Bernard Cornwell - 01 - Sharpe'S Tiger

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SHARPE'S TIGER

By Bernard Cornwell

The Sharpe novels

(in chronological order)

SHARPE'S TIGER

Richard Sharpe and the Siege of Seringapatam (1799)

SHARPE'S TRIUMPH

Richard Sharpe and the Batde of Assaye, (1803)

SHARPE'S BATTLE

Richard Sharpe and the Battle of Fuentes de Ofioro (1811)

SHARPE'S COMPANY

Richard Sharpe and the Siege of Badajoz (1812)

SHARPE'S SWORD

Richard Sharpe and the Salamanca Campaign (1812)

SHARPE'S ENEMY

Richard Sharpe and the Defence of Portugal (1812)

SHARPE'S HONOUR

Richard Sharpe and the Vitoria Campaign (1813)

SHARPE'S WATERLOO

Richard Sharpe and the Waterloo Campaign (1815)

SHARPE'S DEVIL

Richard Sharpe and the Emperor (1820-21)

The Starbuck Chronicles

BATTLE FLAG

THE BLOODY GROUND 1

BERNARD CORNWELL

Richard Sharpe and the Siege of Seringapatam, 1799

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Map by Ken Lewis

Set in Postscript Monotype Baskerville by

It was funny, Richard Sharpe thought, that there were no vultures in England. None that he had seen, anyway. Ugly things they were. Rats with wings.

Him and Mary. Run away. Desert. He was thinking about it now, and it was an odd thing to worry about right now because the army was about to give Richard Sharpe his first proper battle. He had been in one fight, but that was five years ago and it had been a messy, confused business in fog, and no one had known why the 33rd Regiment was in Flanders or what they were supposed to be doing there, and in the end they had done nothing except fire some shots at the mist-shrouded French and the whole thing had been over almost before young Richard Sharpe had known it had begun. He had seen a couple of men killed. He remembered Sergeant Hawthorne's death best because the Sergeant had been hit by a musket ball that drove a rib clean out of his red coat. There was hardly a drop of blood to be seen, just

the white rib sticking out of the faded red cloth. 'You could hang your hat on that,' Hawthorne had said in a tone of wonder, then he had sobbed, and after that he had choked up blood and collapsed. Sharpe had gone on loading and firing, and then, just as he was beginning to enjoy himself, the battalion had marched away and sailed back to England. Some batde.

Now he was in India. He did not know why he was invading Mysore and hor did he particularly care. King George III wanted Richard Sharpe to be in India, so in India Richard Sharpe was, but Richard Sharpe had now become bored with the King's service. He was young and he reckoned life had more to offer than hurrying up and doing nothing. There was money to be made. He was not sure how to make money, except by thieving, but he did know that he was bored and that he could do better than stay on the bottom of the dungheap. That was where he was, he kept telling himself, the bottom of a dungheap and everyone knew what was piled on top of a dungheap. Better to run, he told himself. All that was needed to get ahead in the world was a bit of sense and the ability to kick a bastard faster than the bastard could kick you, and Richard Sharpe reckoned he had those talents right enough.

Though where to run in India? Half the natives seemed to be in British pay and those would turn you in for a handful of tin pice, and the pice was only worth a farthing, and the other Indians were all fighting against the British, or readying to fight them, and if he ran to them he would just be forced to serve in their armies. He would fetch more pay in a native army, probably far more than the tuppence a day Sharpe got now after stoppages, but why change one uniform for another? No, he would have to run to some place where the army would never find him, or else it would be the firing squad on some hot morning. A blast of musket shots, a scrape in the red earth for a grave, and next day the rats with wings

would be yanking the guts out of your belly like a bunch of blackbirds tugging worms out of a lawn.

Ahead, from the low rise of land where a second group of horsemen was silhouetted against the furnace whiteness of the sky, a gun fired. The crack of the cannon was immense, a billow of sound that punched hollow and malignant across the plain. The gun's smoke billowed white as the heavy ball thrashed into some bushes, tore leaves and blossoms to tatters, struck dust from the baked ground, then ran on in ever decreasing bounces to lodge against a gnarled fallen tree from which a pale shower of decaying wood spurted. The shot had missed the red-coated infantry by a good two hundred paces, but the sound of the cannon woke up the weary. Jesus!' a voice in the rear file said. 'What was that?'

'A bleeding camel farted, what the hell do you think it was?' a corporal answered.

'It was a bloody awful shot, ' Sharpe said. 'My mother could lay a gun better than that. '

'I didn't think you had a mother, ' Private Garrard said.

'Everyone's got a mother, Tom. '

'Not Sergeant Hakeswill, ' Garrard said, then spat a mix of dust and spittle. The column of men had momentarily halted, not because of any orders, but rather because the cannon shot had unnerved the officer leading the front company who was no longer sure exactly where he was supposed to lead the battalion. 'Hakeswill wasn't born of a mother, ' Garrard said vehemently. He took off his shako and used his sleeve to wipe the dust and sweat from his face. The woollen sleeve left a faint trace of red dye on his forehead. 'Hakeswill was spawned of the devil, ' Garrard said, jamming the shako back on his white-powdered hair.

Sharpe wondered whether Tom Garrard would run with him. Two men might survive better than one. And what about Mary? Would she come? He thought about Mary a lot, when he was not thinking about everything else, except that Mary was inextricably twisted into everything else. It was confusing. She was Sergeant Bickerstaff's widow and she was half Indian and half English and she was twenty-two, which was the same age as Sharpe, or at least he thought it was the same age. It could be that he was twenty-one, or twenty-three; he was not really sure on account of not ever having had a mother to tell him. Of course he did have a mother, everyone had a mother, but not everyone had a Cat Lane whore for a mother who disappeared just after her son was born. The child had been named for the wealthy patron of the foundling home that had raised him, but the naming had not brought Richard Sharpe any patronage, only brought him to the reeking bottom of the army's dungheap. Still, Sharpe reckoned, he could have a future, and Mary spoke

one or two Indian languages which could be useful if he and Tom did run.

The cavalry off to Sharpe's right spurred into a trot again and disappeared beyond the red-blossomed trees, leaving only a drifting cloud of dust behind. Two galloper guns, light six-pounder cannons, followed them, bouncing dangerously on the uneven ground behind their teams of horses. Every other cannon in the army was drawn by oxen, but the galloper guns had horse teams that were three times as fast as the plodding draught cattle. The lone enemy cannon fired again, its brutal sound punching the warm air with an almost palpable impact. Sharpe could see more enemy guns on the ridge, but they were smaller than the gun that had just fired and Sharpe presumed they did not have the long range of the bigger cannon. Then he saw a trace of grey in the air, a flicker like a vertical pencil stroke drawn against the pale blue sky and he knew that the big gun's shot must be coming straight towards him, and he knew too that there was no wind to carry the heavy ball gently aside, and all that he realized in the second or so that the ball was in the air, too short a time to react, only to recognize death's approach, but then the ball slammed into the ground a dozen paces short of him and bounced on up over his head to run harmlessly into a field of sugar cane. 'I reckon the bastards have got your mother laying the gun now, Dick, ' Garrard said.

'No talking now!' Sergeant Hakeswill's voice screeched suddenly. 'Save your godless breath. Was that you talking, Garrard?'

'Not me, Sarge. Ain't got the breath. '

'You ain't got the breath?' Sergeant Hakeswill came hurrying down the company's ranks and thrust his face up towards Garrard. 'You ain't got the breath? That means you're dead, Private Garrard! Dead! No use to King or country if you's dead, but you never was any bleeding use

anyway. ' The Sergeant's malevolent eyes flicked to Sharpe. 'Was it you talking, Sharpie?'

'Not me, Sarge. '

You ain't got orders to talk. If the King wanted you to have a conversation I'd have told you so. Says so in the scriptures. Give me your firelock, Sharpie. Quick now!'

Yet to look at Hakeswill was to see the perfect soldier. It was true that his oddly lumpy face twitched every few seconds as though an evil spirit was twisting and jerking just beneath his sun-reddened skin, but his eyes were blue, his hair was powdered as white as the snow that never fell on this land, and his uniform was as smart as though he stood guard at Windsor Castle. He performed drill like a Prussian, each movement so crisp and clean that it was a pleasure to watch, but then the face would twitch and his oddly childlike eyes would flicker a sideways glance and you could see the devil peering out. Back when he had been a recruiting sergeant Hakeswill had taken care not to let the devil show, and that was when Sharpe had first met him, but now, when the Sergeant no longer needed to gull and trick young fools into the ranks, Hakeswill did not care who saw his malignancy.

Sharpe stood motionless as the Sergeant untied the scrap of rag that Sharpe used to protect his musket's lock from the insidious red dust. Hakeswill peered at the lock, found nothing wrong, then turned away from Sharpe so that the sun could fall full on the weapon. He peered again, cocked the gun, dry-fired it, then seemed to lose interest in the musket as a group of officers spurred their horses towards the head of the stalled column. 'Company!' Hakeswill shouted. 'Company! 'Shun!'

The men shuffled their feet together and straightened as the three officers galloped past. Hakeswill had stiffened into a grotesque pose; his right boot tucked behind his left, his legs straight, his head and shoulders thrown back, his belly thrust forward and his bent elbows straining to meet in the concavity at the small of his back. None of the other companies of the King's 33rd Regiment had been stood to attention in honour of the passing officers, but Hakeswill's gesture of respect was nevertheless ignored. The neglect had no effect on the Sergeant who, when the trio of officers had gone past, shouted at the company to stand easy and then peered again at Sharpe's musket.

Hakeswill, still standing at attention, did an elaborate about turn, his right boot thumping down to the ground. 'Did I hear me give you permission to speak, Sharpie?'

'No, Sarge. '

'I heard that! Who said that?' Hakeswill glared at the company, his face twitching uncontrollably. In a less blithe mood the Sergeant would have ferreted out the speaker and punished him, but the excitement of pending battle persuaded him to let the offence pass. 'A Scot!' he said derisively instead. 'What is the finest thing a Scotsman ever saw? Answer me that!' No one did. 'The high road to England, that's what. Says so in the scriptures, so it must be true. ' He hefted Sharpe's musket as he looked down the waiting ranks. I shall be watching you, ' he snarled. 'You ain't none of you been in a proper fight before, not a proper fight, but on the other side of that bleeding hill there's a horde of black-faced heathens what can't wait to lay their filthy hands on your

womenfolk, so if so much as one of you turns his back I'll have the skin off the lot of you! Bare bones and blood, that's what you'll be. But you does your duty and obeys your orders and you can't go wrong. And who gives the orders?'

The Sergeant waited for an answer and eventually Private Mallinson offered one. 'The officers, Sergeant. '

'The officers! The officers!' Hakeswill spat his disgust at the answer. 'Officers are here to show us what we are fighting for. Gentlemen, they are. Proper gentlemen! Men of property and breeding, not broken potboys and scarlet-coated pickpockets like what you are. Sergeants give the orders. Sergeants is what the army is. Remember that, lads! You're about to go into battle against heathens and if you ignore me then you'll be dead men!' The face twitched grotesquely, its jaw wrenched suddenly sideways, and Sharpe, watching the Sergeant's face, wondered if it was nervousness that had made Hakeswill so voluble. 'But keeps your eyes on me, lads, ' Hakeswill went on, 'and you'll be right as trivets. And you know why?' He cried the last word out in a high dramatic tone as he stalked down the Light Company's front rank. 'You know why?' he asked again, now sounding like some dissenting preacher ranting in a hedgerow. 'Because I cannot die, boys, I cannot die!' He was suddenly intense, his voice hoarse and full of fervour as he spoke. It was a speech that all the Light Company had heard many times before, but it was remarkable for all that, though Sergeant Green, who was outranked by Hakeswill, turned away in disgust. Hakeswill jeered at Green, then tugged at the tight constriction of the leather stock that circled his neck, pulling it down so that an old dark scar was visible at his throat. 'The hangman's noose, boys!' he cried. 'That's what marked me there, the hangman's noose! See it? See it? But I am alive, boys, alive and on two feet instead of being buried under the sod, proof as never was that you needs not die!' His face twitched again as he released the stock. 'Marked by God, ' he finished, his voice

gruff with emotion, 'that's what I am, marked by God!'

'Did you speak, Sharpie!' Hakeswill whipped around to stare at Sharpe, but Sharpe was so palpably still and staring mutely ahead that his innocence was indisputable. Hakeswill paced back down the Light Company. 'I have watched men die, better men than any of you pieces of scum, proper men, but God has spared me! So you do what I says, boys, or else you'll be carrion. ' He abruptly thrust the musket back into Sharpe's hands. 'Clean weapon, Sharpie. Well done, lad. ' He paced smartly away and Sharpe, to his surprise, saw that the scrap of rag had been neatly retied about the lock.

The compliment to Sharpe had astonished all the Light Company. 'He's in a rare good mood, ' Garrard said.

I heard that, Private Garrard!' Hakeswill shouted over his shoulder. 'Got ears in the back of me head, I have. Silence now. Don't want no heathen horde thinking you're frit! You're white men, remember, bleached in the cleansing blood of the bleeding lamb, so no bleeding talking in the ranks! Nice and quiet, like them bleeding nuns what never utters a sound on account of having had their papist tongues cut out. ' He suddenly crashed to attention once again and saluted by bringing his spear-tipped halberd across his body. 'Company all present, sir!' he shouted in a voice that must have been audible on the enemy-held ridge. 'All present and quiet, sir! Have their backs whipped bloody else, sir. '

Lieutenant William Lawford curbed his horse and nodded at Sergeant Hakeswill. Lawford was the Light Company's second officer, junior to Captain Morris and senior to the brace of young ensigns, but he was newly arrived in the battalion and was as frightened of Hakeswill as were the men in the ranks. 'The men can talk, Sergeant, ' Lawford observed mildly. 'The other companies aren't silent. '

'No, sir. Must save their breath, sir. Too bleeding hot to talk, sir, and besides, they got heathens to kill, sir, mustn't

waste breath on chit-chat, not when there are black-faced heathens to kill, sir. Says so in the scriptures, sir. '

'If you say so, Sergeant, ' Lawford said, unwilling to provoke a confrontation, then he found he had nothing else to say and so, awkwardly aware of the scrutiny of the Light Company's seventy-six men, he stared at the enemy-held ridge. But he was also conscious of having ignominiously surrendered to the will of Sergeant Hakeswill and so he slowly coloured as he gazed towards the west. Lawford was popular, but thought to be weak, though Sharpe was not so sure of that judgement. He thought the Lieutenant was still finding his way among the strange and sometimes frightening human currents that made up the 33rd, and that in time Lawford would prove a tough and resilient officer. For now, though, William Lawford was twenty-four years old and had only recently purchased his lieutenancy, and that made him unsure of his authority.

'They've got breath enough to sing a dozen songs and still beat the enemy, ' Fitzgerald said scornfully. 'Ain't that so, lads?'

They never did reach the end. Captain Morris, the Light Company's commanding officer, rode back from the head of the battalion and interrupted the singing. 'Half-companies!' he shouted at Hakeswill.

'Half-companies it is, sir! At once, sir. Light Company! Stop your bleeding noise! You heard the officer!' Hakeswill bellowed. 'Sergeant Green! Take charge of the after ranks. Mister Fitzgerald! I'll trouble you to take your proper place on the left, sir. Forward ranks! Shoulder firelocks! Twenty paces, forward, march! Smartly now! Smartly!'

Hakeswill's face shuddered as the front ten ranks of the company marched twenty paces and halted, leaving the other nine ranks behind. All along the battalion column the companies were similarly dividing, their drill as crisp as though they were back on their Yorkshire parade ground. A quarter-mile off to the 33rd's left another six battalions were going through the same manoeuvre, and performing it with just as much precision. Those six battalions were all native soldiers in the service of the East India Company, though they wore red coats just like the King's men. The six sepoy battalions shook out their colours and Sharpe, seeing the bright flags, looked ahead to where the 33rd's two great regimental banners were being loosed from their leather tubes to the fierce Indian sun. The first, the King's Colour, was a British flag on which the regiment's battle honours were embroidered, while the second was the Regimental Colour and had the 33rd's badge displayed on a scarlet field, the same scarlet as the men's jacket facings. The tasselled silk banners blazed, and the sight of them prompted a sudden cannonade from the ridge. Till now there had only been the one heavy gun firing, but abruptly six other cannon joined the fight. The new guns were smaller and their round shot fell well short of the seven battalions.

Major Shee, the Irishman who commanded the 33rd while its Colonel, Arthur Wellesley, had control of the whole brigade, cantered his horse back, spoke briefly to Morris, then wheeled away towards the head of the column. 'We're going to push the bastards off the ridge!' Morris shouted at the Light Company, then bent his head to light a cigar with a tinderbox. 'Any bastard that turns tail, Sergeant, ' Morris went on when his cigar was properly alight, 'will be shot. You hear me?'

'Scotsmen, ' a voice growled behind Sharpe, but too softly for Hakeswill to hear.

'Irish, ' another man said.

'We ain't none of us cowards, ' Garrard said more loudly.

Sergeant Green, a decent man, hushed him. 'Quiet, lads. I know you'll do your duty. '

The front of the column was marching now, but the rearmost companies were kept waiting so that the battalion could advance with wide intervals between its twenty half-companies. Sharpe guessed that the scattered formation was intended to reduce any casualties caused by the enemy's bombardment which, because it was still being fired at extreme range, was doing no damage. Behind him, a long way behind, the rest of the allied armies were waiting for the ridge to be cleared. That mass looked like a formidable horde, but Sharpe knew that most of what he saw was the two armies' civilian tail: the chaos of merchants, wives, sutlers and herdsmen who kept the fighting soldiers alive and whose supplies would make the siege of the enemy's capital possible. It needed more than six thousand oxen just to carry the cannonballs for the big siege guns, and all those oxen had to be herded and fed and the herdsmen all travelled with their families who, in turn,

The Tippoo Sultan. The enemy. The tyrant of Mysore and the man who was presumably directing the gunfire on the ridge. The Tippoo ruled Mysore and he was the enemy, but what he was, or why he was an enemy, or whether he was a tyrant, beast or demigod, Sharpe had no idea. Sharpe was here because he was a soldier and it was sufficient that he had been told that the Tippoo Sultan was his enemy and so he waited patiently under the Indian sun that was soaking his lean tall body in sweat.

Captain Morris leaned on his saddle's pommel. He took off his cocked hat and wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief that had been soaked in cologne water. He had been drunk the previous night and his stomach was still churning with pain and wind. If the battalion had not been going into battle he would have galloped away, found a private spot and voided his bowels, but he could hardly do that now in case his men thought it a sign of weakness and so he raised his canteen instead and swallowed' some arrack in the hope that the harsh spirit would calm the turmoil in his belly. 'Now, Sergeant!' he called when the company in front had moved sufficiently far ahead.

'Forward half-company!' Hakeswill shouted. 'Forward march! Smartly now!'

Sharpe was ignorant of the Lieutenant's glance and would have laughed had he been told that his very appearance inspired confidence. Sharpe had no conception of how he looked, for he rarely saw a mirror and when he did the reflected image meant nothing, though he did know that the ladies liked him and that he liked them. He knew, too, that he was the tallest man in the Light Company, so tall, indeed, that he should have been in the Grenadier Company that led the battalion's advance, but when he had first joined the regiment, six years before, the commanding officer of the Light Company had insisted on having Sharpe in his ranks. Captain Hughes was dead now, killed by a bowel-loosening flux in Calcutta, but in his time Hughes had prided himself on having the quickest, smartest men in his company, men he could trust to fight alone in the skirmish line, and it had been Hughes's tragedy that he had only ever seen his picked men face an enemy once, and that once had been the misbegotten, fever-ridden expedition to the foggy island off the coast of Flanders where no amount of quick-wittedness by the men could salvage success from the commanding general's stupidity. Now, five years later, on an Indian field, the 33rd again marched towards an enemy, though instead of the enthusiastic and generous Captain Hughes, the Light Corn-

pany was now commanded by Captain Morris who did not care how clever or quick his men were, only that they gave him no trouble. Which was why he had brought Sergeant Hakeswill into the company. And that was why the tall, good-looking, hard-eyed private called Richard Sharpe was thinking of running.

Except he would not run today. Today there would be a fight and Sharpe was happy at that prospect. A fight meant plunder, what the Indian soldiers called loot, and any man who was thinking of running and striking up life on his own could do with a bit of loot to prime the pump.

'When you're told to, lad, when you're told to. Not before. Oh, sweet Jesus!' This last imprecation from Sergeant Green had been caused by a deafening ripple of gunfire from the ridge. A dozen more of the Tippoo's smaller guns had opened fire and the crest of the ridge was now fogged by a grey-white cloud of smoke. The two British galloper guns off to the right had unlimbered and started to return the fire, but the enemy cannon were hidden by their own smoke and that thick screen obscured any damage the small galloper guns might be inflicting. More cavalry trotted forward to the 33rd's right. These newcomers were Indian troops dressed in scarlet turbans and holding long, wicked-pointed lances.

'If you're told to,' Sergeant Green said, 'that's what you'll do. Now hold your bloody tongue.'

'Quiet back there!' Hakeswill called from the half-company in front. 'This ain't a bleeding parish outing! This is a fight, you bastards!'

Then he forgot any prospect of deserting, for suddenly the landscape ahead was filling with enemy soldiers. A mass of infantry was crossing the northern end of the low ridge and marching down onto the plain. Their uniforms were pale purple, they had wide red hats and, like the British Indian troops, were bare-legged. The flags above the marching men were red and yellow, but the wind was so feeble that the flags hung straight down to obscure whatever device they might have shown. More and more men appeared until Sharpe could not even begin to estimate their numbers.

'Thirty-third!' a voice shouted from somewhere ahead. 'Line to the left!'

'You heard the officer!' Sergeant Hakeswill bawled. 'Line to the left! Smartly now!'

'On the double!' Sergeant Green called.

The leading half-company of the 33rd had halted and every other half-company angled to their left and sped their pace, with the final half-company, in which Sharpe marched, having the farthest and fastest to go. The men began to jog, their packs and pouches and bayonet scabbards bumping up and down as they stumbled over the small fields of crops. Like a

swinging door, the column, that had been marching directly towards the ridge, was now turning itself into a line that would lie parallel to the ridge and so bar the advance of the enemy infantry.

'Two files!' a voice shouted.

'Two files!' Captain Morris echoed.

'You heard the officer!' Hakeswill shouted. 'Two files! On the right! Smartly now!'

'You may load, Major Shee!' That was Colonel Wellesley's voice. He had galloped his horse close to where Major Shee brooded under the regiment's twin flags. The six Indian battalions were still hurrying forward on the left, but the enemy infantry had appeared at the northern end of the ridge and that meant the 33rd was the nearest unit and the one most likely to receive the Tippoo's assault.

'Prime!' Seventy-six men trickled a small pinch of powder from the opened cartridges into their muskets' pans, then closed the locks so that the priming was trapped.

'Cast about!' Hakeswill called and seventy-six right hands released their musket stocks so that the weapons' butts dropped towards the ground. 'And I'm watching you!' Hakes-will added. If any of you lily-white bastards don't use all his powder, I'll skin your hides off you and rub salt on your miserable flesh. Do it proper now!' Some old soldiers advised only using half the powder of a cartridge, letting the rest trickle to the ground so that the musket's brutal kick would be diminished, but faced by an advancing enemy, no man thought of employing that trick this day. They poured the remainder of their cartridges' powder down their musket barrels, stuffed the cartridge paper after the powder, then took the balls from their mouths and pushed them into the muzzles. The enemy infantry was two hundred yards away and advancing steadily to the beat of drums and the blare of trumpets. The Tippoo's guns were still firing, but they had turned their barrels away from the 33rd for fear of hitting their own infantry and were instead aiming at the six Indian regiments that were hurrying to close the gap between themselves and the 33rd.

'Draw ramrod!' Hakeswill shouted and Sharpe tugged the ramrod free of the three brass pipes that held it under the musket's thirty-nine-inch barrel. His mouth was salty with the taste of gunpowder. He was still nervous, not because the enemy was tramping ever closer, but because he had a sudden idiotic idea that he might have forgotten how to load a musket. He twisted the ramrod in the air, then placed the ramrod's flared tip into the barrel.

'Ram cartridge!' Hakeswill snapped. Seventy-six men thrust down, forcing the ball, wadding and powder charge to the bottom of the barrels.

'Order arms!' Captain Morris called and the Light Company, now with loaded muskets, stood to attention with their guns held against their right sides. The enemy was still too far off for a musket to be either accurate or lethal and the long, two-deep line of seven hundred redcoats would wait until their opening volley could do real damage.

'Talion!' Sergeant Major Bywaters's voice called from the centre of the line. 'Fix bayonets!'

Sharpe dragged the seventeen-inch blade from its sheatii which hung behind his right hip. He slotted the blade over the musket's muzzle, then locked it in place by twisting its slot onto the lug. Now no enemy could pull the bayonet off the musket. Having the blade mounted made reloading the musket far more difficult, but Sharpe guessed that Colonel Wellesley had decided to shoot one volley and then charge. 'Going to be a right mucky brawl,' he said to Tom Garrard.

'More of them than us,' Garrard muttered, staring at the enemy. 'The buggers look steady enough.'

The enemy indeed looked steady. The leading troops had momentarily paused to allow the men behind to catch up, but now, reformed into a solid column, they were readying to advance again. Their ranks and files were ramrod straight. Their officers wore waist sashes and carried highly curved sabres. One of the flags was being waved to and fro and Sharpe could just make out that it showed a golden sun blazoned against a scarlet sky. Vultures swooped lower. The galloper guns, unable to resist the target of the great column of infantry, poured solid shot into its flank, but the Tippoo's

Sharpe licked his dry lips. So these, he thought, were the Tippoo's men. Fine-looking bastards they were, too, and close enough now so that he could see that their tunics were not plain pale purple, but were instead cut from a creamy-white cloth decorated with mauve tiger stripes. Their crossbelts were black and their turbans and waist sashes crimson. Heathens, they might be, but not to be despised for that, for only seventeen years before these same tiger-striped men had torn apart a British army and forced its survivors to surrender. These were the famed tiger troops of Mysore, the warriors of the Tippoo Sultan who had dominated all of southern India until the British thought to climb the ghats from the coastal plain and plunge into Mysore itself. The French were these men's allies, and some Frenchmen served in the Tippoo's forces, but Sharpe could see no white faces in the massive column that at last was ready and, to the deep beat of a single drum, lurched ponderously forward. The tiger-striped troops were marching directly towards the King's 33rd and Sharpe, glancing to his left, saw that the sepoys of the East India Company regiments were still too far away to offer help. The 33rd would have to deal with the Tippoo's column alone.

'Private Sharpe!' Hakeswill's sudden scream was loud enough to drown the cheer that the Tippoo's troops gave as they advanced. 'Private Sharpe!' Hakeswill screamed again. He was hurrying along the back of the Light Company and Captain Morris, momentarily dismounted, was following him. "Give me your musket, Private Sharpe!' Hakeswill bellowed.

'Nothing wrong with it,' Sharpe protested. He was in the front rank and had to turn and push his way between Garrard and Mallinson to hand the gun over.

Morris peered at the flint. 'Sell the flint, did you, Private?' he asked in a voice that mingled derision, pleasure and bitterness.

'No, sir.'

'It is a flogging offence,' Morris said with a tone of satisfaction. He was as tall and lean as Sharpe, with fair hair and a fine-boned face that was just beginning to show the ravages of the liquor with which the Captain assuaged his boredom. His eyes betrayed his cynicism and something much worse: that he despised his men. Hakeswill and Morris, Sharpe thought as he watched them, a right bloody pair.

'Nothing wrong with that flint, sir,' Sharpe insisted.

Morris gave Hakeswill a furious look then turned on his heel and strode back towards his horse. Lawford tossed the flint to Sharpe. 'Make your gun ready, Sharpe,' he said.

'I'II have the leather as well, Sergeant,' Sharpe said and, once he had the flint's seating back, he called after Hakeswill who had begun to walk away. 'Sergeant!'

Hakeswill turned back.

' You want this, Sergeant?' Sharpe called. He took a chip of stone out of his pocket. He had found it when he had untied the rag from the musket's lock and realized that Hakeswill had substituted the stone for the flint when he had pretended to inspect Sharpe's musket. 'No use to me, Sergeant,' Sharpe said. 'Here.' He tossed the stone at Hakeswill who ignored it. Instead the Sergeant spat and turned away. 'Thanks, Tom,' Sharpe said, for it had been Garrard who had supplied him with a spare flint.

'Eyes to your front, lads!' Ensign Fitzgerald called. The Irish Ensign was the youngest officer in the company, but he had the confidence of a much older man. 'Got some shooting to do.'

Sharpe pushed back into his file. He brought up the musket, folded the leather over the flint and seated it in the doghead, men looked up to see that the mass of the enemy was now

just a hundred paces away. They were shouting rhythmically and pausing occasionally to let a trumpet sound or a drum flourish a ripple, but the loudest sound was the beat of their feet on the dry earth. Sharpe tried to count the column's front rank, but kept losing count as enemy officers marched slantwise across the column's face. There had to be thousands of the tiger troops, all marching like a great sledgehammer to shatter the two-deep line of redcoats.

'Cutting it fine, aren't we?' a man complained.

'Wait lads, wait,' Sergeant Green said calmly.

The enemy now filled the landscape ahead. They came in a column formed of sixty ranks of fifty men, three thousand in all, though to Sharpe's inexperienced eye it seemed as if there must be ten times that number. None of the Tippoo's men fired as they advanced, but held their fire just as the 33rd were holding theirs. The enemy's muskets were tipped with bayonets while their officers were holding deeply curved sabres. On they came and to Sharpe, who was watching the column from the left of the line so that he could see its flank as well as its leading file, the enemy formation seemed as unstoppable as a heavily loaded farm wagon that was rolling slowly and inexorably towards a flimsy fence.

He could see the enemy's faces now. They were dark, with black moustaches and oddly white teeth. The tiger men were close, so close, and their chanting began to dissolve into individual war shouts. Any second now, Sharpe thought, and the heavy column would break into a run and charge with levelled bayonets.

'Thirty-third!' Colonel Wellesley's voice called out sharply from beneath the regiment's colours. 'Make ready!'

Sharpe put his right foot behind his left so that his body half turned to the right, then he brought his musket to hip height and pulled the hammer back to full cock. It clicked solidly into place, and somehow the pent-up pressure of the gun's mainspring was reassuring. To the approaching enemy

Seven hundred muskets came up to seven hundred shoulders. The muskets were tipped with steel, seven hundred muskets aimed at the head of the column and about to blast seven hundred ounces of lead at the leading ranks of that fast-moving, confident mass that was plunging straight towards the pair of British colours under which Colonel Arthur Wellesley waited. The tiger men were hurrying now, their front rank breaking apart as they began running. The wagon was about to hit the fence.

'Colonel?' The Tippoo was a short man inclined to plumpness, with a moustached face, wide eyes and a prominent nose. He was not an impressive-looking man, but Gudin knew the Tippoo's unprepossessing appearance disguised a decisive mind and a brave heart. Although the Tippoo acknowledged Gudin, he did not turn to look at the Colonel. Instead he leaned forward in his saddle with one hand clasped over the tiger hilt of his curved sabre as he watched his infantry march on the infidel British. The sword was slung on a silken sash that crossed the pale yellow silk jacket that the Tippoo wore above chintz trousers. His turban was of red silk and pinned with a gold badge showing a tiger's mask. The Tippoo's every possible accoutrement was decorated with the tiger, for the tiger was his mascot and inspiration, but the badge on his turban also incorporated his reverence for Allah, for the tiger's snarling face was formed by a cunning cipher that spelled out a verse of the Koran: 'The Lion of God is the Conqueror.' Above it, pinned to the turban's brief white plume and brilliant in the day's sunlight, there glittered a ruby the size of a pigeon's egg. 'Colonel?' the Tippoo said again.

'It might be wise, Your Majesty,' Gudin suggested hesitantly, 'if we advanced cannon and cavalry onto the British flank.' Gudin gestured to where the 33rd waited in its thin red line to receive the charge of the Tippoo's column. If the Tippoo threatened a flank of that fragile line with cavalry

then the British regiment would be forced to shrink into square and thus deny three quarters of their muskets a chance to fire at the column.

The Tippoo shook his head. 'We shall sweep that scum away with our infantry, Gudin, then send the cavalry against the baggage.' He let go of his sword's hilt to touch his fingers fleetingly together. 'Please Allah.'

'Then we shall fight them from the walls of Seringapatam,' the Tippoo answered, and turned briefly from watching the imminent battle to offer Colonel Gudin a quick smile. It was not a friendly smile, but a feral grimace of anticipation. 'We shall destroy them with cannon, Colonel,' the Tippoo continued with relish, 'and shatter them with rockets, and in a few weeks the monsoon will drown their survivors, and after that, if Allah pleases, we shall hunt fugitive Englishmen from here to the sea.'

'If Allah pleases,' Gudin said resignedly. Officially he was an adviser to the Tippoo, sent by the Directorate in Paris to help Mysore defeat the British, and the patient Gudin had just done his best to give advice and it was none of his fault if the advice was spurned. He brushed flies from his face, then watched as the 33rd brought their muskets to their shoulders. When those muskets flamed, the Frenchman thought, the front of the Tippoo's column would crumple like a honeycomb hit by a hammer, but at least the slaughter would teach the Tippoo that battles could not be won against disciplined troops unless every weapon was used against them: cavalry to force them to bunch up in protection, then artillery and infantry to pour fire into the massed ranks. The Tippoo surely knew that, yet he had insisted on throwing his three thousand infantry forward without cavalry support, and Gudin could only suppose that either the Tippoo believed Allah would be

fighting on his side this afternoon, or else he was so consumed by his famous victory over the British seventeen years before that he believed he could always beat them in open conflict.

Gudin slapped at flies again. It was time, he thought, to go home. Much as he liked India he felt frustrated. He suspected that the government in Paris had forgotten about his existence, and he was keenly aware that the Tippoo was not receptive to his advice. He did not blame the Tippoo; Paris had made so many promises, but no French army had come to fight for Mysore and Gudin sensed the Tippoo's disappointment and even sympathized with it, while Gudin himself felt useless and abandoned. Some of his contemporaries were already generals; even little Bonaparte, a Corsican whom Gudin had known slightly in Toulon, now had an army of his own, while Jean Gudin was stranded in distant Mysore. Which made victory all the more important, and if the British were not broken here then they would have to be beaten by the massed artillery and rockets that waited on Seringapa-tam's walls. That was also where Gudin's small battalion of European soldiers was waiting, and Seringapatam, he suspected, was where this campaign would be decided. And if there was victory, and if the British were thrown out of southern India, then Gudin's reward would surely be back in France. Back home where the flies did not swarm like mice.

The enemy regiment waited with levelled muskets. The Tippoo's men cheered and charged impetuously onwards. The Tippoo leaned forward, unconsciously biting his lower lip as he waited for the impact.

For, beneath him, the killing had begun.

'Fire!' Colonel Wellesley shouted.

The brass butt of the gun slammed into Sharpe's shoulder. He had aimed the weapon at a sashed officer leading the enemy column, though even at sixty yards' range it was hardly worth aiming a musket for it was a frighteningly inaccurate weapon, but unless the ball flew high it ought to hit someone. He could not tell what damage the volley had caused for the instant the musket banged into his shoulder his vision was obscured by the filmy bank of rolling smoke coughed out of the seven hundred musket muzzles. He could hardly hear anything either, for the sound of the rear rank muskets, going off close beside his head, had left his ears ringing. His right hand automatically went to find a new cartridge from his pouch, but then, above the ringing in his ears, he heard the Colonel's brusque voice. 'Forward! Thirty-third, forward!'

'Go on, boys!' Sergeant Green called. 'Steady now! Don't run! Walk!'

The regiment marched into the musket smoke which stank like rotting eggs. Lieutenant Lawford suddenly remembered to draw his sword. He could see nothing beyond the smoke, but imagined a terrible enemy waiting with raised muskets. He touched the pocket of his coat in which he kept the Bible given to him by his mother.

The front rank advanced clear of the stinking smoke fog and suddenly there was nodiing ahead but chaos and carnage.

Sharpe advanced no farther. Orner men ran past, screaming as they pursued the fleeing enemy, but Sharpe had found his victim. He had thrust the bayonet so hard that the blade had gone clean through the officer's neck into the soil beneath and it was hard work to pull the steel free, and in the end he had to put a boot on the dying man's forehead before he could tug the bayonet out. Blood gushed from the wound, men subsided to a throbbing pulse of spilling red as Sharpe knelt and began rifling the man's gaudy uniform, oblivious

The man gasped, made a choking sound, then his whole body jerked as his heart finally gave up the struggle. Sharpe tore at the tunic that was decorated with mauve tiger stripes. He felt the seams, looking for coins, found none so pulled off the wide red turban that was sticky with fresh blood. The dead man's face was already crawling with flies. Sharpe pulled the turban apart and there, in the very centre of the greasy cloth, he found three silver and a dozen small copper coins. 'Knew you'd have something,' he told the dead man, then pushed the coins into his own pouch.

The cavalry was finishing off the remnants of the Tippoo's infantry. The Tippoo himself, with his entourage and standard-bearers, had gone from the top of the ridge, and there were no cannon firing there either. The enemy had slipped away, abandoning their trapped infantry to the sabres and lances of the British and Indian cavalry. The Indian cavalry had been recruited from the city of Madras and the East Coast states which had all suffered from the Tippoo's raids and now they took a bloody revenge, whooping and laughing as their blades cut down the terrified fugitives. Some cavalrymen, running out of targets, were already dismounted and searching the dead for plunder. The sepoy infantry, too late to join the killing, arrived to join the plunder.

Sharpe twisted the bayonet off his musket, wiped it clean on the dead man's sash, scooped up the sabre and pistol, then went to find more loot. He was grinning, and thinking that there was nothing to this fighting business, nothing at all. A few shots in Flanders, one volley here; and neither fight was worthy of the name battle. Flanders had been a muddle and this fight had been as easy as slaughtering sheep. No wonder Sergeant Hakeswill would live for ever. And so would he, Sharpe reckoned, because there was nothing to this business. Just a couple of bangs and it was all over. He laughed, slid the bayonet into its sheath and knelt beside another dead man. There was work to do and a future to finance.

If only he could decide where it would be safe to run.

CHAPTER 2

Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill glanced about to see what his men were doing. Just about all of them were plundering, and quite right too. That was a soldier's privilege. Fight the battle then strip the enemy of anything worth a penny. The officers were not looting, but officers never did, at least not so that anyone noticed them, but Hakeswill did see that Ensign Fitzgerald had somehow managed to get himself a jewelled sabre that he was now flashing around like a shilling whore given a guinea fan. Mister bloody Ensign Fitzgerald was getting above himself in Sergeant Hakeswill's considered opinion. Ensigns were the lowest of the low, apprentice officers, lads in silver lace, and Mister bloody Fitzgerald had no business countermanding Hakeswill's orders so Mister bloody Fitzgerald must be taught his place, but the trouble was that Mister Fitzgerald was Irish and Hakeswill was of the opinion that the Irish were only half civilized and never did understand their place. Most of them, anyway. Major Shee was Irish, and he was civilized, at least when he was sober, and Colonel Wellesley, who was from Dublin, was wholly civilized, but the Colonel had possessed the sense to make himself more English than the English, while Mister bloody Fitzgerald made no pretence about his birth.

'See this, Hakeswill?' Fitzgerald, sublimely unaware of Hakeswill's glowering thoughts, stepped across a body to show off his new sabre.

'Nonsense!' Fitzgerald said cheerfully. 'Best rubies! Bit small, maybe, but I doubt the ladies will mind that. Seven pieces of glitter? That adds up to a week of sin, Sergeant. It was worth killing the rascal for that.'

who had won the brutal lottery that had taken place on the night before the battalion had sailed from England. The wives had been gathered in a barrack room, their names had been put into ten shakos, one for each company, and the first ten names drawn from each hat were allowed to accompany their husbands. The rest had to stay in Britain, and what happened to them there was anybody's guess. Most went on the parish, but parishes resented feeding soldiers' wives, so as Eke as not they were forced to become whores. Barrack-gate whores, for the most part, because they lacked the looks for anything better. But a few, a precious few, were pretty, and none was prettier than Sergeant Bickerstaff's half and half widow.

The women spread out among the dead and dying Mysore-ans. If anything they were even more efficient than their men at plundering the dead, for the men tended to hurry and so missed the hiding places where a soldier secreted his money. Hakeswill watched Flora Placket strip me body of a tall tiger-striped corpse whose throat had been slashed to the backbone by the slice of a cavalryman's sabre. She did not rush her work, but searched carefully, garment by garment, then handed each piece of clothing to one of her two children to fold and stack. Hakeswill approved of Flora Placket for she was a large and steady woman who kept her man in good order and made no fuss about a campaign's discomforts. She was a good mother too, and that was why Obadiah did not care that Flora Placket was as ugly as a haversack. Mothers were sacred. Mothers were not expected to be pretty. Mothers were Obadiah Hakeswill's guardian angels, and Flora Placket reminded Obadiah of his own mother who was the only person in all his life who had shown him kindness. Biddy Hakeswill was long dead now, she had died a year before the twelve-year-old Obadiah had dangled on a scaffold for the trumped-up charge of sheep stealing and, to amuse the crowd, the executioner had not let any of that day's victims drop from the gallows, but had instead hoisted them gently into

A groan sounded near Hakeswill and the Sergeant snapped out of his reverie to see a tiger-striped Indian struggling to turn onto his belly. Hakeswill scurried over, forced the man onto his back again and placed his halberd's spear point at the man's throat. 'Money?' Hakeswill snarled, then held out his left hand and motioned the counting of coins. 'Money?'

The man blinked slowly, then said something in his own language.

' I'II let you live, you bugger,' Hakeswill promised, leering at the wounded man. 'Not that you'll live long. Got a goolie in your belly, see?' He pointed at the wound in the man's belly where the bullet had driven home. 'Now where's your money? Money! Pice? Dan? Pagodas? Annas? Rupees?'

The man must have understood for his hand fluttered weakly towards his chest.

'Good boy, now,' Hakeswill said, smiling again, then his face jerked in its involuntary spasms as he pushed the spear point home, but not too quickly for he liked to see the realization of death on a man's face. 'You're a stupid bugger, too,' Hakeswill said when the man's death throes had ended, then he cut open the tunic and found that the man had strapped

He saw Sharpe kneeling beside a body and hurried across. 'Got a sword there, Sharpie?' Hakeswill asked. 'Stole it, did you?'

'I killed the man, Sergeant.' Sharpe looked up.

'Doesn't bleeding matter, does it, lad? You ain't permitted to carry a sword. Officer's weapon, a sword is. Mustn't get above your station, Sharpie. Get above yourself, boy, and you'll be cut down. So I'll take the blade, I will.' Hakeswill half expected Sharpe to resist, but the Private did nothing as the Sergeant picked up the silver-hilled blade. 'Worth a few bob, I dare say,' Hakeswill said appreciatively, then he laid the sword's tip against the stock at Sharpe's neck. 'Which is more than you're worth, Sharpie. Too clever for your own good, you are.'

'But you do, boy, you do.' Hakeswill grimaced as his face went into spasm. 'And you know what the quarrel's about, don't you?'

Sharpe backed away from the sword. T ain't got a quarrel with you,' he repeated stubbornly.

'That's what you say, but my eyes tell different.' Hakeswill giggled. 'Sweet on each other, are you? You and Mister Lawford? Ain't that nice, Sharpie, but it don't make you much use to Mrs Bickerstaff, does it? Reckon she'd be better off with a real man.'

'She ain't your business,' Sharpe said.

He walked towards her and, as ever, was struck by the beauty of the girl. She had black hair, a thin face and dark big eyes that could spark with mischief. Now, though, she looked worried. 'What did Hakeswill want?' she asked.

'You.'

She spat, then crouched again to the body she was searching. 'He can't touch you, Richard,' she said, 'not if you do your duty.'

'You've just got to be clever,' Mary insisted. She was a soldier's daughter who had grown up in the Calcutta barrack lines. She had inherited her dark Indian beauty from her mother and learned the ways of soldiers from her father who had been an engineer sergeant in the Old Fort's garrison before an outbreak of cholera had killed him and his native wife. Mary's father had always claimed she was pretty enough to many an officer and so rise in the world, but no officer would marry a half-caste, at least no officer who cared about advancement, and so after her parents' death Mary had married Sergeant Jem Bickerstaff of the 33rd, a good man, but Bickerstaff had died of the fever shortly after the army had left Madras to climb to the Mysore plateau and Mary, at twenty-two, was now an orphan and a widow. She was also wise to the army's ways. 'If you're made up to sergeant, Richard,' she told Sharpe now, 'then Hakeswill can't touch you.'

Sharpe laughed. 'Me? A sergeant? That'll be the day, lass. I made corporal once, but that didn't last.'

Sharpe shrugged. 'It ain't me he wants to touch, lass, but you.'

Mary had been cutting a tiger-striped tunic from a dead man, but now she paused and looked quizzically up at Sharpe. She had not been in love with Jem Bickerstaff, but she had recognized that the Sergeant was a good, kind man, and she saw the same decency in Sharpe. It was not exactly the same decency, for Sharpe, she reckoned, had ten times Jem Bickerstaff's fire and he could be as cunning as a snake when it suited him, but Mary still trusted Sharpe. She was also attracted to him. There was something very striking about Sharpe's lean good looks, something dangerous, she acknowledged, but very exciting. She looked at him for a few seconds, then shrugged. 'Maybe he won't dare touch me if we're married,' she said. 'I mean proper married, with the Colonel's permission.'

'Married!' Sharpe said, flustered by the word.

Mary stood. Tt ain't easy being a widow in the army, Richard. Every man reckons you're loot.'

'Aye, I know it's hard,' Sharpe said, frowning. He stared at her as he thought about the idea of getting married. Till now he had only been thinking of desertion, but maybe marriage was not such a bad idea. At least it would make it much harder for Hakeswill to get his hands on Mary's skin. And a married man, Sharpe reckoned, was more likely to be promoted. But what was the point of rising an inch or two in the dunghill? Even a sergeant was still at the bottom of the heap. It was better to be out of the army altogether and Mary, Sharpe decided, would be more likely to desert with him if she was properly married to him. That thought made him nod slowly. 'I reckon I might like to be married,' he said shyly.

'Me too.' She smiled and, awkwardly, Sharpe smiled back. For a moment neither had anything to say, then Mary excitedly fished in the pocket of her apron to produce a jewel she had taken from a dead man. 'Look what I found!' She

Sharpe tossed the stone up and down. 'I reckon it's glass, lass,' he said gently, 'just glass. But I'll get you a ruby for a wedding gift, just you watch me.'

The allied armies camped a quarter of a mile short of the place where the dead lay. The camp sprawled across the plain: an instant town where fifty thousand soldiers and thousands of camp followers would spend the night. Tents went up for officers well away from the places where the vast herds of cattle were guarded for the night. Some of the cattle were beeves, being herded and slaughtered for food, some were oxen that carried panniers filled with the eighteen- and twenty-four-pounder cannonballs that would be needed to blast a hole through the walls of Seringapatam, while yet others were bullocks that hauled the wagons and guns, and the heaviest guns, the big siege pieces, needed sixty bullocks apiece. There were more than two hundred thousand cattle with the army, but all were now scrawny for the Tippoo's cavalry was stripping the land of fodder as the British and Hyderabad armies advanced.

the throat-burning skins of arrack which could make a man drunk even faster than rum. Some of the bhinjarms also hired out whores and the 33rd gave those men good business that night.

Captain Morris expected to visit the famous green tents of Naig, the bhinjanie whose stock in trade was the most expensive whores of Madras, but for now he was stuck in his own tent where, under the feeble light of a candle that flickered on his table, he disposed of the company's business. Or rather Sergeant Hakeswill disposed of it while Morris, his coat unbuttoned and silk stock loosened, sprawled in a camp chair. Sweat dripped down his face. There was a small wind, but the muslin screen hanging at the entrance to the tent took away its cooling effects, and if the screen was discarded the tent would fill with savagely huge moths. Morris hated moths, hated the heat, hated India. 'Guard rosters, sir,' Hakeswill said, offering the papers.

'Anything I should know?'

'Not a thing, sir. Just like last week's, sir. Ensign Hicks made up the roster, sir. A good man, sir, Ensign Hicks. Knows his place.'

'You mean he does what you tell him to do?' Morris asked drily.

Morris ignored the sly reference to Fitzgerald and instead dipped his quill in ink and scrawled his name at the foot of the rosters. 'I assume Ensign Fitzgerald and Sergeant Green have been assigned all the night duty?' he asked.

'They needs the practice, sir.'

'And you need your sleep, Sergeant?'

'Punishment book, sir,' Hakeswill said, offering the leather-bound ledger and taking back the guard roster without acknowledging Morris's last comment.

Morris leafed through the book. 'No floggings this week?'

'Private Sharpe escaped you today, eh?' Morris laughed. 'Losing your touch, Obadiah.' There was no friendliness in his use of the Christian name, just scorn, but Sergeant Hakeswill took no offence. Officers were officers, at least those above ensigns were proper officers in Hakeswill's opinion, and such gentlemen had every right to be scornful of lesser ranks.

'I ain't losing nothing, sir,' Hakeswill answered equably. 'If the rat don't die first shake, sir, then you puts the dog in again. That's how it's done, sir. Says so in the scriptures. Sick report, sir. Nothing new, except that Sears has the fever, so he won't be with us long, but he won't be no loss, sir. No good to man or beast, Private Sears. Better off dead, he is.'

'Are we done?' Morris asked when he had signed the sick report, but then a tactful cough sounded at the tent's opening and Lieutenant Lawford ducked under the flap and pushed through the muslin screen.

'Always pleased to see you, William,' Morris said sarcastically, 'but I was about to go for a stroll.'

'There's a soldier to see you,' Lawford explained. 'Man's got a request, sir.'

'Private Sharpe, sir.'

'Troublemaker, sir,' Hakeswill put in.

'Let him in,' Morris said. He sipped from a tin mug of arrack while Sharpe negotiated the muslin screen and then

'Full complement, sir! No room for more, sir! Full up, sir. Not a vacancy to be had. Shall I dismiss Private Sharpe, sir?'

'Yes, sir,' Hakeswill answered.

'Didn't know the man was even married,' Morris said. 'Official wife, was she?'

'Very official, sir,' Hakeswill answered. 'On the company strength, sir. Colonel's signature on the certificate, sir. Proper married before God and the army, sir.'

Sharpe looked embarrassed. 'Just do, sir,' he said lamely.

'Can't say I disapprove of marriage,' Morris said. 'Steadies a man does marriage, but a fellow like you, Sharpe, can do better than a soldier's widow, can't you? Dreadful creatures, soldiers' widows! Used goods, Private. Fat and greasy, like lumps of lard wrapped up in linen. Get yourself a sweet litde bibbi, man, something that ain't yet run to seed."

'Very good advice, sir,' Hakeswill said, his face twitching. 'Words of wisdom, sir. Shall I dismiss him, sir?'

'Mary Bickerstaff is a good woman, sir,' Lieutenant Lawford said. The Lieutenant, whom Sharpe had first approached with his request, was eager to do his best. 'Sharpe could do a lot worse than marry Mary Bickerstaff, sir.'

Morris cut a cigar and lit it from the guttering candle that burned on his camp table. 'White, is she?' he asked negligently.

'Half bibbi and half Christian, sir,' Hakeswill said, 'but she had a good man for her husband.' He sniffed, pretending that he was suddenly overcome with emotion. 'And Jem Bickerstaff ain't this month in his grave, sir. Too soon for the trollop to marry again. It ain't right, sir. Says so in the scriptures.'

Morris offered Hakeswill a cynical glance. 'Don't be absurd, Sergeant. Most army widows marry the next day! The ranks are hardly high society, you know.'

'But Jem Bickerstaff was a friend of mine, sir,' Hakeswill said, sniffing again and even cuffing at an invisible tear. 'Friend of mine, sir,' he repeated more hoarsely, 'and on his dying bed, sir, he begged me to look after his little wife, sir. I know she ain't through and through white, he told me, but she deserves to be looked after. His very dying words, sir.'

'He bloody hated you!' Sharpe could not resist the words.

'Quiet in front of an officer!' Hakeswill shouted. 'Speak when you're spoken to, boy, and otherwise keep your filthy mouth buttoned like God wanted it.'

Morris waited till Sharpe was gone, then looked up at Lawford. 'Nothing more, Lieutenant?'

Lawford hesitated, then nodded. 'Good night, sir,' he said and ducked under the muslin screen.

Morris waited until he was certain that both men were out of earshot. 'Now what do we do?' he asked Hakeswill.

'Tell the silly bugger that Major Shee refused permission, sir.'

'And Willie Lawford will talk to the Major and find that he didn't. Or else he'll go straight to Wellesley. Lawford's uncle is on the staff, or had you forgotten that? Use your wits, man!' Morris slapped at a moth that had managed to slip through the screen. 'What do we do?' he asked again.

Hakeswill sat on a stool opposite the camp table. He scratched his head, glanced into the night, then looked back to Morris. 'He's a sharp one, Sharpie, he is. Slippery. But I'll do him.' He paused. 'Of course, sir, if you helped, it'd be quicker. Much quicker.'

Morris looked dubious. 'The girl will only find herself another protector,' he said. 'I think you're wasting my time, Sergeant.'

Morris stood, pulled on his jacket and picked up his hat and sword. 'You think I'd share your woman, Hakeswill?' The Captain shuddered. 'And get your pox?'

'Pox, sir? Me, sir?' Hakeswill stood. 'Not me, sir. Clean as

a whistle, I am, sir. Cured, sir. Mercury.' His face twitched. 'Ask the surgeon, sir, he'll tell you.'

Morris hesitated, thinking of Mary Bickerstaff. He thought a great deal about Mary Bickerstaff. Her beauty ensured that, and men on campaign were deprived of beauty and so Mary's allure only increased with every mile the army marched westwards. Morris was not alone. On the night when Mary's husband had died, the 33rd's officers, at least those who had a mind for such games, had wagered which of them would first take the widow to their bed and so far none of them had succeeded. Morris wanted to win, not only for the fourteen guineas that would accrue to the successful seducer, but because he had become besotted by the woman. Soon after she had become a widow he had asked Mary to do his laundry, thinking that thereby he could begin the intimacy he craved, but she had refused him with a lacerating scorn. Morris wanted to punish her for that scorn, and Hakeswill, with his intuition for other men's weaknesses, had sensed what Morris wanted and promised he would arrange everything. Naig, Hakeswill assured his bitter officer, had a way of breaking reluctant girls. 'There ain't a bibbi born that Nasty can't break, sir,' Hakeswill had promised Morris, 'and he'd give a small fortune for a proper white one. Not that Mrs Bickerstaff's proper white, sir, not like a Christian, but in the dark she'd pass well enough.' The Sergeant needed Morris's help in ridding Mrs Bickerstaff of Richard Sharpe and as an inducement he had offered Morris the free run of Naig's tent. In return, Morris knew, Hakeswill would expect a lifetime's patronage. As Morris climbed the army's ranks, so Hakeswill would be drawn ineluctably after him and with each step the Sergeant would garner more power and influence.

'So when will you free Mrs Bickerstaff of Sharpe?' Morris asked, buckling his sword belt.

'I might.'

Morris clapped the cocked hat on his head, made sure his purse was in his coat-tail pocket and ducked under the muslin. 'Carry on, Sergeant,' he called back.

'Sir!' Hakeswill stood to attention for a full ten seconds after the Captain was gone, and then, with a sly grin twitching on his lumpy face, followed Morris into the night.

The temple was surrounded by a wall through which one gate led, though the wall was not high and the gate was never shut. Villagers left small offerings of leaves, flowers and food in niches of the gateposts, and sometimes they would go into the temple itself, cross the courtyard and climb to the inner shrine where they would place their small gifts beneath the image of a god, but at night, when the Indian sky lay black over a heat-exhausted land, no one would ever dream of disturbing the gods.

But this night, the night after battle, a man entered the temple. He was tall and thin, with white hair and a harsh, suntanned face. He was over sixty years old, but his back was still straight and he moved with the ease of a much younger man. Like many Europeans who had lived a long time in India he was prone to bouts of debilitating fever, but otherwise he was in sterling health, and Colonel Hector McCandless ascribed that good health to his religion and to a regimen that abjured alcohol, tobacco and meat. His religion was Calvinism for Hector McCandless had grown up in Scotland

and the godly lessons that had been whipped into his young, earnest soul had never been forgotten. He was an honest man, a tough man, and a wise one.

'If you were not in that uniform,' a voice said a few moments later, 'I would think you were at your prayers.'

years before, he had been an officer in one of McCandless's sepoy battalions and it was that old acquaintanceship, which had verged upon friendship, that had persuaded McCandless it was worth risking his own life to talk to Appah Rao. Appah Rao had served under McCandless's orders until his father had died, and then, trained as a soldier, he had returned to his native Mysore. Today he had watched from the ridge as the Tippoo's infantry had been massacred by a single British volley. The experience had made him sour, but he forced a grudging courtesy into his voice. 'So you're still alive, Major?' Appah Rao spoke in Kanarese, the language of the native Mysoreans.

Appah Rao grunted, then sat opposite McCandless. Behind him, beyond the sunken courtyard where they were framed by the temple's gateway, were two soldiers. They were Appah Rao's escort and McCandless knew they must be trusted men, for if the Tippoo Sultan were ever to discover that this meeting had taken place then Appah Rao and all his family would be killed. Unless, of course, the Tippoo already knew and was using Appah Rao to make some mischief of his own.

The Tippoo's General was dressed in his master's tiger-striped tunic, but over it he wore a sash of the finest silk and slung across his shoulder was a second silk sash from which hung a gold-hiked sword. His boots were red leather and his hat a coil of watered red silk on which a milky-blue jewel gleamed soft in the lantern's flickering light. 'You were at Malavelly today?' he asked McCandless.

'So you know what happened?'

'I know the Tippoo sacrificed hundreds of your people,' McCandless said. 'Your people, General, not his.'

Appah Rao dismissed the distinction. 'The people follow him.'

'Because they have no choice. They follow, but do they love him?'

'Some do,' Appah Rao answered. 'But what does it matter? Why should a ruler want his people's love? Their obedience, yes, but love? Love is for children, McCandless, and for gods and for women.'

McCandless smiled, tacitly yielding the argument which was not important. He did not have to persuade Appah Rao to treachery, the very presence of the Mysorean General was proof that he was already halfway to betraying the Tippoo, but McCandless did not expect the General to yield gracefully. There was pride at stake here, and Appah Rao's pride was great and needed to be handled as gently as a cocked duelling pistol. Appah Rao had always been thus, even when he was a young man in the Company's army, and McCandless approved of that pride. He had always respected Appah Rao, and still did, and he believed Appah Rao returned the respect. It was in that belief that the Colonel had sent a message to Seringapatam. The message was carried by one of the Company's native agents who wandered as a naked fakir through southern India. The message had been concealed in the man's long greasy hair and it had invited Appah Rao to a reunion with his old commanding officer. The reply had specified this temple and this night as the rendezvous. Appah Rao was flirting with treachery, but that did not mean he was finding it either easy or pleasant.

'I have a gift,' McCandless said, changing the subject, 'for your Rajah.'

'And who will stand behind his throne?' Appah Rao demanded. 'Men in red coats?'

'To trade. That is the Company's business: trade. Why should we become rulers?'

Appah Rao sneered. 'Because you always do. You come as merchants, but you bring guns and use them to make yourselves into taxmen, judges and executioners. Then you bring your churches.' He shuddered.

'We come to trade,' McCandless insisted equably. 'And what would you prefer, General? To trade with the British or be ruled by Muslims?'

And that, McCandless knew, was the question that had brought Appah Rao to this temple in the dark night. Mysore was a Hindu country and its ancient rulers, the Wodeyars, were Hindus like their people, but the Tippoo's father, the fierce Hyder Ali, had come from the north and conquered their state and the Tippoo had inherited his father's stolen throne. To give himself a shred of legality the Tippoo, like his father before him, kept the old ruling family alive, but the Wodeyars were now reduced to poverty and to ceremonial appearances only. The new Rajah was scarce more than a child, but to many of Mysore's Hindus he was still their rightful monarch, though that was an opinion best kept secret from the Tippoo.

Appah Rao had not answered the Scotsman's question, so McCandless phrased it differently. 'Are you the last Hindu senior officer in the Tippoo's army?'

'There are others,' Appah Rao said evasively.

Appah Rao paused. 'Fed to his tigers,' he eventually admitted.

'And soon, General,' McCandless said softly, 'there will be no more Hindu officers in Mysore and some very fat tigers. And if you defeat us you will still not be safe. The French will come.'

Appah Rao shrugged. 'There are already Frenchmen in Seringapatam. They demand nothing of us.'