Sharpe 3-Book Collection 1: Sharpe's Tiger, Sharpe's Triumph, Sharpe's Fortress

by Bernard Cornwell

  The jettis were Hindus, and their strength, which was remarkable, was devoted to their religion. That amused the Tippoo. Some Hindus sought the rewards of godliness by growing their hair and fingernails, others by denying themselves food, still others by abjuring all earthly pleasures, but the jettis did it by developing their muscles, and the results, the Tippoo admitted, were extraordinary. He might disagree with their religion, but he encouraged them all the same and like his father he had hired a dozen of the most impressive strongmen to amuse and serve him. Two of the finest now stood beneath the throne-room balcony, stripped to their waists and with their vast chests oiled so that their muscles shone dark in the early-afternoon sun. The six tigers, restless because they had been denied their midday meal of freshly slaughtered goat meat, glared with yellow eyes from the courtyard’s edges.

  The Tippoo came from his prayers to the balcony where he threw open the filigree shutters so that he and his entourage could view the courtyard clearly. Colonel Gudin was in attendance, as was Appah Rao. Both men had been summoned from the city ramparts where they had been making the last preparations for the arrival of the British. Gun carriages were being repaired, ammunition being laid down in magazines deep enough to be shielded from the fall of enemy howitzer shells, while dozens of rockets were in the ready magazines on the ramparts’ firesteps. The Tippoo liked to tour his defenses where he could imagine his rockets and shells searing down into the enemy ranks, but now, in the courtyard of his inner palace, he had an even more pleasurable duty to perform. He would kill traitors. “Both men betrayed me,” he told Colonel Gudin through the interpreter, “and one is also a spy. What would you do in France with such men, Colonel?”

  “Send them to Madame Guillotine, Your Majesty.”

  The Tippoo chuckled when the answer was translated. He was curious about the guillotine and at one time he had thought of having such a machine built in the city. He was fascinated by all things French and indeed, when the revolution had swept France and destroyed the ancien régime, the Tippoo had for a time embraced the new ideas of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. He had erected a Tree of Liberty in Seringapatam, ordered his guards to wear the red hats of the revolution, and had even ordered revolutionary declarations to be posted in the city’s main streets, but the fascination had not endured. The Tippoo had begun to fear that his people might become too fond of liberty, or even infected with equality, and so he had removed the Tree of Liberty and had the declarations torn down, yet still the Tippoo treasured a love of France. He had never built the guillotine, not for lack of funds, but rather because Gudin had persuaded him that the machine was a device of mercy, constructed to end a criminal’s life with such swiftness that the victim would never even realize he was being killed. It was an ingenious device, the Tippoo admitted, but much too merciful. How could such a machine deter traitors?

  “That man”—the Tippoo now pointed to the Muslim soldier who had betrayed the secrets of the gatehouse—“will be killed first and then his body will be fed to pigs. I can think of no fate worse for a Muslim, and believe me, Colonel, he fears the pigs more than he fears his death. The other man will feed my tigers and his bones will be ground to powder and delivered to his widow. Their deaths will be short, not perhaps as quick as your machine, Colonel, but still mercifully short.” He clapped his hands and the two chained prisoners were dragged forward until they stood in the center of the courtyard.

  The Muslim soldier was forced to his knees. His tiger-striped uniform had been stripped from him and now he wore nothing but a short pair of loose cotton breeches. He stared up at the Tippoo who was gaudy in a yellow silk tunic and a jeweled turban, and the man raised his manacled hands in a mute appeal for clemency that the Tippoo ignored. Gudin tensed himself. He had seen the jettis at work before, but familiarity did not make the spectacle any more pleasant.

  The first jetti placed a nail on the crown of the victim’s bare head. The nail was of black iron and had a six-inch shank that was topped by a flat head that was a good three inches wide. The man held the nail in place with his left hand, then looked up at the balcony. The doomed soldier, feeling the touch of the iron point on his scalp, called for forgiveness. The Tippoo listened for a second to the soldier’s desperate excuses, then pointed a finger at him. The Tippoo held the finger steady for a few seconds and the soldier held his breath as he dared to believe he might be forgiven, but then the Tippoo’s hand abruptly dropped.

  The jetti raised his right hand, its palm facing downward, then took a deep breath. He paused, summoning his huge strength, then he slapped the hand fast down so that his open palm struck the nail’s flat top. He shouted aloud as he struck, and at the very instant that his right hand slapped the nail so he snatched his left hand away from the long shank which was driven hard and deep into the soldier’s skull. It went so deep that the nail’s flat head crushed the prisoner’s black hair. Blood spurted from under the nail as its shank slammed home. The jetti stepped away, gesturing at the nail as if to show how much strength had been needed to so drive it through the thick bone of the skull. The traitor still lived. He was babbling and shrieking, and blood was spilling down his face in quick, lacing rivulets as he swayed on his knees. His body was shaking, but then, quite suddenly, his back arched, he stared wide-eyed up at the Tippoo, and then fell forward. His body shuddered twice, then was still. One of the six chained tigers stirred at the smell of blood and padded forward until its chain stretched to its full length and so held it back. The beast growled, then settled down to watch the second man die.

  The Tippoo and his entourage applauded the first jetti’s skill, then the Tippoo pointed at the wretched Hindu merchant. This second prisoner was a big man, fat as butter, and his gross size would only make the second demonstration all the more impressive.

  The first jetti, his execution successfully completed, fetched a stool from the gateway. He set it down and forced the fat, weeping merchant onto its seat. Then he knelt in front of the chair and pinned the man’s manacled arms down tight against his sagging belly so that he could not move. The chair faced the Tippoo and the kneeling jetti made certain he stayed low so that he would not spoil his master’s view. “It takes more strength than you would think,” the Tippoo remarked to Gudin, “to drive a nail into a skull.”

  “So Your Majesty has been kind enough to inform me before,” Gudin answered drily.

  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 toward 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 picquet 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 around the leather 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 stock and realized just what discomfort the ordinary soldier endured daily. Now, safe out of sight of the soldiers about their campfires, 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 picquet, 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 picquet 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.”<
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  “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.”