Sharpe's Tiger (18 page)

Baird hauled a huge watch from his pocket and tilted its face to the half moon. “Eleven o'clock,” the General said. “Time you fellows were away.” He put two fingers in his mouth and sounded a shrill quick whistle and the picquet, visible in the pale moonlight, magically parted north and
south to leave an unguarded gap in the camp's perimeter. Baird had shaken Lawford's hand, then patted Sharpe's shoulder. “How's your back, Sharpe?”

“Hurts like hell, sir.” It did too.

Baird looked worried. “You'll manage, though?”

“I ain't soft, sir.”

“I never supposed you were, Private.” Baird patted Sharpe's shoulder again, then gestured into the dark. “Off you go, lads, and God be with you.” Baird watched the two men ru
n
across the open ground and disappear into the darkness on the farther side. He waited for a long time, hoping to catch a last glimpse of the two men's shadows, but he saw nothing, and his best judgement suggested that he would probably never see either soldier again and that reflection saddened him. He sounded the whistle again and watched as the sentries reformed the picquet line, then he turned and walked slowly back to his tent.

“This way, Sharpe,” Lawford said when they were out of earshot of the sentries. “We're following a star.”

“Just like the wise men, Bill,” Sharpe said. It had taken Sharpe an extraordinary effort to use Mister Lawford's first name, but he knew he had to do it. His survival, and Lawford's, depended on everything being done right.

But the use of the name shocked Lawford, who stopped and stared at Sharpe. “What did you call me?”

“I called you Bill,” Sharpe said, “because that's your bleeding name. You ain't an officer now, you're one of us. I'm Dick, you're Bill. And we ain't following any bloody star. We're going to those trees over there. See? The three big buggers?”

“Sharpe!” Lawford protested.

“No!” Sharpe turned savagely on Lawford. “My job is to keep you alive, Bill, so get one thing straight. You're a bleeding private now, not a bloody officer. You volunteered,
remember? And we're deserters. There ain't no ranks here, no ‘sirs,' no bloody salutes, no gentlemen. When we get back to the army I promise you I'll pretend this never happened and I'll salute you till my bloody arm drops off, but not now, and not till you and me get out of this bloody nonsense alive. So come on!”

Lawford, stunned by Sharpe's confidence, meekly followed. “But this is south of west!” he protested, glancing up at the stars to check the direction Sharpe was taking.

“We'll go west later,” Sharpe said. “Now get your bleeding stock off.” He ripped his own off and tossed it into some bushes. “First thing any runner does, sir”—the “sir” was accidental, a habit, and he silently cursed himself for using it —”is take off his stock. Then mess your hair. And get those trousers dirty. You look like you're standing guard on Windsor bleeding Castle.” Sharpe watched as Lawford did his best to obey. “So where did you join up, Bill?” he asked.

Lawford was still resentful of this sudden reversal of roles, but he was sensible enough to realize Sharpe was right. “Join up?” he repeated. “I didn't.”

“Of course you did! Where did they recruit you?”

“My home's near Portsmouth.”

“That's no bloody good. Navy would press you in Portsmouth before a recruiting sergeant could get near to you. Ever been to Sheffield?”

“Good Lord, no!” Lawford sounded horrified.

“Good place, Sheffield,” Sharpe said. “And there's a pub on Pond Street called The Hawle in the Pond. Can you remember that? The Hawle in the Pond in Sheffield. It's a favorite hunting hole for the 33rd's recruiters, especially on market days. You was tricked there by some bleeding sergeant. He got you drunk and before you knew it you'd taken the King's shilling. He was a sergeant of the 33rd, so what did he have on his bayonet?”

“His bayonet?” Lawford, fumbling to release the leather binding of his newly clubbed hair, frowned in perplexity. “Nothing, I should hope.”

“We're the 33rd, Bill! The Havercakes! He carried an oatcake on his bayonet, remember? And he promised you'd be an officer inside two years because he was a lying bastard. What did you do before you met him?”

Lawford shrugged. “A farmer?”

“No one would ever believe you labored on a farm,” Sharpe said scornfully. “You ain't got a farmer's arms. That General Baird now, he's got proper arms. Looks as if he could hoist hay all day long and not feel a damn thing, but not you. You were a lawyer's clerk.”

Lawford nodded. “I think we should go now,” he said, trying to reassert his rapidly vanishing authority.

“We're waiting,” Sharpe said stubbornly. “So why the hell are you running?”

Lawford frowned. “Unhappiness, I suppose.”

“Bleeding hell, you're a soldier! You ain't supposed to be happy! No, let's think now. You boned the Captain's watch, how about that? Got caught, and you faced a flogging. You saw me flogged and didn't fancy you could survive, so you and me, being mates like, ran.”

“I really do think we must go!” Lawford insisted.

“In a minute, sir.” Again Sharpe cursed himself for using the honorific. “Just let my back settle down.”

“Oh, of course.” Lawford was immediately contrite. “But we can't wait too long, Sharpe.”

“Dick, sir. You call me Dick. We're friends, remember?”

“Of course.” Lawford, as uncomfortable with this sudden intimacy as with the need to waste time, settled awkwardly by Sharpe at the base of a tree. “So why did you join up?” he asked Sharpe.

“The barmen were after me.”

“The harmen? Oh yes, the constables.” Lawford paused. Somewhere in the night a creature shrieked as it was caught by a predator, while off to the east the sergeants called to their sentries. The sky glowed with the light of the army's myriad fires. “What had you done?” Lawford asked.

“Killed a man. Put a knife in him.”

Lawford gazed at Sharpe. “Murdered him, you mean?”

“Oh, aye, it was murder right enough, even though the bugger deserved it. But the judge at York Assizes wouldn't have seen it my way, would he? Which meant Dick Sharpe would have been morris-dancing at the end of a rope so I reckoned it was easier to put on the scarlet coat. The harmen don't bother a man once he's in uniform, not unless he killed one of the gentry.”

Lawford hesitated, not sure whether he should inquire too deeply, then decided it was worth a try. “So who was the fellow you killed?”

Bugger kept an inn. I worked for him, see? It was a coaching inn so he knew what coaches were carrying good baggage and my job was to snaffle the stuff once the coach was on the road. That and some prigging.” Lawford did not like to ask what prigging was, so kept quiet. “He were a right bastard,” Sharpe went on, “but that wasn't why I stuck him. It was over a girl, see? And he and I had a disagreement about who should keep her blanket warm. He lost and I'm here and God knows where the lass is now.” He laughed.

“We're wasting time,” Lawford said.

“Quiet!” Sharpe snapped, then picked up his musket and pointed it toward some bushes. “Is that you, lass?”

“It's me, Richard.” Mary Bickerstaff emerged from the shadows earning a bundle. “Evening, Mr. Lawford, sir,” she said shyly.

“Call him Bill,” Sharpe insisted, then stood and shouldered his musket. “Come on, Bill!” he said. “No point in
wasting time here. There's three of us now and wise men always travel in threes, don't they? So find your bleeding star and let's be moving.”

They walked all night, following Lawford's star toward the western skyline. Lawford took Sharpe aside at one point and, insisting on his ever-more precarious authority, ordered Sharpe to send the woman back. “That's an order, Sharpe,” Lawford said.

“She won't go,” Sharpe retorted.

“We can't take a woman!” Lawford snapped.

“Why not? Deserters always take their valuables, sir. Bill, I mean.”

“Christ, Private, if you mess this up I'll make sure you get all the stripes you escaped yesterday.”

Sharpe grinned. “It won't be me who messes it. It's the damn fool idea itself.”

“Nonsense.” Lawford strode ahead, forcing Sharpe to follow. Mary, guessing that they were arguing about her, kept a few paces behind. “There's nothing wrong with General Baird's notion,” Lawford said. “We fall into the Tippoo's hands, we join his wretched army, find this man Ravi Shekhar, then leave everything to him. And just what part does Mrs. Bickerstaff play in that?” He asked the question angrily.

“Whatever part she wants,” Sharpe said stubbornly.

Lawford knew he should argue, or rather that he should impose his authority on Sharpe, but he sensed he could never win. He was beginning to wonder whether it had been such a good idea to bring Sharpe after all, but from the first moment when Baird had suggested this desperate endeavor, Lawford had known he would need help and he had also known which of the Light Company's soldiers he wanted. Private Sharpe had always stood out, not just because of his
height, but because he was by far the quickest-witted man in the company. But even so, Lawford had not been ready for the speed or force with which Sharpe had taken over this mission. Lawford had expected gratitude from Sharpe, and also deference; he even believed he deserved that deference purely by virtue of being an officer, but Sharpe had swiftly torn that assumption into tatters. It was rather as if Lawford had harnessed a solid-looking draught horse to his gig only to discover it was a runaway racer, but why had the racehorse insisted on bringing the filly? That offended Lawford, suggesting to him that Sharpe was taking advantage of the freedom offered by this mission. Lawford glanced at Sharpe, noting how pale and strained he looked, and he guessed that the flogging had taken far more from the Private than he realized. “I still think Mrs. Bickerstaff should go back to the army,” he said gently.

“She can't,” Sharpe said curtly. “Tell him, Mary.”

Mary ran to catch up. “I'm not safe while Hakeswill's alive,” she told Lawford.

“You could have been looked after,” Lawford suggested vaguely.

“Who by?” Mary asked. “A man looks after a woman in the army and he wants his price. You know that, sir.”

“Call him Bill!” Sharpe snarled. “Our lives might depend on it! If one of us calls him ‘sir' then they'll feed us to their bloody tigers.”

“And it isn't just Hakeswill,” Mary went on. “Sergeant Green wants to marry me now, which is at least more than Hakeswill does, but I don't want either. I just want to be left in peace with Richard.”

“God knows,” Lawford said bitterly, “but you've probably jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.”

“I'll take my chances,” Mary said obstinately, though she had taken what care she could to reduce her chances of
being raped. She had dressed herself in a torn dark frock and a filthy apron, both garments as drab and greasy as she could find. She had smeared ashes and dirt into her hair, but she had done nothing to disguise the lively beauty in her face. “Besides,” she said to Lawford, “neither you nor Richard speak any of the languages. You need me. And I brought some more food.” She hoisted the cloth bundle.

Lawford grunted. Behind them the horizon was now marked with a pale glow that silhouetted trees and bushes. He guessed they had traveled about a dozen miles and, as the pale glow turned brighter and the dawn's light seeped across the landscape, he suggested they stop and rest. Mary's bundle held a half-dozen loaves of flat unleavened bread and had two canteens of water which they shared as their breakfast. After he had eaten, Lawford went into the bushes for privacy and, as he came back, he saw Sharpe hit Mary hard in the face. “For God's sake, man,” Lawford shouted, “what are you doing?”

“Blacking my eye,” Mary answered. “I asked him to.”

“Dear God!” Lawford said. Mary's left eye was already swelling, and tears were running down her cheeks. “Whatever for?”

“Keep the buggers off her, of course,” Sharpe said. “Are you all right, love?”

“I'll live,” Mary said. “You hit hard, Richard.”

“No point in hitting softly. Didn't mean to hurt you, though.”

Mary splashed water on her eye, then they all started walking again. They were now in an open stretch of country that was dotted with groves of bright-blossomed trees. There were no villages in sight, though they did come to an aqueduct an hour after dawn and wasted another hour trying to find a way across before simply plunging into the weed-filled water and wading through. Seringapatam lay well below the
horizon, but Lawford knew the city was almost due west and he planned to angle southward until he reached the Cauvery and then follow that river to the city.

The Lieutenant's spirits were low. He had volunteered for this mission readily enough, but in the night it had begun to dawn on him just how risky the errand was. He felt lonely, too. He was only two years older than Sharpe and he envied Sharpe Mary's companionship, and he still resented the Private's lack of deference. He did not dare express that resentment, for he knew it would be scorned, but nor did he really wish to express it, for he had discovered that he wanted Sharpe's admiration rather than his deference. Lawford wanted to prove that he was as tough as the Private, and that desire kept him stoically walking on toward the horrid unknown.

Sharpe was equally worried. He liked Lawford, but suspected he would have to work hard to keep the Lieutenant out of trouble. He was a quick study, the Lieutenant, but so ignorant of the world's ways that he could easily betray the fact that he was no common soldier. As for the Tippoo, he was an unknown danger, but Sharpe was canny enough to know that he would have to do whatever the Tippoo's men wanted. He worried about Mary, too. He had persuaded her to come on this fool's errand, and she had not taken much persuading, but now she was here Sharpe was concerned that he could not protect both her and Lawford. But despite his worries he still felt free. He was, after all, off the army's leash and he reckoned he could survive so long as Lawford made no mistake, and if Sharpe survived he knew how to prosper. The rules were simple: trust no one, be ever watchful, and if trouble came hit first and hit hard. It had worked for him so far.