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

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Does that mean I’ll have to be circumvented, sir?” Sharpe asked.

  “It means you are extraordinarily grateful to His Majesty, as I shall now tell him,” Gudin said and duly did so, and when that statement had been translated, the Tippoo smiled and turned to an attendant, took the last of the medallions from its silk-lined basket, and reached up to put it round Sharpe’s neck. Sharpe stooped to make it easier, and blushed as the Tippoo’s face came close. He could smell a pungent perfume on the monarch, then Sharpe stepped back and, just like the other soldiers, he lifted the medallion to his lips. He almost swore as he did so, for the thing was not made of brass at all, but of heavy gold.

  “Back away,” Gudin muttered.

  Sharpe bowed to the Tippoo and backed clumsily to his place in the line. The Tippoo spoke again, though this time no one bothered to translate for Sharpe, and then the small ceremony was over and the Tippoo turned and went back into his palace.

  “You are now officially a hero of Mysore,” Gudin said drily, “one of the Tippoo’s beloved tigers.”

  “Don’t deserve to be, sir,” Sharpe said, peering at the medallion. One side was patterned with an intricate design, while the other showed a tiger’s face, though the face seemed to be cunningly constructed from the whorls of an intricate script. “Does it say something, sir?” he asked Gudin.

  “It says, Sharpe, ‘Assad Allah al-ghalib,’ which is Arabic and it means “The Lion of God is victorious.’”

  “Lion, not tiger?”

  “It’s a verse from the Koran, Sharpe, the Muslim Bible, and I suspect the holy book does not mention tigers. It can’t, otherwise I’m sure the Tippoo would use the quotation.”

  “Funny, isn’t it?” Sharpe said, peering at the heavy gold medallion.

  “What is?”

  “The British beast is the lion, sir.” Sharpe chuckled, then hefted the gold in his hand. “Is he a rich bugger, the Tippoo?”

  “As rich as can be,” Gudin said drily.

  “And those are real stones? That ruby in his hat and the diamond in his dagger?”

  “Both worth a king’s ransom, Sharpe, but be careful. The diamond is called the Moonstone and is supposed to bring ill luck to anyone who steals it.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of thieving it, sir,” Sharpe said, though he had been thinking exactly that. “But what about this?” He lifted the heavy medallion again. “Do I get to keep it?”

  “Of course you do. Though I might say you only received it because I somewhat exaggerated your exploits.”

  Sharpe unlooped the medallion. “You can have it, sir.” He pushed the heavy gold toward the Frenchman. “Really, sir! Go on.”

  Gudin backed away and held up his hands in horror. “If the Tippoo discovered you had given it away, Sharpe, he would never forgive you! Never! That’s a badge of honor. You must wear it always.” The Colonel pulled out a Breguet watch and clicked open its lid. “I have duties, Sharpe, and that reminds me. Your woman will be waiting for you in the small temple beside Appah Rao’s house. You know where that is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Go to the north side of the big Hindu temple,” the Colonel said, “and keep walking. You will come almost to the city wall. Turn left there and you will see the temple on your left. It has one of those cows over the gate.”

  “Why do they put cows over the gates, sir?”

  “For the same reason we put images of a tortured man in our churches. Religion. You ask too many questions, Sharpe.” The Colonel smiled. “Your woman will meet you there, but remember, Corporal, guard duty at sundown!” With those words Gudin strode away and Sharpe, with one final glance at the somnolent tiger, followed.

  It was not hard to find the small temple that lay opposite an old gateway that led through the western defenses. It was these walls that McCandless had warned against, but Sharpe, staring at them from the temple entrance, could see nothing strange about them. A long ramp ran up to the firestep and a pair of soldiers were struggling to push a handcart loaded with rockets to the ramparts where a dozen great guns stood unattended in their embrasures, but he could see nothing sinister, no trap to destroy an army. One of the Tippoo’s sun-blazoned flags flew on a tall staff above the gatehouse itself, flanked by two smaller green flags that showed a silver device. The wind lifted one of the flags and Sharpe saw it was the same calligraphic tiger head that was engraved on his medal. He grinned. That was something to show Mary.

  He went into the temple, but Mary had not yet arrived. Sharpe found a patch of shade in a niche to one side of the open courtyard from where he watched a stark-naked man with a white stripe painted across his bald pate who was sitting cross-legged in front of an idol that had a man’s body, a monkey’s head, and was painted red, green, and yellow. Another god, this one with seven cobra heads, stood in a niche that was littered with fading flowers. The cross-legged man did not move, Sharpe could swear he did not even blink, not even when two other worshipers came to the temple. One was a tall slim woman in a pale-green sari with a small diamond glinting in the side of her nose. Her companion was a tall man dressed in the Tippoo’s tiger-striped tunic with a musket slung on one shoulder and a silver-hilted sword hanging at his side. He was a fine-looking man, a fitting companion for the elegant woman who crossed to a third idol, this one a seated goddess with four sets of arms. The woman touched her joined hands to her forehead, bowed low, then reached forward and rang a tiny handbell to attract the goddess’s attention. It was only then that Sharpe recognized her. “Mary!” he called, and she turned in alarm to see Sharpe standing in the deep shadows at the side of the shrine. The look of terror on Mary’s face checked Sharpe. The tall young soldier had put a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Mary,” Sharpe called again, “lass.”

  “Brother!” Mary called aloud, and then, almost in a panic, she repeated the word. “Brother!”

  Sharpe grinned, disguising his confusion. Then he saw there were tears in Mary’s eyes and he frowned. “Are you all right, lass?”

  “I’m very well,” she said deliberately, and then, in an even more stilted voice, “brother.”

  Sharpe glanced at the Indian soldier and saw that the man had a fiercely protective look. “Is that the General?” he asked Mary.

  “No. It’s Kunwar Singh,” Mary said, and she turned and gestured toward the soldier and Sharpe saw a look of tenderness on her face, and all at once he understood what was happening.

  “Does he speak English?” Sharpe asked, and then, with a grin, “sister?”

  Mary threw him a look of pure relief. “Some,” she said. “How are you? How’s your back?”

  “Mending all right, it is. That Indian doctor does magic, he does. I still feel it now and then, but not like it was. No, I’m doing all right. I even won a medal, look!” He held the gold toward Mary. “But I need to talk to you privately,” he added as she leaned close to peer at the medallion. “It’s urgent, love,” he hissed.

  Mary fingered the gold, then looked up at Sharpe. “I’m sorry, Richard,” she whispered.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for, lass,” Sharpe said, and he spoke truthfully, for ever since he had seen Mary in her sari he had sensed that she was not for him. She looked too sophisticated, too elegant, and the wives of common soldiers were usually neither. “You and him, eh?” he asked, glancing at the lean and handsome Kunwar Singh.

  Mary gave a tiny nod.

  “Good for you!” Sharpe called to the Indian and gave him a smile. “Good girl, my sister!”

  “Half-sister,” Mary hissed.

  “Make up your bloody mind, lass.”

  “And I’ve taken an Indian name,” she said. “Aruna.”

  “Sounds good. Aruna.” Sharpe smiled. “I like it.”

  “It was my mother’s name,” Mary explained, then fell into an awkward silence. She glanced at the man with the white stripe on his head, then tentatively touched Sharpe’s elbow and so led him back into the shaded niche where he had been waiting. A ledge ran
round the niche and Mary sat on it, facing Sharpe with her hands held modestly on her lap. Kunwar Singh watched them, but did not try to come close.

  For a second neither Sharpe nor Mary had anything to say. “I’ve been watching that naked fellow,” Sharpe said, “and he ain’t moved an inch.”

  “It’s one way to worship,” Mary said softly.

  “Bloody odd though. The whole thing’s odd.” Sharpe gestured around the decorated shrine. “Looks like a circus, don’t it? Can’t imagine it at home. Painted clowns in church, eh? Can you imagine that?” Then he remembered Mary had never seen England. “It ain’t the same,” he said weakly, then jerked his head toward the ever watchful Kunwar Singh. “You and him, eh?” Sharpe said again.

  Mary nodded. “I’m sorry, Richard. Truly.”

  “It happens, lass,” Sharpe said. “But you don’t want him to know about you and me, is that it?”

  She nodded and again looked fearful. “Please?” she begged him. Sharpe paused, not to keep Mary on tenterhooks, but because the naked man had at last moved. He had slowly clasped his hands together, but that seemed the extent of his exertions for he went quite still again. “Richard?” Mary pleaded. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

  He looked back to her. “I want you to do something for me,” he said.

  She looked wary, but nodded. “Of course. If I can.”

  “There’s a fellow in this city called Ravi Shekhar. Got the name? He’s a merchant, God knows what he sells, but he’s here right enough and you’ve got to find him. Do they ever let you out of the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you get out, lass, and find this Ravi Shekhar and tell him to get a message to the British. And the message is this. They mustn’t attack the west wall. That’s it, just that. The daft buggers are setting themselves to attack it right now, so it’s urgent. Will you do that?”

  Mary licked her lips, then nodded. “And you won’t tell Kunwar about us?”

  “I wouldn’t have told him anyway,” Sharpe said. “Of course I wouldn’t. I wish you joy of the fellow, sister, eh?” He smiled. “Sister Aruna. It’s nice to have some family and you’re all I’ve got. And I hate to ask you to find this Shekhar fellow, but the Lieutenant and me, we just can’t manage to escape so someone else has to send the message out. Looks like you.” Sharpe grinned. “But it looks like you’ve changed sides now and I don’t blame you. So you don’t mind doing this for me?”

  “I’ll do it for you. I promise.”

  “You’re a good lass.” He stood. “Do brothers kiss sisters in India?”

  Mary half smiled. “I think they do, yes.”

  Sharpe gave her a very respectable kiss on the cheek, smelling her perfume. “You look grand, Mary,” he said. “Too grand for me, eh?”

  “You’re a good man, Richard.”

  “That won’t get me very far in this world, will it?” He backed away from Mary then grinned at Kunwar Singh who offered him a stiff, slight bow. “You’re a lucky man!” Sharpe said, and then, with a backward glance at the tall elegant woman who now called herself Aruna, he walked away from Mary Bickerstaff. Easy come, easy go, he thought, but there was also a pang of jealousy for the tall good-looking Indian. But what the hell? Mary was doing her best to survive and Sharpe could never blame someone for doing that. He was doing the same himself.

  He had turned back toward the barracks where Gudin’s battalion was quartered. He was thinking about Mary and about how graceful, even unapproachable, she had looked, and he was hardly looking where he was going when a cheerful shout warned him of an approaching bullock cart that was loaded with great barrels. Sharpe stepped hastily aside as the bullocks, their horns painted yellow and blue and tipped with small silver bells, lumbered past. He saw that the brightly painted cart was heading down a narrow alley which led toward the gatehouse in the western wall and the sentries at the gate, seeing the cart approach, heaved back the huge double doors.

  And Sharpe instinctively knew something was amiss. He stood watching and suspected he was on the edge of solving the city’s mystery. The guards were opening the gates, yet so far as Sharpe knew there were no gates in the city’s western wall which faced the South Cauvery river. He knew of the Bangalore Gate to the east, the Mysore Gate to the south, and the much smaller Water Gate to the north, but no one had ever spoken of a fourth gate, yet there it was. Once, plainly, there had been another water gate here, a gate that opened onto the South Cauvery, and presumably that entrance to the city had long ago been sealed up, yet now Sharpe was watching the gates being opened and he impulsively turned and followed the cart down the alley. The cart had already vanished into the deep gloom inside the gate’s tunnel and the two guards were dragging the big double doors closed, but then they saw the bright gold medallion on Sharpe’s chest and maybe that rare token convinced them that he had the authority to enter. “Looking for Colonel Gudin!” Sharpe offered in brazen explanation when one of the two men nervously moved to intercept him. “Got a message for the Colonel, see?”

  Then he was through the gate and he saw that it was not a passage out of the city at all, but was rather a long tunnel that led only to a blank stone wall. It had once been a gateway, that much was obvious, but at some time the old outer gate had been walled shut to leave this gloomy tunnel that was now stacked with barrels. They had to be powder barrels, for Sharpe could see pale lengths of fuses coming from their stoppered bungholes. The whole northern side of the tunnel was crammed with the powder barrels. Just the northern side.

  An officer saw him and shouted angrily. Sharpe played the innocent. “Colonel Gudin?” he asked. “Have you seen Colonel Gudin, sahib?”

  The Indian officer ran toward him and, as he came, he drew a pistol, but then, in the tunnel’s dim dusty light, he saw the gold medal on Sharpe’s chest and he pushed the pistol back into his sash. “Gudin?” he asked Sharpe.

  Sharpe smiled eagerly. “He’s my officer, sahib. I’ve got a message for him.”

  The Indian did not understand, but he did know the significance of the medal and it was enough to make him respectful. But he was still firm. He pointed Sharpe toward the door and gestured that he was to leave.

  “Gudin?” Sharpe insisted.

  The man shook his head and Sharpe, with a grin, left the tunnel.

  He had forgotten Mary now for he knew he was on the verge of understanding what was being kept so secret. He went back down the alley and at its end he turned and looked at the wall above and he wondered why there were no gunners standing by the brass guns, and why no sentries stood in the embrasures and why no flags were hung on the battlements. Everywhere else on the walls there were flags and sentries and gunners, but not here. He waited until the tunnel gates had been closed, then he hurried up the nearby ramp that led to the wall’s firestep. The wall here was made of red mud bricks and was not nearly so formidable as the southern wall which was constructed from massive granite blocks. Nor was this wall more than twenty feet thick, whereas the tunnel had been nearer a hundred feet long. He ran up to the parapet where the big guns waited and, when he reached the firestep, he understood everything.

  For there was not one wall here, but two. The one he was standing on was the inner wall and it was new, so new that some short stretches of the wall were still festooned with scaffolding and ropes where the Tippoo’s laborers hastened to complete the work. And sixty feet away, beyond an empty inner ditch, was the city’s outer wall where the flags were hung and where the gunners and sentries stood guard. That old outer wall was a couple of feet higher than this new inner wall, but opposite Sharpe, and close to where he had seen the powder-crammed tunnel, those older ramparts had crumbled at their top. That decay would surely serve as a beacon to the British, enticing them to aim their guns at that stretch of decayed wall in the certainty that they could soon finish its destruction with their bombardment. The big eighteen- and twenty-four-pounder guns would hammer away until the older outer wall collapsed to leave a ramp-like breach. The
British, staring across the river at that breach, would doubtless see the new inner wall, but they might well think it was nothing but the flank of a warehouse or a temple. And so the assault would come storming across the shallow river and up the ramp of the breach in the outer wall, and then spill down into the space between the two walls. More and more men would come, those behind forcing the ones in front ever onward, and slowly the crush between the walls would grow. The guns and rockets on the inner wall would rain down death, but after a while, when the attackers filled the space between the walls, the huge charge of powder, stored in what remained of the old elaborate gateway, would be detonated. And that explosion, its force funnelled by the old and new walls, would tear into the narrow gap and flood the ditch between the walls with blood. Sharpe looked to his left and saw that the tunnel was built beneath a squat gate tower. That ancient tower would surely collapse, spilling stones onto any troops who might survive the terrible blast.

  “Bloody hell,” Sharpe said, and then he slipped back down the inner wall’s ramp and went to find Lawford. If Mary did not get the news out, he thought, there would be slaughter when the assault came. It would be pure slaughter, and it seemed that only Mary, who was now in love with the enemy, could prevent it.