird did not feel guilty about Sharpe and Lawford, for they were soldiers and were paid to take risks, but he did feel responsible for them. The fact that neither the British nor Indian cavalry patrols had discovered the two men suggested that they might well have reached Seringapatam, but the more Baird thought about their mission the less sanguine he was about its successful completion. It had seemed a good idea when he had first thought of it, but two days' reflection had diluted that initial hope with a score of reservations. He had always suspected that even with the help of Ravi Shekhar their chances of rescuing McCandless were woefully small, but at the very least he had hoped they might learn McCandless's news and succeed in bringing it out of the city, but now he feared that neither man would even survive. At best, he thought, the two men could only hope to escape execution by joining the Tippoo's forces, which would mean that both Sharpe and Lawford would be in enemy uniform when the British assaulted the city. There was little Baird could do about that, but he could prevent a dreadful miscarriage of justice following the city's fall, and so that night, when the two armies' great encampment was established just a few days' march from their goal, Baird sought out the lines of the 33rd.
Major Shee seemed alarmed at the General's sudden appearance, but Baird soothed the Major and explained he had a little business with the Light Company. 'Nothing to trouble you, Major. Just an administrative matter. A triviality.'
'I'll take you to Captain Morris, sir,' Shee said, then clapped on his hat and led the General down the line of officers' tents. 'It's the end one, sir,' he said nervously. 'Do you need me at all?'
'I wouldn't waste your time, Shee, on trifles, but I'm obliged for your help, though.'
Baird found a shirt-sleeved Captain Morris frowning at his paperwork in the company of an oddly malevolent-looking sergeant who, at the General's unannounced arrival, sprang to quivering attention. Morris hastily placed his cocked hat over a tin mug that Baird suspected was full of arrack. 'Captain Morris?' the General asked.
'Sir!' Morris upset his chair as he stood up, then he plucked his red coat off the floor where it had fallen with the chair.
Baird waved to show that Morris need not worry about donning a coat. 'There's no need for formality, Captain. Leave your coat off, man, leave it off. It's desperately hot, isn't it?'
'Unbearable, sir,' Morris said nervously.
'I'm Baird,' Baird introduced himself. 'I don't think we've had the pleasure?'
'No, sir.' Morris was too nervous to introduce himself properly.
'Sit you down, man,' Baird said, trying to put the Captain at his ease. 'Sit you down. May I?' Baird gestured at Morris's cot, asking permission to use it as a chair. 'Thank you kindly,' Baird said, then he sat, took off his plumed hat and fanned his face with its brim. 'I think I've forgotten what cold weather is like. Do you think it still snows anywhere? My God, but it saps a man, this heat. Saps him. Do relax, Sergeant.'
'Thank you, sir.' Sergeant Hakeswill's stiff posture unbent a fraction.
Baird smiled at Morris. 'You lost two men this week, Captain, did you not?'
'Two men?' Morris frowned. That bastard Sharpe had run, taking his bibbi with him, but who else? 'Oh!' Morris said. 'You mean Lieutenant Lawford, sir?'
'The very fellow. A lucky fellow too, eh? Carrying the despatch to Madras. It's quite an honour for him.' Baird shook his head ruefully. 'Myself, I'm not so certain that little scrap the other day was worth a despatch, but General Harris insisted and your Colonel chose Lawford.' Baird was using the excuse the army had invented to explain Lawford's disappearance. The excuse had provoked some resentment in the 33rd for Lawford was one of the most junior of the battalion's lieutenants and most men who carried despatches could expect a promotion as a reward for the task which, in turn, was usually only given to men who had distinguished themselves in battle. It seemed to Morris, as to every other officer in the battalion, that Lawford had neither distinguished himself nor deserved promotion, but Morris could hardly admit as much to Baird.
'Very glad for him,' Morris managed to say.
'Found a replacement, have you?' Baird asked.
'Ensign Fitzgerald, sir,' Morris said. 'Lieutenant Fitzgerald now, sir, by brevet, of course.' Morris managed to sound disapproving. He would have much preferred Ensign Hicks to have received the temporary promotion, but Hicks did not have the hundred and fifty pounds needed to purchase up from ensign to lieutenant, whereas Fitzgerald did, and if Lawford's reward for carrying the despatches was a promotion to captain then Fitzgerald must replace him. In Morris's opinion the newly breveted Lieutenant was altogether too easy with the men, but a money draft was a money draft, and Fitzgerald was the monied candidate and so had been given the temporary rank.
'And the other fellow you lost?' Baird asked, trying hard to sound casual
. 'The private? In the book, is he?'
'He's in the book all right, sir.' The Sergeant answered for Morris. 'Hakeswill, sir,' he introduced himself. 'Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill, sir, man and boy in the army, sir, and at your command, sir.'
'What was the rogue's name?' Baird asked Morris.
'Sharpe, sir.' Hakeswill again answered. 'Richard Sharpe, sir, and as filthy horrible a little piece of work as ever I did see, sir, in all my born days, sir.'
'The book?' Baird asked Morris, ignoring Hakeswill's judgement.
Morris frantically searched the mess on his desk for the Punishment Book, at the back of which were kept the army's official forms for deserters. Hakeswill eventually found it, and, with a crisp gesture, handed it to the General. 'Sir!'
Baird leafed through the front pages, finally discovering the entry for Sharpe's court martial. 'Two thousand strokes!' the Scotsman said in horror. 'It must have been a grave offence?'
'Struck a sergeant, sir!' Hakeswill announced.
'You, perhaps?' Baird asked dryly, noting the Sergeant's swollen and bruised nose.
'Without any provocation, sir,' Hakeswill said earnestly. 'As God is my judge, sir, I never treated young Dick Sharpe with anything but kindness. Like one of my own children he was, sir, if I had any children, which I don't, at least not so as I knows of. He was a very lucky man, sir, to be let off at two hundred lashes, and you see how he rewards us?' Hakeswill sniffed indignantly.
Baird did not respond, but just turned to the last page of the book where he found the name Richard Sharpe filled in at the top of the printed form, and beneath it Sharpe's age which was given as twenty-two years and six months, though Captain Morris, if indeed it had been Morris who had filled in the form, had placed a question mark beside the age. Sharpe's height was reported at six feet, only four inches less than Baird himself who was one of the tallest men in the army. 'Make or Form' was the next question, to which Morris had answered 'well built', and there followed a list of headings: Head, Face, Eyes, Eyebrows, Nose, Mouth, Neck, Hair, Shoulders, Arms, Hands, Thighs, Legs, and Feet. Morris had filled them all in, thus offering a comprehensive description of the missing man. 'Where Born?' was answered simply by 'London', while besides 'Former Trade or Occupation' was written 'Thief'. The form then gave the date and place of desertion and offered a description of the clothes the deserter had been wearing when last seen. The final item on the form was 'General Remarks', beside which Morris had written 'Back scarred from flogging. A dangerous man.' Baird shook his head. 'A formidable description, Captain,' the General said.