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

by Bernard Cornwell

  Dodd glanced at the sentries who guarded the southern stretch of Gawilghur’s walls and he saw the awe on their faces as they watched the enormous herd approach. The dust from the hooves rose to smear the southern skyline like a vast sea fog. “They’re only oxen!” Dodd growled to the men. “Only oxen! Oxen don’t fire guns. Oxen don’t climb walls.” None of them understood him, but they grinned dutifully.

  Dodd walked eastward. After a while the wall ended, giving way to the bare lip of a precipice. There was no need for walls around much of the perimeters of Gawilghur’s twin forts, for nature had provided the great cliffs that were higher than any rampart a man could make, but Dodd, as he walked to the bluff’s edge, noted places here and there where an agile man could, with the help of a rope, scramble down the rock face. A few men deserted Gawilghur’s garrison every day, and Dodd did not doubt that this was how they escaped, but he did not understand why they should want to go. The fort was impregnable! Why would a man not wish to stay with the victors?

  He reached a stretch of wall at the fort’s southeastern corner and there, high up on a gun platform, he opened his telescope and stared down into the foothills. He searched for a long time, his glass skittering over trees, shrubs and patches of dry grass, but at last he saw a group of men standing beside a narrow path. Some of the men were in red coats and one was in blue.

  “What are you watching, Colonel?” Prince Manu Bappoo had seen Dodd on the rampart and had climbed to join him.

  “British,” Dodd said, without taking his eye from the telescope. “They’re surveying a route up to the plateau.”

  Bappoo shaded his eyes and stared down, but without a telescope he could not see the group of men. “It will take them months to build a road up to the hills.”

  “It’ll take them two weeks,” Dodd said flatly. “Less. You don’t know how their engineers work, sahib, but I do. They’ll use powder to break through obstacles and a thousand axemen to widen the tracks. They’ll start their work tomorrow and in a fortnight they’ll be running guns up to the hills.” Dodd collapsed the telescope. “Let me go down and break the bastards,” he demanded.

  “No,” Bappoo said. He had already had this argument with Dodd who wanted to take his Cobras down into the foothills and there harass the road-makers. Dodd did not want a stand-up fight, a battle of musket line against musket line, but instead wanted to raid, ambush and scare the enemy. He wanted to slow the British work, to dishearten the sappers and, by such delaying tactics, force Wellesley to send forage parties far into the countryside where they would be prey to the Mahratta horsemen who still roamed the Deccan Plain.

  Bappoo knew Dodd was right, and that the British road could be slowed by a campaign of harassment, but he feared to let the white-coated Cobras leave the fortress. The garrison was already nervous, awed by the victories of Wellesley’s small army, and if they saw the Cobras march out of the fort then many would think they were being abandoned and the trickle of deserters would become a flood.

  “We have to slow them!” Dodd snarled.

  “We shall,” Bappoo said. “I shall send silladars, Colonel, and reward them for every weapon they bring back to the fort. But you will stay here, and help prepare the defenses.” He spoke firmly, showing that the subject was beyond discussion, then offered Dodd a gap-toothed smile and gestured toward the palace at the center of the Inner Fort. “Come, Colonel, I want to show you something.”

  The two men walked through the small houses that surrounded the palace, past an Arab sentry who protected the palace precincts, then through some flowering trees where monkeys crouched. Dodd could hear the tinkle of the bells where Beny Singh was playing with his women, but that sound faded as the path twisted deeper into the trees. The path ended at a rock face that was pierced by an arched wooden door. Dodd looked up while Bappoo unlocked the door and saw that the great rock slab formed the palace foundations and, when Bappoo thrust back the creaking door, he understood that it led into the palace cellars.

  A lantern stood on a shelf just inside the door and there was a pause while Bappoo lit its wick. “Come,” Bappoo said, and led Dodd into the marvelous coolness of the huge low cellar. “It is rumored,” Bappoo said, “that we store the treasures of Berar in here, and in one sense it is true, but they are not the treasures that men usually dream of.” He stopped by a row of barrels and casually knocked off their lids, revealing that the tubs were filled with copper coins. “No gold or silver,” Bappoo said, “but money all the same. Money to hire new mercenaries, to buy new weapons and to make a new army.” Bappoo trickled a stream of the newly minted coins through his fingers. “We have been lax in paying our men,” he confessed. “My brother, for all his virtues, is not generous with his treasury.”

  Dodd grunted. He was not sure what virtues the Rajah of Berar did possess. Certainly not valor, nor generosity, but the Rajah was fortunate in his brother, for Bappoo was loyal and evidently determined to make up for the Rajah’s shortcomings.

  “Gold and silver,” Dodd said, “would buy better arms and more men.”

  “My brother will not give me gold or silver, only copper. And we must work with what we have, not with what we dream of.” Bappoo put the lids back onto the barrels, then edged between them to where rack after rack of muskets stood. “These, Colonel,” he said, “are the weapons for that new army.”

  There were thousands of muskets, all brand new, and all equipped with bayonets and cartridge boxes. Some of the guns were locally made copies of French muskets, but several hundred looked to Dodd to be of British make. He lifted one from the racks and saw the Tower mark on its lock. “How did you get these?” he asked, surprised.

  Bappoo shrugged. “We have agents in the British camp. They arrange it. We meet some of their supply convoys well to the south and pay for their contents. It seems there are traitors in the British army who would rather make money than seek victory.”

  “You buy guns with copper?” Dodd asked scathingly. He could not imagine any man selling a Tower musket for a handful of copper.

  “No,” Bappoo confessed. “To buy the weapons and the cartridges we need gold, so I use my own. My brother, I trust, will repay me one day.”

  Dodd frowned at the hawk-faced Bappoo. “You’re using your money to keep your brother on the throne?” he asked and, though he waited for an answer, none came. Dodd shook his head, implying that Bappoo’s nobility was beyond understanding, then he cocked and fired the unloaded musket. The spark of the flint flashed a sparkle of red light against the stone ceiling. “A musket in its rack kills no one,” he said.

  “True. But as yet we don’t have the men to carry these muskets. But we will, Colonel. Once we have defeated the British the other kingdoms will join us.” That, Dodd reflected, was true enough. Scindia, Dodd’s erstwhile employer, was suing for peace, while Holkar, the most formidable of the Mahratta monarchs, was staying aloof from the contest, but if Bappoo did win his victory, those chieftains would be eager to share future spoils. “And not just the other kingdoms,” Bappoo went on, “but warriors from all India will come to our banner. I intend to raise a compoo armed with the best weapons and trained to the very highest standard. Many, I suspect, will be sepoys from Wellesley’s defeated army and they will need a new master when he is dead. I thought perhaps you would lead them?”

  Dodd returned the musket to its rack. “You’ll not pay me with copper, Bappoo.”

  Bappoo smiled. “You will pay me with victory, Colonel, and I shall reward you with gold.”

  Dodd saw some unfamiliar weapons farther down the rack. He lifted one and saw it was a hunting rifle. The lock was British, but the filigree decoration on the stock and barrel was Indian. “You’re buying rifles?” he asked.

  “No better weapon for skirmishing,” Bappoo said.

  “Maybe,” Dodd allowed grudgingly. The rifle was accurate, but slow to load.

  “A small group of men with rifles,” Bappoo said, “backed up by muskets, could be formidable.”


  “Maybe,” Dodd said again, then, instead of putting the rifle back onto the rack, he slung it on his shoulder. “I’d like to try it,” he explained. “You have ammunition?”

  Bappoo gestured across the cellar, and Dodd went and scooped up some cartridges. “If you’ve got the cash,” he called back, “why not raise your new army now. Bring it to Gawilghur.”

  “There’s no time,” Bappoo said, “and besides, no one will join us now. They think the British are beating us. So if we are to make our new army, Colonel, then we must first win a victory that will ring through India, and that is what we shall do here at Gawilghur.” He spoke very confidently, for Bappoo, like Dodd, believed Gawilghur to be unassailable. He led the Englishman back to the entrance, blew out the lantern and carefully locked the armory door.

  The two men climbed the slope beside the palace, passing a line of servants who carried drinks and sweetmeats to where Beny Singh whiled away the afternoon. As ever, when Dodd thought of the Killadar, he felt a surge of anger. Beny Singh should have been organizing the fortress’s defenses, but instead he frittered away his days with women and liquor. Bappoo must have divined Dodd’s thoughts, for he grimaced. “My brother likes Beny Singh. They amuse each other.”

  “Do they amuse you?” Dodd asked.

  Bappoo paused at the northern side of the palace and there he gazed across the ravine to the Outer Fort which was garrisoned by his Lions of Allah. “I swore an oath to my brother,” he answered, “and I am a man who keeps my oaths.”

  “There must be those,” Dodd said carefully, “who would rather see you as Rajah?”

  “Of course,” Bappoo answered equably, “but such men are my brother’s enemies, and my oath was to defend my brother against all his enemies.” He shrugged. “We must be content, Colonel, with what fate grants us. It has granted me the task of fighting my brother’s wars, and I shall do that to the best of my ability.” He pointed to the deep ravine that lay between the Outer and the Inner Forts. “And there, Colonel, I shall win a victory that will make my brother the greatest ruler of all India. The British cannot stop us. Even if they make their road, even if they haul their guns up to the hills, even if they make a breach in our walls and even if they capture the Outer Fort, they must still cross that ravine, and they cannot do it. No one can do it.” Bappoo stared at the steep gorge as if he could already see its rocks soaked in enemy blood. “Who rules that ravine, Colonel, rules India, and when we have our victory then we shall unlock the cellar and raise an army that will drive the redcoats not just from Berar, but from Hyderabad, from Mysore and from Madras. I shall make my brother Emperor of all southern India, and you and I, Colonel, shall be his warlords.” Bappoo turned to gaze into the dust-smeared immensity of the southern sky. “It will all belong to my brother,” he said softly, “but it will begin here. At Gawilghur.”

  And here, Dodd suddenly thought, it would end for Bappoo. No man who was willing to endure a feeble wretch like Beny Singh, or protect a cowardly libertine like the Rajah, deserved to be a warlord of all India. No, Dodd thought, he would win his own victory here, and then he would strike against Bappoo and against Beny Singh, and he would raise his own army and use it to strike terror into the rich southern kingdoms. Other Europeans had done it. Benoît de Boigne had made himself richer than the kings of all Christendom, while George Thomas, an illiterate Irish sailor, had risen to rule a princedom for his widowed mistress. Dodd saw himself as a new Prester John. He would make a kingdom from the rotting scraps of India, and he would rule from a new palace in Gawilghur that would be like no other in the world. He would have roofs of gold, walls of white marble and garden paths made from pearls, and men from all India would come to pay him homage. He would be Lord of Gawilghur, Dodd thought, and smiled. Not bad for a miller’s son from Suffolk, but Gawilghur was a place to stir dreams for it lifted men’s thoughts into the heavens, and Dodd knew that India, above all the lands on God’s earth, was a place where dreams could come true. Here a man was either made rich beyond all desire, or else became nothing.

  And Dodd would not be nothing. He would be Lord of Gawilghur and the terror of India.

  Once the redcoats were defeated.

  “Is this the best you could manage, Sharpe?” Torrance inquired, looking about the main room of the commandeered house.

  “No, sir,” Sharpe said. “There was a lovely house just up the road. Big shady courtyard, couple of pools, a fountain and a gaggle of dancing girls, but I thought you might prefer the view from these windows.”

  “Sarcasm ill becomes an ensign,” Torrance said, dropping his saddlebags on the earthen floor. “Indeed, very little becomes ensigns, Sharpe, except a humble devotion to serving their betters. I suppose the house will have to suffice. Who is that?” He shuddered as he stared at the woman whose house he was occupying.

  “She lives here, sir.”

  “Not now, she doesn’t. Get rid of the black bitch, and her foul children. Brick!”

  Clare Wall came in from the sunlight, carrying a sack. “Sir?”

  “I’m hungry, Brick. Find the kitchen. We made a late start, Sharpe,” Torrance explained, “and missed dinner.”

  “I imagine that’s why the General wants to see you, sir,” Sharpe said. “Not because you missed dinner, but because the supplies weren’t here on time.”

  Torrance stared at Sharpe in horror. “Wellesley wants to see me?”

  “Six o’clock, sir, at his tent.”

  “Oh, Christ!” Torrance threw his cocked hat across the room. “Just because the supplies were a little late?”

  “Twelve hours late, sir.”

  Torrance glared at Sharpe, then fished a watch from his fob. “It’s half past five already! God help us! Can’t you brush that coat, Sharpe?”

  “He don’t want to see me, sir. Just you.”

  “Well, he’s bloody well going to see both of us. Clean uniform, Sharpe, hair brushed, paws washed, face scrubbed, Sunday best.” Torrance frowned suddenly. “Why didn’t you tell me you saved Wellesley’s life?”

  “Is that what I did, sir?”

  “I mean, good God, man, he must be grateful to you?” Torrance asked. Sharpe just shrugged. “You saved his life,” Torrance insisted, “and that means he’s in your debt, and you must use the advantage. Tell him we don’t have enough men to run the supply train properly. Put in a good word for me, Sharpe, and I’ll repay the favor. Brick! Forget the food! I need a clean stock, boots polished, hat brushed. And give my dress coat a pressing!”

  Sergeant Hakeswill edged through the door. “Your ’ammock, sir,” he said to Torrance, then saw Sharpe and a slow grin spread across his face. “Look who it isn’t. Sharpie!”

  Torrance wheeled on the Sergeant. “Mr. Sharpe is an officer, Hakes will! In this unit we do observe the proprieties!”

  “Quite forgot myself, sir,” Hakeswill said, his face twitching, “on account of being reunited with an old comrade. Mr. Sharpe, ever so pleased to see you, sir.”

  “Lying bastard,” Sharpe said.

  “Ain’t officers supposed to observe the properties, sir?” Hakeswill demanded of Torrance, but the Captain had gone in search of his native servant who had charge of the luggage. Hakeswill looked back to Sharpe. “Fated to be with you, Sharpie.”

  “You stay out of my light, Obadiah,” Sharpe said, “or I’ll slit your throat.”

  “I can’t be killed, Sharpie, can’t be killed!” Hakeswill’s face wrenched itself in a series of twitches. “It says so in the scriptures.” He looked Sharpe up and down, then shook his head ruefully. “I’ve seen better things dangling off the tails of sheep, I have. You ain’t an officer, Sharpie, you’re a bleeding disgrace.”

  Torrance backed into the house, shouting at his servant to drape the windows with muslin, then turned and hurried to the kitchen to harry Clare. He tripped over Sharpe’s pack and swore. “Whose is this?”

  “Mine,” Sharpe said.

  “You’re not thinking of billeting yourself here, are you,
Sharpe?”

  “Good as anywhere, sir.”

  “I like my privacy, Sharpe. Find somewhere else.” Torrance suddenly remembered he was speaking to a man who might have influence with Wellesley. “If you’d be so kind, Sharpe. I just can’t abide being crowded. An affliction, I know, but there it is. I need solitude, it’s my nature. Brick! Did I tell you to brush my hat? And the plume needs a combing.”

  Sharpe picked up his pack and walked out to the small garden where Ahmed was sharpening his new tulwar. Clare Wall followed him into the sunlight, muttered something under her breath, then sat and started to polish one of Torrance’s boots. “Why the hell do you stay with him?” Sharpe asked.

  She paused to look at Sharpe. She had oddly hooded eyes that gave her face an air of delicate mystery. “What choice do I have?” she asked, resuming her polishing.

  Sharpe sat beside her, picked up the other boot and rubbed it with blackball. “So what’s he going to do if you bugger off?”

  She shrugged. “I owe him money.”

  “Like hell. How can you owe him money?”

  “He brought my husband and me here,” she said, “paid our passage from England. We agreed to stay three years. Then Charlie died.” She paused again, her eyes suddenly gleaming, then sniffed and began to polish the boot obsessively.

  Sharpe looked at her. She had dark eyes, curling black hair and a long upper lip. If she was not so tired and miserable, he thought, she would be a very pretty woman. “How old are you, love?”

  She gave him a skeptical glance. “Who’s your woman in Seringapatam, then?”

  “She’s a Frenchie,” Sharpe said. “A widow, like you.”