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

by Bernard Cornwell

  “It don’t matter if he does,” Kendrick said. “He ain’t going to see the dawn, is he?”

  “Got more lives than a basketful of bleeding cats, that one,” Hakeswill said. “If I had any sense I’d slit his throat now.”

  “No!” Sajit said. “He was promised to my uncle.”

  “And your uncle’s paying us, yes?”

  “That too is agreed,” Sajit said.

  Hakeswill stood and walked to Sharpe’s unconscious body. “I put those stripes on his back,” he said proudly. “Lied through my teeth, I did, and had Sharpie flogged. Now I’ll have him killed.” He remembered how Sharpe had flung him among the tigers and his face twitched as he recalled the elephant trying to crush him to death, and in his sudden rage he kicked at Sharpe and went on kicking until Kendrick hauled him away.

  “If you kill him, Sarge,” Kendrick said, “then the blackies won’t pay us, will they?”

  Hakeswill let himself be pulled away. “So how will your uncle kill him?” he asked Sajit.

  “His jettis will do it.”

  “I’ve seen them bastards at work,” Hakeswill said in a tone of admiration. “Just make it slow. Make it slow and make it bleeding painful.”

  “It will be slow,” Sajit promised, “and very painful. My uncle is not a merciful man.”

  “But I am,” Hakeswill said. “I am. Because I’m letting another man have the pleasure of killing Sharpie.” He spat at Sharpe. “Dead by dawn, Sharpie. You’ll be down with Old Nick, where you ought to be!”

  He settled against one of the tent poles and trickled jewels from one palm to the other. Flies crawled among the crusting blood in Sharpe’s hair. The Ensign would be dead by dawn, and Hakeswill was a rich man. Revenge, the Sergeant decided, was sweet as honey.

  Ahmed saw Sharpe fall back from the tent entrance, saw blood bright on his forehead, then watched as hands seized Sharpe and dragged him into the deep shadows.

  Then Sajit, the clerk with the pink umbrella, turned toward him. “Boy,” he snapped, “come here!”

  Ahmed pretended not to understand, though he understood well enough that he was a witness to something deeply wrong. He backed away, tugging Major Stokes’s mare with him. He let the musket slip down from his shoulder and Sajit, seeing the threat, suddenly rushed at him, but Ahmed was even faster. He jumped up to sprawl across the saddle and, without bothering to seat himself properly, kicked the horse into motion. The startled mare leaped away as Ahmed hauled himself onto her back. The stirrups were too long for him, but Ahmed had been raised with horses and could have ridden the mare bareback, blindfolded and back to front. He swerved southward, galloping between tents, fires and grazing bullocks, and leaving Sajit far behind. A woman shouted a protest as he nearly galloped over her children. He slowed the mare as he reached the edge of the encampment and looked back to see that he had left Sajit far behind.

  What the hell should he do? He knew no one in the British camp. He looked up at the high summit where Gawilghur just showed. He supposed his old comrades in Manu Bappoo’s Lions of Allah were up there, but his uncle, with whom he had traveled from Arabia, was dead and buried in Argaum’s black earth. He knew other soldiers in the regiment, but he also feared them. Those other soldiers wanted Ahmed to be their servant, and not just to cook for them and clean their weapons. Sharpe alone had shown him friendliness, and Sharpe now needed help, but Ahmed did not know how to provide it. He thought about the problem as he knotted the stirrup leathers.

  The plump, red-faced and white-haired man in the hills had been friendly, but how was Ahmed to talk to him? He decided he ought to try and so he turned the horse, planning to ride her all about the camp perimeter and then back up the road into the hills, but an officer of the camp pickets saw him. The man was riding a horse and he spurred it close to Ahmed and noted the British saddlecloth. “What are you doing, boy?” he asked. The officer presumed Ahmed was exercising the horse, but Ahmed took fright at the challenge and kicked back.

  “Thief!” the officer shouted and gave chase. “Stop! Thief!”

  A sepoy turned with his musket and Ahmed nudged the horse so that she ran the man down. There was a group of houses close by and Ahmed turned toward them, jumped a garden wall, thumped through some beds of vegetables, jumped another wall, ducked under some fruit trees, jumped a hedge and splashed through a muddy pond before kicking the horse up a bank and into some trees. The officer had not dared follow him through the gardens, but Ahmed could hear the hue and cry beyond the houses. He patted the mare’s neck as she threaded through the trees, then curbed her at the wood’s edge. There was about a half-mile of open country, then more thick woods that promised safety if only the tired mare could make the distance without faltering. “If Allah wills it,” Ahmed said, then kicked the horse into a gallop.

  His pursuers were well behind, but they saw him break cover and now a dozen horsemen were chasing him. Someone fired at him. He heard the musket shot, but the ball went nowhere near him. He leaned over the mane and just let the horse run. He looked back once and saw the pursuers bunching in his path, and then he was in the trees and he twisted northward, cut back west, then went north again, going ever deeper into the woods until at last he slowed the blowing horse so that the sound of her thumping hooves would not betray him.

  He listened. He could hear other horses blundering through the leaves, but they were not coming any closer, and then he began to wonder if it would not be better to let himself be caught after all, for surely someone among the British would speak his language? Maybe if he went all the way to where the men were making the road in the hills he would be too late to help Sharpe. He felt miserable, utterly unsure what he should do, and then he decided he must go back and find help within the encampment and so he turned the horse back toward his pursuers.

  And saw a musket pointing straight at his throat.

  The man holding the musket was an Indian and had one of the spiraling brass helmets that the Mahrattas wore. He was a cavalryman, but he had picketed his horse a few yards away and had crept up on Ahmed on foot. The man grinned.

  Ahmed wondered if he should just kick the tired mare and risk his luck, but then another Mahratta stepped from the leaves, and this one held a curved tulwar. A third man appeared, and then more men came, all mounted, to surround him.

  And Ahmed, who knew he had panicked and failed, wept.

  It seemed to Dodd that Prince Manu Bappoo’s policy of rewarding freebooters with cash for weapons captured from the British was failing miserably. So far they had fetched in three ancient matchlocks that must have belonged to shikarees, a broken musket of local manufacture, and a fine pistol and sword that had been taken from an engineer officer. No scabbard for the sword, of course, but the two trophies, so far as Dodd was concerned, were the only evidence that the Mahrattas had tried to stop the British approach. He pestered Manu Bappoo, pleading to be allowed to take his Cobras down to where the pioneers were driving the road, but the Rajah’s brother adamantly refused to let Dodd’s men leave the fortress.

  Dodd himself was allowed to leave, but only to exercise his horse, which he did each day by riding west along the brink of the plateau. He did not go far. There was a tempting price on his head, and though no enemy cavalry had been seen on the plateau since the engineer had made his reconnaissance, Dodd still feared that he might be captured, and so he only rode until he could see the British works far beneath him. Then, protected by a handful of Bappoo’s horsemen, he would stare through a telescope at the ant-like figures laboring so far below. He watched the road widen, and lengthen, and one morning he saw that two battalions of infantry had camped in one of the high valleys, and next day he saw the beginnings of an artillery park: three guns, a forage cart, a spare wheel wagon and four ammunition limbers. He cursed Bappoo, knowing that his Cobras could destroy that small park and hurl the British into dazed confusion, yet the Prince was content to let the enemy climb the escarpment unopposed. The road was being remade, yet even so it was still
steep enough in places to need a hundred men to haul one gun. Yet day by day Dodd saw the number of guns increase in the artillery park, then inch up the hill and he knew it would not be long before the British reached the plateau and their besieging forces would seal off the narrow isthmus of rock that led from the cliffs to the great fortress.

  And still Manu Bappoo made no proper effort to harry the redcoats. “We shall stop them here,” the Prince told Dodd, “here,” and he would gesture at Gawilghur’s walls, but William Dodd was not so sure that the redcoats would be stopped so easily. Bappoo might be convinced of the fortress’s strength, but Bappoo knew nothing of modern siege craft.

  Each morning, as he returned from his excursion along the cliff top, Dodd would dismount as he reached the isthmus and give his horse to one of his escort so that he could walk the attackers’ route. He tried to see the fortress as the redcoats would see it, tried to anticipate where their attack would come and how it would be made.

  It was, he had to admit, a brutal place to attack. Two great walls protected the Outer Fort, and though the British could undoubtedly breach those walls with cannon fire, the two ramparts stood on a steep slope so that the attackers would need to fight their way uphill to where the defenders would be waiting among the ruins of the breaches. And those breaches would be flanked by the massive round bastions that were too big to be collapsed by the twelve- or eighteen-pounder guns Dodd expected the British to deploy. The bastions would spit round shot, musket balls and rockets down into the British who would be struggling toward the nearer breach, their approach route getting ever narrower until it was finally constricted by the vast tank of water that blocked most of the approach. Dodd walked the route obsessively and could almost feel sorry for the men who would have to do it under fire.

  A hundred paces from the fort, where the defenders’ fire would be most lethal, the attackers would be squeezed between the reservoir and the cliff edge, compressed into a space just twenty paces wide. Dodd stood in that space each day and stared up at the double walls and counted the artillery pieces. Twenty-two cannon were pointing at him and when the redcoats came those barrels would be loaded with canister, and besides those heavy guns there was a mass of smaller weapons, the murderers and spitfires that could be held by one man and which could blast out a fistful of stone scraps or pistol balls. True, the British would have destroyed some of the larger guns, but the barrels could be mounted on new carriages and re-sited behind the vast bastions so that the attackers, if they even succeeded in climbing up to the breach, would be enfiladed by cannon fire. And to reach that far they would need to fight uphill against Bappoo’s Arabs, and against the massed musketry of the garrison.

  It was a prospect so daunting that Prince Manu Bappoo expected most of the attackers would sheer away from the breaches and run to the Delhi Gate, the Outer Fort’s northern entrance. That gate would undoubtedly have been shattered by British cannon fire, but once inside its arch the attackers would find themselves in a trap. The road inside the gate curled up beside the wall, with another great wall outside it, so that anyone on the cobbles was dwarfed by the stone ramparts on either side, and those would be lined with men firing down or else throwing the great rocks that Bappoo had ordered piled onto the fire steps. Inch by bloody inch the redcoats would fight their way up the narrow road between the walls, only to turn the corner to see an even greater gate standing in front of them, and one, moreover, that could not be reached by the besiegers’ cannon fire. Thus, Bappoo reckoned, the British assault would be thwarted.

  Dodd was not so sure. The Prince was right in thinking that there was no way in through the Delhi Gate, but Dodd suspected the breaches would be less formidable. He had begun to see weaknesses in the ancient walls, old cracks that were half hidden by weeds and lichen, and he knew the skill of the British gunners. The wall would break easily, and that meant the breaches would be big and wide, and Dodd reckoned the British would fight their way through. It might be a hard fight, but they would win it. And that meant the British would capture the Outer Fort.

  But Dodd did not express that opinion to Bappoo, nor did he urge the Prince to build an earthen glacis outside the wall to soak up the fire of the breaching batteries. Such a glacis would delay the British for days, even weeks, but Dodd encouraged the Prince to believe that the Outer Fort was impregnable, for in that misapprehension lay Dodd’s opportunity.

  Manu Bappoo had once told Dodd that the Outer Fort was a trap. An enemy, if they captured the Outer Fort, would think their battle won, but then they would come to Gawilghur’s central ravine and find a second, even greater fort, waiting on its far side. But for Dodd the Outer Fort was Manu Bappoo’s trap. If Manu Bappoo lost the Outer Fort then he, like the enemy, would have to cross the ravine and climb to the Inner Fort, and it was there that Dodd commanded and, try as Dodd might, he could see no weaknesses in the Inner Fort’s defenses. Neither Manu Bappoo nor the British could ever cross the ravine, not if Dodd opposed them.

  The Inner Fort was quite separate from the Outer. No wall joined them, only a track that dropped steeply to the bed of the ravine and then climbed, even more steeply, to the intricate gateway of the Inner Fort. Dodd used that track each day, and he tried to imagine himself as an attacker. Twenty more guns faced him from the Inner Fort’s single wall as he descended the ravine, and none of those guns would have been dismounted by cannon fire. Muskets would be pouring their shot down into the rocky ravine and rockets would be slashing bloodily through the British ranks. The redcoats would die here like rats being pounded in a bucket, and even if some did survive to climb the track toward the gate, they would only reach Gawilghur’s last horror.

  That horror was the entrance, where four vast gates barred the Inner Fort, four gates set one after another in a steep passage that was flanked by towering walls. There was no other way in. Even if the British breached the Inner Fort’s wall it would not help, for the wall was built on top of the precipice which formed the southern side of the ravine, and no man could climb that slope and hope to survive. The only way in was through the gate, and Wellesley, Dodd had learned, did not like lengthy sieges. He had escaladed Ahmednuggur, surprising its defenders by sending men with ladders against the unbreached walls, and Dodd was certain that Wellesley would similarly try to rush the Inner Fort. He could not approach the wall, perched on its cliff, so he would be forced to send his men into the ghastly entrance that twisted as it climbed, and for every steep step of the way, between each of the four great gates, they would be pounded by muskets, crushed by stones, blasted by cannon and savaged by rockets dropped from the parapets. It could not be done. Dodd’s Cobras would be on the fire steps and the redcoats would be beneath them, and the redcoats would die like cattle.

  Dodd had no great opinion of Indian rockets, but he had stockpiled more than a thousand above the Inner Fort’s murderous entrance, for within the close confines of the walled road the weapons would prove lethal. The rockets were made of hammered tin, each one about sixteen inches long and four or five inches in diameter, with a bamboo stick the height of a man attached to each tin cylinder that was crammed with powder. Dodd had experimented with the weapon and found that a lit rocket tossed down into the gate passage would sear and bounce from wall to wall, and even when it finally stopped careering madly about the roadway, it went on belching out a torch of flame that would scorch trapped men terribly. A dozen rockets dropped between two of the gates might kill a score of men and burn another score half to death. Just let them come, Dodd prayed as he climbed each morning toward the Inner Fort. Let them come! Let them come and let them take the Outer Fort, for then Manu Bappoo must die and the British would then come to Dodd and die like the Prince.

  And afterward the fugitives of their beaten army would be pursued south across the Deccan Plain. Their bodies would rot in the heat and their bones whiten in the sun, and the British power in India would be broken and Dodd would be Lord of Gawilghur.

  Just let the bastards come.

&n
bsp; That evening Sergeant Hakeswill pushed aside the folds of muslin to enter Captain Torrance’s quarters. The Captain was lying naked in his hammock where he was being fanned by a bamboo punkah that had been rigged to a ceiling beam. His native servant kept the punkah moving by tugging on a string, while Clare Wall trimmed the Captain’s fingernails. “Not too close, Brick,” Torrance said. “Leave me enough to scratch with, there’s a good girl.” He raised his eyes to Hakeswill. “Did you knock, Sergeant?”

  “Twice, sir,” Hakeswill lied, “loud and clear, sir.”

  “Brick will have to ream out my ears. Say good evening to the Sergeant, Brick. Where are our manners tonight?”

  Clare lifted her eyes briefly to acknowledge Hakeswill’s presence and mumbled something barely audible. Hakeswill snatched off his hat. “Pleasure to see you, Mrs. Wall,” he said eagerly, “a proper pleasure, my jewel.” He bobbed his head to her and winked at Torrance, who flinched.

  “Brick,” Torrance said, “the Sergeant and I have military matters to discuss. So take yourself to the garden.” He patted her hand and watched her leave. “And no listening at the window!” he added archly. He waited until Clare had sidled past the muslin that hung over the kitchen entrance, then leaned precariously from the hammock to pick up a green silk robe that he draped over his crotch. “I would hate to shock you, Sergeant.”

  “Beyond shock, sir, me, sir. Ain’t nothing living I ain’t seen naked, sir, all of ’em naked as needles, and never once was I shocked, sir. Ever since they strung me up by the neck I’ve been beyond shock, sir.”