Authors: Bernard Cornwell
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 toward 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 toward the Scotsman and, even as he swerved the mare eastward, 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 toward the enemy rather than away from them. Now he rode toward 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 around 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 toward 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 toward 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 toward its daily furnace heat, McCandless was taken west toward 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 signaled 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 toward 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.