Sharpe's Tiger

by Bernard Cornwell

  'No, sir.'

  Shee paused. It was all so irregular.

  'Dismiss the battalion, sir?' Bywaters suggested.

  Shee nodded, glad to have been given some guidance. 'Dismiss them, Sergeant Major.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Sharpe had survived.

  Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'We all have family.'

  'Not prinking English popinjay families with too much bloody money.'

  'He was born in Ireland.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'Makes sense, makes sense,' Baird had put in encouragingly.

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

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

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

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

  'How many lashes is this fellow getting?' Harris asked.

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

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

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

  'Did he, by God! That's damned generous.'

  'And I hope I'm damned grateful, sir.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'Yes, sir.'

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

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

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

  Sharpe nodded. 'Killed my share of the enemy, sir.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'Yes, sir,' Sharpe said obediently.

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

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

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

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

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

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