Sharpe's Tiger

  '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 valour.

  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. Whatever you do, don't run.'

  '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 towards 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 towards 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 coloured 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 honour, I'll persuade Captain Morris to let you marry. You've got my word on it, boy. A soldier's honour.' 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 Sergeant'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.'

  'Gladly, sir,' Hicks agreed. The Ensign was slurring his words, betraying that he had been drinking.

  Morris looked at Sharpe. 'It's a court-martial offence, Sharpe,' the Captain said, then he turned back to Green who had not moved to obey his orders. 'Do it!'

  'Sir!' Green said, stepping forward. 'Come on, Sharpie.'

  'I didn't do nothing, Sergeant,' Sharpe protested.

  'Come on, lad. It'll sort itself out,' Green said quietly, then he took Sharpe's elbow and led him away. Hicks went with them, happy to please Morris by writing up the charge.

  Morris waited until the prisoner and his escort had gone, then grinned at Hakeswill. 'The boy was faster than you thought, Sergeant.'

  'He's a devil, that one, sir, a devil. Broke my nose, he did.' Hakeswill gingerly tried to straighten the cartilage and the bleeding nose made a horrible crunching noise. 'But his woman's ours.'

  'Tonight?' Morris could not keep the eagerness from his voice.

  'Not tonight, sir,' Hakeswill said in a tone that suggested the Captain had made a foolish suggestion. 'There'll be enough trouble in the company with Sharpe arrested, sir, and if we go after his bibbi tonight there'll be a rare brawl. Half the bastards are full of arrack. No, sir. Wait till the bastard's flogged to death. Wait for that, sir, and then they'll all be meek as lambs. Meek as lambs. Flogging does that to men. Quietens them down something proper, a good whipping does. All be done in a couple of days, sir.'

  Morris flinched as Hakeswill tried to straighten his nose again. 'You'd better see Mister Micklewhite, Hakeswill.'

  'No, sir. Don't believe in doctors, sir, except for the pox. I'll strap it up, sir, and soon be right as rain. Besides, watching Sharpie flogged will be treatment enough. I reckon we done him, sir. You won't have long to wait, sir, not long at all.'

  Morris found Hakeswill's intimate tone unseemly, and stepped stiffly back. 'Then I'll wish you a good night, Sergeant.'

  'Thank you kindly, sir, and the same to you, sir. And sweet dreams too, sir.' Hakeswill laughed. 'Just as sweet as sweet can ever be, sir.'

  For Sharpie was done.

  Chapter 3

  Colonel McCandless woke as the dawn touched the world's rim with a streak of fire. The crimson light glowed bright on the lower edge of a long cloud that lay on the eastern horizon like the smoke rill left by a musket volley. It was the only cloud in the sky. He rolled his plaid and tied it onto his saddle's cantle, then rinsed his mouth with water. His horse, picketed close by, had been saddled all
night in case some enemy discovered McCandless and his escort. That escort, six picked men of the 4th Native Cavalry, had needed no orders to be about the day. They grinned a greeting at McCandless, stowed their meagre bedding, then made a breakfast out of warm canteen water and a dry cake of ground lentils and rice. McCandless shared the cavalrymen's meal. He liked a cup of tea in the mornings, but he dared not light a fire for the smoke might attract the pestilential patrols of the Tippoo's Light Cavalry. 'It will be a hot day, sahib,' the Havildar remarked to McCandless.

  'They're all hot,' McCandless answered. 'Haven't had a cold day since I came here.' He thought for a second, then worked out that it must be Thursday the twenty-eighth of March. It would be cold in Scotland today and, for an indulgent moment, he thought of Lochaber and imagined the snow lying deep in Glen Scaddle and the ice edging the loch's foreshore, and though he could see the image clearly enough, he could not really imagine what the cold would feel like. He had been away from home too long and now he wondered if he could ever live in Scotland again. He certainly would not live in England, not in Hampshire where his sister lived with her petulant English husband. Harriet kept pressing him to retire to Hampshire, saying that they had no relatives left in Scotland and that her husband had a wee cottage that would suit McCandless's declining years to perfection, but the Colonel had no taste for a soft, plump, English landscape, nor, indeed, for his soft plump sister's company. Harriet's son, McCandless's nephew William Lawford, was a decent enough young fellow even if he had forgotten his Scottish ancestry, but young William was now in the army, here in Mysore indeed, which meant that the only relative McCandless liked was close at hand and that circumstance merely strengthened McCandless's distaste for retiring to Hampshire. But to Scotland? He often dreamed of going back, though whenever the opportunity arose for him to take the Company's pension and sail to his native land, he always found some unfinished business that kept him in India. Next year, he promised himself, the year of our Lord 1800, would be a good year to go home, though in truth he had promised himself the same thing every year for the last decade.