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He leaned away from the fire, trying to make a small private space where they could talk without being overheard. ‘Got to be a better life than this, love,’ he said.
‘Don’t do it!’ Mary said fiercely, but laying a hand on his cheek as she spoke. Some of the men on the other side of the fire saw the tender gesture and greeted it with a chorus of jeers and whistles. Mary ignored them. ‘They’ll catch you, Richard,’ she insisted, ‘catch you and shoot you.’
‘Not if we run far enough.’
‘We?’ she asked cautiously.
‘I’d want you, lass.’
Mary took hold of one of his hands and squeezed it. ‘Listen,’ she hissed. ‘Work to become a sergeant! Once you’re a sergeant, you’re made. You could even become an officer! Don’t laugh, Richard! Mister Lambert in Calcutta, he was a sergeant once, and he was a private before that. They made him up to ensign.’
Sharpe smiled and traced a finger down her cheek. ‘You’re mad, Mary. I love you, but you’re mad. I couldn’t be an officer! You have to know how to read!’
‘I can teach you,’ Mary said.
Sharpe glanced at her with some surprise. He had never known she could read and the knowledge made him somewhat nervous of her. ‘I wouldn’t want to be an officer anyway,’ he said scathingly. ‘Stuck-up bastards, all of them.’
‘But you can be a sergeant,’ Mary insisted, ‘and a good one. But don’t run, love. Whatever you do, don’t run.’
‘Is that the lovebirds?’ Sergeant Hakeswill’s mocking voice cut through their conversation. ‘Ah, it’s sweet, isn’t it? Good to see a couple in love. Restores a man’s faith in human nature, it does.’
Sharpe and Mary sat up and disentangled their fingers as the Sergeant stalked through the ring of men beside the fire. ‘I want you, Sharpie,’ Hakeswill said when he reached their side. ‘Got a message for you, I have.’ He touched his hat to Mary. ‘Not you, Ma’am,’ he said as she stood to accompany Sharpe. ‘This is men’s business, Mrs Bickerstaff. Soldiers’ business. No business for bibbis. Come on, Sharpie! Ain’t got all night! Look lively now!’ He strode away, thumping the ground with the butt of his halberd as he threaded his way between the fires. ‘Got news for you, Sharpie,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘good news, lad, good news.’
‘I can marry?’ Sharpe asked eagerly.
Hakeswill threw a sly glance over his shoulder as he led Sharpe towards the picketed lines of officers’ horses. ‘Now why would a lad like you want to marry? Why throw all your spunk away on one bibbi, eh? And that one used goods, too? Another man’s leavings, that’s all Mary Bickerstaff is. You should spread it about, boy. Enjoy yourself when you’re still young.’ Hakeswill pushed his way between the horses to reach the dark space between the two picketed lines where he turned and faced Sharpe. ‘Good news, Sharpe. You can’t marry. Permission is refused. You want to know why, boy?’
Sharpe felt his hopes crumbling. At that moment he hated Hakeswill more than ever, but his pride forced him not to show that hate, nor his disappointment. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘I’ll tell you why, Sharpie,’ Hakeswill said. ‘And stand still, boy! When a sergeant condescends to talk to you, you stand still! ’Tenshun! That’s better, lad. Bit of respect, like what is proper to show to a sergeant.’ His face twitched as he grinned. ‘You want to know why, boy? Because I don’t want you to marry her, Sharpie, that is why. I don’t want little Mrs Bickerstaff married to anyone. Not to you, not to me, not even to the King of England himself, God bless him.’ He was circling Sharpe as he talked. ‘And do you know why, boy?’ He stopped in front of Sharpe and pushed his face up towards the younger man. ‘Because that Mrs Bickerstaff is a bibbi, Sharpie, with possibilities. Possibibbibilities!’ He giggled at his joke. ‘Got a future, she has.’ He grinned again, and the grin was suddenly twisted as his face shuddered with its distorting rictus. ‘You familiar with Naig? Nasty Naig? Answer me, boy!’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ Sharpe said.
‘Fat bugger, Sharpie, he is. Fat and rich. Rides a helephant, he does, and he’s got a dozen green tents. One of the army’s followers, Sharpie, and rich as a rich man can be. Richer than you’ll ever be, Sharpie, and you know why? ’Cos Nasty Naig provides the officers with their women, that’s why. And I’m not talking about those rancid slags the other heathens hires out to you nasty common soldiers, I’m talking about the desirable women, Sharpie. Desirable.’ He lingered on the word. ‘Nasty’s got a whole herd of expensive whores, Sharpie, he does, all riding in those closed wagons with the coloured curtains. Full of officers’ meat, those wagons are, fat ones, skinny ones, dark ones, light ones, dirty ones, clean ones, tall ones, short ones, all sorts of ones, and all of ’em are prettier than you could ever dream of, but there ain’t one of them as pretty as little Mrs Bickerstaff, and there ain’t one who looks as white as pretty little Mary does, and if there’s one thing an English officer abroad wants once in a while, Sharpie, it’s a spot of the white meat. That’s the itch Morris has got, Sharpie, got it bad, but he ain’t no different from the others. They get bored with the dark meat, Sharpie. And the Indian officers! Naig tells me they’ll pay a month’s wages for a white. You following me, Sharpie? You and me marching in step, are we?’
Sharpe said nothing. It had taken all his self discipline not to hit the Sergeant, and Hakeswill knew it and mocked him for it. ‘Go on, Sharpie! Hit me!’ Hakeswill taunted him, and when Sharpe did not move, the Sergeant laughed. ‘You ain’t got the guts, have you?’
‘I’ll find a place and time,’ Sharpe said angrily.
‘Place and time! Listen to him!’ Hakeswill chuckled, then began pacing around Sharpe once again. ‘We’ve made a deal, Nasty and me. Like brothers, we are, me and him, just like brothers. We understand each other, see, and Nasty’s right keen on your little Mary. Profit there, you see, boy. And I’ll get a cut of it.’
‘Mary stays with me, Sarge,’ Sharpe said stubbornly, ‘married or not.’
‘Oh, Sharpie, dear me. You don’t understand, do you? You didn’t hear me, boy, did you? Nasty and me, we’ve made a bargain. Drunk to it, we did, and not in arrack, neither, but in proper gentlemen’s brandy. I give him little Mrs Bickerstaff and he gives me half the money she earns. He’ll cheat me, of course he’ll cheat me, but she’ll make so much that it won’t signify. She won’t have a choice, Sharpie. She’ll get snatched on the march and given to one of Nasty’s men. One of the ugly buggers. She’ll be raped wicked for a week, whipped every night, and at the end of it, Sharpie, she’ll do whatever she’s told. That’s the way the business works, Sharpie, says so in the scriptures, and how are you going to stop it? Answer me that, boy. Are you going to pay me more than Nasty will?’ Hakeswill stopped in front of Sharpe where he waited for an answer and, when none came, he shook his head derisively. ‘You’re a boy playing in men’s games, Sharpie, and you’re going to lose unless you’re a man. Are you man enough to fight me here? Put me down? Claim I was kicked by a horse in the night? You can try, Sharpie, but you’re not man enough, are you?’
‘Hit you, Sergeant,’ Sharpe said, ‘and be put on a flogging charge? I’m not daft.’
Hakeswill made an elaborate charade of looking right and left. ‘Ain’t no one here but you and me, Sharpie. Nice and private!’
Sharpe resisted the urge to lash out at his persecutor. ‘I’m not daft,’ he said again, stubbornly remaining at attention.
‘But you are, boy. Daft as a bucket. Don’t you understand? I’m offering you the soldier’s way out! Forget the bloody officers, you daft boy. You and me, Sharpie, we’re soldiers, and soldiers settle their arguments by fighting. Says so in the scriptures, don’t it? So beat me now, lad, beat me here and now, beat me in a square fight and I warrant you can keep Mrs Bickerstaff all to your little self.’ He paused, grinning up into Sharpe’s face. ‘That’s a promise, Sharpie. Fight me now, fair and honest, and our argument’s over. But you’re not man enough, are you? You’re just a boy.’
‘I’m not falling for your tricks, Sergeant,’ Sharpe said.
‘There ain’t no trick, boy,’ Hakeswill said hoarsely. He stepped two paces away from Sharpe, reversed his halberd and thrust its steel point hard into the turf. ‘I can beat you, Sharpie, that’s what I’m reckoning. I’ve been around a bit. Know how to fight. You might be taller than me, and you might be stronger, but you ain’t as quick as me and you ain’t half as dirty. I’m going to pound the bloody guts out of you, and when I’ve finished with you I’ll take little Mary down to Nasty’s tents and earn my money. But not if you beat me, boy. You beat me, and on a soldier’s honour, I’ll persuade Captain Morris to let you marry. You’ve got my word on it, boy. A soldier’s honour.’ He waited for an answer. ‘You ain’t a soldier,’ he said scornfully when Sharpe still kept quiet. ‘You ain’t got the guts!’ He stepped up to Sharpe and slapped him hard across the face. ‘Nothing but a lily, ain’t you? Lieutenant Lawford’s lily-boy. Maybe that’s why you ain’t got the guts to fight for your Mary!’
The last insult provoked Sharpe to hit Hakeswill. He did it hard and fast. He slammed a low blow into Hakeswill’s belly that folded the Sergeant over, then cut his other hand hard up into the Sergeant’s face to split open Hakeswill’s nose and jerk his head back up. Sharpe brought up his knee, missed the Sergeant’s crotch, but his left hand had hold of Hakeswill’s clubbed hair now and he was just feeling with his right fingers for the squealing Sergeant’s eyeballs when a voice was suddenly shouting close behind him.
‘Guard!’ the voice called. ‘Guard!’
‘Jesus!’ Sharpe let go of his enemy, turned and saw Captain Morris standing just beyond the picketed horses. Ensign Hicks was with him.
Hakeswill had sunk onto the ground, but now hauled himself upright on the staff of his halberd. ‘Assaulted me, sir, he did!’ The Sergeant could scarcely speak for the pain in his belly. ‘He went mad, sir! Just mad, sir!’
‘Don’t worry, Sergeant, Hicks and I both saw it,’ Morris said. ‘Came to check on the horses, ain’t that right, Hicks?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hicks said. He was a small young man, very officious, who would never contradict a superior. If Morris claimed the clouds were made of cheese Hicks would just stand to attention, twitch his nose, and swear blind he could smell Cheddar. ‘Plain case of assault, sir,’ the Ensign said. ‘Unprovoked assault.’
‘Guard!’ Morris shouted. ‘Here! Now!’
Blood was pouring down Hakeswill’s face, but the Sergeant managed a grin. ‘Got you, Sharpie,’ he said softly, ‘got you. Flogging offence, that.’
‘You bastard,’ Sharpe said softly, and wondered if he should run. He wondered if he would stand any chance of making it safely away if he just sprinted into the dark, but Ensign Hicks had drawn his pistol and the sound of the hammer being cocked stilled Sharpe’s tiny impulse to flee.
A panting Sergeant Green arrived with four men of the guard and Morris pushed the horses aside to let them through. ‘Arrest Private Sharpe, Sergeant,’ he told Green. ‘Close arrest. He struck Sergeant Hakeswill, and Hicks and I witnessed the assault. Ensign Hicks will do the paperwork.’
‘Gladly, sir,’ Hicks agreed. The Ensign was slurring his words, betraying that he had been drinking.
Morris looked at Sharpe. ‘It’s a court martial offence, Sharpe,’ the Captain said, then he turned back to Green who had not moved to obey his orders. ‘Do it!’
‘Sir!’ Green said, stepping forward. ‘Come on, Sharpie.’
‘I didn’t do nothing, Sergeant,’ Sharpe protested.
‘Come on, lad. It’ll sort itself out,’ Green said quietly, then he took Sharpe’s elbow and led him away. Hicks went with them, happy to please Morris by writing up the charge.
Morris waited until the prisoner and his escort had gone, then grinned at Hakeswill. ‘The boy was faster than you thought, Sergeant.’
‘He’s a devil, that one, sir, a devil. Broke my nose, he did.’ Hakeswill gingerly tried to straighten the cartilage and the bleeding nose made a horrible crunching noise. ‘But his woman’s ours.’
‘Tonight?’ Morris could not keep the eagerness from his voice.
‘Not tonight, sir,’ Hakeswill said in a tone that suggested the Captain had made a foolish suggestion. ‘There’ll be enough trouble in the company with Sharpe arrested, sir, and if we go after his bibbi tonight there’ll be a rare brawl. Half the bastards are full of arrack. No, sir. Wait till the bastard’s flogged to death. Wait for that, sir, and then they’ll all be meek as lambs. Meek as lambs. Flogging does that to men. Quietens them down something proper, a good whipping does. All be done in a couple of days, sir.’
Morris flinched as Hakeswill tried to straighten his nose again. ‘You’d better see Mister Micklewhite, Hakeswill.’
‘No, sir. Don’t believe in doctors, sir, except for the pox. I’ll strap it up, sir, and soon be right as rain. Besides, watching Sharpie flogged will be treatment enough. I reckon we done him, sir. You won’t have long to wait, sir, not long at all.’
Morris found Hakeswill’s intimate tone unseemly, and stepped stiffly back. ‘Then I’ll wish you a good night, Sergeant.’
‘Thank you kindly, sir, and the same to you, sir. And sweet dreams too, sir.’ Hakeswill laughed. ‘Just as sweet as sweet can ever be, sir.’
For Sharpie was done.
CHAPTER THREE
Colonel McCandless woke as the dawn touched the world’s rim with a streak of fire. The crimson light glowed bright on the lower edge of a long cloud that lay on the eastern horizon like the smoke rill left by a musket volley. It was the only cloud in the sky. He rolled his plaid and tied it onto his saddle’s cantle, then rinsed his mouth with water. His horse, picketed close by, had been saddled all night in case some enemy discovered McCandless and his escort. That escort, six picked men of the 4th Native Cavalry, had needed no orders to be about the day. They grinned a greeting at McCandless, stowed their meagre bedding, then made a breakfast out of warm canteen water and a dry cake of ground lentils and rice. McCandless shared the cavalrymen’s meal. He liked a cup of tea in the mornings, but he dared not light a fire for the smoke might attract the pestilential patrols of the Tippoo’s Light Cavalry. ‘It will be a hot day, sahib,’ the Havildar remarked to McCandless.
‘They’re all hot,’ McCandless answered. ‘Haven’t had a cold day since I came here.’ He thought for a second, then worked out that it must be Thursday the twenty-eighth of March. It would be cold in Scotland today and, for an indulgent moment, he thought of Lochaber and imagined the snow lying deep in Glen Scaddle and the ice edging the loch’s foreshore, and though he could see the image clearly enough, he could not really imagine what the cold would feel like. He had been away from home too long and now he wondered if he could ever live in Scotland again. He certainly would not live in England, not in Hampshire where his sister lived with her petulant English husband. Harriet kept pressing him to retire to Hampshire, saying that they had no relatives left in Scotland and that her husband had a wee cottage that would suit McCandless’s declining years to perfection, but the Colonel had no taste for a soft, plump, English landscape, nor, indeed, for his soft plump sister’s company. Harriet’s son, McCandless’s nephew William Lawford, was a decent enough young fellow even if he had forgotten his Scottish ancestry, but young William was now in the army, here in Mysore indeed, which meant that the only relative McCandless liked was close at hand and that circumstance merely strengthened McCandless’s distaste for retiring to Hampshire. But to Scotland? He often dreamed of going back, though whenever the opportunity arose for him to take the Company’s pension and sail to his native land, he always found some unfinished business that kept him in India. Next year, he promised himself, the year of our Lord 1800, would be a good year to go home, though in truth he had promised himself the same thing every year for the last decade.
The seven men unpicketed the horses and hauled themselves into their worn saddles. The Indian escort was armed with lances, sabres and pistols, while McCandless carried a claymore, a horse pistol and a carbine that was holstered on his saddle. He glanced once towards the rising sun to check his direction, then led his men northwards. He said nothing, but he needed to give these men no orders. They knew well enough to keep a keen lookout in this dangerous land.
For this was the kingdom of Mysore, high on the southern Indian plateau, and as far as the horsemen could see the land was under the rule of the Tippoo Sultan. Indeed this was the Tippoo’s heartland, a fertile plain rich with villages, fields and water cisterns; only now, as the British army advanced and the Tippoo’s retreated, the country was being blighted. McCandless could see six pillars of smoke showing where the Tippoo’s cavalry had burned granaries to make sure that the hated British could not find food. The cisterns would all have been poisoned, the livestock driven westwards and every storehouse emptied, thus forcing the armies of Britain and Hyderabad to carry all their own supplies on the cumbersome bullock carts. McCandless guessed that yesterday’s brief and unequal battle had been an attempt by the Tippoo to draw the escorting troops away from the precious baggage onto his infantry, after which he would have released his fearsome horsemen onto the wagons of grain and rice and salt, but the British had not taken the bait which meant that General Harris’s ponderous advance would continue. Say another week until they arrived at Seringapatam? Then they would face two months of short rations and searing weather before the monsoon broke, but McCandless reckoned that two months was plenty enough time to do the job, especially as the British would soon know how to avoid the Tippoo’s trap at the western walls.
He threaded his horse through a grove of cork trees, glad of the shade cast by the deep-green leaves. He paused at the grove’s edge to watch the land ahead, which dropped gently into a valley where a score of people were working in rice paddies. The valley, McCandless supposed, lay far enough from the line of the British advance to have been spared the destruction of its stores and water supply. A small village lay to the west of the rice paddies, and McCandless could see another dozen people working in the small gardens around the houses, and he knew that he and his men would be spotted as soon as they left the cover of the cork grove, but he doubted that any of the villagers would investigate seven strange horsemen. The folk of Mysore, like villagers throughout all the Indian states, avoided mysterious soldiers in the hope that the soldiers would avoid them. At the far side of the rice paddies were plantations of mango and date palms, and beyond them a bare hill crest. McCandless watched that empty crest for a few minutes and then, satisfied that no enemy was nearby, he spurred his mare forward.
The people working the rice immediately fled towards their homes and McCandless swerved eastwards to show them he meant no harm, then kicked the mare into a trot. He rode beside a grove of carefully tended mulberry trees, part of the Tippoo’s scheme to make silk weaving into a major industry of Mysore, then he spurred into a canter as he approached the bed of the valley. His escort’s curb and scabbard chains jingled behind him as the horses pounded down the slope, splashed through the shrunken stream that trickled from the paddies, then began the gentle climb to the date palm grove.
It was then that McCandless saw the flash of light in the mango trees.
He instinctively dragged his horse around to face the rising sun and pricked back his spurs. He looked behind as he rode, hoping that the flash of light was nothing but some errant reflection, but then he saw horsemen spurring from the trees. They carried lances and all of them were dressed in the tiger-striped tunic. There were a dozen men at least, but the Scotsman had no time to count them properly for he was plunging his spurs back to race his mare diagonally up the slope towards the crest.
One of the pursuing horsemen fired a shot that echoed through the valley. The bullet went wide. McCandless doubted it had been supposed to hit anything, but was rather intended as a signal to alert other horsemen who must be in the area. For a second or two the Scotsman debated turning and charging directly at his pursuers, but he rejected the idea. The odds were marginally too great and his news far too important to be gambled on a skirmish. Flight was his only option. He pulled the carbine from its saddle holster, cocked it, then clapped his heels hard onto the mare’s flank. Once over the crest he reckoned there was a good chance he could outrun his pursuers.
Goats scattered from his path as he spurred the mare over the ridge’s skyline. One glance behind satisfied McCandless that he had gained a long enough lead to let him turn north without being headed off, and so he twitched the rein and let the mare run. A long stretch of open, tree-dotted country lay ahead and beyond were thick stands of timber in which he and his escort could lose themselves. ‘Run, girl!’ he called to the mare, then looked behind to make certain his escort was closed up and safe. Sweat dripped down his face, his scabbarded claymore thumped up and down on his hip, but the strong mare was running like the wind now, her speed blowing the kilt back up around his hips. This was not the first time McCandless had raced away from enemies. He had once run for a whole day, dawn to twilight, to escape a Mahratta band and the mare had never once lost her footing. In all India, and that meant all the world, McCandless had no friend better than this mare. ‘Run, girl!’ he called to her again, then looked behind once more and it was then that the Havildar shouted a warning. McCandless turned to see more horsemen coming from the trees to the north.
There must have been fifty or sixty horsemen racing towards the Scotsman and, even as he swerved the mare eastwards, he realized that his original dozen pursuers must have been the scouts for this larger party of cavalry and that by running north he had been galloping towards the enemy rather than away from them. Now he rode towards the rising sun again, but there was no cover to the east and these new pursuers were already dangerously close. He angled back to the south, hoping he might find some shelter in the valley beyond the crest, but then a wild volley of shots sounded from his pursuers.
One bullet struck the mare. It was a fortunate shot, fired at the gallop, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred such a shot would have flown yards wide, but this ball struck the mare’s haunch and McCandless felt her falter. He slapped her rump with the stock of his carbine and she tried to respond, but the bullet had driven close to the mare’s spine and the pain was growing and she stumbled, neighed, yet still she tried to run again. Then one of her back legs simply stopped working and the horse slewed round in a cloud of dust. McCandless kicked his feet out of the stirrups as his escort galloped past. The Havildar was already hauling on his reins, wheeling his horse to rescue McCandless, but the Scotsman knew it was too late. He sprawled on the ground, hurled free of the falling mare, and shouted at the Havildar. ‘Go, man!’ he called. ‘Go!’ But the escort had sworn to protect the Colonel and, instead of fleeing, the Havildar led his men towards the rapidly approaching enemy.
‘You fools!’ McCandless shouted after them. Brave fools, but fools. He was bruised, but otherwise unhurt, though his mare was dying. She was whinnying and somehow she had managed to raise the front part of her body on her forelegs and seemed puzzled that her back legs would not work. She whinnied again, and McCandless knew she would never again run like the wind and so he did the friend’s duty. He went to her head, pulled it down by the reins, kissed her nose and then put a bullet into her skull just above her eyes. She reared back, white-eyed and with blood spraying, then she slumped down. Her forelegs kicked a few times and after that she was still. The flies came to settle on her wounds.
The Havildar’s small group rode full tilt into the enemy’s pursuit. That enemy had been scattered by their gallop and the Havildar’s men were closed up and so the first few seconds were an easy victory. Two lances found Mysore bellies, two sabres drew more blood, but then the main body of the enemy crashed into the fight. The Havildar himself had ridden clean through the leading ranks, leaving his lance behind, and he now looked back to see his men fighting desperately among a milling group of enemy horsemen. He drew his sabre and turned back to help when he heard McCandless shouting. ‘Go, man, go! Go!’ McCandless yelled, pointing north. The Havildar could not take back the vital news McCandless had gained from Appah Rao, but it was still important to let the army know that the Colonel had been captured. McCandless was not a vain man, but he knew his own value, and he had left some careful instructions that might retrieve some of the damage of his capture. Those instructions offered a chance for the army to rescue McCandless, and that dangerous expedient was now the Scotsman’s only hope of passing on Appah Rao’s message. ‘Go!’ McCandless roared as loudly as he could.
The Havildar was caught between his duty to his men and his duty to obey McCandless’s orders. He hesitated, and two of the pursuers swerved aside to pounce on him. That made up his mind. He clapped his spurs back, charged the pursuers, touched the rein at the last moment and swung his sabre as he went past the two men. The blade sliced across the nape of the nearer man’s neck and then the Havildar curved away northwards, galloping free while the rest of the enemy gathered about the survivors for the kill.
McCandless threw down his pistol and carbine, drew his heavy claymore and walked towards the mêlée. He never reached it, for an enemy officer detached himself from the clash of sabres and turned his horse to meet the Scotsman. The Mysorean officer sheathed his sabre, then mutely held out his right hand for McCandless’s blade. Behind him the sabres and lances worked briefly, then the small fight was over and McCandless knew that his escort, all but the Havildar, was dead. He looked at the horseman above him. ‘This sword,’ he said bitterly, ‘belonged to my father and to his father.’ He spoke in English. ‘This sword,’ McCandless said, ‘was carried for Charles Stuart at Culloden.’
The officer said nothing, just held his hand out, his eyes steady on McCandless. The Scotsman slowly reversed his blade, then held the hilt upwards. The Mysorean officer took it and seemed surprised by the claymore’s weight. ‘What were you doing here?’ the officer asked in Kanarese.
‘Do you speak English?’ McCandless asked in that tongue, determined to hide his knowledge of India’s languages.
The officer shrugged. He looked at the old claymore then slid it into his sash. His men, their horses white with sweat, gathered excitedly to stare at the captured heathen. They saw an old man and some wondered if they had captured the enemy’s General, but the captive seemed to speak no language any of them knew and so his identity would have to wait. He was given one of his dead escort’s horses and then, as the sun climbed towards its daily furnace heat, McCandless was taken west towards the Tippoo’s stronghold.
While behind him the vultures circled and at last, sure that nothing lived where the dust and flies had settled on the newly made corpses, flew down for their feast.
It took two days to convene the court martial. The army could not spare the time in its march for the business to be done immediately and so Captain Morris had to wait until the great ponderous horde was given a half-day’s rest to allow the straggling herds to catch up with the main armies. Only then was there time to assemble the officers and have Private Sharpe brought into Major Shee’s tent which had one of its sides brailed up to make more space. Captain Morris laid the charge and Sergeant Hakeswill and Ensign Hicks gave evidence.
Major John Shee was irritable. The Major was irritable at the best of times, but the need to stay at least apparently sober had only shortened his already short Irish temper. He did not, in truth, enjoy commanding the 33rd. Major Shee suspected, when he was sober enough to suspect anything, that he did the job badly and that suspicion had given rise to a haunting fear of mutiny, and mutiny, to Major Shee’s befuddled mind, was signalled by any sign of disrespect for established authority. Private Sharpe was plainly a man who brimmed over with such disrespect and the offence with which he was charged was plain and the remedy just as obvious, but the court proceedings were delayed because Lieutenant Lawford, who should have spoken for Sharpe, was not present. ‘Then where the devil is he?’ Shee demanded.
Captain Fillmore, commander of the fourth company, spoke for Lawford. ‘He was summoned to General Harris’s tent, sir.’
Shee frowned at Fillmore. ‘He knew he was supposed to be here?’
‘Indeed, sir. But the General insisted.’
‘And we’re just supposed to twiddle our thumbs while he takes tea with the General?’ Shee demanded.
Captain Fillmore glanced through the tent’s open side as if he hoped to see Lawford hurrying towards the court martial, but there were only sentries to be seen. ‘Lieutenant Lawford did ask me to assure the court, sir, that Private Sharpe is a most reliable man,’ Fillmore said, fearing that he was not doing a very good job of defending the unfortunate prisoner. ‘The Lieutenant would have spoken most forcibly for the prisoner’s character, sir, and begged the court to grant him the benefit of any doubt.’
‘Doubt?’ Shee snapped. ‘What doubt is there? He struck a sergeant, he was seen doing it by two officers, and you think there’s doubt? It’s an open-and-shut case! That’s what it is, open and shut!’
Fillmore shrugged. ‘Ensign Fitzgerald would also like to say something.’
Shee glared at Fitzgerald. ‘Not much to say, Ensign, I trust?’
‘Whatever it might take, sir, to prevent a miscarriage of justice.’ Fitzgerald, young and confident, stood and smiled at his commanding officer and fellow Irishman. ‘I doubt we’ve a better soldier in the regiment, sir, and I suspect Private Sharpe was given provocation.’
‘Captain Morris says not,’ Shee insisted, ‘and so does Ensign Hicks.’
‘I cannot contradict the Captain, sir,’ Fitzgerald said blandly, ‘but I was drinking with Timothy Hicks earlier that evening, sir, and if his eyes weren’t crossed by midnight then he must possess a belly like a Flanders cauldron.’
Shee looked dangerously belligerent. ‘Are you accusing a fellow officer of being under the influence of liquor?’
Fitzgerald reckoned that most of the 33rd’s mess was ever under the influence of arrack, rum or brandy, but he also knew better than to say as much. ‘I’m just agreeing with Captain Fillmore, sir, that we should give Private Sharpe the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Doubt?’ Shee spat. ‘There is no doubt! Open and shut!’ He gestured at Sharpe who stood hatless in front of his escort. Flies crawled on Sharpe’s face, but he was not allowed to brush them away. Shee seemed to shudder at the thought of Sharpe’s villainy. ‘He struck a sergeant in full view of two officers, and you think there’s doubt about what happened?’
‘I do, sir,’ Fitzgerald declared forcibly. ‘Indeed I do.’
Sergeant Hakeswill’s face twitched. He watched Fitzgerald with loathing. Major Shee stared at Fitzgerald for a few seconds, then shook his head as though questioning the Ensign’s sanity.
Captain Fillmore tried one last time. Fillmore doubted the evidence of Morris and Hicks, and he had never trusted Hakeswill, but he knew Shee could never be persuaded to take the word of a private against that of two officers and a sergeant. ‘Might I beg the court,’ Fillmore said respectfully, ‘to suspend judgment until Lieutenant Lawford can speak for the prisoner?’
‘What can Lawford say, in the name of God?’ Shee demanded. There was a flask of arrack waiting in his baggage and he wanted to get these proceedings over and done. He had a brief, muttered conversation with his two fellow judges, both of them field officers from other regiments, then glared at the prisoner. ‘You’re a damned villain, Sharpe, and the army has no need of villains. If you can’t respect authority, then don’t expect authority to respect you. Two thousand lashes.’ He ignored the shudder of astonishment and horror that some of the onlookers gave and looked instead at the Sergeant Major. ‘How soon can it be done?’
‘This afternoon’s as good a time as any, sir,’ Bywaters answered stolidly. He had expected a flogging verdict, though not as severe as this, and he had already made the necessary arrangements.
Shee nodded. ‘Parade the battalion in two hours. These proceedings are over.’ He gave Sharpe one foul glance, then pushed his chair back. He would need some arrack, Shee thought, if he was to sit his horse in the sun through two thousand lashes. Maybe he should have only given one thousand, for a thousand lashes were as liable to kill as two, but it was too late now, the verdict was given, and Shee’s only hope of respite from the dreadful heat was his hope that the prisoner would die long before the awful punishment was finished.
Sharpe was kept under guard. His sentinels were not men from his own battalion, but six men from the King’s 12th who did not know him and who could therefore be trusted not to connive in his escape. They kept him in a makeshift pen behind Shee’s tent and no one spoke to Sharpe there until Sergeant Green arrived. ‘I’m sorry about this, Sharpie,’ Green said, stepping over the ammunition boxes that formed the crude walls of the pen.
Sharpe was sitting with his back against the boxes. He shrugged. ‘I’ve been whipped before, Sergeant.’
‘Not in the army, lad, not in the army. Here.’ Green held out a canteen. ‘It’s rum.’
Sharpe uncorked the canteen and drank a good slug of the liquor. ‘I didn’t do nothing anyway,’ he said sullenly.
