Sharpe's Tiger

by Bernard Cornwell

  'So Your Majesty has been kind enough to inform me before,' Gudin answered dryly.

  The Tippoo laughed. 'You do not enjoy this, Colonel?'

  'The death of traitors is ever necessary, sire,' Gudin said evasively.

  'But I should like to think you derive amusement from it. Surely you appreciate my men's strength?'

  'I do admire it, sire.'

  'Then admire it now,' the Tippoo said, 'for the next death takes even more strength than the nail.' The Tippoo smiled and turned back to look into the courtyard where the second jetti waited behind the prisoner. The Tippoo pointed at the merchant, held the gesture as before, then dropped his hand abruptly. The merchant screamed in anticipation, then began to shake like a leaf as the jetti placed his hands against the sides of the merchant's skull. His touch was gentle at first, almost a caress. His palms covered the merchant's ears as his fingers groped to find a purchase among the skull bones beneath the victim's fat cheeks. Then the jetti suddenly tightened his grip, distorting the plump face, and the merchant's scream became frantic until, at last, he had no breath left to scream and could only mew in terror. The jetti drew breath, paused to concentrate all his force, then gave a great shout that made the six tigers leap to their feet in alarm.

  As he shouted the jetti twisted the merchant's head. He was wringing his victim's neck like a man would wring a chicken's gullet, only this neck was thick and fat, but the jetti's first great effort twisted it so far around that the face was already looking back across its right shoulder when the executioner made his second effort, marked by a grunt, which pulled the head all the way around and Gudin, flinching from the sight on the balcony, heard the distinct crack as the merchant's spine was broken. The jetti let go of the head and sprang back, proud of his work as the dead merchant collapsed off the stool. The Tippoo applauded, then tossed down two small bags of gold. 'Take that one to the pigs,' he said, pointing at the Muslim. 'And leave the other here. Let the tigers loose.'

  The balcony shutters were closed. Somewhere deep in the palace, perhaps from the harem where the Tippoo's six hundred wives, concubines and handmaidens all lived, a harp tinkled prettily, while down in the courtyard the tigers' keepers used their long staves to herd the beasts as they released them from their chains. The Tippoo smiled at his followers. 'Back to the walls, gentlemen,' he said. 'We have work to do.'

  The keepers released the last tiger, then followed the jettis out through the gateway. The dead soldier had been dragged away. For a moment the tigers watched the remaining body, then one of the beasts crossed to the merchant's corpse and eviscerated the fat belly with one blow of its huge paw.

  And so Ravi Shekhar had died. And now was eaten.

  Sharpe was back with his company before sunset. He was greeted ebulliently by men who saw in his release from the flogging a small victory for the lower ranks against blind authority. Private Mallinson even clapped Sharpe on the back, and was rewarded with a stream of curses.

  Sharpe ate with his usual six companions who, as ever, were joined by three wives and by Mary. The supper was a stew of beans, rice and salt beef, and it was at the end of the small meal, when they were sharing a canteen of arrack, that Sergeant Hakeswill appeared. 'Private Sharpe!' He was carrying a cane that he pointed towards Sharpe. 'I wants you!'

  Sergeant.' Sharpe acknowledged Hakeswill, but did not move.

  'A word with you, Private. On your feet now!'

  Sharpe still did not move. 'I'm excused company duties, Sergeant. Colonel's orders.'

  Hakeswill's face wrenched itself in a grotesque twitch. 'This ain't your duty,' the Sergeant said, 'this is your bleeding pleasure. So get on your bloody feet and come here.'

  Sharpe obediently stood, flinching as his coat tugged at his grievously wounded back. He followed the Sergeant to an open space behind the surgeon's tent where Hakeswill turned and rammed his cane into Sharpe's chest. 'How the hell did you escape that flogging, Sharpie?'

  Sharpe ignored the question. Hakeswill's broken nose was still swollen and bruised, and Sharpe could see the worry in the Sergeant's eyes.

  'Didn't you hear me, boy?' Hakeswill shoved the cane's tip into Sharpe's belly. 'How come you was cut down?'

  'How come you were cut down from the scaffold, Sergeant?' Sharpe asked.

  'No lip from you, boy. No lip, or by God I'll have you strapped to the tripod again. Now tell me what the General wanted.'

  Sharpe shook his head. 'If you want to know that, Sergeant,' he said, 'you'd better ask General Harris yourself.'

  'Stand still! Stand straight!' Hakeswill snapped, then cut with his cane at a nearby guy rope. He sniffed, wondering how best to worm the information out of Sharpe and decided, for a change, to try gentleness. 'I admire you, Sharpie,' the Sergeant said hoarsely. 'Not many men have the guts to walk after getting two hundred tickles of the whip. Takes a strong man to do that, Sharpie, and I'd hate to see you getting even more tickles. It's in your best interest to tell me, Sharpie. You know that. It'll go bad with you else. So why was you released, lad?'

  Sharpe pretended to relent. 'You know why I was released, Sergeant,' he said. 'The Colonel announced it.'

  'No, I don't know, lad,' Hakeswill said. 'Upon my soul, I don't. So you tell me now.'

  Sharpe shrugged. 'Because we fought well the other day, Sergeant. It's a reward, like.'

  'No, it bleeding ain't!' Hakeswill shouted, then dodged to one side and slashed his cane onto Sharpe's wounded back. Sharpe almost screamed with the pain. 'You don't get called away to a general's tent for that, Sharpie!' Hakeswill said. 'Stands to reason! Never heard nothing like it in all my born days. So you tell me why, you bastard.'

  Sharpe turned to face his persecutor. 'You lay that cane on me again, Obadiah,' he said softly, 'and I'll tell General Harris about you. I'll have you skinned of your stripes, I will, and turned back into a private. Would you like that, Obadiah? You and me in the same file? I'd like that, Obadiah.'

  'Stand still!' Hakeswill spat.

  'Shut your face, Sergeant,' Sharpe said. He had called Hakeswill's bluff, and there was pleasure in that. The Sergeant had doubtless thought he could bully the truth out of Sharpe, but Sharpe held all the trump cards here. 'How's your nose?' he asked Hakeswill.

  'Be careful, Sharpie. Be careful.'

  'Oh, I am, Sergeant, I am. I'm real careful. Have you done now?' Sharpe did not wait for an answer, but just walked away. The next time he faced Obadiah, he thought, he would have the stripes on his sleeve, and God help Hakeswill then.

  He talked to Mary for half an hour, then it was time to make the excuses that Lieutenant Lawford had rehearsed with him. He picked up his pack, took his musket, and said he had to report to the paymaster's tent. 'I'm on light duties till the stripes heal,' he told his mates, 'doing sentry-go on the money. I'll see you tomorrow.'

  Major General Baird had made all the arrangements. The camp's western perimeter was guarded by men he could trust, and those men had orders to disregard anything they saw, while next day, Baird promised Lawford, the army would take care not to send any cavalry patrols directly west in case those patrols discovered the two fugitives. 'Your job is to go as far west as you can tonight,' Baird told Sharpe and Lawford when he met them close to the western picket line, 'and then keep walking west in the morning. You understand now?'

  'Yes, sir,' Lawford answered. The Lieutenant, beneath a heavy cloak that disguised his uniform, was now dressed in the common soldier's red wool coat and white trousers. Sharpe had tugged Lawford's hair back, then wrapped it round the learner pad to form the queue, and after that he had smothered it with a mix of grease and powder so that Lawford looked no different from any other private except that his hands were still too soft, but at least they now had ink under the fingernails and ground into the pores. Lawford had grimaced as Sharpe had tugged at his hair, and protested when Sharpe had gouged two marks in his neck where a stock would have scraped twin calluses, but Baird had hushed him. Lawford winced again when he put on the leather sto
ck and realized just what discomfort the ordinary soldier endured daily. Now, safe out of sight of the soldiers about their camp-fires, he dropped the cloak, pulled on a pack and picked up his musket.

  Baird hauled a huge watch from his pocket and tilted its face to the half moon. 'Eleven o'clock,' the General said. 'Time you fellows were away.' He put two fingers in his mouth and sounded a shrill quick whistle and the picket, visible in the pale moonlight, magically parted north and south to leave an unguarded gap in the camp's perimeter. Baird had shaken Lawford's hand, then patted Sharpe's shoulder. 'How's your back, Sharpe?'

  'Hurts like hell, sir.' It did too.

  Baird looked worried. 'You'll manage, though?'

  'I ain't soft, sir.'

  'I never supposed you were, Private.' Baird patted Sharpe's shoulder again, then gestured into the dark. 'Off you go, lads, and God be with you.' Baird watched the two men run across the open ground and disappear into the darkness on the farther side. He waited for a long time, hoping to catch a last glimpse of the two men's shadows, but he saw nothing, and his best judgement suggested that he would probably never see either soldier again and that reflection saddened him. He sounded the whistle again and watched as the sentries reformed the picket line, then he turned and walked slowly back to his tent.

  'This way, Sharpe,' Lawford said when they were out of earshot of the sentries. 'We're following a star.'

  'Just like the wise men, Bill,' Sharpe said. It had taken Sharpe an extraordinary effort to use Mister Lawford's first name, but he knew he had to do it. His survival, and Lawford's, depended on everything being done right.

  But the use of the name shocked Lawford, who stopped and stared at Sharpe. 'What did you call me?'

  'I called you Bill,' Sharpe said, 'because that's your bleeding name. You ain't an officer now, you're one of us. I'm Dick, you're Bill. And we ain't following any bloody star. We're going to those trees over there. See? The three big buggers?'

  'Sharpe!' Lawford protested.

  'No!' Sharpe turned savagely on Lawford. 'My job is to keep you alive, Bill, so get one thing straight. You're a bleeding private now, not a bloody officer. You volunteered, remember? And we're deserters. There ain't no ranks here, no "sirs", no bloody salutes, no gentlemen. When we get back to the army I promise you I'll pretend this never happened and I'll salute you till my bloody arm drops off, but not now, and not till you and me get out of this bloody nonsense alive. So come on!'

  Lawford, stunned by Sharpe's confidence, meekly followed. 'But this is south of west!' he protested, glancing up at the stars to check the direction Sharpe was taking.

  'We'll go west later,' Sharpe said. 'Now get your bleeding stock off.' He ripped his own off and tossed it into some bushes. 'First thing any runner does, sir'—the 'sir' was accidental, a habit, and he silently cursed himself for using it—'is take off his stock. Then mess your hair. And get those trousers dirty. You look like you're standing guard on Windsor bleeding Castle.' Sharpe watched as Lawford did his best to obey. 'So where did you join up, Bill?' he asked.

  Lawford was still resentful of this sudden reversal of roles, but he was sensible enough to realize Sharpe was right. 'Join up?' he repeated. 'I didn't.'

  'Of course you did! Where did they recruit you?'

  'My home's near Portsmouth.'

  'That's no bloody good. Navy would press you in Portsmouth before a recruiting sergeant could get near to you. Ever been to Sheffield?'

  'Good Lord, no!' Lawford sounded horrified.

  'Good place, Sheffield,' Sharpe said. 'And there's a pub on Pond Street

  called The Hawle in the Pond. Can you remember that? The Hawle in the Pond in Sheffield. It's a favourite hunting hole for the 33rd's recruiters, especially on market days. You was tricked there by some bleeding sergeant. He got you drunk and before you knew it you'd taken the King's shilling. He was a sergeant of the 33rd, so what did he have on his bayonet?'

  'His bayonet?' Lawford, fumbling to release the leather binding of his newly clubbed hair, frowned in perplexity. 'Nothing, I should hope.'

  'We're the 33rd, Bill! The Havercakes! He carried an oatcake on his bayonet, remember? And he promised you'd be an officer inside two years because he was a lying bastard. What did you do before you met him?'

  Lawford shrugged. 'A farmer?'

  'No one would ever believe you laboured on a farm,' Sharpe said scornfully. 'You ain't got a farmer's arms. That General Baird now, he's got proper arms. Looks as if he could hoist hay all day long and not feel a damn thing, but not you. You were a lawyer's clerk.'

  Lawford nodded. 'I think we should go now,' he said, trying to reassert his rapidly vanishing authority.

  'We're waiting,' Sharpe said stubbornly. 'So why the hell are you running?'

  Lawford frowned. 'Unhappiness, I suppose.'

  'Bleeding hell, you're a soldier! You ain't supposed to be happy! No, let's think now. You boned the Captain's watch, how about that? Got caught, and you faced a flogging. You saw me flogged and didn't fancy you could survive, so you and me, being mates like, ran.'

  'I really do think we must go!' Lawford insisted.

  'In a minute, sir.' Again Sharpe cursed himself for using the honorific. 'Just let my back settle down.'

  'Oh, of course.' Lawford was immediately contrite. 'But we can't wait too long, Sharpe.'

  'Dick, sir. You call me Dick. We're friends, remember?'

  'Of course.' Lawford, as uncomfortable with this sudden intimacy as with the need to waste time, settled awkwardly by Sharpe at the base of a tree. 'So why did you join up?' he asked Sharpe.

  'The harmen were after me.'

  'The harmen? Oh yes, the constables.' Lawford paused. Somewhere in the night a creature shrieked as it was caught by a predator, while off to the east the sergeants called to their sentries. The sky glowed with the light of the army's myriad fires. 'What had you done?' Lawford asked.

  'Killed a man. Put a knife in him.'

  Lawford gazed at Sharpe. 'Murdered him, you mean?'

  'Oh, aye, it was murder right enough, even though the bugger deserved it. But the judge at York Assizes wouldn't have seen it my way, would he? Which meant Dick Sharpe would have been morris-dancing at the end of a rope so I reckoned it was easier to put on the scarlet coat. The harmen don't bother a man once he's in uniform, not unless he killed one of the gentry.'

  Lawford hesitated, not sure whether he should enquire too deeply, then decided it was worth a try. 'So who was the fellow you killed?'

  'Bugger kept an inn. I worked for him, see? It was a coaching inn so he knew what coaches were carrying good baggage and my job was to snaffle the stuff once the coach was on the road. That and some prigging.' Lawford did not like to ask what prigging was, so kept quiet. 'He were a right bastard,' Sharpe went on, 'but that wasn't why I stuck him. It was over a girl, see? And he and I had a disagreement about who should keep her blanket warm. He lost and I'm here and God knows where the lass is now.' He laughed.

  'We're wasting time,' Lawford said.

  'Quiet!' Sharpe snapped, then picked up his musket and pointed it towards some bushes. 'Is that you, lass?'

  'It's me, Richard.' Mary Bickerstaff emerged from the shadows carrying a bundle. 'Evening, Mr. Lawford, sir,' she said shyly.

  'Call him Bill,' Sharpe insisted, then stood and shouldered his musket. 'Come on, Bill!' he said. 'No point in wasting time here. There's three of us now and wise men always travel in threes, don't they? So find your bleeding star and let's be moving.'

  They walked all night, following Lawford's star towards the western skyline. Lawford took Sharpe aside at one point and, insisting on his ever-more-precarious authority, ordered Sharpe to send the woman back. 'That's an order, Sharpe,' Lawford said.

  'She won't go,' Sharpe retorted.

  'We can't take a woman!' Lawford snapped.

  'Why not? Deserters always take their valuables, sir. Bill, I mean.'

  'Christ, Private, if you mess this up I'll make sure you get all the s
tripes you escaped yesterday.'

  Sharpe grinned. 'It won't be me who messes it. It's the damn fool idea itself.'

  'Nonsense.' Lawford strode ahead, forcing Sharpe to follow. Mary, guessing that they were arguing about her, kept a few paces behind. 'There's nothing wrong with General Baird's notion,' Lawford said. 'We fall into the Tippoo's hands, we join his wretched army, find this man Ravi Shekhar, then leave everything to him. And just what part does Mrs. Bickerstaff play in that?' He asked the question angrily.

  'Whatever part she wants,' Sharpe said stubbornly.

  Lawford knew he should argue, or rather that he should impose his authority on Sharpe, but he sensed he could never win. He was beginning to wonder whether it had been such a good idea to bring Sharpe after all, but from the first moment when Baird had suggested this desperate endeavour, Lawford had known he would need help and he had also known which of the Light Company's soldiers he wanted.

  Private Sharpe had always stood out, not just because of his height, but because he was by far the quickest-witted man in the company. But even so, Lawford had not been ready for the speed or force with which Sharpe had taken over this mission. Lawford had expected gratitude from Sharpe, and also deference; he even believed he deserved that deference purely by virtue of being an officer, but Sharpe had swiftly torn that assumption into tatters. It was rather as if Lawford had harnessed a solid-looking draught horse to his gig only to discover it was a runaway racer, but why had the racehorse insisted on bringing the filly? That offended Lawford, suggesting to him that Sharpe was taking advantage of the freedom offered by this mission. Lawford glanced at Sharpe, noting how pale and strained he looked, and he guessed that the flogging had taken far more from the Private than he realized. 'I still think Mrs. Bickerstaff should go back to the army,' he said gently.