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

by Bernard Cornwell

  The road twisted left and right, then emerged into a patchwork of small fields and woods. A large village lay beyond the fields—Sharpe guessed it must be Deogaum—then there were shots to his left and he saw a crowd of horsemen burst out of the trees a half-mile away. They were Mahrattas, and at first Sharpe thought they were intent on charging the 19th Light Dragoons, then he realized they were fleeing from the Company cavalry. There were fifty or sixty of the enemy horsemen who, on seeing the blue-and-yellow-coated dragoons, swerved southward to avoid a fight. The dragoons were turning, drawing sabres and spurring into pursuit. A trumpet sounded and the small fields were suddenly a whirl of horses, dust and gleaming weapons.

  Sharpe reined in among a patch of trees, not wanting to be at the center of a Mahratta cavalry charge. The enemy horses pounded past in a blur of hooves, shining helmets and lance points. The Company cavalry was still a quarter-mile behind when Ahmed suddenly kicked back his heels and shot out of the hiding place to follow the Mahratta cavalry.

  Sharpe swore. The little bastard was running back to join the Mahrattas. Not that Sharpe could blame him, but he still felt disappointed. He knew he had no chance of catching Ahmed who had unslung his musket and now rode up behind the rearmost enemy horseman. That man looked around, saw Ahmed was not in British uniform, and so ignored him. Ahmed galloped alongside, then swung his musket by its barrel so that the heavy stock cracked into the Mahratta’s forehead.

  The man went off the back of his horse as though jerked by a rope. His horse ran on, stirrups flapping. Ahmed reined in, turned and jumped down beside his victim. Sharpe saw the flash of a knife. The sepoy cavalry was closer now, and they might think Ahmed was the enemy, so Sharpe shouted at the boy to come back. Ahmed scrambled back into his saddle and kicked his horse to the trees where Sharpe waited. He had plundered a sabre, a pistol and a leather bag, and had a grin as wide as his face. The bag held two stale loaves of flat bread, some glass beads and a small book in a strange script. Ahmed gave one loaf to Sharpe, threw away the book, draped the cheap beads about his neck and hung the sabre at his waist, then watched as the dragoons cut into the rearward ranks of the fugitives. There was the blacksmith’s sound of steel on steel, two horses stumbled in flurries of dust, a man staggered bleeding into a ditch, pistols banged, a lance shivered point downward in the dry turf, and then the enemy horse was gone and the British and sepoy cavalry reined in.

  “Why can’t you be a proper servant?” Sharpe asked Ahmed. “Glean my boots, wash my clothes, make my supper, eh?”

  Ahmed, who did not understand a word, just grinned.

  “Instead I get some murderous urchin. So come on, you bugger.” Sharpe kicked his horse toward the village. He passed a half-empty tank where some clothes lay to dry on bushes, then he was in the dusty main street which appeared to be deserted, though he was aware of faces watching nervously from dark windows and curtain-hung doorways. Dogs growled from the shade and two chickens scratched in the dust. The only person in sight was a naked holy man who sat cross-legged under a tree, with his long hair cascading to the ground about him. He ignored Sharpe, and Sharpe ignored him. “We have to find a house,” Sharpe told the uncomprehending Ahmed. “House, see? House.”

  The village headman, the naique, ventured into the street. At least Sharpe assumed he was the naique, just as the naique assumed that the mounted soldier was the leader of the newly arrived cavalrymen. He clasped his hands before his face and bowed to Sharpe, then clicked his fingers to summon a servant carrying a small brass tray on which stood a little cup of arrack. The fierce liquor made Sharpe’s head feel suddenly light. The naique was talking ten to the dozen, but Sharpe quietened him with a wave. “No good talking to me,” he said, “I’m nobody. Talk to him.” He pointed to Colonel Huddlestone who was leading his Indian cavalrymen into the village. The troopers dismounted as Huddlestone talked to the headman. There was a squawk as the two chickens were snatched up. Huddlestone turned at the sound, but his men all looked innocent.

  High above Sharpe a gun banged in the fortress. The shot seared out to fall somewhere in the plain where the British infantry marched. The dragoons came into the village, some with bloodied sabres, and Sharpe surrendered the two horses to Lockhart. Then he searched the street to find a house for Torrance. He saw nothing which had a walled garden, but he did find a small mud-walled home that had a courtyard and he dropped his pack in the main room as a sign of ownership. There was a woman with two small children who shrank away from him. “It’s all right,” Sharpe said, “you get paid. No one will hurt you.” The woman wailed and crouched as though expecting to be hit. “Bloody hell,” Sharpe said, “does no one in this bleeding country speak English?”

  He had nothing to do now until Torrance arrived. He could have hunted through the village to discover paper, a pen and ink so he could write to Simone and tell her about going to England, but he decided that chore could wait. He stripped off his belt, sabre and jacket, found a rope bed, and lay down.

  Far overhead the fortress guns fired. It sounded like distant thunder. Sharpe slept.

  Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill tugged off his boots, releasing a stench into the room that caused Captain Torrance to close his eyes. “Good God,” Torrance said weakly. The Captain felt ill enough already. He had drunk the best part of a bottle of arrack, had woken in the night with gripes in the belly, and then slept unevenly until dawn when someone had scratched at his door and Torrance had shouted at the pest to go away, after which he had at last fallen into a deeper sleep. Now he had been woken by Hakeswill who, oblivious of the stench, began to unwrap the cloths that bound his feet. It smelled, Torrance thought, like rotted cheese that had been stored in a corpse’s belly. He shifted his chair slightly toward the window and pulled his dressing gown tighter about his chest. “I’m truly sorry about Naig,” Torrance said. Hakeswill had listened in disbelief to the tale of Naig’s death and seemed genuinely saddened by it, just as he had been shocked by the news that Sharpe was now Torrance’s assistant.

  “The bleeding Scotch didn’t want him, sir, did they?” Hakeswill said. “Never thought the Scotch had much sense, but they had wits enough to get rid of Sharpie.” Hakeswill had uncovered his right foot and Torrance, barely able to endure the stink, suspected there was black fungus growing between the Sergeant’s toes. “Now you’ve got him, sir,” Hakeswill went on, “and I pities you, I does. Decent officer like you, sir? Last thing you deserved. Bleeding Sharpie! He ain’t got no right to be an officer, sir, not Sharpie. He ain’t a gentleman like your good self, sir. He’s just a common toad, like the rest of us.”

  “So why was he commissioned?” Torrance asked, watching as Hakeswill tugged at the crusted cloth on his left foot.

  “On account of saving the General’s life, sir. Leastwise, that’s what is said.” Hakeswill paused as a spasm made his face twitch. “Saved Sir Arthur’s life at Assaye. Not that I believe it, sir, but Sir Arthur does, and the result of that, sir, is that Sir Arthur thinks bloody Sharpie is a blue-eyed boy. Sharpie farts and Sir Arthur thinks the wind’s turned southerly.”

  “Does he now?” Torrance asked. That was worth knowing.

  “Four years ago, sir,” Hakeswill said, “I had Sharpie flogged. Would have been a dead ’un too, he would, like he deserved, only Sir Arthur stopped the flogging after two hundred lashes. Stopped it!” The injustice of the act still galled the Sergeant. “Now he’s a bleedin’ officer. I tells you, sir, the army ain’t what it was. Gone to the dogs, it has.” He pulled the cloth from his left foot, then frowned at his toes. “I washed them in August,” he said in wonderment, “but it don’t look like it, does it?”

  “It is now December, Sergeant,” Torrance said reprovingly.

  “A good sluice should last six months, sir.”

  “Some of us engage in a more regular toilet,” Torrance hinted.

  “You would, sir, being a gentleman. Thing is, sir, I wouldn’t normally take the toe-rags off, only there’s a blister.” Hakeswill frowned. �
��Haven’t had a blister in years! Poor Naig. For a blackamoor he wasn’t a bad sort of fellow.”

  Naig, Torrance believed, had been as evil a creature as any on the surface of the earth, but he smiled piously at Hakeswill’s tribute. “We shall certainly miss him, Sergeant.”

  “Pity you had to hang him, sir, but what choice did you have? Between the devil and a deep blue buggeration, that’s where you were, sir. But poor Naig.” Hakeswill shook his head in sad remembrance. “You should have strung up Sharpie, sir, more’s the pity you couldn’t. Strung him up proper like what he deserves. A murdering bastard, he is, murdering!” And an indignant Hakeswill told Captain Torrance how Sharpe had tried to kill him, first by throwing him among the Tippoo’s tigers, then by trapping him in a courtyard with an elephant trained to kill by crushing men with its forefoot. “Only the tigers weren’t hungry, see, on account of being fed? And as for the elephant, sir, I had me knife, didn’t I? I jabbed it in the paw, I did.” He mimed the stabbing action. “Right in its paw, deep in! It didn’t like it. I can’t die, sir, I can’t die.” The Sergeant spoke hoarsely, believing every word. He had been hanged as a child, but he had survived the gallows and now believed he was protected from death by his own guardian angel.

  Mad, Torrance thought, Bedlam-mad, but he was nevertheless fascinated by Obadiah Hakeswill. To look at, the Sergeant appeared the perfect soldier; it was the twitch that suggested something more interesting lay behind the bland blue eyes. And what lay behind those childish eyes, Torrance had decided, was a breathtaking malevolence, yet one that was accompanied by an equally astonishing confidence. Hakeswill, Torrance had decided, would murder a baby and find justification for the act. “So you don’t like Mr. Sharpe?” Torrance asked.

  “I hates him, sir, and I don’t mind admitting it. I’ve watched him, I have, slither his way up the ranks like a bleeding eel up a drain.” Hakeswill had taken out a knife, presumably the one which he had stabbed into the elephant’s foot, and now cocked his right heel on his left knee and laid the blade against the blister.

  Torrance shut his eyes to spare himself the sight of Hakeswill performing surgery. “The thing is, Sergeant,” he said, “that Naig’s brother would rather like a private word with Mr. Sharpe.”

  “Does he now?” Hakeswill asked. He stabbed down. “Look at that, sir. Proper bit of pus. Soon be healed. Ain’t had a blister in years! Reckon it must be the new boots.” He spat on the blade and poked the blister again. “I’ll have to soak the boots in vinegar, sir. So Jama wants Sharpe’s goolies, does he?”

  “Literally, as it happens. Yes.”

  “He can join the bleeding queue.”

  “No!” Torrance said sternly. “It is important to me, Sergeant, that Mr. Sharpe is delivered to Jama. Alive. And that his disappearance occasions no curiosity.”

  “You mean no one must notice?” Hakeswill’s face twitched while he thought, then he shrugged. “Ain’t difficult, sir.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “I’ll have a word with Jama, sir. Then you can give Sharpie some orders, and I’ll be waiting for him. It’ll be easy, sir. Glad to do it for you.”

  “You are a comfort to me, Sergeant.”

  “That’s my job, sir,” Hakeswill said, then leered at the kitchen door where Clare Wall had appeared. “Sunshine of my life,” he said in what he hoped was a winning tone.

  “Your tea, sir,” Clare said, offering Torrance a cup.

  “A mug for the Sergeant, Brick! Where are your manners?”

  “She don’t need manners,” Hakeswill said, still leering at the terrified Clare, “not with what she’s got. Put some sugar in it, darling, if the Captain will spare me some.”

  “Give him sugar, Brick,” Torrance ordered.

  Hakeswill watched Brick go back to the kitchen. “A proper little woman, that, sir. A flower, that’s what she is, a flower!”

  “No doubt you would like to pluck her?”

  “It’s time I was married,” Hakeswill said. “A man should leave a son, sir, says so in the scriptures.”

  “You want to do some begetting, eh?” Torrance said, then frowned as someone knocked on the outer door. “Come!” he called.

  An infantry captain whom neither man recognized put his head round the door. “Captain Torrance?”

  “That’s me,” Torrance said grandly.

  “Sir Arthur Wellesley’s compliments,” the Captain said, his acid tone suggesting that the compliments would be remarkably thin, “but is there any reason why the supplies have not moved northwards?”

  Torrance stared at the man. For a second he was speechless, then he cursed under his breath. “My compliments to the General,” he said, “and my assurances that the bullock train will be on its way immediately.” He waited until, the Captain had gone, then swore again.

  “What happened, sir?” Hakeswill asked.

  “The bloody chitties!” Torrance said. “Still here. Dilip must have come for them this morning, but I told him to bugger off.” He swore again. “Bloody Wellesley will pull my guts out backwards for this.”

  Hakeswill found the chitties on the table and went to the door, leaving small bloody marks on the floor from his opened blister. “Dilly! Dilly! You black bastard heathen swine! Here, take these. On your way!”

  “Damn!” Torrance said, standing and pacing the small room. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  “Nothing to worry about, sir,” Hakeswill said.

  “Easy for you to say, Sergeant.”

  Hakeswill grinned as his face was distorted by twitches. “Just blame someone else, sir,” he said, “as is usually done in the army.”

  “Who? Sharpe? You said yourself he’s Wellesley’s blue-eyed boy. I’m supposed to blame him? Or you, perhaps?”

  Hakeswill tried to calm the Captain down by giving him his cup of tea. “Blame Dilly, sir, on account of him being a heathen bastard as black as my new boots.”

  “He’ll simply deny everything when questioned!” Torrance protested.

  Hakeswill smiled. “Won’t be in a position to deny anything, sir, will he? On account of being…” He paused, stuck his tongue out, opened his eyes wide and made a choking noise.

  “Good God, Sergeant,” Torrance said, shuddering at the horrid picture suggested by Hakeswill’s contorted face. “Besides, he’s a good clerk! It’s damned difficult to replace good men.”

  “It’s easy, sir. Jama will give us a man. Give us a good man.” Hakeswill grinned. “It’ll make things much easier, sir, if we can trust the clerk as well as each other.”

  Torrance flinched at the thought of being in league with Obadiah Hakeswill, yet if he was ever to pay off his debts he needed the Sergeant’s cooperation. And Hakeswill was marvelously efficient. He could strip the supplies bare and not leave a trace of his handiwork, always making sure someone else took the blame. And doubtless the Sergeant was right. If Jama could provide a clerk, then the clerk could provide a false set of accounts. And if Dilip was blamed for the late arrival of the pioneers’ stores, then Torrance would be off that particularly sharp and nasty hook. As ever, it seemed as though Hakeswill could find his way through the thorniest of problems.

  “Just leave it to me, sir,” Hakeswill said. “I’ll look after everything, sir, I will.” He bared his teeth at Clare who had brought his mug of tea. “You’re the flower of womanhood,” he told her, then watched appreciatively as she scuttled back to the kitchen. “Her and me, sir, are meant for each other. Says so in the scriptures.”

  “Not till Sharpe’s dead,” Torrance said.

  “He’ll be dead, six,” Hakeswill promised, and the Sergeant shivered as he anticipated the riches that would follow that death. Not just Clare Wall, but the jewels. The jewels! Hakeswill had divined that it had been Sharpe who had killed the Tippoo Sultan in Seringapatam, and Sharpe who must have stripped the ruler’s body of its diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and rubies, and Sharpe, Hakeswill reckoned, was still hiding those stones. From far away, dulled by the heat of the day
, came the sound of artillery firing. Gawilghur, Hakeswill thought, where Sharpe should not reach, on account of Sharpe being Hakeswill’s business, and no one else’s. I will be rich, the Sergeant promised himself, I will be rich.

  Colonel William Dodd stood on the southernmost battlements of Gawilghur with his back against the parapet so that he was staring down into a palace courtyard where Beny Singh had erected a striped pavilion. Small silver bells that tinkled prettily in the small breeze were hung from the pavilion’s fringed hem, while under the canopy a group of musicians played the strange, long-necked stringed instruments which made a music that, to Dodd’s ears, sounded like the slow strangulation of cats. Beny Singh and a dozen pretty creatures in saris were playing some form of Blind Man’s Buff, and their laughter rose to the ramparts, making Dodd scowl, though if truth were told he was inordinately jealous of Beny Singh. The man was plump, short and timid, yet he seemed to work some magical spell on the ladies, while Dodd, who was tall, hard and scarred to prove his bravery, had to make do with a whore.

  Damn the Killadar. Dodd turned sharply away and stared over the heat-baked plain. Beneath him, and just far enough to the east to be out of range of Gawilghur’s largest guns, the edge of the British encampment showed. From this height the rows of dull white tents looked like speckles. To the south, still a long way off, Dodd could see the enemy baggage train trudging toward its new encampment. It was odd, he thought, that they should make the oxen carry their burdens through the hottest part of the day. Usually the baggage marched just after midnight and camped not long after dawn, but today the great herd was stirring the dust into the broiling afternoon air and it looked, Dodd thought, like a migrating tribe. There were thousands of oxen in the army’s train, all loaded with round shot, powder, tools, salt beef, arrack, horseshoes, bandages, flints, muskets, spices, rice, and with them came the merchants’ beasts and the merchants’ families, and the ox herdsmen had their own families and they all needed more beasts to carry their tents, clothes and food. A dozen elephants plodded in the herd’s center, while a score of dromedaries swayed elegantly behind the elephants. Mysore cavalry guarded the great caravan, while beyond the mounted pickets half-naked grass-cutters spread into the fields to collect fodder that they stuffed into nets and loaded onto yet more oxen.