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

by Bernard Cornwell

  “It won’t hurt, sir,” Sharpe said comfortingly. “You’ll be dead in the blink of an eyelid.” He began scooping the coins off the table into Torrance’s pouch. He heard the heavy click as the pistol was cocked, then glanced around to see that the muzzle was pointing at his face. He frowned and shook his head in disappointment. “And I thought you were a gentleman, sir.”

  “I’m not a fool, Sharpe,” Torrance said vengefully. He stood and took a pace closer to the Ensign. “And I’m worth ten of you. Up from the ranks? You know what that makes you, Sharpe? It makes you a brute, a lucky brute, but it don’t make you a real officer. You’re not going to be welcome anywhere, Sharpe. You’ll be endured, Sharpe, because officers have manners, but they won’t welcome you because you ain’t a proper officer. You weren’t born to it, Sharpe.” Torrance laughed at the look of horrified outrage on Sharpe’s face. “Christ, I despise you!” he said savagely. “You’re like a dressed-up monkey, Sharpe, only you can’t even wear clothes properly! I could give you lace and braid, and you’d still look like a peasant, because that’s what you are, Sharpe. Officers should have style! They should have wit! And all you can do is grunt. You know what you are, Sharpe? You’re an embarrassment, you’re…” He paused, trying to find the right insult, and shook his head in frustration as the words would not come. “You’re a lump, Sharpe! That’s what you are, a lump! And the kindest thing is to finish you off.” Torrance smiled. “Goodbye, Mr. Sharpe.” He pulled the trigger.

  The flint smashed down on the steel and the spark flashed into the empty pan.

  Sharpe reached out in the silence and took the pistol from Torrance’s hand. “I loaded it, sir, but I didn’t prime it. On account of the fact that I might be a lump, but I ain’t any kind of fool.” He pushed Torrance back into the chair, and Torrance could only watch as Sharpe dropped a pinch of powder into the pan. He flinched as Sharpe closed the frizzen, then shuddered as Sharpe walked toward him.

  “No, Sharpe, no!”

  Sharpe stood behind Torrance. “You tried to have me killed, sir, and I don’t like that.” He pressed the pistol into the side of the Captain’s head.

  “Sharpe!” Torrance pleaded. He was shaking, but he seemed powerless to offer any resistance, then the muslin curtain from the kitchen was swept aside and Clare Wall came into the room. She stopped and stared with huge eyes at Sharpe.

  “Clare!” Torrance pleaded. “Fetch help! Quickly now!” Clare did not move. “Fetch help, my dear!” Torrance said. “She’ll be a witness against you, Sharpe.” Torrance had turned to look at Sharpe and was babbling now. “So the best thing you can do is to put the gun down. I’ll say nothing about this, nothing! Just a touch of fever in you, I expect. It’s all a misunderstanding and we shall forget it ever happened. Maybe we could share a bottle of arrack? Clare, my dear, maybe you could find a bottle?”

  Clare stepped toward Sharpe and held out her hand.

  “Fetch help, my dear,” Torrance said, “he’s not going to give you the gun.”

  “He is,” Sharpe said, and he gave Clare the pistol.

  Torrance breathed a great sigh of relief, then Clare clumsily turned the gun and pointed it at Torrance’s head. The Captain just stared at her.

  “Eyes front, Captain,” Sharpe said, and turned Torrance’s head so that the bullet would enter from the side, just as it might if Torrance had committed suicide. “Are you sure?” he asked Clare.

  “God help me,” she said, “but I’ve dreamed of doing this.” She straightened her arm so that the pistol’s muzzle touched Torrance’s temple.

  “No!” he called. “No, please! No!”

  But she could not pull the trigger. Sharpe could see she wanted to, but her finger would not tighten and so Sharpe took the gun from her, edged her gently aside, then pushed the barrel into Torrance’s oiled hair. “No, please!” the Captain appealed. He was weeping. “I beg you, Sharpe. Please!”

  Sharpe pulled the trigger, stepping back as a gush of blood spouted from the shattered skull. The sound of the pistol had been hugely loud in the small room that was now hazed with smoke.

  Sharpe knelt and pushed the pistol into Torrance’s dead hand, then picked up the pouch with its gold and thrust it into Clare’s hands. “We’re going,” he told her, “right now.”

  She understood the haste and, without bothering to fetch any of her belongings, followed him back into the outer room where Sajit’s body lay slumped over the table. His blood had soaked the chitties. Clare whimpered when she saw the blood. “I didn’t really mean to kill him,” Sharpe explained, “then realized he’d be a witness if I didn’t.” He saw the fear on Clare’s face. “I trust you, love. You and me? We’re the same, aren’t we? So come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Sharpe had already taken the three jewels from Sajit and he added those to the pouch of gold, then went to the porch where Ahmed stood guard. No one seemed to have been alarmed by the shot, but it was not wise to linger. “I’ve got you some gold, Ahmed,” Sharpe said.

  “Gold!”

  “You know that word, you little bugger, don’t you?” Sharpe grinned, then took Clare’s hand and led her into the shadows. A dog barked briefly, a horse whinnied from the cavalry lines, and afterward there was silence.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dodd needed to practice with the rifle and so, on the day that the British reached the top of the high escarpment, he settled himself in some rocks at the top of the cliff and gauged the range to the party of sepoys who were leveling the last few yards of the road. Unlike a musket, the rifle had proper sights, and he set the range at two hundred yards, then propped the barrel in a stone cleft and aimed at a blue-coated engineer who was standing just beneath the sweating sepoys. A gust of wind swept up the cliffs, driving some circling buzzards high up into the air. Dodd waited until the wind settled, then squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle slammed into his shoulder with surprising force. The smoke blotted his view instantly, but another billow of wind carried it away and he was rewarded by the sight of the engineer bent double. He thought he must have hit the man, but then saw the engineer had been picking up his straw hat that must have fallen as he reacted to the close passage of the spinning bullet. The engineer beat dust from the hat against his thigh and stared up at the drifting patch of smoke.

  Dodd wriggled back out of view and reloaded the rifle. It was hard work. The barrel of a rifle, unlike a musket, had spiraling grooves cast into the barrel to spin the bullet. The spin made the weapon extraordinarily accurate, but the grooves resisted the rammer, and the resistance was made worse because the bullet, if it was to be spun by the grooves, had to fit the barrel tightly. Dodd wrapped a bullet in one of the small greased leather patches that gave the barrel purchase, then grunted as he shoved the ramrod hard down. One of the Mahratta cavalrymen who escorted Dodd on his daily rides shouted a warning, and Dodd peered over the rock to see that a company of sepoy infantry was scrambling to the top of the slope. The first of them were already on the plateau and coming toward him. He primed the rifle, settled it on the makeshift fire step again and reckoned that he had not allowed for the effect of the wind on the last bullet. He aimed at the sepoys’ officer, a man whose small round spectacles reflected the sun, and, letting the barrel edge slightly windward, he fired again.

  The rifle hammered back onto his shoulder. Smoke billowed as Dodd ran to his horse and clambered into the saddle. He slung the rifle, turned the horse and saw that the red-coated officer was on the ground with two of his men kneeling beside him. He grinned. Two hundred paces!

  A wild volley of musketry followed the Mahratta horsemen as they rode westward toward Gawilghur. The balls rattled on rocks or whistled overhead, but none of the cavalrymen was touched. After half a mile Dodd stopped, dismounted and reloaded the rifle. A troop of sepoy cavalry was climbing the last few yards of the road, the men walking as they led their horses around the final steep bend. Dodd found another place to rest the rifle, then waited for the cavalry to appro
ach along the cliff’s edge.

  He kept the sights at two hundred yards. He knew that was very long range, even for a rifle, but if he could hit at two hundred yards then he was confident of killing at a hundred or at fifty.

  “Sahib!” The commander of his escort was worried by the more numerous sepoy cavalry who had now mounted and were trotting toward them.

  “In a minute,” Dodd called back. He picked his target, another officer, and waited for the man to ride into the rifle’s sights. The wind was fitful. It gusted, blowing dust into Dodd’s right eye and making him blink. Sweat trickled down his face. The approaching cavalry had sabres drawn and the blades glittered in the sun. One man carried a dusty pennant on a short staff. They came raggedly, twisting between the rocks and low bushes. Their horses kept their heads low, tired after the effort of climbing the steep hill.

  The officer curbed his horse to let his men catch up. The wind died to nothing and Dodd squeezed the trigger and flinched as the heavy stock slammed into his bruised shoulder.

  “Sahib!”

  “We’re going,” Dodd said, and he put his left foot into the stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle. A glance behind showed a riderless horse and a score of men spurring forward to take revenge. Dodd laughed, slung the rifle, and kicked his horse into a canter. He heard a shout behind as the sepoy cavalry were urged into the pursuit, but Dodd and his escort were mounted on fresh horses and easily outstripped the sepoys.

  Dodd curbed his horse on the neck of rocky land that led to Gawilghur’s Outer Fort. The walls were thick with men who watched the enemy’s approach, and the sight of those spectators gave Dodd an idea. He threw the rifle to the commander of his escort. “Hold it for me!” he ordered, then turned his horse to face the pursuing horsemen. He waved his escort on toward the fortress and drew his sword. It was a beautiful weapon, European made, then sent to India where craftsmen had given it a hilt of gold shaped like an elephant’s head. The escort commander, charged with protecting Dodd’s life, wanted to stay, but Dodd insisted he ride on. “I’ll join you in five minutes,” he promised.

  Dodd barred the road. He glanced behind him once, just to check that the Outer Fort’s ramparts were crowded with men, then he looked back to the approaching cavalry. They slowed as they reached the rock isthmus. They could have kept galloping, and Dodd would then have turned his horse and outrun them, but instead they curbed their sweating horses and just stood watching him from a hundred paces away. They knew what he wanted, but Dodd saluted them with his sword just to make certain they understood his challenge. A havildar urged his horse forward, but then an English voice summoned him back and the man reluctantly turned.

  The English officer drew his sabre. He had lost his hat in the gallop along the edge of the cliff and had long fair hair that was matted with sweat and dirt. He wore a black and scarlet jacket and was mounted on a tall bay gelding that was white with sweat. He saluted Dodd by holding his sabre up, hilt before his face, then he touched the gelding’s flanks with the tips of his spurs and the horse walked forward. Dodd spurred his own horse and the two slowly closed. The Englishman went into a trot, then clapped his heels to drive his horse into a canter and Dodd saw the puffs of dust spurting from the gelding’s hooves. He kept his horse at a walk, only touching it into a trot at the very last second as the Englishman stood in his stirrups to deliver a scything cut with the sabre.

  Dodd tweaked the rein and his horse swerved to the left, then he was turning it back right, turning it all the way, and the sabre had missed his head by a scant two inches and he had not even bothered to parry with his sword. Now he spurred the horse on, following the officer who was trying to turn back, and the Englishman was still half turned, still tugging on the reins, as Dodd attacked. The sabre made an awkward parry that just managed to deflect the sword’s thrust. Dodd hacked back as he passed, felt the blade thump home, then he hauled on the reins and was turning again, and the Englishman was also turning so that the two horses seemed to curl around each other, nose to tail, and the sabre and sword rang together. Dodd was taller than his opponent, but the young Englishman, who was a lieutenant and scarce looked a day over eighteen, was strong, and Dodd’s blow had hardly broken the weave of his coat. He gritted his teeth as he hacked at Dodd, and Dodd parried, parried again and the two blades locked, hilt against hilt, and Dodd heaved to try and throw the young man off balance.

  “You’re Dodd, aren’t you?” the Lieutenant said.

  “Seven hundred guineas to you, boy.”

  “Traitor,” the young Englishman spat.

  Dodd heaved, then kicked the Lieutenant’s horse so that it moved forward and he tried to slash back with his disengaged sword, but the Lieutenant turned the horse in again. The men were too close to fight properly, close enough to smell each other’s breath. The Lieutenant’s stank of tobacco. They could hit their opponent with their sword hilts, but not use the blades’ lengths. If either horse had been properly schooled they could have been walked sideways away from the impasse, but the horses would only go forward and Dodd was the first to take the risk by using his spurs. He used them savagely, startling his horse so that it leaped ahead, and even so he flinched from the expected slash as the sabre whipped towards his spine, but the Lieutenant was slow and the blow missed.

  Dodd rode twenty paces up the track toward the watching sepoys, then turned again. The Lieutenant was gaining confidence and he grinned as the tall man charged at him. He lowered the sabre, using its point like a spearhead, and urged his weary gelding into a trot. Dodd also had his sword at the lunge, elbow locked, and the two horses closed at frightening speed and then, at the very last second, Dodd hauled on his rein and his horse went right, to the Lieutenant’s unguarded side, and he brought the sword back across his body and then cut it forward in one fluid motion so that the blade raked across the Lieutenant’s throat. The sabre was still coming across to the parry when the blood spurted. The Lieutenant faltered and his horse stopped. The young man’s sword arm fell, and Dodd was turning. He came alongside his opponent whose jacket was now dark with blood, and he rammed the sword into the Lieutenant’s neck a second time, this time point first, and the young man seemed to shake like a rat in a terrier’s jaws.

  Dodd hauled his sword free, then scabbarded it. He leaned over and took the sabre from the dying man’s unresisting hand, then pushed the Lieutenant so that he toppled from the horse. One of his feet was trapped in a stirrup, but as Dodd seized the gelding’s rein and hauled it around toward the fortress, the boot fell free and the young man was left sprawling amid his blood on the dusty road as Dodd led his trophy homeward.

  The Indians on the ramparts cheered. The sepoys spurred forward and Dodd hurried ahead of them, but the Madrassi cavalrymen only rode as far as their officer’s body where they dismounted. Dodd rode on, waving the captured sabre aloft.

  A gun fired from the fort and the ball screamed over the rocky isthmus to crash home among the cavalrymen gathered about their officer. A second gun fired, and suddenly the British cavalry and their riderless horses were running away and the cheers on the wall redoubled. Manu Bappoo was on the big buttress close to the gatehouse and he first pointed an admonitory finger at Dodd, chiding him for taking such a risk, then he touched his hands together, in thanks for Dodd’s victory, and finally raised his arms above his head to salute the hero. Dodd laughed and bowed his head in acknowledgment and saw, to his surprise, that his white coat was red with the Lieutenant’s blood. “Who would have thought the young man had so much blood in him?” he asked the leader of his escort at the fortress gate.

  “Sahib?” the man answered, puzzled.

  “Never mind.” Dodd took the rifle back, then spurred his horse into Gawilghur’s Delhi Gate. The men on the ramparts that edged the paved entranceway cheered him home.

  He did not pause to speak to Manu Bappoo, but instead rode through the Outer Fortress and out of its southern gate, then led his captured horse down the steep path which slanted across the fa
ce of the ravine. At the bottom the path turned sharply to the left before climbing to the Inner Fort’s massive gateway. The four heavy gates that barred the entranceway were all opened for him, and the hooves of his two horses echoed from the high walls as he clattered up the winding passage. One by one the gates crashed shut behind and the thick locking bars were dropped into their brackets.

  His groom waited beyond the last gate. Dodd swung down from his horse and gave both reins to the man, ordering him to water the captured horse before he rubbed it down. He handed his sword to his servant and told him to clean the blood from the blade and only then did he turn to face Beny Singh who had come waddling from the palace garden. The Killadar was dressed in a green silk robe and was attended by two servants, one to hold a parasol above Beny Singh’s perfumed head and the other clasping the Killadar’s small white lap-dog. “The cheering,” Beny Singh asked anxiously, “what was it? The guns were firing?” He stared in horror at the blood soaked into Dodd’s coat. “You’re wounded, Colonel?”

  “There was a fight,” Dodd said, and waited while one of the servants translated for the Killadar. Dodd spoke a crude Marathi, but it was easier to use interpreters.

  “The djinns are here!” Beny Singh wailed. The dog whimpered and the two servants looked nervous.

  “I killed a djinn,” Dodd snarled. He reached out and took hold of Beny Singh’s plump hand and forced it against his wet coat. “It isn’t my blood. But it is fresh.” He rubbed the Killadar’s hand into the gory patch, then raised the phi fingers to his mouth. Keeping his eyes on Beny Singh’s eyes, he licked the blood from the Killadar’s hand. “I am a djinn, Killadar,” Dodd said, letting go of the hand, “and I lap the blood of my enemies.”

  Beny Singh recoiled from the clammy touch of the blood. He shuddered, then wiped his hand on his silk robe. “When will they assault?”

  “A week?” Dodd guessed. “And then they will be defeated.”