But knowing his enemies would not help Sharpe now. He knew he had as much hope of living as those dogs who were hurled onto the mudflats beside the Thames in London with stones tied to their necks. The children used to laugh as they watched the dogs struggle. Some of the dogs had come from wealthy homes. They used to be snatched and if their owners did not produce the ransom money within a couple of days, the dogs were thrown into the river. Usually the ransom was paid, brought by a nervous footman to a sordid public house near the docks, but no one would ransom Sharpe. Who would care? Dust from the rug was thick in his nose. Just let the end be quick, he prayed.
He could hear almost nothing through the rug. The axle squealing was the loudest noise, and once he heard a thump on the cart’s side and thought he heard a man laugh. It was nighttime. He was not sure how he knew that, except that it would make sense, for no one would try to smuggle a British officer out in daylight, and he knew he had lain in the tent for a long time after Hakeswill had hit him. He remembered ducking under the tent’s canvas, remembered a glimpse of the brass-bound musket butt, and then it was nothing but a jumble of pain and oblivion. A weight pressed on his waist, and he guessed after a while that a man was resting his feet on the rug. Sharpe tested the assumption by trying to move and the man kicked him. He lay still again. One dog had escaped, he remembered. It had somehow slipped the rope over its neck and had paddled away downstream with the children shrieking along the bank and hurling stones at the frightened head. Did the dog die? Sharpe could not remember. God, he thought, but he had been a wild child, wild as a hawk. They had tried to beat the wildness out of him, beat him till the blood ran, then told him he would come to a bad end. They had prophesied that he would be strung up by the neck at Tyburn Hill. Dick Sharpe dangling, pissing down his legs while the rope burned into his gullet. But it had not happened. He was an officer, a gentleman, and he was still alive, and he pulled at the tether about his wrists, but it would not shift.
Was Hakeswill riding in the cart? That seemed possible, and suggested the Sergeant wanted somewhere safe and private to kill Sharpe. But how? Quick with a knife? That was a forlorn wish, for Hakeswill was not merciful. Perhaps he planned to repay Sharpe by putting him beneath an elephant’s foot and he would scream and writhe until the great weight would not let him scream ever again and his bones would crack and splinter like eggshells. Be sure your sin will find you out. How many times had he heard those words from the Bible? Usually thumped into him at the foundling home with a blow across the skull for every syllable, and the blows would keep coming as they chanted the reference. The Book of Numbers, chapter thirty-two, verse twenty-three, syllable by syllable, blow by blow, and now his sin was finding him out and he was to be punished for all the unpunished offenses. So die well, he told himself. Don’t cry out. Whatever was about to happen could not be worse than the flogging he had taken because of Hakeswill’s lies. That had hurt. Hurt like buggery, but he had not cried out. So take the pain and go like a man. What had Sergeant Major Bywaters said as he had thrust the leather gag into Sharpe’s mouth? “Be brave, boy. Don’t let the regiment down.” So he would be brave and die well, and then what? Hell, he supposed, and an eternity of torment at the hands of a legion of Hakeswills. Just like the army, really.
The cart stopped. He heard feet thump on the wagon boards, the murmur of voices, then hands seized the rug and dragged him off. He banged hard down onto the ground, then the rug was picked up and carried. Die well, he told himself, die well, but that was easier said than done. Not all men died well. Sharpe had seen strong men reduced to shuddering despair as they waited for the cart to be run out from under the gallows, just as he had seen others go into eternity with a defiance so brittle and hard that it had silenced the watching crowd. Yet all men, the brave and the cowardly, danced the gallows dance in the end, jerking from a length of Bridport hemp, and the crowd would laugh at their twitching antics. Best puppet show in London, they said. There was no good way to die, except in bed, asleep, unknowing. Or maybe in battle, at the cannon’s mouth, blown to kingdom come in an instant of oblivion.
He heard the footsteps of the men who carried him slap on stone, then heard a loud murmur of voices. There were a lot of voices, all apparently talking at once and all excited, and he felt the rug being jostled by a crowd and then he seemed to be carried down some steps and the crowd was gone and he was thrown onto a hard floor. The voices seemed louder now, as if he was indoors, and he was suddenly possessed by the absurd notion that he had been brought into a cock-fighting arena like the one off Vinegar Street
where, as a child, he had earned farthings by carrying pots of porter to spectators who were alternatively morose or maniacally excited.
He lay for a long time. He could hear the voices, even sometimes a burst of laughter. He remembered the fat man in Vinegar Street
, whose trade, rat-catching, took him to the great houses in west London that he reconnoitered for his thieving friends. “You’d make a good snaffler, Dicky,” he’d say to Sharpe, then he would clutch Sharpe’s arm and point to the cockerels waiting to fight. “Which one’ll win, lad, which one?” And Sharpe would make a haphazard choice and, as often as not, the bird did win. “He’s a lucky boy,” the rat-catcher would boast to his friends as he tossed Sharpe a farthing. “Nipper’s got the luck of the devil!”
But not tonight, Sharpe thought, and suddenly the rug was seized, unwound, and Sharpe was spilled naked onto hard stones. A cheer greeted his appearance. Light flared in Sharpe’s eyes, dazzling him, but after a while he saw he was in a great stone courtyard lit by the flames of torches mounted on pillars that surrounded the yard. Two white-robed men seized him, dragged him upright and pushed him onto a stone bench where, to his surprise, his hands and feet were loosed and the gag taken from his mouth. He sat flexing his fingers and gasping deep breaths of humid air. He could see no sign of Hakeswill.
He could see now that he was in a temple. A kind of cloister ran around the courtyard and, because the cloister was raised three or four feet, it made the stone-paved floor into a natural arena. He had not been so wrong about the cockfighting pit, though Vinegar Street
had never aspired to ornately carved stone arches smothered with writhing gods and snarling beasts. The raised cloister was packed with men who were in obvious good humor. There were hundreds of them, all anticipating a night’s rare entertainment. Sharpe touched his swollen lip and winced at the pain. He was thirsty, and with every deep breath his bruised or broken ribs hurt. There was a swelling on his forehead that was thick with dried blood. He looked about the crowd, seeking one friendly face and finding none. He just saw Indian peasants with dark eyes that reflected the flame light. They must have come from every village within ten miles to witness whatever was about to happen.
In the center of the courtyard was a small stone building, fantastically carved with elephants and dancing girls, and crowned by a stepped tower that had been sculpted with yet more gods and animals painted red, yellow, green and black. The crowd’s noise subsided as a man showed at the doorway of the small shrine and raised his arms as a signal for silence. Sharpe recognized the man. He was the tall, thin, limping man in the green and black striped robe who had pleaded with Torrance for Naig’s life, and behind him came a pair of jettis. So that was the sum of it. Revenge for Naig, and Sharpe realized that Hakeswill had never intended to kill him, only deliver him to these men.
A murmur ran through the spectators as they admired the jettis. Vast brutes, they were, who dedicated their extraordinary strength to some strange Indian god. Although Sharpe had met jettis before and had killed some in Seringapatam, he did not fancy his chances against these two bearded brutes. He was too weak, too thirsty, too bruised, too hurt, while these two fanatics were tall and hugely muscled. Their bronze skin had been oiled so that it gleamed in the flame light. Their long hair was coiled about their skulls, and one had red lines painted on his face, while the other, who was slightly shorter, carried a long spear. Each man
wore a loincloth and nothing else. They glanced at Sharpe, then the taller man prostrated himself before a small shrine. A dozen guards came from the courtyard’s rear and lined its edge. They carried muskets tipped with bayonets.
The tall man in the striped robe clapped his hands to silence the crowd’s last murmurs. It took a while, for still more spectators were pushing into the temple and there was scarce room in the cloister. Somewhere outside a horse neighed. Men shouted protests as the newcomers shoved their way inside, but at last the commotion ended and the tall man stepped to the edge of the stone platform on which the small shrine stood. He spoke for a long time, and every few moments his words would provoke a growl of agreement, and then the crowd would look at Sharpe and some would spit at him. Sharpe stared sullenly back at them. They were getting a rare night’s amusement, he reckoned. A captured Englishman was to be killed in front of them, and Sharpe could not blame them for relishing the prospect. But he was damned if he would die easy. He could do some damage, he reckoned, maybe not much, but enough so that the jettis remembered the night they were given a redcoat to kill.
The tall man finished his speech, then limped down the short flight of steps and approached Sharpe. He carried himself with dignity, like a man who knows his own worth to be high. He stopped a few paces from Sharpe and his face showed derision as he stared at the Englishman’s sorry state. “My name,” he said in English, “is Jama.”
Sharpe said nothing.
“You killed my brother,” Jama said.
“I’ve killed a lot of men,” Sharpe said, his voice hoarse so that it scarcely carried the few paces that separated the two men. He spat to clear his throat. “I’ve killed a lot of men,” he said again.
“And Naig was one,” Jama said.
“He deserved to die,” Sharpe said.
Jama sneered at that answer. “If my brother deserved to die then so did the British who traded with him.”
That was probably true, Sharpe thought, but he said nothing. He could see some pointed helmets at the back of the crowd and he guessed that some of the Mahratta horsemen who still roamed the Deccan Plain had come to see his death. Maybe the same Mahrattas who had bought the two thousand missing muskets, muskets that Hake-swill had supplied and Torrance had lied about to conceal the theft.
“So now you will die,” Jama said simply.
Sharpe shrugged. Run to the right, he was thinking, and grab the nearest musket, but he knew he would be slowed by the pain. Besides, the men on the cloister would jump down to overpower him. But he had to do something. Anything! A man could not just be killed like a dog.
“You will die slowly,” Jama said, “to satisfy the debt of blood that is owed to my family.”
“You want a death,” Sharpe asked, “to balance your brother’s death?”
“Exactly so,” Jama said gravely.
“Then kill a rat,” Sharpe said, “or strangle a toad. Your brother deserved to die. He was a thief.”
“And you English have come to steal all India,” Jama said equably. He looked again at Sharpe’s wounds, and seemed to get satisfaction from them. “You will soon be pleading for my mercy,” he said. “Do you know what jettis are?”
“I know,” Sharpe said.
“Prithviraj,” Jama said, gesturing towards the taller jetti who was bowing before the small altar, “has castrated a man with his bare hands. He will do that to you and more, for tonight I have promised these people they will see the death of a hundred parts. You will be torn to pieces, Englishman, but you will live as your body is divided, for that is a jettfs skill. To kill a man slowly, without weapons, tearing him piece by piece, and only when your screams have assuaged the pain of my brother’s death will I show you mercy.” Jama gave Sharpe one last look of disdain, then turned and walked back to the shrine’s steps.
Prithviraj leaned forward and rang a tiny handbell to draw the god’s attention, then put his hands together and bowed his head a last time. The second jetti, the one with the spear, watched Sharpe with an expressionless face.
Sharpe forced himself to stand. His back ached and his legs were weak so that he tottered, making the crowd laugh at him. He took a step to his right, but the closest guard just edged away. A carved stool had been fetched from the shrine and Jama was now sitting at the top of the steps. A huge bat flickered in and out of the torchlight. Sharpe walked forward, testing his legs, and was amazed he could stand at all. The crowd jeered his faltering gait, and the sound made Prithviraj turn from his devotions. He saw that Sharpe posed no danger and so turned back to the god.
Sharpe staggered. He did it deliberately, making himself look weaker than he really was. He swayed, pretending that he was about to fall, then took some slurred sideways steps to get close to one of the guards. Seize a musket, he told himself, then ram its muzzle into Jama’s face. He swayed sideways again, and the closest guard just stepped back and leveled the bayonet at Sharpe. The dozen sentries plainly had orders to keep Sharpe inside the jetti’s killing ground. Sharpe measured the distance, wondering if he could get past the bayonet to seize the musket, but a second guard came to reinforce the first.
Then Prithviraj stood.
He was a bloody giant, Sharpe thought, a giant with an oiled skin and upper arms as thick as most men’s thighs. The crowd murmured in admiration again, and then Prithviraj undid his loincloth and let it fall so that he was naked like Sharpe. The gesture seemed to imply that he sought no advantage over his opponent, though as the huge man came down from the shrine the second took care to stay close beside him. Two against one, and the second had a spear, and Sharpe had nothing. He glanced at the burning torches, wondering if he could seize one and brandish it as a weapon, but they were mounted too high. Christ, he thought, but do something! Anything! Panic began to close in on him, fluttering like the bat which swooped into the flame light again.
He backed away from the jettis and the crowd jeered him. He did not care. He was watching Prithviraj. A slow-moving man, too musclebound to be quick, and Sharpe guessed that was why the second jetti was present. His job would be to herd Sharpe with the glittering spear, and afterward to hold him still as Prithviraj tore off fingers, toes and ears. So take the spearman first, Sharpe told himself, put the bastard down and take his weapon. He edged to his left, circling the courtyard to try and position himself closer to the spear-carrying jetti. The crowd sighed as he moved, enjoying the thought that the Englishman would put up a fight.
The spear followed Sharpe’s movements. He would have to be quick, Sharpe thought, desperately quick, and he doubted he could do it. Hakeswill’s kicking had slowed him, but he had to try and so he kept on circling, then abruptly charged in to attack the spearman, but the weapon was jabbed toward him and Prithviraj was much faster than Sharpe had expected and leaped to catch him, and Sharpe had to twist awkwardly away. The crowd laughed at his clumsiness.
“Accept your death,” Jama called. A servant was fanning the merchant’s face.
Sweat poured down Sharpe’s cheeks. He had been forced toward that part of the courtyard nearest the temple’s entrance where there were two stone flights of stairs leading up to the cloister. The steps, jutting into the yard, formed a bay in which Sharpe suddenly realized he was trapped. He moved sideways, but the spear-carrying jetti covered him. The two men knew he was cornered now and came slowly toward him and Sharpe could only back away until his spine touched the cloister’s edge. One of the spectators kicked him, but with more malice than force. The jettis came on slowly, wary in case he suddenly broke to right or left. Prithviraj was flexing his huge fingers, making them supple for the night’s work. Scraps of smoldering ash whirled away from the torches, one settling on Sharpe’s shoulder. He brushed it off.
“Sahib?” a voice hissed from behind Sharpe. “Sahib?”
Prithviraj looked calm and confident. No bloody wonder, Sharpe thought. So kick the naked bugger in the crotch. He reckoned that was his last chance. One good kick, and hope that Prithviraj doubled over. Eithe
r that or run onto the spear and hope the blade killed him quickly.
“Sahib!” the voice hissed again. Prithviraj was turning sideways so that he would not expose his groin to Sharpe, then he beckoned for the other jetti to close in on the Englishman and drive him out from the wall with his spear. “You bugger!” the voice said impatiendy.
Sharpe turned to see that Ahmed was on hands and knees among the legs of the spectators, and what was more the child was pushing forward the hilt of the tulwar he had captured at Deogaum. Sharpe leaned on the cloister edge and the crowd, seeing him rest against the stone, believed he had given up. Some groaned for they had been anticipating more of a fight, but most of the watching men just jeered at him for being a weakling.
Sharpe winked at Ahmed, then reached for the tulwar. He seized the handle, pushed away from the stone and turned, dragging the blade from the scabbard that was still in Ahmed’s grasp. He turned fast as a striking snake, the curved steel silver-red in the courtyard’s flame light, and the jettis, thinking he was a beaten man, were not prepared. The man with the spear was closest, and the curved blade slashed across his face, springing blood, and he instinctively clutched his eyes and let the spear drop. Sharpe moved to the right, scooped up the fallen spear, and Prithviraj at last looked worried.
The guards raised their muskets. Sharpe heard the clicks as the dogheads were hauled back. So let them shoot him, he thought, for that was a quicker death than being dismembered and gelded by a naked giant. Jama was standing, one hand in the air, reluctant to let his guards shoot Sharpe before he had suffered pain. The wounded jetti was on his knees, his hands clutched to his face which was streaming blood.
Sharpe's Fortress Page 19
