Nothing had changed. Beyond the gently flowing South Cauvery the sun baked the ground where the British guns still fired. Their massive round shots churned up the rubble ramp, but no redcoats stirred from their trenches and the only signs that an assault might be imminent were the small pennants stuck in the riverbed.
“They want another day to widen the breach,” an officer opined.
Colonel Gudin shook his head. “They’ll come today,” he insisted.
The Tippoo grunted. He was standing just north of the breach from where he watched the enemy trenches through a spyglass. Some of the British round shot struck dangerously close to where he stood, and his aides tried to persuade him to move to a safer place, but even when a stone shard thrown up by a cannonball flicked at his white linen tunic, he would not move. “They would have come at dawn,” he finally said, “if they were coming today.”
“They want us to think that,” Gudin protested, “to lull us. But they will come today. They won’t give us another night to make preparations. And why plant the flags?” He pointed at the river.
The Tippoo stepped back from the remains of the parapet. Was his luck changed? He had given gifts to the enemies of his God in the hope that his God would then reward him with victory, but he still felt an unease. He would much have preferred that the storming should be delayed another day so that another set of auspices could be taken, but perhaps Allah willed it otherwise. And nothing would be lost by assuming that the attack would come this day. “Assume they will come this afternoon,” he ordered. “Every man back to the walls.”
The walls, already thick with troops, now became crowded with defenders. One company of Muslims had volunteered to face the first enemy who came into the breach and those brave men, armed with swords, pistols, and muskets, crouched just inside the breach, but hidden from the enemy’s guns by the mound of rubble. Those volunteers would almost certainly die, if not at the hands of the attackers then when the great mine blew, but each man had been assured of his place in paradise and so they went gladly to their deaths. Rockets were piled on the ramparts, and guns that had stayed hidden from the bombardment were manhandled into position to take the attackers in the flanks.
Others of the Tippoo’s finest troops were posted on the outer wall above the edges of the breach. Their job was to defend the shoulders of the breach, for the Tippoo was determined to funnel the attackers into the space between the walls where his mine could destroy them. Let the British come, the Tippoo prayed, but let them be shepherded across the breach and into the killing ground.
The Tippoo had decided to lead the fight on the wall north of the breach. Colonel Gudin’s battalion would fight south of the breach, but Gudin himself had responsibility for blowing the great mine. It was ready now, a hoard of powder crammed into the old gate passage and shored up by stones and timber so that the blast of the explosion would be forced northward between the walls. Gudin would watch the killing space from his place on the inner rampart, then signal to Sergeant Rothière to light the fuse. Rothière and the fuse were guarded by two of Gudin’s steadiest men and by six of the Tippoo’s jettis.
The Tippoo assured himself that all had been done that could be done. The city was ready and, in honor of the slaughter of infidels, the Tippoo had arrayed himself in jewels, then consigned his soul and his kingdom into Allah’s keeping. Now he could only wait as the late-morning sun climbed higher and yet higher to become a burning whiteness in the Indian sky where the vultures circled on their wide ragged wings.
The British guns fired on. In the mosque some men prayed, but all of them were old men, for any man young enough to fight was waiting on the walls. The Hindus prayed to their gods while the women of the city made themselves ragged and dirty so that, should the city fall, they would not attract the enemy’s attention.
Midday came. The city baked in the heat. It seemed strangely silent, for the fire of the siege guns was desultory now. The sound of each shot echoed dully from the walls and each strike would start a trickle of stone and a small cloud of dust and afterward there would be silence again. On the walls a horde of men crouched behind their firesteps, while in the trenches across the river an opposing horde waited for the order that would send them against an expectant city.
The Tippoo had a prayer mat brought to the walls and there, facing toward the enemy, he knelt and bowed in prayer. He prayed that Colonel Gudin was wrong and that his enemies would give him one more day, and then, as in a waking dream, a message came to him. He had given gifts, and gifts of charity were blessed, but he had not made sacrifice. He had been saving his sacrifice for the celebration of victory, but perhaps victory would not come unless he made his offerings now. Luck was malleable, and death was a great changer of fortune. He made a last obeisance, touching his forehead to the mat’s weave, then climbed to his feet. “Send for three jettis,” he ordered an aide, “and tell them to bring me the British prisoners.”
“All of them, Your Majesty?” the aide asked.
“Not the Sergeant,” the Tippoo said. “Not the one who twitches. The others. Tell the jettis to bring them here.” For his victory needed one last sacrifice of blood before the Cauvery was made dark with it.
CHAPTER 10
Appah Rao was an able man, otherwise he would not have been promoted to the command of one of the Tippoo’s brigades, but he was also a discreet man. Discretion had kept Rao alive and discretion had enabled him to preserve his loyalty to the unthroned Rajah of the house of Wodeyar while still serving the Tippoo.
Now, ordered to take his men to die walls of Seringapatam and there fight to preserve the Muslim dynasty of the Tippoo, Appah Rao at last questioned his discretion. He obeyed the Tippoo, of course, and his cushoons filed dutifully enough onto the city ramparts, but Appah Rao, standing beneath one of the sun banners above the Mysore Gate, asked himself what he wanted of this world. He possessed family, high rank, wealth, and ability, yet he still bowed his head to a foreign monarch and some of the flags above his men’s heads were inscribed in Arabic to celebrate a god who was no god of Appah Rao’s. His own monarch lived in poverty, ever under the threat of execution, and it was possible, more than possible, Rao allowed, that victory this day would raise the Tippoo so high that he would no longer need the small advantage of the Rajah’s existence. The Rajah was paraded like a doll on Hindu holy days to placate the Tippoo’s Hindu subjects, but if Mysore had no enemies in southern India, why should the Hindus of Mysore need to be placated? The Rajah and all his family would be secretly strangled and their corpses, like the bodies of the twelve murdered British prisoners, would be wrapped in reed mats and buried in an unmarked grave.
But if the Tippoo lost then the British would rule in Mysore. True, if they kept their word, the Rajah would be restored to his palace and to his ancient throne, but the power of the palace would still rest with the British advisers, and the Rajah’s treasury would be required to pay for the upkeep of British troops. But if the Tippoo won, Appah Rao thought, then the French would come and what evidence was there that the French were any better than the British?
He stood above the southern gate, waiting for an unseen enemy to erupt from their trenches and assault the city, and he felt like a man buffeted between two implacable forces. If he had been less discreet he might have considered rebelling openly against the Tippoo and ordering his troops to help the invading British, but such a risk was too great for a cautious man. Yet if the Tippoo lost this day’s battle, and if Appah Rao was perceived to be loyal to the defeated man, then what future did he have? Whichever side won, Appah Rao thought, he lost, but there was one small act that might yet snatch survival from defeat. He walked out to the end of a jutting cavalier, waved the gunners posted there away from their cannon, and beckoned Kunwar Singh to his side. “Where are your men?” he asked Singh.
“At the house, Lord.” Kunwar Singh was a soldier, but not in any of the Tippoo’s cushoons. His loyalty was to his kinsman, Appah Rao, and his duty was to protect Appah Rao
and his family.
“Take six men,” the General said, “and make sure they are not dressed in my livery. Then go to the dungeons, find Colonel McCandless, and take him back to my house. He speaks our tongue, so gain his trust by reminding him that you came with me to the temple at Somanathapura, and tell him that I am trusting him to keep my family alive.” The General had been staring southwards as he spoke, but he now turned to look into Kunwar Singh’s eyes. “If the British do get into the city then McCandless will protect our women.” Appah Rao added this last assurance as though to justify the order he was giving, but Kunwar Singh still hesitated. Singh was a loyal man, but that loyalty was being dangerously stretched for he was being asked to rebel against the Tippoo. He might need to kill the Tippoo’s men to free this enemy soldier, and Appah Rao understood his hesitation. “Do this for me, Kunwar Singh,” the General promised, “and I shall restore your family’s land.”
“Lord,” Kunwar Singh said, then stepped back, turned and was gone. Appah Rao watched him go, then stared past the city’s southwestern corner to where he could see a portion of the enemy trenches. It was past noon and there were still no signs of life from the British lines except for a desultory gunshot once in a while. If the Tippoo won this day, Appah Rao thought, then his anger at McCandless’s disappearance would be terrible. In which case, Appah Rao decided, McCandless must die before he could ever be discovered and have the truth beaten out of him. But if the Tippoo lost, then McCandless was Appah Rao’s best guarantor of survival. And a Hindu living in a Muslim state was an expert at survival. Appah Rao, despite the risk he was running, knew he had acted for the best. He drew his sword, kissed its blade for luck, then waited for the assault.
It took only a minute for Kunwar Singh to reach the General’s house. He ordered six of his best men to discard their tunics which bore Appah Rao’s badge and to put on tiger-striped tunics instead. He changed his own coat, then borrowed a gold chain with a jeweled pendant from the General’s treasure chest. Such a jewel was a sign of authority in the city and Kunwar Singh reckoned he might need it. He armed himself with a pistol and a sword, then waited for his picked squad.
Mary came to the courtyard and demanded to know what was happening. There was a strange stillness in the city, and the tempo of the British guns, which had been firing so hard and fast for days, was now muted and the ominous silence had made Mary nervous.
“We think the British are coming,” Kunwar Singh told her, then blurted out that she would be safe for he had been ordered to free the British Colonel from the dungeons and bring him to the house where McCandless’s presence would protect the women. “If the British even get through the wall,” he added dubiously.
“What about my brother?” Mary asked.
Kunwar Singh shrugged. “I have no orders for him.”
“Then I shall come with you,” Mary declared.
“You can’t!” Kunwar Singh insisted. He was often shocked by Mary’s defiance, though-he also found it appealing.
“You can stop me,” she said, “by shooting me. Or you can let me come. Make up your mind.” She did not wait to hear his answer, but hurried to her quarters where she snatched up the pistol that Appah Rao had given her. Kunwar Singh made no further protest. He was confused by what was happening, and, though he sensed that his master’s loyalties were wavering, he still did not know which way they would ultimately fall.
“I can’t let your brother come back here,” he warned Mary when she came back to the courtyard.
“We can free him,” Mary insisted, “and after that he can look after himself. He’s good at that.”
The streets of the city were oddly deserted. Most of the Tippoo’s soldiers were on the ramparts, and anyone who had no business in the coming battle had taken care to lock their doors and stay hidden. A few men still trundled handcarts of ammunition and rockets toward the walls, but there were no bullock carts and no open shops. A few sacred cows wandered the city with sublime unconcern, but otherwise it was like a place of ghosts and it only took Kunwar Singh’s small party five minutes to reach the complex of small courtyards that lay to the north of the Inner Palace. No one questioned Kunwar Singh’s right to be in the palace precincts, for he wore the Tippoo’s uniform and the jewels hanging about his neck were glittering proof of his authority.
The difficulty, Kunwar Singh had anticipated, would lie in persuading the guards to unlock the gate of the dungeon’s outer cage. Once that gate was open the rest should be easy, for his men could swiftly overwhelm the guards and so find the key to McCandless’s cell. Kunwar Singh had decided that his best course was simply to pretend to an authority he did not have and claim to bear a summons from the Tippoo himself. Arrogance went far in Mysore and he would give it a try. Otherwise he must order his men to use their muskets to blast the cage doors down and he feared that such a commotion would bring guards running from the nearby Inner Palace.
But when he reached the cells he found there were no guards. The space within the outer cage and around the stone steps was empty. A soldier on the inner wall above the cells saw the small group standing uncertainly beside the dungeon gate and assumed they had come to fetch the guards. “They’ve already gone!” the man shouted down. “Ordered to the walls. Gone to kill some Englishmen.”
Kunwar Singh acknowledged the man, then rattled the gate, vainly hoping that the padlock would fall off. “You don’t want to go inside,” the helpful man called down, “the tiger’s on duty.”
Kunwar Singh instinctively stepped back. The soldier above him lost interest and went back to his post as Kunwar Singh stepped back to the gate and tugged a second time at the huge padlock. “Too big to shoot open,” he said. “That lock will take five or six bullets, at least.”
“We can’t get inside?” Mary asked.
“No. Not without attracting the guards.” He gestured toward the palace. The thought of the tiger had made him nervous and he was wondering whether he would do better to wait until the assault started and then, under the cover of its huge noise, try to shoot the padlock away from the gate, then kill the tiger. Or else just give up the errand. The courtyard stank of sewage, and the smell only reinforced Kunwar Singh’s presentiments of failure.
Then Mary stepped to the bars. “Richard?” she called. “Richard!”
There was a momentary pause. “Lass?” The answer came at last.
Kunwar Singh’s nervousness increased. There were a dozen soldiers on the inner wall immediately above him, and a score of other people were peering through windows or above stable doors. No one was yet taking a suspicious interest in his party, but it seemed likely that someone of true authority would soon pass by the dungeons. “We should leave,” he hissed to Mary.
“We can’t get inside!” Mary called to Sharpe.
“Have you got a gun, lass?” Sharpe called back. Mary could not see him, for the outer cage was far enough back from the dungeon steps to hide the cells.
“Yes.”
“Chuck it down here, lass. Chuck it as close to the bottom of the steps as you can. Make sure the bugger’s not cocked.”
Kunwar Singh rattled the gate again. The sound of the clangorous iron prompted a growl from the pit and a moment later the tiger loped up the steps, stared blank-eyed at Kunwar Singh, then turned and went back to the remnants of a half-carcass of goat. “We can’t wait!” Kunwar Singh insisted to Mary.
“Throw us a gun, love!” Sharpe shouted.
Mary groped inside the folds of her sari to find the ivory-inlaid pistol that Appah Rao had given to her. She pushed it through the bars and then, very nervously, she tried to gauge how much effort would be needed to toss the gun into the pit, but not too far from the bottom of the steps. Kunwar Singh hissed at her, but made no move to stop her.
“Here, Richard!” she called, and she tossed the gun underarm. It was a clumsy throw, and the pistol fell short of the steps, but its momentum carried it over the edge and Mary heard the gun clattering down the stone stairs.
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br /> Sharpe cursed, for the pistol had lodged three steps up. “Have you got another one?” he shouted.
“Give me your pistol,” Mary said to Kunwar Singh.
“No! We can’t get in.” Kunwar Singh was close to panic now and his six men had been infected by his fear. “We can’t help them,” he insisted.
“Mary!” Sharpe called.
“I’m sorry, Richard.”
“Not to worry, lass,” Sharpe said, staring at the pistol. He did not doubt he could pick the lock open, but could he reach the gun before the tiger reached him? And even if he did, would one small pistol ball stop eight feet of hungry tiger? “Jesus Christ!” he swore.
“Sharpe!” McCandless chided him.
“I was praying, sir. Because this is a right bugger-up, sir, a right bugger-up.” Sharpe took out the picklock and unfolded one of the shafts. He put his hands through the bars and grabbed hold of the padlock, then explored the big keyhole with the hooked shaft. It was a crude lock that ought to be easy to open, but the mechanism was not properly oiled and Sharpe feared that the picklock might snap rather dian move the levers aside. Lawford and McCandless watched him, while from across the corridor Hakeswill stared with huge blue eyes.
“Go on, boy, good boy,” Hakeswill said. “Get us out of here, boy.”
“Shut your ugly face, Obadiah,” Sharpe muttered. He had moved one lever, now only the second remained, but it was much stiffer than the first. Sweat was pouring down Sharpe’s face. He was working half blind, unable to pull the padlock to an angle where he could see the keyhole. The tiger had paused in its eating to watch him, intrigued by the hands protruding through the bars. Sharpe maneuvered the picklock, felt the hook lodge against the lever, and gently pressed. He pressed harder, and suddenly the hook scraped off the lever’s edge and Sharpe swore.
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 1: Sharpe's Tiger, Sharpe's Triumph, Sharpe's Fortress Page 31