McCandless looked into Kunwar Singh’s eyes. “Do your job well, my friend. Your master is valuable.”
Kunwar Singh smiled and then, at a signal from Appah Rao, he took a roll of paper from inside his tunic. He unrolled the sheet and weighted its corners with a pistol, a knife, a handful of bullets, and the lantern.
McCandless leaned forward. The scroll was a map and it showed the big island in the River Cauvery on which the Tippoo’s capital of Seringapatam was built. The fortress town occupied the island’s western tip, while beyond its walls, to the east, were pleasure gardens, suburbs, the Tippoo’s summer palace, and the mausoleum where the fearsome Hyder Ali was entombed.
Appah Rao drew a knife from his belt. He tapped the island’s northern bank where it fronted the Cauvery’s main channel. “That is where General Cornwallis crossed. But since then the walls have been strengthened. The French advised us how to do it. There are new guns on the walls, hundreds of them.” He looked up into McCandless’s eyes. “I mean hundreds, McCandless. That is not an exaggeration. The Tippoo is fond of cannon and rockets. He has thousands of rocketmen and deep arsenals crammed with weapons. All this”—he swept the knife’s tip around the walls that faced the river—“has been rebuilt, refortified, and given cannon and rockets.”
“We have cannon too,” McCandless said.
Appah Rao ignored the comment. Instead he tapped the knife against the western ramparts that overlooked the Cauvery’s smaller channel. “At this time of year, McCandless, the river here is shallow. The crocodiles have gone to the deeper pools and a man can walk across the river with dry knees. And when your army reaches Seringapatam they will see that these walls”—he tapped the western fortifications again—“have not been rebuilt. They are made of mud bricks and the rains have crumbled the rampart. It looks like a weak place and you will be tempted to attack there. Do not, for that is where the Tippoo wants you to attack.” A beetle flew onto the map and crawled along the line marking the western walls. Appah Rao gently swept the insect aside. “There is another wall there, a new wall, hidden behind that rampart, McCandless, and when your men get through the first wall they will be in a trap. Here”—he pointed to a bastion that connected the outer and inner walls—“that used to be a water gate, but it’s been blocked up and there are hundreds of pounds of gunpowder inside. Once your men are trapped between the two walls the Tippoo plans to blow the mine.” Appah Rao shrugged. “Hundreds of pounds of powder, McCandless, just waiting for you. And when that attack has failed you will have no time to make another before the monsoon comes, and when the rains do come the river will rise and the roads will turn to mud and you will be forced to retreat, and every foot of your way back to Madras will be dogged by the Tippoo’s cavalry. That is how he plans to beat you.”
“So we must attack anywhere but in the west?”
“Anywhere but from the west,” Appah Rao said. “The new inner wall”—he demonstrated on the map with the tip of his knife—“extends all the way around the north. These other walls”—he tapped the southern and eastern ramparts—“look stronger, but don’t be deceived. The west wall is a trap, and if you fall into it, it will be your death.” He moved the weights off the corners of the map and let it roll itself up. Then he unshielded McCandless’s lantern and held one end of the scroll in the candle flame. The paper blazed, lighting the intricate carvings of the shrine. The three men watched as the paper burned to ash. “Anywhere but from the west,” Appah Rao said, then, after a moment’s hesitation, he lifted the bag of gold coins from beside the lantern. “All this will go to my Rajah,” he said. “I shall keep none.”
“I never expected you to,” McCandless said. “You have my thanks, General.”
“I don’t want your thanks. I want my Rajah back. That is why I came. And if you disappoint me, then you English will have a new enemy.”
“I’m a Scot.”
“But you would still be my enemy,” Appah Rao said, then turned away, but paused and looked back from the inner shrine’s threshold. “Tell your General that his men should be gentle with the people of the city.”
“I will tell General Harris.”
“Then I shall look to see you in Seringapatam,” Appah Rao said heavily.
“Me and thousands of others,” McCandless said.
“Thousands!” Appah Rao’s tone mocked the claim. “You may have thousands, Colonel, but the Tippoo has tigers.” He turned and walked to the temple’s outer gateway, followed by Kunwar Singh.
McCandless burned the copy of Bonaparte’s letter, waited another half-hour, and then, as silently as he had come to the temple, he left it. He would join his escort, sleep a few hours, then ride with his precious secret to the waiting army.
Few men of the 33rd slept that night for the excitement of fighting and beating the Tippoo’s vaunted troops had filled them with a nervous energy. Some spent their loot on arrack, and those fell asleep soon enough, but the others stayed around their fires and relived the day’s brief excitement. For most of the troops it had been their first battle, and on its slim evidence they built a picture of war and their own valor.
Mary Bickerstaff sat with Sharpe and listened patiently to the tales. She was accustomed to soldiers’ stories and shrewd enough to know which men exaggerated their prowess and which pretended not to have been nauseated by the horrors of the dead and wounded. Sharpe, after he returned from Captain Morris’s tent with the news that the Captain would ask Major Shee’s permission for them to marry, was silent and Mary sensed he was not really listening to the tales, not even when he pretended to be amused or amazed. “What is it?” she asked him after a long while.
“Nothing, lass.”
“Are you worried about Captain Morris?”
“If he says no, we just ask Major Shee,” Sharpe said with a confidence he did not entirely feel. Morris was a bastard, but Shee was a drunk, and in truth there was little to choose between them. Sharpe had an idea that Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Wellesley, the 33rd’s real commanding officer, was a man who might be reasonable, but Wellesley had been temporarily appointed as one of the army’s two deputy commanders and had thus shrugged off all regimental business. “We’ll get our permission,” he told Mary.
“So what’s worrying you?”
“I told you. Nothing.”
“You’re miles away, Richard.”
He hesitated. “Wish I was.”
Mary tightened the grip of her hand on his fingers, then lowered her voice to something scarce above a whisper. “Are you thinking of running, Richard Sharpe?”
He leaned away from the fire, trying to make a small private space where they could talk without being overheard. “Got to be a better life than this, love,” he said.
“Don’t do it!” Mary said fiercely, but laying a hand on his cheek as she spoke. Some of the men on the other side of the fire saw the tender gesture and greeted it with a chorus of jeers and whistles. Mary ignored them. “They’ll catch you, Richard,” she insisted, “catch you and shoot you.”
“Not if we run far enough.”
“We?” she asked cautiously.
“I’d want you, lass.”
Mary took hold of one of his hands and squeezed it. “Listen,” she hissed. “Work to become a sergeant! Once you’re a sergeant, you’re made. You could even become an officer! Don’t laugh, Richard! Mister Lambert in Calcutta, he was a sergeant once, and he was a private before that. They made him up to ensign.”
Sharpe smiled and traced a finger down her cheek. “You’re mad, Mary. I love you, but you’re mad. I couldn’t be an officer! You have to know how to read!”
“I can teach you,” Mary said.
Sharpe glanced at her with some surprise. He had never known she could read and the knowledge made him somewhat nervous of her. “I wouldn’t want to be an officer anyway,” he said scathingly. “Stuck-up bastards, all of them.”
“But you can be a sergeant,” Mary insisted, “and a good one. But don’t run, love. Whatev
er you do, don’t ran.”
“Is that the lovebirds?” Sergeant Hakeswill’s mocking voice cut through their conversation. “Ah, it’s sweet, isn’t it? Good to see a couple in love. Restores a man’s faith in human nature, it does.”
Sharpe and Mary sat up and disentangled their fingers as the Sergeant stalked through the ring of men beside the fire. “I want you, Sharpie,” Hakeswill said when he reached their side. “Got a message for you, I have.” He touched his hat to Mary. “Not you, Ma’am,” he said as she stood to accompany Sharpe. “This is men’s business, Mrs. Bickerstaff. Soldiers’ business. No business for bibbis. Come on, Sharpie! Ain’t got all night! Look lively now!” He strode away, thumping the ground with the butt of his halberd as he threaded his way between the fires. “Got news for you, Sharpie,” he called over his shoulder, “good news, lad, good news.”
“I can marry?” Sharpe asked eagerly.
Hakeswill threw a sly glance over his shoulder as he led Sharpe toward the picketed lines of officers’ horses. “Now why would a lad like you want to marry? Why throw all your spunk away on one bibbi, eh? And that one used goods, too? Another man’s leavings, that’s all Mary Bickerstaff is. You should spread it about, boy. Enjoy yourself when you’re still young.” Hakeswill pushed his way between the horses to reach the dark space between the two picketed lines where he turned and faced Sharpe. “Good news, Sharpe. You can’t marry. Permission is refused. You want to know why, boy?”
Sharpe felt his hopes crumbling. At that moment he hated Hakeswill more than ever, but his pride forced him not to show that hate, nor his disappointment. “Why?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you why, Sharpie,” Hakeswill said. “And stand still, boy! When a sergeant condescends to talk to you, you stand still! ’Tenshun! That’s better, lad. Bit of respect, like what is proper to show to a sergeant.” His face twitched as he grinned. “You want to know why, boy? Because I don’t want you to marry her, Sharpie, that is why. I don’t want little Mrs. Bickerstaff married to anyone. Not to you, not to me, not even to the King of England himself, God bless him.” He was circling Sharpe as he talked. “And do you know why, boy?” He stopped in front of Sharpe and pushed his face up toward the younger man. “Because that Mrs. Bickerstaff is a bibbi, Sharpie, with possibilities. Possibibbibilities!” He giggled at his joke. “Got a future, she has.” He grinned again, and the grin was suddenly twisted as his face shuddered with its distorting rictus. “You familiar with Naig? Nasty Naig? Answer me, boy!”
“I’ve heard of him,” Sharpe said.
“Fat bugger, Sharpie, he is. Fat and rich. Rides a helephant, he does, and he’s got a dozen green tents. One of the army’s followers, Sharpie, and rich as a rich man can be. Richer than you’ll ever be, Sharpie, and you know why? ’Cos Nasty Naig provides the officers with their women, that’s why. And I’m not talking about those rancid slags the other heathens hires out to you nasty common soldiers, I’m talking about the desirable women, Sharpie. Desirable.” He lingered on the word. “Nasty’s got a whole herd of expensive whores, Sharpie, he does, all riding in those closed wagons with the colored curtains. Full of officers’ meat, those wagons are, fat ones, skinny ones, dark ones, light ones, dirty ones, clean ones, tall ones, short ones, all sorts of ones, and all of ’em are prettier than you could ever dream of, but there ain’t one of them as pretty as little Mrs. Bickerstaff, and there ain’t one who looks as white as pretty little Mary does, and if there’s one thing an English officer abroad wants once in a while, Sharpie, it’s a spot of the white meat. That’s the itch Morris has got, Sharpie, got it bad, but he ain’t no different from the others. They get bored with the dark meat, Sharpie. And the Indian officers! Naig tells me they’ll pay a month’s wages for a white. You following me, Sharpie? You and me marching in step, are we?”
Sharpe said nothing. It had taken all his self-discipline not to hit the Sergeant, and Hakeswill knew it and mocked him for it. “Go on, Sharpie! Hit me!” Hakeswill taunted him, and when Sharpe did not move, the Sergeant laughed. “You ain’t got the guts, have you?”
“I’ll find a place and time,” Sharpe said angrily.
“Place and time! Listen to him!” Hakeswill chuckled, then began pacing around Sharpe once again. “We’ve made a deal, Nasty and me. Like brothers, we are, me and him, just like brothers. We understand each other, see, and Nasty’s right keen on your little Mary. Profit there, you see, boy. And I’ll get a cut of it.”
“Mary stays with me, Sarge,” Sharpe said stubbornly, “married or not.”
“Oh, Sharpie, dear me. You don’t understand, do you? You didn’t hear me, boy, did you? Nasty and me, we’ve made a bargain. Drunk to it, we did, and not in arrack, neither, but in proper gentlemen’s brandy. I give him little Mrs. Bickerstaff and he gives me half the money she earns. He’ll cheat me, of course he’ll cheat me, but she’ll make so much that it won’t signify. She won’t have a choice, Sharpie. She’ll get snatched on the march and given to one of Nasty’s men. One of the ugly buggers. She’ll be raped wicked for a week, whipped every night, and at the end of it, Sharpie, she’ll do whatever she’s told. That’s the way the business works, Sharpie, says so in the scriptures, and how are you going to stop it? Answer me that, boy. Are you going to pay me more than Nasty will?” Hakeswill stopped in front of Sharpe where he waited for an answer and, when none came, he shook his head derisively. “You’re a boy playing in men’s games, Sharpie, and you’re going to lose unless you’re a man. Are you man enough to fight me here? Put me down? Claim I was kicked by a horse in the night? You can try, Sharpie, but you’re not man enough, are you?”
“Hit you, Sergeant,” Sharpe said, “and be put on a flogging charge? I’m not daft.”
Hakeswill made an elaborate charade of looking right and left. “Ain’t no one here but you and me, Sharpie. Nice and private!”
Sharpe resisted the urge to lash out at his persecutor. “I’m not daft,” he said again, stubbornly remaining at attention.
“But you are, boy. Daft as a bucket. Don’t you understand? I’m offering you the soldier’s way out! Forget the bloody officers, you daft boy. You and me, Sharpie, we’re soldiers, and soldiers settle their arguments by fighting. Says so in the scriptures, don’t it? So beat me now, lad, beat me here and now, beat me in a square fight and I warrant you can keep Mrs. Bickerstaff all to your little self.” He paused, grinning up into Sharpe’s face. “That’s a promise, Sharpie. Fight me now, fair and honest, and our argument’s over. But you’re not man enough, are you? You’re just a boy.”
“I’m not falling for your tricks, Sergeant,” Sharpe said.
“There ain’t no trick, boy,” Hakeswill said hoarsely. He stepped two paces away from Sharpe, reversed his halberd, and thrust its steel point hard into the turf. “I can beat you, Sharpie, that’s what I’m reckoning. I’ve been around a bit. Know how to fight. You might be taller than me, and you might be stronger, but you ain’t as quick as me and you ain’t half as dirty. I’m going to pound the bloody guts out of you, and when I’ve finished with you I’ll take little Mary down to Nasty’s tents and earn my money. But not if you beat me, boy. You beat me, and on a soldier’s honor, I’ll persuade Captain Morris to let you marry. You’ve got my word on it, boy. A soldier’s honor.” He waited for an answer. “You ain’t a soldier,” he said scornfully when Sharpe still kept quiet. “You ain’t got the guts!” He stepped up to Sharpe and slapped him hard across the face. “Nothing but a lily, ain’t you? Lieutenant Lawford’s lily-boy. Maybe that’s why you ain’t got the guts to fight for your Mary!”
The last insult provoked Sharpe to hit Hakeswill. He did it hard and fast. He slammed a low blow into Hakeswill’s belly that folded the Sergeant over, then cut his other hand hard up into the Sergeant’s face to split open Hakeswill’s nose and jerk his head back up. Sharpe brought up his knee, missed the Sergeant’s crotch, but his left hand had hold of Hakeswill’s clubbed hair now and he was just feeling with his right fingers for the squealing Ser
geant’s eyeballs when a voice was suddenly shouting close behind him.
“Guard!” the voice called. “Guard!”
“Jesus!” Sharpe let go of his enemy, turned, and saw Captain Morris standing just beyond the picketed horses. Ensign Hicks was with him.
Hakeswill had sunk onto the ground, but now hauled himself upright on the staff of his halberd. “Assaulted me, sir, he did!” The Sergeant could scarcely speak for the pain in his belly. “He went mad, sir! Just mad, sir!”
“Don’t worry, Sergeant, Hicks and I both saw it,” Morris said. “Came to check on the horses, ain’t that right, Hicks?”
“Yes, sir,” Hicks said. He was a small young man, very officious, who would never contradict a superior. If Morris claimed the clouds were made of cheese Hicks would just stand to attention, twitch his nose, and swear blind he could smell Cheddar. “Plain case of assault, sir,” the Ensign said. “Unprovoked assault.”
“Guard!” Morris shouted. “Here! Now!”
Blood was pouring down Hakeswill’s face, but the Sergeant managed a grin. “Got you, Sharpie,” he said softly, “got you. Flogging offence, that.”
“You bastard,” Sharpe said softly, and wondered if he should run. He wondered if he would stand any chance of making it safely away if he just sprinted into the dark, but Ensign Hicks had drawn his pistol and the sound of the hammer being cocked stilled Sharpe’s tiny impulse to flee.
A panting Sergeant Green arrived with four men of the guard and Morris pushed the horses aside to let them through. “Arrest Private Sharpe, Sergeant,” he told Green. “Close arrest. He struck Sergeant Hakeswill, and Hicks and I witnessed the assault. Ensign Hicks will do the paperwork.”
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 1: Sharpe's Tiger, Sharpe's Triumph, Sharpe's Fortress Page 7
