“Of course you did! Where did they recruit you?”
“My home’s near Portsmouth.”
“That’s no bloody good. Navy would press you in Portsmouth before a recruiting sergeant could get near to you. Ever been to Sheffield?”
“Good Lord, no!” Lawford sounded horrified.
“Good place, Sheffield,” Sharpe said. “And there’s a pub on Pond Street called The Hawle in the Pond. Can you remember that? The Hawle in the Pond in Sheffield. It’s a favorite hunting hole for the 33rd’s recruiters, especially on market days. You was tricked there by some bleeding sergeant. He got you drunk and before you knew it you’d taken the King’s shilling. He was a sergeant of the 33rd, so what did he have on his bayonet?”
“His bayonet?” Lawford, fumbling to release the leather binding of his newly clubbed hair, frowned in perplexity. “Nothing, I should hope.”
“We’re the 33rd, Bill! The Havercakes! He carried an oatcake on his bayonet, remember? And he promised you’d be an officer inside two years because he was a lying bastard. What did you do before you met him?”
Lawford shrugged. “A farmer?”
“No one would ever believe you labored on a farm,” Sharpe said scornfully. “You ain’t got a farmer’s arms. That General Baird now, he’s got proper arms. Looks as if he could hoist hay all day long and not feel a damn thing, but not you. You were a lawyer’s clerk.”
Lawford nodded. “I think we should go now,” he said, trying to reassert his rapidly vanishing authority.
“We’re waiting,” Sharpe said stubbornly. “So why the hell are you running?”
Lawford frowned. “Unhappiness, I suppose.”
“Bleeding hell, you’re a soldier! You ain’t supposed to be happy! No, let’s think now. You boned the Captain’s watch, how about that? Got caught, and you faced a flogging. You saw me flogged and didn’t fancy you could survive, so you and me, being mates like, ran.”
“I really do think we must go!” Lawford insisted.
“In a minute, sir.” Again Sharpe cursed himself for using the honorific. “Just let my back settle down.”
“Oh, of course.” Lawford was immediately contrite. “But we can’t wait too long, Sharpe.”
“Dick, sir. You call me Dick. We’re friends, remember?”
“Of course.” Lawford, as uncomfortable with this sudden intimacy as with the need to waste time, settled awkwardly by Sharpe at the base of a tree. “So why did you join up?” he asked Sharpe.
“The harmen were after me.”
“The harmen? Oh yes, the constables.” Lawford paused. Somewhere in the night a creature shrieked as it was caught by a predator, while off to the east the sergeants called to their sentries. The sky glowed with the light of the army’s myriad fires. “What had you done?” Lawford asked.
“Killed a man. Put a knife in him.”
Lawford gazed at Sharpe. “Murdered him, you mean?”
“Oh, aye, it was murder right enough, even though the bugger deserved it. But the judge at York Assizes wouldn’t have seen it my way, would he? Which meant Dick Sharpe would have been morris-dancing at the end of a rope so I reckoned it was easier to put on the scarlet coat. The harmen don’t bother a man once he’s in uniform, not unless he killed one of the gentry.”
Lawford hesitated, not sure whether he should inquire too deeply, then decided it was worth a try. “So who was the fellow you killed?”
“Bugger kept an inn. I worked for him, see? It was a coaching inn so he knew what coaches were carrying good baggage and my job was to snaffle the stuff once the coach was on the road. That and some prigging.” Lawford did not like to ask what prigging was, so kept quiet. “He were a right bastard,” Sharpe went on, “but that wasn’t why I stuck him. It was over a girl, see? And he and I had a disagreement about who should keep her blanket warm. He lost and I’m here and God knows where the lass is now.” He laughed.
“We’re wasting time,” Lawford said.
“Quiet!” Sharpe snapped, then picked up his musket and pointed it toward some bushes. “Is that you, lass?”
“It’s me, Richard.” Mary Bickerstaff emerged from the shadows carrying a bundle. “Evening, Mr. Lawford, sir,” she said shyly.
“Call him Bill,” Sharpe insisted, then stood and shouldered his musket. “Come on, Bill!” he said. “No point in wasting time here. There’s three of us now and wise men always travel in threes, don’t they? So find your bleeding star and let’s be moving.”
They walked all night, following Lawford’s star toward the western skyline. Lawford took Sharpe aside at one point and, insisting on his ever-more precarious authority, ordered Sharpe to send the woman back. “That’s an order, Sharpe,” Lawford said.
“She won’t go,” Sharpe retorted.
“We can’t take a woman!” Lawford snapped.
“Why not? Deserters always take their valuables, sir. Bill, I mean.”
“Christ, Private, if you mess this up I’ll make sure you get all the stripes you escaped yesterday.”
Sharpe grinned. “It won’t be me who messes it. It’s the damn fool idea itself.”
“Nonsense.” Lawford strode ahead, forcing Sharpe to follow. Mary, guessing that they were arguing about her, kept a few paces behind. “There’s nothing wrong with General Baird’s notion,” Lawford said. “We fall into the Tippoo’s hands, we join his wretched army, find this man Ravi Shekhar, then leave everything to him. And just what part does Mrs. Bickerstaff play in that?” He asked the question angrily.
“Whatever part she wants,” Sharpe said stubbornly.
Lawford knew he should argue, or rather that he should impose his authority on Sharpe, but he sensed he could never win. He was beginning to wonder whether it had been such a good idea to bring Sharpe after all, but from the first moment when Baird had suggested this desperate endeavor, Lawford had known he would need help and he had also known which of the Light Company’s soldiers he wanted. Private Sharpe had always stood out, not just because of his height, but because he was by far the quickest-witted man in the company. But even so, Lawford had not been ready for the speed or force with which Sharpe had taken over this mission. Lawford had expected gratitude from Sharpe, and also deference; he even believed he deserved that deference purely by virtue of being an officer, but Sharpe had swiftly torn that assumption into tatters. It was rather as if Lawford had harnessed a solid-looking draught horse to his gig only to discover it was a runaway racer, but why had the racehorse insisted on bringing the filly? That offended Lawford, suggesting to him that Sharpe was taking advantage of the freedom offered by this mission. Lawford glanced at Sharpe, noting how pale and strained he looked, and he guessed that the flogging had taken far more from the Private than he realized. “I still think Mrs. Bickerstaff should go back to the army,” he said gently.
“She can’t,” Sharpe said curtly. “Tell him, Mary.”
Mary ran to catch up. “I’m not safe while Hakeswill’s alive,” she told Lawford.
“You could have been looked after,” Lawford suggested vaguely.
“Who by?” Mary asked. “A man looks after a woman in the army and he wants his price. You know that, sir.”
“Call him Bill!” Sharpe snarled. “Our lives might depend on it! If one of us calls him ‘sir’ then they’ll feed us to their bloody tigers.”
“And it isn’t just Hakeswill,” Mary went on. “Sergeant Green wants to marry me now, which is at least more than Hakeswill does, but I don’t want either. I just want to be left in peace with Richard.”
“God knows,” Lawford said bitterly, “but you’ve probably jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Mary said obstinately, though she had taken what care she could to reduce her chances of being raped. She had dressed herself in a torn dark frock and a filthy apron, both garments as drab and greasy as she could find. She had smeared ashes and dirt into her hair, but she had done nothing to disguise the lively beauty in
her face. “Besides,” she said to Lawford, “neither you nor Richard speak any of the languages. You need me. And I brought some more food.” She hoisted the cloth bundle.
Lawford grunted. Behind them the horizon was now marked with a pale glow that silhouetted trees and bushes. He guessed they had traveled about a dozen miles and, as the pale glow turned brighter and the dawn’s light seeped across the landscape, he suggested they stop and rest. Mary’s bundle held a half-dozen loaves of flat unleavened bread and had two canteens of water which they shared as their breakfast. After he had eaten, Lawford went into the bushes for privacy and, as he came back, he saw Sharpe hit Mary hard in the face. “For God’s sake, man,” Lawford shouted, “what are you doing?”
“Blacking my eye,” Mary answered. “I asked him to.”
“Dear God!” Lawford said. Mary’s left eye was already swelling, and tears were running down her cheeks. “Whatever for?”
“Keep the buggers off her, of course,” Sharpe said. “Are you all right, love?”
“I’ll live,” Mary said. “You hit hard, Richard.”
“No point in hitting softly. Didn’t mean to hurt you, though.”
Mary splashed water on her eye, then they all started walking again. They were now in an open stretch of country that was dotted with groves of bright-blossomed trees. There were no villages in sight, though they did come to an aqueduct an hour after dawn and wasted another hour trying to find a way across before simply plunging into the weed-filled water and wading through. Seringapatam lay well below the horizon, but Lawford knew the city was almost due west and he planned to angle southward until he reached the Cauvery and then follow that river to the city.
The Lieutenant’s spirits were low. He had volunteered for this mission readily enough, but in the night it had begun to dawn on him just how risky the errand was. He felt lonely, too. He was only two years older than Sharpe and he envied Sharpe Mary’s companionship, and he still resented the Private’s lack of deference. He did not dare express that resentment, for he knew it would be scorned, but nor did he really wish to express it, for he had discovered that he wanted Sharpe’s admiration rather than his deference. Lawford wanted to prove that he was as tough as the Private, and that desire kept him stoically walking on toward the horrid unknown.
Sharpe was equally worried. He liked Lawford, but suspected he would have to work hard to keep the Lieutenant out of trouble. He was a quick study, the Lieutenant, but so ignorant of the world’s ways that he could easily betray the fact that he was no common soldier. As for the Tippoo, he was an unknown danger, but Sharpe was canny enough to know that he would have to do whatever the Tippoo’s men wanted. He worried about Mary, too. He had persuaded her to come on this fool’s errand, and she had not taken much persuading, but now she was here Sharpe was concerned that he could not protect both her and Lawford. But despite his worries he still felt free. He was, after all, off the army’s leash and he reckoned he could survive so long as Lawford made no mistake, and if Sharpe survived he knew how to prosper. The rules were simple: trust no one, be ever watchful, and if trouble came hit first and hit hard. It had worked for him so far.
Mary too had doubts. She had persuaded herself she was in love with Sharpe, but she sensed a restlessness in him that made her think he might not always be in love with her. Still, she was happier here than back with the army, and that was not just because of Sergeant Hakeswill’s threat but because, although the army was the only life Mary had ever known, she sensed the world could offer her more. She had grown up in Calcutta and, though her mother had been Indian, Mary had never felt at home in either the army or in India. She was neither one thing nor the other. To the army she was a bibbi, while to the Indians she was outside their castes, and she was acceptable to neither. She was a half-breed, suspended in a purgatory of distrust, with only her looks to help her survive, and though the army was the place that provided the friendliest company, it hardly offered a secure future. Ahead of her stretched a succession of husbands, each one succeeding as the previous one was killed in battle or else died of a fever, and when she was too old to attract another man she would be left with her children to fend as best she could. Mary, just like Sharpe, wanted to find some way up and out of that fate, but how she was to do it she did not know, though this expedition at least gave her a chance to break temporarily out of the trap.
Lawford led them to a slight hill from where, screened by flowering bushes, he scanned the country ahead. He thought he could see a gleam of water to the south and the small glimpse was sufficient to persuade him that it must be the River Cauvery. “That way,” he said, “but we’ll have to avoid the villages.” There were two in sight, both barring the direct path to the river.
“The villagers will see us anyway,” Mary said. “They don’t miss much.”
“We’re not here to trouble them,” Lawford said, “so perhaps they’ll leave us alone?”
“Turn our coats, Bill,” Sharpe suggested.
“Turn our coats?”
“We’re running, aren’t we? So put your coat on back to front as a sign that you’re on the run.”
“The villagers will hardly realize the significance of that,” Lawford observed tartly.
“Bugger the villagers,” Sharpe said. “It’s the Tippoo’s bloody men I’m worried about. If those bastards see red coats, they’ll shoot before they ask questions.” Sharpe had already undone his crossbelts and was shrugging off the wool coat, grunting with the pain that the exertion gave to his back. Lawford, watching, saw that blood had seeped through the thick bandages to stain the dirty shirt.
Lawford was reluctant to turn his coat. A turned coat was a sign of disgrace. Battalions that had let the army down in battle were sometimes forced to turn their coats as a badge of shame, but once again the Lieutenant saw the wisdom of Sharpe’s argument and so he stripped and turned his coat so that its gray lining was outermost. “Maybe we shouldn’t carry the muskets?” he suggested.
“No deserter would throw away his gun,” Sharpe answered. He buckled his belt over the turned coat and picked up his gun and pack. He had carried the pack in his hand all night rather than have its weight press on his wounds. “Are you ready?”
“In a moment,” Lawford said, then, to Sharpe’s surprise, the Lieutenant went on one knee and said a silent prayer. “I don’t pray often,” Lawford admitted as he stood, “but maybe some help from on high would be providential today.” For today, Lawford guessed, would be the day they would meet the Tippoo’s patrols.
They walked south toward the gleam of water. All three were tired, and Sharpe was plainly weakened by the loss of blood, but anticipation gave them all a nervous energy. They skirted the nearest village, watched by cows with pendulous folds of skin hanging beneath their necks, then they walked through groves of cocoa trees as the sun climbed. They saw no one. A deer skittered away from their path in the late morning and an hour later an excited troupe of small monkeys scampered beside them. At midday they rested in the small shade offered by a grove of bamboos, then pressed on again beneath the baking sun. By early afternoon the river was in sight and Lawford suggested they should rest on its bank. Mary’s eye had swollen and blackened, giving her the grotesque look she believed would protect her.
“I could do with a rest now,” Sharpe admitted. The pain was terrible and every step was now an agony. “And I need to wet the bandages.”
“Wet them?” Lawford asked.
“That’s what that bastard Micklewhite said. Said to keep the bandages damp or else the stripes won’t heal.”
“We’ll wet them at the river,” Lawford promised.
But they never reached the riverbank. They were walking beside some beech trees when a shout sounded behind them and Sharpe turned to see horsemen coming from the west. They were fine-looking men in tiger-striped tunics and with spiring brass helmets who couched their lances and galloped hard toward the three fugitives. Sharpe’s heart pounded. He stepped ahead of his companions and
held up a hand to show they meant no harm, but the leading lancer only grinned in reply and lowered his lance point as he pricked back his spurs.
Sharpe shook his head and waved, then realized the man intended to skewer the spear into his belly. “Bastard!” Sharpe shouted, and dropped his pack and put both hands on his musket as though it was a quarterstaff. Mary screamed in terror.
“No!” Lawford shouted at the galloping lancers. “No!”
The lancer thrust his blade at Sharpe who knocked the spear point aside with the muzzle of the gun, then swung the gun fast back so that its butt smacked hard onto the horse’s head. The beast whinnied and reared, throwing its rider backward. The other lancers laughed, then sawed their reins to swerve past the fallen man. Mary was shouting at them in a language Sharpe did not understand, Lawford was waving his hands desperately, but the lancers bored on in, concentrating on Sharpe who stepped backward from their wicked-looking spearpoints. He slashed a second lance aside, then a third man rammed his spurs back and attempted to drive his spear hard into Sharpe’s belly. Sharpe half managed to edge away from the blow and, instead of skewering his stomach, the lance sliced through the skin of his waist, through his coat, and into the tree behind him. The lancer left his spear buried in the beech and wheeled his horse away. Sharpe was pinned to the bark, his back a sheet of agony where it was forced against the tree. He tugged at the lance, but his loss of blood had made him far too weak and the weapon would not budge, and then another lancer spurred toward him with his spearpoint aimed at Sharpe’s eyes. Mary shouted frantically.
The spearpoint paused an inch from Sharpe’s left eyeball. The lancer looked at Mary, grimaced at her filthy state, then said something.
Mary answered.
The lancer, who was evidently an officer, looked back to Sharpe and seemed to be debating whether to kill or to spare him. Finally he grinned, leaned down, and grasped the spear pinning Sharpe to the tree. He dragged it free.
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 1: Sharpe's Tiger, Sharpe's Triumph, Sharpe's Fortress Page 14