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

by Bernard Cornwell

  “I’ve not had that pleasure, sir.”

  Wellesley made the introduction, then added that Syud Sevajee’s father had been one of the Rajah of Berar’s generals.

  “But is no longer?” Wallace asked Sevajee.

  “Beny Singh murdered him,” Sevajee said grimly, “so I fight with you, Colonel, to gain my chance to kill Beny Singh. And Beny Singh now commands that fortress.” He nodded toward the distant promontory.

  “So how do we get inside?” Wellesley asked.

  The officers gathered around Sevajee as the Indian drew his tulwar and used its tip to draw a figure eight in the dust. He tapped the lower circle of the eight, which he had drawn far larger than the upper. “That’s what you’re looking at,” he said, “the Inner Fort. And there are only two entrances. There’s a road that climbs up from the plain and goes to the Southern Gate.” He drew a squiggly line that tailed away from the bottom of the figure eight. “But that road is impossible. You will climb straight into their guns. A child with a pile of rocks could keep an army from climbing that road. The only possible route into the Inner Fort is through the main entrance.” He scratched a brief line across the junction of the two circles.

  “Which will not be easy?” Wellesley asked dryly.

  Sevajee offered the General a grim smile. “The main entrance is a long corridor, barred by four gates and flanked by high walls. But even to reach it, Sir Arthur, you will have to take the Outer Fort.” He tapped the small upper circle of the figure eight.

  Wellesley nodded. “And that, too, is difficult?”

  “Again, two entrances,” Sevajee said. “One is a road that climbs from the plain. You can’t see it from here, but it twists up the hills to the west and it comes to the fort here.” He tapped the waist of the figure eight. “It’s an easier climb than the southern road, but for the last mile of the journey your men will be under the guns of the Outer Fort. And the final half-mile, General, is steep.” He stressed the last word. “On one side of the road is a cliff, and on the other is a precipice, and the guns of the Outer Fort can fire straight down that half-mile of road.”

  Colonel Butters shook his head in gloomy contemplation of Sevajee’s news. “How come you know all this?” he asked.

  “I grew up in Gawilghur,” Sevajee said. “My father, before he was murdered, was killadar of the fortress.”

  “He knows,” Wellesley said curtly. “And the main entrance of the Outer Fort?”

  “That,” Sevajee said, “is the fortress’s weakest point.” He scratched a line that pierced the uppermost curve of the small circle. “It’s the only level approach to the fortress, but it’s very narrow. On one side”—he tapped the eastern flank of the line—“the ground falls steeply away. On the other side is a reservoir tank. So to reach the fort you must risk a narrow neck of land that is swept by two ramparts of guns, one above the other.”

  “Two walls?” Wallace asked.

  “Set on a steep hill,” Sevajee said, nodding. “You must fight uphill across both walls. There is an entrance, but it’s like the Inner Fort’s entrance: a series of gates with a narrow passage leading from one to the other, and men above you on both sides hurling down rocks and round shot.”

  “And once we’ve captured the Outer Fort,” Wellesley asked, “what then?”

  Sevajee offered a wolfish smile. “Then your troubles are just beginning, Sir Arthur.” He scuffed out the diagram he had made in the dust and scratched another, this one showing two circles, one large and one small, with a space between them. “The two forts are not connected. They are separated here”—he tapped the space between the circles with his tulwar—“and that is a ravine. A deep ravine. So once you have the Outer Fort, you still have to assault the Inner Fort, and its defenses will be untouched. It has a wall which stands at the top of the ravine’s cliff, and that is where your enemy will be taking refuge; inside the wall of the Inner Fort. My father reckoned no enemy could ever capture Gawilghur’s Inner Fort. If all India should fall, he said, then its heart would still beat at Gawilghur.”

  Wellesley walked a few paces north to stare at the high promontory. “How big is the garrison?”

  “Normally,” Sevajee said, “about a thousand men, but now? It could be six or seven times that many. There is room inside for a whole army.”

  And if the fort did not fall, Wellesley thought, then the Mahrattas would take heart. They would gather a new army and, in the new year, raid southward again. There would be no peace in western India till Gawilghur fell. “Major Blackiston?”

  “Sir?”

  “You’ll make an exploration of the plateau.” The General turned to Sevajee. “Will you escort Major Blackiston up into the hills? I want sketches, Blackiston, of the neck of land leading to the main entrance. I want you to tell me where we can place breaching batteries. I need to know how we can get guns up to the tops of the hills, and I need to know it all within two days.”

  “Two days?” Blackiston sounded appalled.

  “We don’t want the rascals to take root up there, do we? Speed, Blackiston, speed! Can you leave now?” This question was directed at Sevajee.

  “I can,” Sevajee answered.

  Wellesley waved Blackiston on his way. ’two days, Major! I want you back tomorrow evening!”

  Colonel Butters frowned at the far hills. “You’re taking the army to the top?”

  “Half the army,” Wellesley said, “the other half will stay on the plain.” He would need to hold Gawilghur between his redcoats like a nut, and hope that when he squeezed it was the nut, and not the nutcracker, that broke. He pulled himself back into the saddle, then waited as the other officers mounted. Then he turned his mare and started back toward the camp. “It’ll be up to the engineers to get us onto the heights,” he said, “then a week’s hard carrying to lift the ammunition to the batteries.” The thought of that job made the General frown. “What’s the problem with the bullock train?” he demanded of Butters. “I’m hearing complaints. Over two thousand muskets stolen from convoys, and Huddlestone tells me there are no spare horseshoes; that can’t be right!”

  “Torrance says that bandits have been active, sir,” Butters said. “And I gather there have been accidents,” he added lamely.

  “Who’s Torrance?” Wellesley asked.

  “Company man, sir, a captain. He took over poor Mackay’s duties.”

  “I could surmise all that for myself,” the General said acidly. “Who is he?”

  Butters blushed at the reproof. “His father’s a canon at Wells, I think. Or maybe Salisbury? But more to the point, sir, he has an uncle in Leadenhall Street.”

  Wellesley grunted. An uncle in Leadenhall Street meant that Torrance had a patron who was senior in the East India Company, someone to wield the influence that a clergyman father might not have. “Is he as good as Mackay?”

  Butters, a heavy-set man who rode his horse badly, shrugged. “He was recommended by Huddlestone.”

  “Which means Huddlestone wanted to be rid of him,” Wellesley snapped.

  “I’m sure he’s doing his best,” Butters said defensively. “Though he did ask me for an assistant, but I had to turn him down. I’ve no one to spare. I’m short of engineers already, sir, as you well know.”

  “I’ve sent for more,” Wellesley said.

  Wallace intervened. “I gave Torrance one of my ensigns, Sir Arthur.”

  “You can spare an ensign, Wallace?”

  “Sharpe, sir.”

  “Ah.” Wellesley grimaced. “Never does work out, does it? You lift a man from the ranks and you do him no favors.”

  “He might be happier in an English regiment,” Wallace said, “so I’m recommending he exchanges into the Rifles.”

  “You mean they’re not particular?” Wellesley asked, then scowled. “How the devil are we to fight a war without horseshoes?” He kicked back at the mare, angry at the predicament. “My God, Butters, but your Captain Torrance must do his job!” Wellesley, better than anyone, k
new that he would never take Gawilghur if the supply train failed.

  And Gawilghur had never been taken.

  Dear God, Wellesley thought, but how was it ever to be done?

  “Big buggers,” Sergeant Eli Lockhart murmured as they neared the two green tents. The cavalryman was speaking of the guards who lolled in chairs outside Naig’s tents. There were four in view, and two of them had bare, oiled chests that bulged with unnatural muscle. Their hair was never cut, but was instead coiled around their heads. They were keeping guard outside the larger of the tents, the one Sharpe guessed was Naig’s brothel. The other tent might have been the merchant’s living quarters, but its entrance was tightly laced, so Sharpe could not glimpse inside.

  “The two greasy fellows are the jettis,” Sharpe said.

  “Big as bloody beefs, they are,” Lockhart said. “Do they really wring your neck?”

  “Back to front,” Sharpe said. “Or else they drive a nail into your skull with their bare hand.” He swerved aside to go past the tents. It was not that he feared to pick a fight with Naig’s guards, indeed he expected a scrap, but there was no point in going bald-headed into battle. A bit of cleverness would not go amiss. “I’m being canny,” he explained to Lockhart, then turned to make sure that Ahmed was keeping up. The boy was holding Sharpe’s pack as well as his musket.

  The four guards, all of them armed with firelocks and tulwars, watched the British soldiers walk out of sight. “They didn’t like the look of us,” Lockhart said.

  “Mangy buggers, they are,” Sharpe said. He was glancing about the encampment and saw what he wanted just a few paces away. It was some straw, and near it was a smoldering campfire, and he screwed a handful of the straw stalks into a spill that he lit and carried to the rear of the smaller tent. He pushed the flaming spill into a fold of the canvas. A child watched, wide-eyed. “If you say anything,” Sharpe told the half-naked child, “I’ll screw your head off back to front.” The child, who did not understand a word, grinned broadly.

  “You’re not really supposed to be doing this, are you?” Lockhart asked.

  “No,” Sharpe said. Lockhart grinned, but said nothing. Instead he just watched as the flames licked at the faded green canvas which, for a moment or two, resisted the fire. The material blackened, but did not burn, then suddenly it burst into fire that licked greedily up the tent’s high side. “That’ll wake ’em up,” Sharpe said.

  “What now?” Lockhart asked, watching the flame sear up the tent’s side.

  “We rescue what’s inside, of course.” Sharpe drew his sabre. “Come on, lads!” He ran back to the front of the tent. “Fire!” he shouted. “Fire! Fetch water! Fire!”

  The four guards stared uncomprehendingly at the Englishman, then leaped to their feet as Sharpe slashed at the laces of the small tent’s doorway. One of them called a protest to Sharpe.

  “Fire!” Lockhart bellowed at the guards who, still unsure of what was happening, did not try to stop Sharpe. Then one of them saw the smoke billowing over the ridge of the tent. He yelled a warning into the larger tent as his companions suddenly moved to pull the Englishman away from the tent’s entrance.

  “Hold them off!” Sharpe called, and Lockhart’s six troopers closed on the three men. Sharpe slashed at the lacing, hacking down through the tough rope as the troopers thumped into the guards. Someone swore, there was a grunt as a fist landed, then a yelp as a trooper’s boot slammed into a jetti’s groin. Sharpe sawed through the last knot, then pushed through the loosened tent flaps. “Jesus!” He stopped, staring at the boxes and barrels and crates that were stacked in the tent’s smoky gloom.

  Lockhart had followed him inside. “Doesn’t even bother to hide the stuff properly, does he?” the Sergeant said in amazement, then crossed to a barrel and pointed to a 19 that had been cut into one of the staves. “That’s our mark! The bugger’s got half our supplies!” He looked up at the flames that were now eating away the tent roof. “We’ll lose the bloody lot if we don’t watch it.”

  “Cut the tent ropes,” Sharpe suggested, “and push it all down.”

  The two men ran outside and slashed at the guy ropes with their sabres, but more of Naig’s men were coming from the larger tent now. “Watch your back, Eli!” Sharpe called, then turned and sliced the curved blade toward a jetti’s face. The man stepped back, and Sharpe followed up hard, slashing again, driving the huge man farther back. “Now bugger off!” he shouted at the vast brute. “There’s a bloody fire! Fire!”

  Lockhart had put his attacker on the ground and was now stamping on his face with a spurred boot. The troopers were coming to help and Sharpe let them deal with Naig’s men while he cut through the last of the guy ropes, then ran back into the tent and heaved on the nearest pole. The air inside the tent was choking with swirling smoke, but at last the whole heavy array of canvas sagged toward the fire, lifting the canvas wall behind Sharpe into the air.

  “Sahib!” Ahmed’s shrill voice shouted and Sharpe turned to see a man aiming a musket at him. The lifting tent flap was exposing Sharpe, but he was too far away to rush the man, then Ahmed fired his own musket and the man shuddered, turned to look at the boy, then winced as the pain in his shoulder struck home. He dropped the gun and clapped a hand onto the wound. The sound of the shot startled the other guards and some reached for their own muskets, but Sharpe ran at them and used his sabre to beat the guns down. “There’s a bloody fire!” he shouted into their faces. “A fire! You want everything to burn?” They did not understand him, but some realized that the fire threatened their master’s supplies and so ran to haul the half-collapsed burning canvas away from the wooden crates.

  “But who started the fire?” a voice said behind Sharpe, and he turned to see a tall, fat Indian dressed in a green robe that was embroidered with looping fish and long-legged waterbirds. The fat man was holding a half-naked child by the hand, the same small boy who had watched Sharpe push the burning straw into a crease of the canvas. “British officers,” the fat man said, “have a deal of freedom in this country, but does that mean they can destroy an honest man’s property?”

  “Are you Naig?” Sharpe asked.

  The fat man waved to his guards so that they gathered behind him. The tent had been dragged clear of the crates and was burning itself out harmlessly. The green-robed man now had sixteen or seventeen men with him, four of them jettis and all of them armed, while Sharpe had Lockhart and his battered troopers and one defiant child who was reloading a musket as tall as himself. “I will give you my name,” the fat man said unpleasantly, “when you tell me yours.”

  “Sharpe. Ensign Sharpe.”

  “A mere ensign!” The fat man raised his eyebrows. “I thought ensigns were children, like this young man.” He patted the half-naked boy’s head. “I am Naig.”

  “So perhaps you can tell me,” Sharpe said, “why that tent was stuffed full of our supplies?”

  “Your supplies!” Naig laughed. “They are my goods, Ensign Sharpe. Perhaps some of them are stored in old boxes that once belonged to your army, but what of that? I buy the boxes from the quartermaster’s department.”

  “Lying bastard,” Sergeant Lockhart growled. He had prized open the barrel with the number 19 incised on its side and now flourished a horseshoe. “Ours!” he said.

  Naig seemed about to order his guards to finish off Sharpe’s small band, but then he glanced to his right and saw that two British officers had come from the larger tent. The presence of the two, both captains, meant that Naig could not just drive Sharpe away, for now there were witnesses. Naig might take on an ensign and a few troopers, but captains carried too much authority. One of the captains, who wore the red coat of the Scotch Brigade, crossed to Sharpe. “Trouble?” he asked. His revels had plainly been interrupted, for his trousers were still unbuttoned and his sword and sash were slung across one shoulder.

  “This bastard, sir, has been pilfering our supplies.” Sharpe jerked his thumb at Naig then nodded toward the crates. “It’s a
ll marked as stolen in the supply ledgers, but I’ll wager it’s all there. Buckets, muskets, horseshoes.”

  The Captain glanced at Naig, then crossed to the crates.

  “Open that one,” he ordered, and Lockhart obediently stooped to the box and levered up its nailed lid with his sabre.

  “I have been storing these boxes,” Naig explained. He turned to the second captain, an extraordinarily elegant cavalryman in Company uniform, and he pleaded with him in an Indian language. The Company Captain turned away and Naig went back to the Scotsman. The merchant was in trouble now, and he knew it. “I was asked to store the boxes!” he shouted at the Scotsman.

  But the infantry Captain was staring down into the opened crate where ten brand new muskets lay in their wooden cradles. He stooped for one of the muskets and peered at the lock. Just forward of the hammer and behind the pan was an engraved crown with the letters GR beneath it, while behind the hammer the word Tower was engraved. “Ours,” the Scotsman said flatly.

  “I bought them.” Naig was sweating now.

  “I thought you said you were storing them?” the Scotsman said. “Now you say you bought them. Which is it?”

  “My brother and I bought the guns from silladars” Naig said.

  “We don’t sell these Tower muskets,” the Captain said, hefting the gun that was still coated with grease.

  Naig shrugged. “They must have been captured from the supply convoys. Please, sahib, take them. I want no trouble. How was I to know they were stolen?” He turned and pleaded again with the Company cavalry Captain who was a tall, lean man with a long face, but the cavalryman turned and walked a short distance away. A crowd had collected now and watched the drama silently, and Sharpe, looking along their faces, suspected there was not much sympathy for Naig. Nor, Sharpe thought, was there much hope for the fat man. Naig had been playing a dangerous game, but with such utter confidence that he had not even bothered to conceal the stolen supplies. At the very least he could have thrown away the government issue boxes and tried to file the lock markings off the muskets, but Naig must have believed he had powerful friends who would protect him. The cavalryman seemed to be one of those friends, for Naig had followed him and was hissing in his ear, but the cavalryman merely pushed the Indian away, then turned to Sharpe. “Hang him,” he said curtly.