Sharpe's Fortress s-3

by Бернард Корнуэлл

  Then Prithviraj stood.

  He was a bloody giant, Snarpe thought, a giant with an oiled skin and upper arms as thick as most men's thighs. The crowd murmured in admiration again, and then Prithviraj undid his loincloth and let it fall so that he was naked like Sharpe. The gesture seemed to imply that he sought no advantage over his opponent, though as the huge man came down from the shrine the second jetti took care to stay close beside him.

  Two against one, and the second had a spear, and Sharpe had nothing.

  He glanced at the burning torches, wondering if he could seize one and brandish it as a weapon, but they were mounted too high. Christ, he thought, but do something! Anything! Panic began to close in on him, fluttering like the bat which swooped into the flame light again.

  He backed away from the jet tis and the crowd jeered him. He did not care. He was watching Prithviraj. A slow-moving man, too musclebound to be quick, and Sharpe guessed that was why the second jetti was present. His job would be to herd Sharpe with the glittering spear, and afterwards to hold him still as Prithviraj tore off fingers, toes and ears.

  So take the spearman first, Sharpe told himself, put the bastard down and take his weapon. He edged to his left, circling the courtyard to try and position himself closer to the spear-carrying jetti. The crowd sighed as he moved, enjoying the thought that the Englishman would put up a fight.

  The spear followed Sharpe's movements. He would have to be quick, Sharpe thought, desperately quick, and he doubted he could do it.

  HakeswilPs kicking had slowed him, but he had to try and so he kept on circling, then abruptly charged in to attack the spearman, but the weapon was jabbed towards him and Prithviraj was much faster than Sharpe had expected and leaped to catch him, and Sharpe had to twist awkwardly away. The crowd laughed at his clumsiness.

  "Accept your death, " Jama called. A servant was fanning the merchant's face.

  Sweat poured down Sharpe's cheeks. He had been forced towards that part of the courtyard nearest the temple's entrance where there were two stone flights of stairs leading up to the cloister. The steps, jutting into the yard, formed a bay in which Sharpe suddenly realized he was trapped. He moved sideways, but the spear-carrying jetti covered him. The two men knew he was cornered now and came slowly towards him and Sharpe could only back away until his spine touched the cloister's edge.

  One of the spectators kicked him, but with more malice than force. The jet tis came on slowly, wary in case he suddenly broke to right or left.

  Prithviraj was flexing his huge fingers, making them supple for the night's work. Scraps of smouldering ash whirled away from the torches, one settling on Sharpe's shoulder. He brushed it off.

  "Sahib?" a voice hissed from behind Sharpe.

  "Sahib?"

  Prithviraj looked calm and confident. No bloody wonder, Sharpe thought. So kick the naked bugger in the crotch. He reckoned that was his last chance. One good kick, and hope that Prithviraj doubled over. Either that or run onto the spear and hope the blade killed him quickly.

  «Sahib!» the voice hissed again. Prithviraj was turning sideways so that he would not expose his groin to Sharpe, then he beckoned for the other jetti to close in on the Englishman and drive him out from the wall with his spear.

  "You bugger! " the voice said impatiently.

  Sharpe turned to see that Ahmed was on hands and knees among the legs of the spectators, and what was more the child was pushing forward the hilt of the tulwar he had captured at Deogaum. Sharpe leaned on the cloister edge and the crowd, seeing him rest against the stone, believed he had given up. Some groaned for they had been anticipating more of a fight, but most of the watching men just jeered at him for being a weakling.

  Sharpe winked at Ahmed, then reached for the tulwar. He seized the handle, pushed away from the stone and turned, dragging the blade from the scabbard that was still in Ahmed's grasp. He turned fast as a striking snake, the curved steel silver-red in the courtyard's flame light, and the jet tis thinking he was a beaten man, were not prepared. The man with the spear was closest, and the curved blade slashed across his face, springing blood, and he instinctively clutched his eyes and let the spear drop. Sharpe moved to the right, scooped up the fallen spear, and Prithviraj at last looked worried.

  The guards raised their muskets. Sharpe heard the clicks as the dog heads were hauled back. So let them shoot him, he thought, for that was a quicker death than being dismembered and gelded by a naked giant. Jama was standing, one hand in the air, reluctant to let his guards shoot Sharpe before he had suffered pain. The wounded jetti was on his knees, his hands clutched to his face which was streaming blood.

  Then a musket fired, its sound unnaturally loud in the confines of the courtyard's carved walls. One of the guards flinched as the musket ball whipped past his head to chip a flake of stone from one of the decorated arches. Then a voice shouted from the cloister by the temple entrance.

  The man spoke in an Indian language, and he spoke to Jama who was staring appalled as a group of armed men pushed their way to the very front of the crowd.

  It was Syud Sevajee who had fired, and who had spoken to Jama, and who now grinned down at Sharpe.

  "I've told him it must be a fair fight, Ensign."

  "Me against him?" Sharpe jerked his chin at Prithviraj.

  "We came for entertainment, " Syud Sevajee said, 'the least you can do is provide us with some."

  "Why don't you just shoot the bugger and have done with it?"

  Sevajee smiled.

  "This crowd will accept the result of a fair fight, Ensign. They might not like it if I simply rescue you. Besides, you don't want to be in my debt, do you?"

  "I'm in your debt already, " Sharpe said, 'up to my bloody eyeballs." He turned and looked at Prithviraj who was waiting for a sign from Jama.

  "Hey! Goliath! " Sharpe shouted.

  «Here!» He threw the tulwar at the man, keeping the spear.

  "You want a fair fight? So you've got a weapon now."

  The pain seemed to have vanished and even the thirst had gone away.

  It was like that moment at Assaye when he had been surrounded by enemies, and suddenly the world had seemed a calm, clear-cut place full of delicious opportunity. He had a chance now. He had more than a chance, he was going to put the big bastard down. It was a fair fight, and Sharpe had grown up fighting. He had been bred to it from the gutter, driven to it by poverty and inured to it by desperation. He was nothing if he was not a fighter, and now the crowd would get the bloody sport they wanted. He hefted the spear.

  "So come on, you bastard!»

  Prithviraj stooped and picked up the tulwar. He swung it in a clumsy arc, then looked again at Jama.

  "Don't look at him, you great ox! Look at me! " Sharpe went forward, the spear low, then he raised the blade and lunged towards the big man's belly and Prithviraj made a clumsy parry that rang against the spear blade.

  "You'll have to put more strength into it than that, " Sharpe said, pulling back the spear and standing still to tempt thejetti forward.

  Prithviraj stepped towards him, swung the blade and Sharpe stepped back so that the tulwar's tip slashed inches from his chest.

  "You have to be quick, " Sharpe said, and he feinted right, spun away and walked back to the left leaving Prithviraj off balance. Sharpe turned and lunged with the spear, pricking the big man's back and leaving a trickle of blood.

  "Ain't the same, is it, when the other fellow's got a weapon?" He smiled at the jetti.

  "So come on, you daft pudding. Come on!»

  The crowd was silent now. Prithviraj seemed puzzled. He had not expected to fight, not with a weapon, and it was plain he was not accustomed to a tulwar.

  "You can give up, " Sharpe said.

  "You can kneel down and give up. I won't kill you if you do that, but if you stay on your feet I'll pick you apart like a joint of bloody meat."

  Prithviraj did not understand a word, but he knew Sharpe was dangerous and he was trying to work o
ut how best to kill him. He glanced at the spear, wishing he had that weapon instead of the tulwar, but Sharpe knew the point should always beat the edge, which was why he had kept the spear.

  "You want it quick or slow, Sevajee?" Sharpe called.

  "Whichever you prefer, Ensign, " Sevajee said, smiling.

  "It is not for the audience to tell the actors how the play should go."

  "Then I'll make it quick, " Sharpe said, and he pointed at Prithviraj with his free hand and motioned that thejetti could kneel down.

  "Just kneel, " he said, 'and I'll spare you. Tell him that, Sevajee!»

  Sevajee called out in an Indian language and Prithviraj must have decided the offer was an insult, for he suddenly ran forward, tulwar swinging, and Sharpe had to step quickly aside and parry one of the cuts with the spear's staff. The blade cut a sliver of wood from the shaft, but went nowhere near Sharpe.

  "No good doing that, " Sharpe said.

  "You're not making hay, you great pudding, you're trying to stay alive."

  Prithviraj attacked again, but all he could think to do was make great swings with the blade, any one of which might have slit Sharpe into two, but the attacks were clumsy and Sharpe backed away, always circling around to the middle of the courtyard so that he was not trapped against its edges. The crowd, sensing that Prithviraj might win, began to urge him on, but some noticed that the Englishman was not even trying to fight yet. He was taunting thejetti, he was evading him and he was keeping his spear low.

  "I thought you said it would be quick, " Sevajee said.

  "You want it over?" Sharpe asked. He crouched, raising the spear blade, and the motion checked Prithviraj who stared at him warily.

  "What I'm going to do, " Sharpe said, 'is cut your belly open, then slit your throat. Are you ready?" He went forward, jabbing the spear, still low, and Prithviraj backed away, trying to parry the small lunges, but Sharpe dragged the spear back each time before the parry could connect, and Prithviraj frowned. He seemed hypnotized by the shining blade that flickered like a snake's tongue, and behind it Sharpe was grinning at him and taunting him, and Prithviraj tried to counter-attack once, but the spear slashed up to within an inch of his face and he went on stepping backwards. Then he backed into the blinded jettt who still crouched on the flagstones and Prithviraj staggered as he lost his balance.

  Sharpe came up from the crouch, the spear lancing forward and the wild parry came far too late and suddenly the blade was punching and tearing through the skin and muscle of the jettfs stomach. Sharpe twisted the leaf-shaped steel so that it did not get trapped in the flesh and then he ripped it out, and blood washed across the temple floor and Prithviraj was bending forward as if he could seal the pain in his belly by folding over, and then the spear sliced from the side to slash across his throat.

  The crowd sighed.

  Prithviraj was on the stones now, curled up with blood bubbling from his sliced belly and pulsing from his neck.

  Sharpe kicked the tulwar from the jettt's unresisting hand, then turned and looked at Jama.

  "You and your brother did business with Captain Torrance?"

  Jama said nothing.

  Sharpe walked towards the shrine. The guards moved to stop him, but Sevajee's men raised their muskets and some, grinning, jumped down into the courtyard. Ahmed also jumped down and snatched the tulwar from the flagstones. Prithviraj was on his side now, dying.

  Jama stood as Sharpe reached the steps, but he could not move fast with his limp and suddenly the spear was at his belly.

  "I asked you a question, " Sharpe said.

  Jama still said nothing.

  "You want to live?" Sharpe asked. Jama looked down at the spear blade that was thick with blood.

  "Was it Torrance who gave me to you?" Sharpe asked.

  «Yes,» Jama said.

  "If I see you again, " Sharpe said, "I'll kill you. If you go back to the British camp I'll hang you like your brother, and if you so much as send a message to Torrance, I'll follow you to the last corner on God's earth and I'll castrate you with my bare hands." He jabbed the spear just enough to prick Jama's belly, then turned away. The crowd was silent, cowed by Sevajee's men and by the ferocity they had witnessed in the temple courtyard. Sharpe tossed away the spear, pulled Ahmed towards him and patted the boy's head.

  "You're a good lad, Ahmed. A bloody good lad. And I need a drink. By Christ, I'm thirsty."

  But he was also alive.

  Which meant some other men would soon be dead.

  Because Sharpe was more than alive. He was angry. Angry as hell.

  And wanting revenge.

  Sharpe borrowed a cloak from one of Sevajee's men, then pulled himself up behind Ahmed onto Major Stokes's horse. They rode slowly away from the village where the torches guttered in the temple towards the smear of red light that betrayed where the British encampment lay some miles to the west. Sevajee talked as they rode, telling Sharpe how Ahmed had fled straight into the arms of his men.

  "Luckily for you, Ensign, " the Indian said, "I recognized him."

  "Which is why you sent for help, isn't it?" Sharpe asked sarcastically.

  "It's why you fetched some redcoats to get me out of that bloody tent."

  "Your gratitude touches me deeply, " Sevajee said with a smile.

  "It took us a long time to make sense of what your boy was saying, and I confess we didn't wholly believe him even then, and by the time we thought to take him seriously, you were already being carried away.

  So we followed. I thought we might fetch some entertainment from the evening, and so we did."

  "Glad to be of service, sahib, " Sharpe said.

  "I knew you could beat ajetti in a fair fight."

  "I beat three at once in Seringapatam, " Sharpe said, 'but I don't know as it was a fair fight. I'm not much in favour of fair fights. I like them to be unfair. Fair fights are for gentlemen who don't know any better."

  "Which is why you gave the sword to the jetti, " Sevajee observed drily.

  "I knew he'd make a bollocks of it, " Sharpe said. He was tired suddenly, and all the aches and throbs and agony had come back.

  Above him the sky was brilliant with stars, while a thin sickle moon hung just above the faraway fortress. Dodd was up there, Sharpe thought, another life to take. Dodd and Torrance, Hakeswill and his two men. A debt to be paid by sending all the bastards to hell.

  "Where shall I take you?" Sevajee asked.

  "Take me?"

  "You want to go to the General?"

  "Christ, no." Sharpe could not imagine complaining to Wellesley. The cold bugger would probably blame Sharpe for getting into trouble.

  Stokes, maybe? Or the cavalry? Sergeant Lockhart would doubtless welcome him, but then he had a better idea.

  "Take me to wherever you're camped, " he told Sevajee.

  "And in the morning?"

  "You've got a new recruit, " Sharpe said.

  "I'm one of your men for now."

  Sevajee looked amused.

  "Why?"

  "Why do you think? I want to hide."

  "But why?"

  Sharpe sighed.

  "D'you think Wellesley will believe me? If I go to Wellesley he'll think I've got sunstroke, or he'll reckon I'm drunk. And Torrance will stand there with a plum in his bloody mouth and deny everything, or else he'll blame Hakeswill."

  "Hakeswill?" Sevajee asked.

  "A bastard I'm going to kill, " Sharpe said.

  "And it'll be easier if he doesn't know I'm still alive." And this time, Sharpe vowed, he would make sure of the bastard.

  "My only worry, " he told Sevajee, 'is Major Stokes's horse. He's a good man, Stokes."

  "That horse?" Sevajee asked, nodding at the grey mare.

  "You reckon a couple of your fellows could return it to him in the morning?"

  "Of course."

  "Tell him I got thrown from the saddle and snatched up by the enemy, " Sharpe said.

  "Let him think I'm a prisoner in Gawilg
hur."

  "And meanwhile you'll be one of us?" Sevajee asked.

  "I've just become a Mahratta, " Sharpe said.

  «Welcome,» said Sevajee.

  "And what you need now, Sharpe, is some rest."

  "I've had plenty of rest, " Sharpe said.

  "What I need now are some clothes, and some darkness."

  "You need food too, " Sevajee insisted. He glanced up at the sliver of moon above the fort. It was waning.

  "Tomorrow night will be darker, " he promised, and Sharpe nodded. He wanted a deep darkness, a shadowed blackness, in which a living ghost could hunt.

  Major Stokes was grateful for the return of his horse, but saddened over Sharpe's fate.

  «Captured!» he told Sir Arthur Wellesley.

  "And my own fault too."

  "Can't see how that can be, Stokes."

  "I should never have let him ride off on his own. Should have made him wait till a group went back."

  "Won't be the first prison cell he's seen, " Wellesley said, 'and I daresay it won't be the last."

  "I shall miss him, " Stokes said, 'miss him deeply. A good man."

  Wellesley grunted. He had ridden up the improved road to judge its progress for himself and he was impressed, though he took care not to show his approval. The road now snaked up into the hills and one more day's work would see it reach the edge of the escarpment. Half the necessary siege guns were already high on the road, parked in an upland meadow, while bullocks were trudging up the lower slopes with their heavy burdens of round shot that would be needed to break open Gawilghur's walls. The Mahrattas had virtually ceased their raids on the road-makers ever since Wellesley had sent two battalions of sepoys up into the hills to hunt the enemy down. Every once in a while a musket shot would be fired from a long distance, but the balls were usually spent before they reached a target.

  "Your work won't end with the road, " Wellesley told Stokes, as the General and his staff followed the engineer on foot towards some higher ground from where they could inspect the fortress.