Authors: Bernard Cornwell
Sharpe had not meant to cry out. Before the punishment had begun he had been determined to show no weakness and he had even been angry with himself that he had flinched as the first blow fell, but that sudden pain had been so acute that he had involuntarily shuddered. Since then he had closed his eyes and bitten down on the leather, but in his head a silent scream shrilled as the lashes landed one after the other.
“One hundred and twenty-three!” Bywaters shouted hoarsely.
The drummer boys' arms were tiring, but they still knew better than to slacken their efforts for Sergeant Hakeswill was watching and savoring every blow.
“One hundred and twenty-four,” Bywaters called, and it was then, through the silent scream that was filling his head, Sharpe heard a whimper. Then he heard another, and realized that it was he who was making the noise and so he snarled instead, opened his eyes, and stared his loathing at the bastard officers sitting on their horses a few paces away. He stared at them fixedly as if he could transfer the ghastly pain from his back onto their faces, but not one of them looked at him. They stared at the sky, they gazed at the ground, they all tried to ignore the sight of a man being beaten to death in front of their eyes.
“One hundred and thirty-six,” Bywaters shouted and the drummer boy beat his instrument again.
Blood had run down Sharpe's back and stained the weave of his white trousers past his knees. More blood had spattered onto his greased and powdered hair, and still the lashes whistled down and each blow of the leather thongs splashed
into the mess of broken flesh and ribboned skin, and more gleaming blood spurted away.
“One hundred and forty. Keep it high, boy, keep it high! Not on the kidneys,” Bywaters snapped, and the Sergeant Major looked across at the surgeon and saw that Micklewhite was staring vaguely up over the tripod's peak, his jowly face looking as calm as though he was merely idling away a summer's day. “Want to look at him, Mister Micklewhite, sir?” the Sergeant Major suggested, but Micklewhite just shook his head. “Keep going, lads,” the Sergeant Major told the drummer boys, not bothering to keep the disapproval from his voice.
The flogging went on. Hakeswill watched it with delight, but most of the men stared into the sky and prayed that Sharpe would not cry aloud. That would be his victory, even if he died in achieving it. Some Indian troops had gathered around the hollow square to watch the flogging. Such punishments were not permitted in the East India Company and most of the sepoys found it inexplicable that the British inflicted it upon themselves.
“One hundred and sixty-nine!” Bywaters shouted, then saw a gleam of white under a lash. The gleam was instantly obscured by a trickle of blood. “Can see a rib, sir!” the Sergeant Major called to the Surgeon.
Micklewhite waved a fly away from his face and stared up at a small cloud that was drifting northward. Must be some wind up there, he thought, and it was a pity that there was none down here to alleviate the heat. A tiny droplet of blood splashed onto his blue coat and he fastidiously backed farther away.
“One hundred and seventy-four,” Bywaters shouted, trying to imbue the bare numbers with a tone of disapproval.
Sharpe was scarcely conscious now. The pain was beyond bearing. It was as if he was being burned alive and being
stabbed at the same time. He was whimpering with each blow, but the sound was tiny, scarce loud enough to be audible to the two sweating boys whose aching arms brought the lashes down again and again. Sharpe kept his eyes closed. The breath hissed in and out of his mouth, past the gag, and the sweat and saliva dribbled down his chin and dripped onto the earth where his blood showed as dark splashes in the dust.
“Two hundred and one,” Bywaters called, and wondered if he dared take a sip of water from his canteen. His voice was becoming hoarse.
“Stop!” a voice shouted.
“Two hundred and two.”
“Stop!” the voice shouted again, and this time it was as if the whole battalion had been suddenly woken from a sleep. The drummer boy gave a last hesitant tap, then let his hands fall to his sides as Sergeant Major Bywaters held up his hand to stop the next stroke which was already faltering. Sharpe lifted up his head and opened his eyes, but saw nothing but a blur. The pain surged through him, he whimpered, then dropped his face again and a string of spittle fell slowly from his mouth.
Colonel Arthur Wellesley had ridden up to the tripod. For a moment Shee and his aides looked at their Colonel almost guiltily, as though they had been caught in some illicit pastime. No one spoke as the Colonel edged his horse closer to the prisoner. Wellesley looked down sourly, then put his riding crop under Sharpe's chin to lift up his head. The Colonel almost recoiled from the look of hatred he saw in the victim's eyes. He pulled the crop away, then wiped its tip on his saddle cloth to remove the spittle. “The prisoner is to be cut down. Major Shee,” the Colonel said icily.
“Yes, sir.” Shee was nervous, wondering if he had made
some terrible mistake. “At once, sir,” he added, though he gave no orders.
“I dislike stopping a well-deserved punishment,” Wellesley said loudly enough for all the nearby officers to hear, “but Private Sharpe is to be taken to General Harris's tent as soon as he's recovered.”
“General Harris, sir?” Major Shee asked in astonishment. General Harris was the commander of this expedition against the Tippoo, and what possible business could the commanding General have with a half-flogged private? “Yes, sir, of course, sir,” Shee added quickly when he saw that his query had annoyed Wellesley. “At once, sir.”
“Then do it!” Wellesley snapped. The Colonel was a thin young man with a narrow face, hard eyes, and a prominently beaked nose. Many older men resented that the twenty-nine-year-old Wellesley was already a full colonel, but he came from a wealthy and titled family and his elder brother, the Earl of Mornington, was Governor-General of the East India Company's British possessions in India, so it was hardly surprising that the young Arthur Wellesley had risen so high so fast. Any officer given the money to buy promotion and lucky enough to possess relations who could put him in the way of advancement was bound to rise, but even the less fortunate men who resented Wellesley's privileges were forced to admit that the young Colonel had a natural and chilling authority, and maybe, some thought, even a talent for soldiering. He was certainly dedicated enough to his chosen trade if that was any sign of talent.
Wellesley nudged his horse forward and stared down as the prisoner's bonds were cut loose. “Private Sharpe?” He spoke with utter disdain, as though he dirtied himself by even addressing Sharpe.
Sharpe looked up, blinked, then made a guttural noise. Bywaters ran forward and worked the gag out of Sharpe's
mouth. Freeing the pad took some manipulation, for Sharpe had sunk his teeth deep into the folded leather. “Good lad now,” Bywaters said softly, “good lad. Didn't cry, did you? Proud of you, lad.” The Sergeant Major at last managed to work the gag free and Sharpe tried to spit.
“Private Sharpe?” Wellesley's disdainful voice repeated.
Sharpe forced his head up. “Sir?” The word came out as a croak. “Sir,” he tried again and this time it sounded like a moan.
Wellesley's face twitched with distaste for what he was doing. “You're to be fetched to General Harris's tent. Do you understand me, Sharpe?”
Sharpe blinked up at Wellesley. His head was spinning and the pain in his body was vying with disbelief at what he heard and with rage against the army.
“You heard the Colonel, boy,” Bywaters prompted Sharpe.
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe managed to answer Wellesley.
Wellesley turned to Micklewhite. “Bandage him, Mister Micklewhite. Put a salve on his back, whatever you think best. I want him
compos mentis
within the hour. You understand me?”
“Within an hour!” the surgeon said in disbelief, then saw the anger on his young Colonel's face. “Yes, sir,” he said swiftly, “within an hour, sir.”
“And give him clean clothes,” Wellesley ordered the Sergeant Major before giving Sharpe one last withering look and spurring his horse away.
The last of the ropes holding Sharpe to the tripod were cut away. Shee and the officers watched, all of them wondering just what extraordinary business had caused a summons to General Harris's tent. No one spoke as the Sergeant Major plucked away the last strands of rope from Sharpe's right
wrist, then offered his own hand. “Here, lad. Hold onto me. Gently now.”
Sharpe shook his head. “I'm all right, Sergeant Major,” he said. He was not, but he would be damned before he showed weakness in front of his comrades, and double damned before he showed it in front of Sergeant Hakeswill who had watched aghast as his victim was cut down from the triangle. “I'm all right.” Sharpe insisted and he slowly pushed himself away from the tripod, then, tottering slightly, turned and took three steps.
A cheer sounded in the Light Company.
“Quiet!” Captain Morris snapped. “Take names, Sergeant Hakeswill!”
“Take names, sir! Yes, sir!”
Sharpe staggered twice and almost fell, but he forced himself to stand upright and then to take some steady steps toward the surgeon. “Reporting for bandaging, sir,” he croaked. Blood had soaked his trousers, his back was carnage, but he had recovered most of his wits and the look he gave the surgeon almost made Micklewhite flinch because of its savagery.
“Come with me, Private,” Micklewhite said.
Help him! Help him!” Bywaters snapped at the drummer boys and the two sweating lads dropped their whips and hurried to support Sharpe's elbows. He had managed to remain upright, but Bywaters had seen him swaying and feared he was about to collapse.
Sharpe half walked and was half carried away. Major Shee took off his hat, scratched his graying hair, and then, unsure what he should do, looked down at Bywaters. “It seems we have no more business today, Sergeant Major.”
“No, sir.”
Shee paused. It was all so irregular.
“Dismiss the battalion, sir?” Bywaters suggested. Shee nodded, glad to have been given some guidance. Dismiss them, Sergeant Major.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sharpe had survived.
I
t seemed airless inside General Harris's tent. It was a large tent, as big as a parish marquee, and though both its wide entrances had been brailed back there was no wind to stir the damp air trapped under the high ridge. The light inside the big tent was yellowed by the canvas to the color of urine and gave the grass underfoot a dank, unhealthy look.
Four men waited inside the tent. The youngest and most nervous was William Lawford who, because he was a mere lieutenant and by far the most junior officer present, was sitting far off to one side on a gilt chair of such spindly and fragile construction it seemed a miracle that it had survived its transport on the army's wagons. Lawford scarcely dared move lest he draw attention to himself, and so he sat awkward and uncomfortable as the sweat trickled down his face and dripped onto the crown of his cocked hat which rested on his thighs.
Opposite Lawford, and utterly ignoring the younger man, sat his Colonel, Arthur Wellesley. The Colonel made small talk, but gruffly, as though he resented being forced to wait. Once or twice he pulled a watch from his fob pocket, snapped open the lid, glared at the revealed face, then restored the watch to his pocket without making a comment.
General Harris, the army's commander, sat behind a long table that was spread with maps. The commander of the allied armies was a trim, middle-aged man who possessed an
uncommon measure of common sense and a great deal of practical ability, and both were qualities he recognized in his younger deputy, Colonel Wellesley George Harris was an affable man, but now, waiting in the tent's yellow gloom, he seemed distracted, He stared at the maps, he wiped the sweat from his face with a big blue handkerchief, but he rarely looked up to acknowledge the stilted conversation. Harris was uneasy for, like Wellesley, he did not really approve of what they were about to do. It was not so much the irregularity of the action that concerned the two men, for neither was hidebound, but rather because they suspected that the proposed operation would fail and that two good men, or rather one good man and one bad, would be lost.
The fourth man in the tent refused to sit, but instead strode up and down between the tables and the scatter of flimsy chairs. It was this man who kept alive what little conversation managed to survive the tent's stiff, damp, and airless atmosphere. He jollied his companions, he encouraged them, he tried to amuse them, though every now and then his efforts would fail and then he would stride to one of the tent doorways and stoop to peer out. “Can't be long now,” he would say each time and then begin his pacing again. His name was Major General David Baird and he was the senior and older of General Harris's two deputy commanders. Unlike his colleagues he had discarded his uniform coat and waistcoat, stripping down to a dirty, much-darned shirt and letting the braces of his breeches hang down to his knees. His dark hair was damp and tousled, while his broad face was so tanned that, to Lawford's nervous gaze, Baird looked more like a laborer than a general. The resemblance was even more acute because there was nothing delicate or refined about David Baird's appearance. He was a huge Scotsman, tall as a giant, broad-shouldered and muscled like a coal-heaver. It had been Baird who had persuaded his two
colleagues to act, or rather he had persuaded General Harris to act much against that officer's better judgement, and Baird frankly did not give a tinker's damn whether Colonel Arthur bloody Wellesley approved or not. Baird disliked Wellesley, and bitterly resented the fact that the younger man had been made into his fellow second-in-command. Baird, never a man to let his grudges simmer unspoken, had protested Arthur Wellesley's appointment to Harris. “If his brother wasn't Governor-General, Harris, you'd never have promoted him.”