Sharpe's Triumph

by Bernard Cornwell

  Make the bastards fear you. And you know what the second rule is?"

  "Don't ask questions, sir?"

  Dodd grinned.

  "No, lad. the second rule is never to reinforce failure, and the third, lad, is to look after your men. You know why I had that goldsmith thrashed? You've heard of that, haven't you? I'll tell you.

  It wasn't because he'd cheated me, which he did, but because he cheated some of my men. So I looked after them and let them give him a solid kicking, and the bastard died. Which he deserved to do, rich fat bastard that he was." The Major turned and scowled at the servants bringing dishes from Pohlmann's cook tent.

  "And they're just as bad here, Sharpe. Look at all that food! Enough to feed two regiments there, Sharpe, and the men are going hungry. No proper supply system, see? It costs money, that's why. You don't get issued food in this army, you go out and steal it." He plainly disapproved.

  "I've told Pohlmann, I have.

  Lay on a commissary, I said, but he won't, because it costs money. Scindia hoards food in his fortresses, but he won't issue it, not unless he's paid, and Pohlmann won't give up a penny of profit, so no food ever comes. It just rots in the warehouses while we have to keep moving, because after a week we've stripped one set of fields bare and have to go on to the next. It's no bloody way to run an army."

  "Maybe one day you'll change the system, sir," Sharpe said.

  "I will!" Dodd said vigorously.

  "I bloody will! And if you've any sense, lad, you'll be here helping me. You learn one thing as a miller's son, Sergeant, and that's not just how to grind corn, but that a fool and his money are easily parted. And Scindia's a fool, but given a chance I'll make the bugger into the Emperor of India." He turned as a servant beat a gong with a muffled stick.

  "Time for our vittles."

  It was a strangely subdued supper, though Pohlmann did his best to amuse his company. Sharpe had tried to manoeuvre himself into a seat beside Simone, but Dodd and a Swedish captain beat him to it and Sharpe found himself next to a small Swiss doctor who spent the whole meal quizzing Sharpe about the religious arrangements in British regiments.

  "Your chaplains are godly men, yes?"

  "Drunken bastards, sir, most of them."

  "Surely not!"

  "I hauled two of them out of a whorehouse not a month ago, sir.

  They didn't want to pay, see?"

  "You are not telling me the truth!"

  "God's honour, sir. The Reverend Mister Cooper was one of them, and it's a rare Sunday that he's sober. He preached a Christmas sermon at Easter, he was that puzzled."

  Most of the guests left early, Dodd among them, though a few diehards stayed on to give the Colonel a game of cards. Pohlmann grinned at Sharpe.

  "You wager, Sharpe?"

  I'm not rich enough, sir."

  Pohlmann shook his head in mock exasperation at the answer. 'I will make you rich, Sharpe. You believe me?"

  "I do, sir."

  "So you've made up your mind? You're joining me?"

  "I still want to think a bit, sir."

  Pohlmann shrugged.

  "You have nothing to think about. You either become a rich man or you die for King George."

  Sharpe left the remaining officers at their cards and walked away into the encampment. He really was thinking, or trying to think, and he sought a quiet place, but a crowd of soldiers were wagering on dog fights, and their cheers, as well as the yelps and snarls of the dogs, carried far through the darkness. Sharpe settled on an empty stretch of ground close to the picketed camels that carried Pohlmann's supply of rockets, and there he lay and stared up at the stars through the mist of smoke. A million stars. He had always thought there was an answer to all life's mysteries in the stars, yet whenever he stared at them the answer slipped out of his grasp. He had been whipped in the foundling home for staring at a clear night's sky through the workshop skylight.

  "You ain't here to gawp at the dark, boy," the overseer had snapped, 'you're here to labour," and the whip had slashed down across his shoulders and he had dutifully looked down at the great tarry lump of hemp rope that had to be picked apart. The old ropes had been twisted and tightened and tarred into vast knots bigger than Sharpe himself, and they had been used as fenders on the London docks, but when the grinding and thumping of the big ships had almost worn the old fenders through they were sent to the foundling home to be picked apart so that the strands could be sold as furniture stuffing or to be mixed into wall plaster.

  "Got to learn a trade, boy," the master had told him again and again, and so Sharpe had learned a trade, but it was not hemp-picking.

  He learned the killing trade. Load a musket, ram a musket, fire a musket. And he had not done much of it, not yet, but he liked doing it.

  He remembered Malavelly, remembered firing the volley at the approaching enemy, and he remembered the sheer exultation as all his unhappiness and anger had been concentrated into his musket's barrel and been gouted out in one explosive rush of flame, smoke and lead.

  He did not think of himself as unhappy. Not now. The army had been good to him in these last years, but there was still something wrong in his soul. What that was, he did not know, because Sharpe did not reckon he was any good at thinking. He was good at action, for whenever there was a problem to be solved Sergeant Sharpe could usually find the solution, but he was not much use at simply thinking. But he had to think now, and he stared at the smoke-dimmed stars in the hope that they would help him, but all they did was go on shining.

  Lieutenant Sharpe, he thought, and was surprised to realize that he saw nothing very odd in that idea. It was ridiculous, of course. Richard Sharpe, an officer? But somehow he could not shake the idea loose.

  It was a laughable idea, he tried to convince himself; at least in the British army it was, but not here. Not in Pohlmann's army, and Pohlmann had once been a sergeant.

  "Bloody hell," he said aloud, and a camel belched in answer.

  The cheers of the spectators greeted the death of a dog, and, nearer, a soldier was playing one of the strange Indian instruments, plucking its long strings to make a sad, plangent music. In the British camp, Sharpe thought, they would be singing, but no one was singing here.

  They were too hungry, though hunger did not stop a man from fighting.

  It had never stopped Sharpe. So these hungry men could fight, and they needed officers, and all he had to do was stand up, brush the dirt away and stroll across to Pohlmann's tent and become Lieutenant Sharpe.

  Mister Sharpe.

  And he would do a good job. He knew that. Better than Morris, better than most of the army's junior officers. He was a good sergeant, a bloody good sergeant, and he enjoyed being a sergeant. He got respect, not just because of the stripes on his red sleeves, and not just because he had been the man who blew the mine at Seringapatam, but because he was good and tough. He wasn't frightened of making a decision, and that was the key to it, he reckoned. And he enjoyed making decisions, and he enjoyed the respect that decisiveness brought him, and he realized he had been seeking respect all his life. Christ, he thought, but would it not be a joy to walk back into the foundling home with braid on his coat, gold on his shoulders and a sword at his side? That was the respect he wanted, from the bastards in Brewhouse Lane

  who had said he would never amount to anything and who had whipped him bloody because he was a bastard off the streets. By Christ, he thought, but gqing back there would make life perfect! Brewhouse Lane

  , him in a braided coat and a sword, and with Sirrione on his arm and a dead king's jewels about her neck, and them all touching their hats and bobbing like ducks in a pond. Perfect, he thought, just perfect, and as he indulged himself in that dream an angry shout came from the tents close to Pohlmann's marquee and an instant later a gun sounded.

  There was a moment's pause after the gunshot, as if its violence had checked a drunken fight, then Sharpe heard men laughing and the sound of hoofbeats. He was standing now, staring towa
rds the big marquee.

  The horses went by quite close to him, then the noise of their hooves receded into the dark.

  "Come back!" a man shouted in English, and Sharpe recognized McCandless's voice.

  Sharpe began running.

  "Come back!" McCandless shouted again, and then there was another gunshot and Sharpe heard the Colonel yelp like a whipped dog. A score of men were shouting now. The officers who had been playing cards were running towards McCandless's tent and Pohlmann's bodyguards were following them. Sharpe dodged round a fire, leaped a sleeping man, then saw a figure hurrying away from the commotion. The man had a musket in his hand and he was half crouching as if he did not want to be seen, and Sharpe did not hesitate, but just swerved and ran at the man.

  When the fugitive heard Sharpe coming, he quickened his pace, then realized he would be caught and so he turned on his pursuer. The man whipped out a bayonet and screwed it onto the muzzle of his musket.

  Sharpe saw the glint of moonlight on the long blade, saw the man's teeth white in the dark, then the bayonet lunged at him, but Sharpe had dropped to the ground and was sliding forward in the dust beneath the blade. He wrapped his arms around the man's legs, heaved once and the man fell backwards. Sharpe cuffed the musket aside with his left hand, then hammered his right hand down onto the moon-whitened teeth. The man tried to kick Sharpe's crotch, then clawed at his eyes, but Sharpe caught one of the hooked fingers in his mouth and bit hard. The man screamed in pain, Sharpe kept biting and kept hitting, then he spat the severed fingertip into the man's face and gave him one last thump with his fist.

  "Bastard," Sharpe said, and hauled the man to his feet. Two of Pohlmann's officers had arrived now, one still with a fan of cards in his hand.

  "Get his bloody musket," Sharpe ordered them. The man struggled in Sharpe's hands, but he was much smaller than Sharpe and a good kick between his legs brought him to order.

  "Come on, you bastard," Sharpe said.

  One of the officers had picked up the fallen musket and Sharpe reached over and felt the muzzle. It was hot, showing that the weapon had just been fired.

  "If you killed my Colonel, you bastard, I'll kill you," Sharpe said and dragged the man through the campfires to the knot of officers who had gathered about the Colonel's tent.

  McCandless's two horses were gone. Both the mare and the gelding had been stolen, and Sharpe realized it was their hoofbeats he had heard go past him. McCandless, woken by the noise of the horse thieves, had come from the tent and fired his pistol at the men, and one of them had fired back and the bullet had buried itself in the '39

  Colonel's left thigh. He was lying on the ground now, looking horribly pale, and Pohlmann was bellowing for his doctor to come quickly.

  "Who's that?" he demanded of Sharpe, and nodding at the prisoner.

  "The bastard who fired at Colonel McCandless, sir. Musket's still hot."

  The man proved to be one of Major Dodd's sepoys, one of the men who had deserted with Dodd from the Company, and he was put into the charge of Pohlmann's bodyguard. Sharpe knelt beside McCandless who was trying not to cry aloud as the newly arrived doctor, the Swiss man who had sat beside Sharpe at dinner, examined his leg.

  "I was sleeping!" the Colonel complained.

  "Thieves, Sharpe, thieves!"

  "We'll find your horses," Pohlmann reassured the Scotsman, 'and we'll find the thieves."

  "You promised me safety!" McCandless complained.

  "The men will be punished," Pohlmann promised, then he helped Sharpe and two other men lift the wounded Colonel and carry him into the tent where they laid him on the rope cot. The doctor said the bullet had missed the bone, and no major artery was cut, but he still wanted to fetch his probes, forceps and scalpels and try to pull the ball out.

  "You want some brandy, McCandless?" Pohlmann asked.

  "Of course not. Tell him to get on with it."

  The doctor called for more lanterns, for water and for his instruments, and then he spent ten excruciating minutes looking for the bullet deep inside McCandless's upper thigh. The Scotsman uttered not a sound as the probe slid into his lacerated flesh, nor as the long-necked forceps were pushed down to find a purchase on the bullet. The Swiss doctor was sweating, but McCandless just lay with eyes tight shut and teeth clenched.

  "It comes now," the doctor said and began to pull, but the flesh had closed on the forceps and he had to use almost all his strength to drag the bullet up from the wound. It came free at last, releasing a spill of bright blood, and McCandless groaned.

  "All done now, sir," Sharpe told him.

  "Thank God," McCandless whispered, 'thank God." The Scotsman opened his eyes. The doctor was bandaging the thigh and McCandless looked past him to Pohlmann.

  "This is treachery, Colonel, treachery! I was your guest!"

  "Your horses will be found, Colonel, I promise you," Pohlmann said, but though his men made a search of the camp, and though they searched until morning, the two horses were not found. Sharpe was the only man who could identify them, for Colonel McCandless was in no state to walk, but Sharpe saw no horses that resembled the stolen pair, but nor did he expect to for any competent horse thief knew a dozen tricks to disguise his catch. The beast would be clipped, its coat would be dyed with blackball, it would be force-fed an enema so that its head drooped, then it would as likely as not be put among the cavalry mounts where one horse looked much like another. Both McCandless's horses had been European bred and were larger and officer quality than most in Pohlmann's camp, yet even so Sharpe saw no sign of the two animals.

  Colonel Pohlmann went to McCandless's tent and confessed that the horses had vanished.

  "I shall pay you their value, of course," he added.

  "I won't take it!" McCandless snapped back. The Colonel was still pale, and shivering despite the heat. His wound was bandaged, and the doctor reckoned it should heal swiftly enough, but there was a danger that the Colonel's recurrent fever might return.

  "I won't take my enemy's gold," McCandless explained, and Sharpe reckoned it must be the pain speaking for he knew the two missing horses must have cost the Colonel dearly.

  "I shall leave you the money," Pohlmann insisted anyway, 'and this afternoon we shall execute the prisoner."

  "Do what you must," McCandless grumbled.

  "Then we shall carry you northwards," the Hanoverian promised, 'for you must stay under Doctor Viedler's care."

  McCandless levered himself into a sitting position.

  "You'll not take me anywhere!" he insisted angrily.

  "You leave me here, Pohlmann. I'll not depend on your care, but on God's mercy." He let himself drop back onto the bed and hissed with pain.

  "And Sergeant Sharpe can tend me."

  Pohlmann glanced at Sharpe. The Hanoverian seemed about to say that Sharpe might not wish to stay with McCandless, but then he just nodded his acceptance of McCandless's decision.

  "If you wish to be abandoned, McCandless, so be it."

  'I have more faith in God than in a faithless mercenary like you, Pohlmann."

  "As you wish, Colonel," Pohlmann said gently, then backed from the tent and gestured for Sharpe to follow.

  "He's a stubborn fellow, isn't he?" The Hanoverian turned and looked at Sharpe.

  "So, Sergeant? Are you coming with us?"

  "No, sir," Sharpe said. Last night, he reflected, he had very nearly decided to accept the Hanoverian's offer, but the theft of the horses and the single shot fired by the sepoy had served to change Sharpe's mind.

  He could not leave McCandless to suffer and, to his surprise, he felt no great disappointment in thus having the decision forced on him. Duty dictated he should stay, but so did sentiment, and he had no regret.

  "Someone has to look after Colonel McCandless, sir," Sharpe explained, 'and he's looked after me in the past, so it's my turn now."

  I'm sorry," Pohlmann said, 'truly I am. The execution will be in one hour. I think you should see it, so you can assure your Co
lonel that justice was done."

  "Justice, sir?" Sharpe asked scornfully.

  "It ain't justice, shooting that fellow. He was put up to it by Major Dodd." Sharpe had no proof of that, but he suspected it strongly.

  Dodd, he reckoned, had been hurt by McCandless's insults and must have decided to add horse-thieving to his catalogue of crimes.

  "You have questioned your prisoner, haven't you, sir?" Sharpe asked.

  "Because he must know that Dodd was up to his neck in the business."

  Pohlmann smiled wearily.

  "The prisoner told us everything, Sergeant or I assume he did, but what use is that? Major Dodd denies the man's story, and a score of sepoys swear the Major was nowhere near McCandless's tent when the shots were fired. And who would the British army believe? A desperate man or an officer?" Pohlmann shook his head.

  "So you must be content with the death of one man, Sergeant."

  Sharpe expected that the captured sepoy would be shot, but there was no sign of any firing squad when the moment arrived for the man's death.

  Two companies from each of Pohlmann's eight battalions were paraded, the sixteen companies making three sides of a hollow square with Pohlmann's striped marquee forming the fourth side. Most of the other tents had already been struck ready for the move northwards, but the marquee remained and one of its canvas walls had been brailed up so that the compoo's officers could witness the execution from chairs set in the tent's shade. Dodd was not there, nor were any of the regiment's wives, but a score of officers took their places and were served sweetmeats and drink by Pohlmann's servants.

  The prisoner was fetched onto the makeshift execution ground by four of Pohlmann's bodyguards. None of the four carried a musket, instead they were equipped with tent pegs, mallets and short lengths of rope. The prisoner, who wore nothing but a strip of cloth around his loins, glanced from side to side as if trying to find an escape route, but, on a nod from Pohlmann, the bodyguards kicked his feet out from beneath him and then knelt beside his sprawling body and pinioned it to the ground by tying the ropes to his wrists and ankles, then fastening the bonds to the tent pegs. The condemned man lay there, spreadeagled gazing up at the cloudless sky as the mallets banged the eight pegs home.