Authors: Bernard Cornwell
Sharpe paused and turned. “I thought you wanted the bugger dead.”
The Tippoo laughed. “We need him alive for a while. But you passed your test.” He turned and spoke to Gudin, and Gudin answered vigorously. It seemed to Sharpe that they were discussing his fate, and he prayed he would be spared a painful initiation into one of the Tippoo's
cushoons
. Another Indian officer, a tall man in a silk tunic decorated with the Tippoo's tiger stripes, was talking to Mary while Sharpe still stood above the crouching McCandless.
“Did Harris send you?” McCandless asked softly.
“Yes,” Sharpe hissed, not looking at the Colonel. Mary was shaking her head. She glanced at Sharpe, then looked back to the tall Indian.
“Beware the west,” McCandless whispered. “Nothing else.” The Scotsman groaned, pretending to be in much more pain than he was. He retched dryly, tried to stand, and instead toppled over. “You're a traitor,” he said loudly enough for Gudin to hear him, “and you'll die a traitor's death.”
Sharpe spat on McCandless. “Come here, Sharpe!” Gudin, disapproval plain in his voice, ordered him.
Sharpe marched back to Lawford's side where one of the Tippoo's attendants took back the two muskets. The Tippoo gestured at McCandless's guards, evidently signifying that
the Scotsman was to be returned to his cell. The Tippoo then gave Sharpe an approving nod before turning and leading his entourage out of the courtyard. The tall Indian in the silk tiger stripes beckoned to Mary.
“I'm to go with him, love,” she explained to Sharpe.
“I thought you were staving with me!” Sharpe protested.
“I'm to earn my keep,” she said. “I'm to teach his little sons English. And sweep and wash, of course,” she added bitterly.
Colonel Gudin intervened. “She will join you later,” he told Sharpe. “But for now you are both, how do you say it? On test?”
“Probation, sir?” Lawford offered.
“Exactly,” Gudin said. “And soldiers on probation are not permitted wives. Don't worry, Sharpe. I'm sure your woman will be safe in General Rao's house. Now go,
Mademoiselle.”
Mary stood on tiptoe and kissed Sharpe's cheek. “I'll be all right, love,” she whispered, “and so will you.”
“Look after yourself, lass,” Sharpe said, and watched her follow the tall Indian officer out of the courtyard.
Gudin gestured toward the archway. “We must let Doctor Venkatesh finish your back, Sharpe, then give you both new uniforms and muskets. Welcome to the Tippoo Sultan's army, gentlemen. You earn a
haideri
each every day.”
“Good money!” Sharpe said, impressed. A
haideri
was worth half a crown, far above the miserable tuppence a day he received in the British army.
“But doubtless in arrears,” Lawford said sarcastically. He was still angry at Sharpe for having tried to shoot McCandless, and the musket's misfire had not placated him.
“The pay is always in arrears,” Gudin admitted cheerfully, “but in what army is the pay ever on time? Officially you earn a
haideri
a day, though you will rarely receive it, but I can promise you other consolations. Now come.” He summoned
Doctor Venkatesh who retrieved his basket and followed Gudin out of the palace.
Thus Sharpe went to meet his new comrades and readied himself to face a new enemy: his own side.
General David Baird did not feel guilty about Sharpe and Lawford, for they were soldiers and were paid to take risks, but he did feel responsible for them. The fact that neither the British nor Indian cavalry patrols had discovered the two men suggested that they might well have reached Seringapatam, but the more Baird thought about their mission the less sanguine he was about its successful completion. It had seemed a good idea when he had first thought of it, but two days' reflection had diluted that initial hope with a score of reservations. He had always suspected that even with the help of Ravi Shekhar their chances of rescuing McCandless were woefully small, but at the very least he had hoped they might learn McCandless's news and succeed in bringing it out of the city, but now he feared that neither man would even survive. At best, he thought, the two men could only hope to escape execution by joining the Tippoo's forces, which would mean that both Sharpe and Lawford would be in enemy uniform when the British assaulted the city. There was little Baird could do about that, but he could prevent a dreadful miscarriage of justice following the city's fall, and so that night, when the two armies' great encampment was established just a few days' march from their goal, Baird sought out the lines of the 33rd.
Major Shee seemed alarmed at the General's sudden appearance, but Baird soothed the Major and explained he had a little business with the Light Company. “Nothing to trouble you, Major. Just an administrative matter. A triviality.”
“I'll take you to Captain Morris, sir,” Shee said, then
clapped on his hat and led the General down the line of officers' tents. “It's the end one, sir,” he said nervously. “Do you need me at all?”
“I wouldn't waste your time, Shee, on trifles, but I'm obliged for your help, though.”
Baird found a shirt-sleeved Captain Morris frowning at his paperwork in the company of an oddly malevolent-looking sergeant who, at the General's unannounced arrival, sprang to quivering attention. Morris hastily placed his cocked hat over a tin mug that Baird suspected was full of arrack. “Captain Morris?” the General asked.
“Sir!” Morris upset his chair as he stood up, then he plucked his red coat off the floor where it had fallen with the chair.
Baird waved to show that Morris need not worry about donning a coat. “There's no need for formality, Captain. Leave your coat off, man, leave it off. It's desperately hot, isn't it?”
“Unbearable, sir,” Morris said nervously.
“I'm Baird,” Baird introduced himself. “I don't think we've had the pleasure?”
“No, sir.” Morris was too nervous to introduce himself properly.
“Sit you down, man,” Baird said, trying to put the Captain at his ease. “Sit you down. May I?” Baird gestured at Morris's cot, asking permission to use it as a chair. “Thank you kindly,” Baird said, then he sat, took off his plumed hat, and fanned his face with its brim. “I think I've forgotten what cold weather is like. Do you think it still snows anywhere? My God, but it saps a man, this heat. Saps him. Do relax, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sergeant Hakeswill's stiff posture unbent a fraction.
“And the other fellow you lost?” Baird asked, trying hard to sound casual. “The private? In the book, is he?”
“He's in the book all right, sir.” The Sergeant answered for Morris. “Hakeswill, sir,” he introduced himself. “Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill, sir, man and boy in the army, sir, and at your command, sir.”
“What was the rogue's name?” Baird asked Morris.
“Sharpe, sir.” Hakeswill again answered. “Richard Sharpe, sir, and as filthy horrible a little piece of work as ever I did see, sir, in all my born days, sir.”
“The book?” Baird asked Morris, ignoring Hakeswill's judgement.
Morris frantically searched the mess on his desk for the Punishment Book, at the back of which were kept the army's official forms for deserters. Hakeswill eventually found it, and, with a crisp gesture, handed it to the General. “Sir!”
Baird leafed through the front pages, finally discovering the entry for Sharpe's court martial. “Two thousand strokes!” the Scotsman said in horror. “It must have been a grave offence?”
“Struck a sergeant, sir!” Hakeswill announced.
“You, perhaps?” Baird asked drily, noting the Sergeant's swollen and bruised nose.
“Without any provocation, sir,” Hakeswill said earnestly. “As God is my judge, sir, I never treated young Dick Sharpe with anything but kindness. Like one of my own children he was, sir, if I had any children, which I don't, at least not so as I knows of. He was a very lucky man, sir, to be let off at two hundred lashes, and you see how he rewards us?” Hakeswill sniffed indignantly.
Baird did not respond, but just turned to the last page of the book where he found the name Richard Sharpe filled in at the top of the printed form, and beneath it Sharpe's age which was given as twenty-two years and six months, though
Baird smiled at Morris. âYou lost two men this week, Captain, did you not?”
“Two men?” Morris frowned. That bastard Sharpe had run, taking his
bibbi
with him, but who else? “Oh!” Morris said. “You mean Lieutenant Lawford, sir?”
“The very fellow. A lucky fellow too, eh? Carrying the dispatch to Madras. It's quite an honor for him.” Baird shook his head ruefully. “Myself, I'm not so certain that little scrap the other day was worth a dispatch, but General Harris insisted and your Colonel chose Lawford.” Baird was using the excuse the army had invented to explain Lawford's disappearance. The excuse had provoked some resentment in the 33rd for Lawford was one of the most junior of the battalion's lieutenants and most men who carried dispatches could expect a promotion as a reward for the task which, in turn, was usually only given to men who had distinguished themselves in battle. It seemed to Morris, as to every other officer in the battalion, that Lawford had neither distinguished himself nor deserved promotion, but Morris could hardly admit as much to Baird.
“Very glad for him,” Morris managed to say.
“Found a replacement, have you?” Baird asked.
“Ensign Fitzgerald, sir,” Morris said. “Lieutenant Fitzgerald now, sir, by brevet, of course.” Morris managed to sound disapproving. He would have much preferred Ensign Hicks to have received the temporary promotion, but Hicks did not have the hundred and fifty pounds needed to purchase up from ensign to lieutenant, whereas Fitzgerald did, and if Lawford's reward for carrying the dispatches was a promotion to captain then Fitzgerald must replace him. In Morris's opinion the newly breveted Lieutenant was altogether too easy with the men, but a money draft was a money draft, and Fitzgerald was the monied candidate and so had been given the temporary rank.
Captain Morris, if indeed it had been Morris who had filled in the form, had placed a question mark beside the age. Sharpe's height was reported at six feet, only four inches less than Baird himself who was one of the tallest men in the army. “Make or Form” was the next question, to which Morris had answered “well built,” and there followed a list of headings: Head, Face, Eyes, Eyebrows, Nose, Mouth, Neck, Hair, Shoulders, Arms, Hands, Thighs, Legs, and Feet. Morris had filled them all in, thus offering a comprehensive description of the missing man. “Where Born?” was answered simply by “London.” while beside “Former Trade or Occupation” was written “Thief.” The form then gave the date and place of desertion and offered a description of the clothes the deserter had been wearing when last seen. The final item on the form was “General Remarks,” beside which Morris had written “Back scarred from flogging. A dangerous man.” Baird shook his head. “A formidable description. Captain,” the general said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“It's been distributed?”
“Tomorrow, sir.” Morris blushed. The form should have been copied out four times. One copy went to the General commanding the army, who would have it copied again and distributed to every unit under his command. A second copy would go to Madras in case Sharpe ran there. A third copy went to the War Office in London to be copied again and given to all recruiting officers in case the man succeeded in reaching Britain and tried to rejoin the army, while the last copy was supposedly sent to the man's home parish to alert his neighbors to his treachery and the local constables to his crime. In Sharpe's case, there was no home parish, but once Morris caught up with his paperwork and the company clerk had made the necessary copies, Sharpe's description would be broadcast throughout the army. If Sharpe was then found
in Seringapatam, which Baird suspected he would be, he was supposed to be arrested, but it was far more likely that he would be killed. Most soldiers resented deserters, not because of their crime, but because they had dared to do what so many others never had the courage to try, and no officer would punish a man for killing a deserter.
Baird put the open book onto Morris's table. “I want you to add a note under General Remarks,'” Baird told the Captain.
“Of course, sir.”
“Just say that it is vital that Private Sharpe be taken alive. And that if he is captured he must be brought either to me or to General Harris,”
Morris gaped at Baird, “You, sir?”
“Baird, B-A-I-R-D. Major General.”
“Yes, sir, but” Morris had been about to ask what possible business a major general had with a deserter, then realized that such a question would never fetch a civil answer, so he just dipped a quill in ink and hurriedly added the words Baird had requested. “You think we might see Sharpe again, sir?” he asked.
“I do hope so, Captain.” Baird stood. “I even pray as much. Now may I thank you for your hospitality?”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir.” Morris half stood as the General left, then dropped back onto his chair and stared at the words he had just written. “What in God's name is all that about?” he asked when Baird was safely out of earshot.
Hakeswill sniffed. “No good, sir, I'll warrant that.”
Morris uncovered the arrack and took a sip. “First the bastard is summoned to Harris's tent, then he runs, and now Baird says we'll see him again and wants him kept alive! Why?”
“He's up to no good, sir,” Hakeswill said. “He took his woman and vanished, sir. Ain't no general who can condone
that behavior, sir. It's unforgivable, sir. The army's going to the dogs, sir.”
“I can't disobey Baird,” Morris muttered.