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

by Bernard Cornwell

  And beyond sense, too, Torrance thought, but he suppressed the comment. “Has Brick left the kitchen?”

  Hakeswill peered past the muslin. “She’s gone, sir.”

  “She’s not at the window?”

  Hakeswill checked the window. “On the far side of the yard, sir, like a good girl.”

  “I trust you’ve brought me news?”

  “Better than news, sir, better than news.” The Sergeant crossed to the table and emptied his pocket. “Your notes to Jama, sir, all of them. Ten thousand rupees, and all paid off. You’re out of debt, sir, out of debt.”

  Relief seared through Torrance. Debt was a terrible thing, a dreadful thing, yet seemingly inescapable if a man was to live to the full. Twelve hundred guineas! How could he ever have gambled that much away? It had been madness! Yet now it was paid, and paid in full. “Burn the notes,” he ordered Hakeswill.

  Hakeswill held the notes into a candle flame one by one, then let them shrivel and burn on the table. The draft from the punkah disturbed the smoke and scattered the little scraps of black ash that rose from the small fires. “And Jama, sir, being a gentleman, despite being an heathen bastard blackamoor, added a thankee,” Hakeswill said, putting some gold coins on the table.

  “How much?”

  “Seven hundred rupees there, sir.”

  “He gave us more, I know that. You’re cheating me, Sergeant.”

  “Sir Hakeswill straightened indignantly. “On my life, sir, and I speak as a Christian, I ain’t ever cheated a soul in my life, sir, not unless they deserved it, in which case they gets it right and proper, sir, like it says in the scriptures.”

  Torrance stared at Hakeswill. “Jama will be back in the camp in a day or two. I can ask him.”

  “And you will find, sir, that I have treated you foursquare and straight, sir, on the nail, sir, on the drumhead, as one soldier to another.” Hakeswill sniffed. “I’m hurt, sir.”

  Torrance yawned. “You have my sincerest, deepest and most fervent apologies, Sergeant. So tell me about Sharpe.”

  Hakeswill glanced at the punkah boy. “Does that heathen speak English, sir?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Sharpie’s no more, sir.” Hakeswill’s face twitched as he remembered the pleasure of kicking his enemy. “Stripped the bastard naked, sir, gave him a headache he won’t ever forget, not that he’s got long to remember anything now on account of him being on his way to meet his executioner, and I kept him trussed up till Jama’s men came to fetch him. Which they did, sir, so now he’s gone, sir. Gone for bleeding ever, just as he deserves.”

  “You stripped him?” Torrance asked, puzzled.

  “Didn’t want the bastards dropping off a body all dressed up in an officer’s coat, sir, even though the little bleeder should never have worn one, him being nothing more than a jumped-up dribble of dried toad-spittle, sir. So we stripped him and burned the uniform, sir.”

  “And nothing went wrong?”

  Hakeswill’s face twitched as he shrugged. “His boy got away, but he didn’t make no trouble. Just vanished. Probably went back to his mummy.”

  Torrance smiled. All was done, all was solved. Even better, he could resume his trade with Jama, though perhaps with a little more circumspection than in the past. “Did Sajit go with Sharpe?” he asked, knowing he would need an efficient clerk if he was to hide the treacherous transactions in the ledger.

  “No, sir. He’s with me, sir, outside, sir.” Hakeswill jerked his head toward the front room. “He wanted to go, sir, but I gave him a thumping on account of us needing him here, sir, and after that he was as good as gold, sir, even if he is an heathen bit of scum.”

  Torrance smiled. “I am vastly in your debt, Sergeant Hakeswill,” he said.

  “Just doing my duty, sir.” Hakeswill’s face twitched as he grinned and gestured toward the garden window. “And hoping for a soldier’s reward, sir.”

  “Brick, you mean?” Torrance asked.

  “Me heart’s desire, sir,” Hakeswill said hoarsely. “Her and me, sir, made for each other. Says so in the scriptures.”

  “Then the fruition of the prophecy must wait a while,” Torrance said, “because I need Brick to look after me, and your duty, Sergeant, is to assume Mr. Sharpe’s responsibilities. We shall wait till someone notices that he’s missing, then claim that he must have been ambushed by Mahrattas while on his way here. Then you’ll go up the mountain to help the engineers.”

  “Me, sir?” Hakeswill sounded alarmed at the prospect of having to do some real work. “Up the mountain?”

  “Someone has to be there. You can’t expect me to do it!” Torrance said indignantly. “Someone must stay here and shoulder the heavier responsibilities. It won’t be for long, Sergeant, not for long. And once the campaign is over I can assure you that your heart’s desires will be fully met.” But not, he decided, before Hakeswill paid him the money Clare owed for her passage out from England. That money could come from the cash that Jama had given Hakeswill this night which, Torrance was sure, was a great deal more than the Sergeant had admitted. “Make yourself ready, Sergeant,” Torrance ordered. “Doubtless you will be needed up the road tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hakeswill said sullenly.

  “Well done, good and faithful Hakeswill,” Torrance said grandly. “Don’t let any moths in as you leave.”

  Hakeswill went. He had three thousand three hundred rupees in his pocket and a fortune in precious stones hidden in his cartridge box. He would have liked to have celebrated with Clare Wall, but he did not doubt that his chance would come and so, for the moment, he was a satisfied man. He looked at the first stars pricking the sky above Gawilghur’s plateau and reflected that he had rarely been more content. He had taken his revenge, he had become wealthy, and thus all was well in Obadiah Hakes will’s world.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sharpe knew he was in an oxcart. He could tell that from the jolting motion and from the terrible squeal of the ungreased axles. The oxcarts that followed the army made a noise like the shrieking of souls in perdition.

  He was naked, bruised and in pain. It hurt even to breathe. His mouth was gagged and his hands and feet were tied, but even if they had been free he doubted he could have moved for he was wrapped in a thick dusty carpet. Hakeswill! The bastard had ambushed him, stripped him and robbed him. He knew it was Hakeswill, for Sharpe had heard the Sergeant’s hoarse voice as he was rolled into the rug. Then he had been carried out of the tent and slung into the cart, and he was not sure how long ago that had been because he was in too much pain and he kept slipping in and out of a dreamlike daze. A nightmare daze. There was blood in his mouth, a tooth was loose, a rib was probably cracked and the rest of him simply ached or hurt. His head throbbed. He wanted to be sick, but knew he would choke on his vomit because of the gag and so he willed his belly to be calm.

  Calm! The only blessing was that he was alive, and he suspected that was no blessing at all. Why had Hakeswill not killed him? Not out of mercy, that was for sure. So presumably he was to be killed somewhere else, though why Hakeswill had run the terrible risk of having a British officer tied hand and foot and smuggled past the picket line Sharpe could not tell. It made no sense. All he did know was that by now Obadiah Hakeswill would have teased Sharpe’s gems from their hiding places. God damn it all to hell. First Simone, now Hakeswill, and Hakeswill, Sharpe realized, could never have trapped Sharpe if Torrance had not helped.

  But knowing his enemies would not help Sharpe now. He knew he had as much hope of living as those dogs who were hurled onto the mudflats beside the Thames in London with stones tied to their necks. The children used to laugh as they watched the dogs struggle. Some of the dogs had come from wealthy homes. They used to be snatched and if their owners did not produce the ransom money within a couple of days, the dogs were thrown into the river. Usually the ransom was paid, brought by a nervous footman to a sordid public house near the docks, but no one would ransom Sharpe. Who would care? Dust
from the rug was thick in his nose. Just let the end be quick, he prayed.

  He could hear almost nothing through the rug. The axle squealing was the loudest noise, and once he heard a thump on the cart’s side and thought he heard a man laugh. It was nighttime. He was not sure how he knew that, except that it would make sense, for no one would try to smuggle a British officer out in daylight, and he knew he had lain in the tent for a long time after Hakeswill had hit him. He remembered ducking under the tent’s canvas, remembered a glimpse of the brass-bound musket butt, and then it was nothing but a jumble of pain and oblivion. A weight pressed on his waist, and he guessed after a while that a man was resting his feet on the rug. Sharpe tested the assumption by trying to move and the man kicked him. He lay still again. One dog had escaped, he remembered. It had somehow slipped the rope over its neck and had paddled away downstream with the children shrieking along the bank and hurling stones at the frightened head. Did the dog die? Sharpe could not remember. God, he thought, but he had been a wild child, wild as a hawk. They had tried to beat the wildness out of him, beat him till the blood ran, then told him he would come to a bad end. They had prophesied that he would be strung up by the neck at Tyburn Hill. Dick Sharpe dangling, pissing down his legs while the rope burned into his gullet. But it had not happened. He was an officer, a gentleman, and he was still alive, and he pulled at the tether about his wrists, but it would not shift.

  Was Hakeswill riding in the cart? That seemed possible, and suggested the Sergeant wanted somewhere safe and private to kill Sharpe. But how? Quick with a knife? That was a forlorn wish, for Hakeswill was not merciful. Perhaps he planned to repay Sharpe by putting him beneath an elephant’s foot and he would scream and writhe until the great weight would not let him scream ever again and his bones would crack and splinter like eggshells. Be sure your sin will find you out. How many times had he heard those words from the Bible? Usually thumped into him at the foundling home with a blow across the skull for every syllable, and the blows would keep coming as they chanted the reference. The Book of Numbers, chapter thirty-two, verse twenty-three, syllable by syllable, blow by blow, and now his sin was finding him out and he was to be punished for all the unpunished offenses. So die well, he told himself. Don’t cry out. Whatever was about to happen could not be worse than the flogging he had taken because of Hakeswill’s lies. That had hurt. Hurt like buggery, but he had not cried out. So take the pain and go like a man. What had Sergeant Major By-waters said as he had thrust the leather gag into Sharpe’s mouth? “Be brave, boy. Don’t let the regiment down.” So he would be brave and die well, and then what? Hell, he supposed, and an eternity of torment at the hands of a legion of Hakeswills. Just like the army, really.

  The cart stopped. He heard feet thump on the wagon boards, the murmur of voices, then hands seized the rug and dragged him off. He banged hard down onto the ground, then the rug was picked up and carried. Die well, he told himself, die well, but that was easier said than done. Not all men died well. Sharpe had seen strong men reduced to shuddering despair as they waited for the cart to be run out from under the gallows, just as he had seen others go into eternity with a defiance so brittle and hard that it had silenced the watching crowd. Yet all men, the brave and the cowardly, danced the gallows dance in the end, jerking from a length of Bridport hemp, and the crowd would laugh at their twitching antics. Best puppet show in London, they said. There was no good way to die, except in bed, asleep, unknowing. Or maybe in battle, at the cannon’s mouth, blown to kingdom come in an instant of oblivion.

  He heard the footsteps of the men who carried him slap on stone, then heard a loud murmur of voices. There were a lot of voices, all apparently talking at once and all excited, and he felt the rug being jostled by a crowd and then he seemed to be carried down some steps and the crowd was gone and he was thrown onto a hard floor. The voices seemed louder now, as if he was indoors, and he was suddenly possessed by the absurd notion that he had been brought into a cock-fighting arena like the one off Vinegar Street where, as a child, he had earned farthings by carrying pots of porter to spectators who were alternatively morose or maniacally excited.

  He lay for a long time. He could hear the voices, even sometimes a burst of laughter. He remembered the fat man in Vinegar Street, whose trade, rat-catching, took him to the great houses in west London that he reconnoitered for his thieving friends. “You’d make a good snaffler, Dicky,” he’d say to Sharpe, then he would clutch Sharpe’s arm and point to the cockerels waiting to fight. “Which one’ll win, lad, which one?” And Sharpe would make a haphazard choice and, as often as not, the bird did win. “He’s a lucky boy,” the rat-catcher would boast to his friends as he tossed Sharpe a farthing. “Nipper’s got the luck of the devil!”

  But not tonight, Sharpe thought, and suddenly the rug was seized, unwound, and Sharpe was spilled naked onto hard stones. A cheer greeted his appearance. Light flared in Sharpe’s eyes, dazzling him, but after a while he saw he was in a great stone courtyard lit by the flames of torches mounted on pillars that surrounded the yard. Two white-robed men seized him, dragged him upright and pushed him onto a stone bench where, to his surprise, his hands and feet were loosed and the gag taken from his mouth. He sat flexing his fingers and gasping deep breaths of humid air. He could see no sign of Hakeswill.

  He could see now that he was in a temple. A kind of cloister ran around the courtyard and, because the cloister was raised three or four feet, it made the stone-paved floor into a natural arena. He had not been so wrong about the cockfighting pit, though Vinegar Street had never aspired to ornately carved stone arches smothered with writhing gods and snarling beasts. The raised cloister was packed with men who were in obvious good humor. There were hundreds of them, all anticipating a night’s rare entertainment. Sharpe touched his swollen lip and winced at the pain. He was thirsty, and with every deep breath his bruised or broken ribs hurt. There was a swelling on his forehead that was thick with dried blood. He looked about the crowd, seeking one friendly face and finding none. He just saw Indian peasants with dark eyes that reflected the flame light. They must have come from every village within ten miles to witness whatever was about to happen.

  In the center of the courtyard was a small stone building, fantastically carved with elephants and dancing girls, and crowned by a stepped tower that had been sculpted with yet more gods and animals painted red, yellow, green and black. The crowd’s noise subsided as a man showed at the doorway of the small shrine and raised his arms as a signal for silence. Sharpe recognized the man. He was the tall, thin, limping man in the green and black striped robe who had pleaded with Torrance for Naig’s life, and behind him came a pair of jettis. So that was the sum of it. Revenge for Naig, and Sharpe realized that Hakeswill had never intended to kill him, only deliver him to these men.

  A murmur ran through the spectators as they admired the jettis. Vast brutes, they were, who dedicated their extraordinary strength to some strange Indian god. Although Sharpe had met jettis before and had killed some in Seringapatam, he did not fancy his chances against these two bearded brutes. He was too weak, too thirsty, too bruised, too hurt, while these two fanatics were tall and hugely muscled. Their bronze skin had been oiled so that it gleamed in the flame light. Their long hair was coiled about their skulls, and one had red lines painted on his face, while the other, who was slightly shorter, carried a long spear. Each man wore a loincloth and nothing else. They glanced at Sharpe, then the taller man prostrated himself before a small shrine. A dozen guards came from the courtyard’s rear and lined its edge. They carried muskets tipped with bayonets.

  The tall man in the striped robe clapped his hands to silence the crowd’s last murmurs. It took a while, for still more spectators were pushing into the temple and there was scarce room in the cloister. Somewhere outside a horse neighed. Men shouted protests as the newcomers shoved their way inside, but at last the commotion ended and the tall man stepped to the edge of the stone platform on which the small shrine stoo
d. He spoke for a long time, and every few moments his words would provoke a growl of agreement, and then the crowd would look at Sharpe and some would spit at him. Sharpe stared sullenly back at them. They were getting a rare night’s amusement, he reckoned. A captured Englishman was to be killed in front of them, and Sharpe could not blame them for relishing the prospect. But he was damned if he would die easy. He could do some damage, he reckoned, maybe not much, but enough so that the jettis remembered the night they were given a redcoat to kill.

  The tall man finished his speech, then limped down the short flight of steps and approached Sharpe. He carried himself with dignity, like a man who knows his own worth to be high. He stopped a few paces from Sharpe and his face showed derision as he stared at the Englishman’s sorry state. “My name,” he said in English, “is Jama.”

  Sharpe said nothing.

  “You killed my brother,” Jama said.

  “I’ve killed a lot of men,” Sharpe said, his voice hoarse so that it scarcely carried the few paces that separated the two men. He spat to clear his throat. “I’ve killed a lot of men,” he said again.

  “And Naig was one,” Jama said.

  “He deserved to die,” Sharpe said.

  Jama sneered at that answer. “If my brother deserved to die then so did the British who traded with him.”

  That was probably true, Sharpe thought, but he said nothing. He could see some pointed helmets at the back of the crowd and he guessed that some of the Mahratta horsemen who still roamed the Deccan Plain had come to see his death. Maybe the same Mahrattas who had bought the two thousand missing muskets, muskets that Hakeswill had supplied and Torrance had lied about to conceal the theft.

  “So now you will die,” Jama said simply.

  Sharpe shrugged. Run to the right, he was thinking, and grab the nearest musket, but he knew he would be slowed by the pain. Besides, the men on the cloister would jump down to overpower him. But he had to do something. Anything! A man could not just be killed like a dog.