Sharpe's Tiger (21 page)

“More than that, sir. I ain't seen a herd the size of it, not even when the Scots drive the beeves down from Scotland to London.”

Gudin shrugged. He very much doubted whether these two could tell him anything useful, certainly nothing that the Tippoo's scouts and spies had not already discovered, but the questions had to be asked. Now, waving flies from his face, he told the two deserters what they might expect. “His Majesty the Tippoo Sultan will decide your fate, and if he is merciful he will want you to serve in his forces. I assume you are willing?”

“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said eagerly. “It's why we came, sir.”

“Good.” Gudin said. “The Tippoo might want you in one of his own
cushoons
. That's the word they use for a regiment here, a
cushoon
. They're all good soldiers and well-trained, and you'll be made welcome, but there is one disadvantage. You will both have to be circumcised.”

Lawford went pale, while Sharpe just shrugged. “Is that bad, sir?”

“You know what circumcision is, Private?”

“Something the army does to you, sir? Like swear you in?”

Gudin smiled. “Not quite, Sharpe. The Tippoo is a Muslim and he likes his foreign volunteers to join his religion. It means one of his holy men will cut your foreskin off. It's quite quick, just like slicing the top from a soft-boiled egg, really.”

“My prick?” Sharpe was as aghast as Lawford now.

“It's over in seconds,” Gudin reassured them, “though the bleeding can last for a while and you cannot, how shall I say?” He glanced at Mary, then back to Sharpe. “You can't let the egg become hard boiled for a few weeks.”

“Bloody hell, sir!” Sharpe said. “For religion? They do that?”

“We Christians sprinkle babies with water,” Gudin said, “and the Muslims chop off foreskins.” The Frenchman paused, then smiled. “However. I cannot think that a man with a bleeding prick will make a good soldier, and your armies will be here in a few days, so I will suggest to His Majesty that the two of you serve with my men. We are few, but none of us are Muslims, and all of our soft-boiled eggs retain their full shells.”

“Quite right too, sir,” Sharpe said enthusiastically. “And it'll be an honor to serve you, sir,” he added.

“In a French battalion?” Gudin teased him.

“If you don't flog, sir, and you don't carve up pricks, then it'll be more than an honor.”

“If the Tippoo allows it,” Gudin warned them, “which he may not. But I think he might. I have other Britishers in the battalion, and some Germans and Swiss. I'm sure you will be happy there.” He looked at Mary. “But what of you,
Mademoiselle?”

Mary touched Sharpe's elbow. “I came with Richard, sir.”

Gudin inspected her black eye. “How did that happen,
Mademaiselle?”

“I fell, sir,” Mary said.

Gudin's face flickered with a smile. “Or did Private Sharpe hit yon? So that you would not appear attractive?”

“I fell over, sir.”

Gudin nodded. “You hit hard, Private Sharpe.”

“No point else, sir.”

“That is true,” Gudin said, then shrugged. “My men have their women. If His Majesty allows it I don't see why the two of you should not stay together.” He turned as his sergeant reappeared, bringing with him an elderly Indian who carried a cloth-covered basket. “This is Doctor Venkatesh,” Gudin said, greeting the doctor with a bow, “and he is quite as good as any physician I ever found in Paris. I imagine, Sharpe, that removing those filthy bandages will hurt?”

“Not as much as circumscribing, sir.”

Gudin laughed. “All the same, I think you had better sit down.”

Removing the bandages hurt like buggery. Mister Micklewhite, the surgeon, had put a salve on the lashes, but no army surgeon ever wasted too much precious ointment on a common soldier, and Micklewhite had not used enough salve to stop the bandages from crusting to the wounds and so the cloth had become one clotted mass of linen and dried blood that tore the scabs away from the wounds as the Indian peeled the bandages away. Doctor Venkatesh was indeed skillful and gentle and his voice was ever-soothing in Sharpe's ear as he delicately prized the horrid mess away from the torn flesh, but even so Sharpe could not forbear from whimpering as the bandages were lifted. The tigers, smelling fresh blood, hinged at their chains so that the courtyard was filled with the clank and snap of stretching links.

The Indian doctor plainly disapproved of both the injury and the treatment. He tutted and muttered and shook his head as the carnage was revealed. Then, when he had picked
the last filthy scrap of bandage away with a pair of ivory tweezers, he poured an unguent over Sharpe's back and the cool liquid was wonderfully soothing. Sharpe sighed with relief, then suddenly the doctor sprang away from him, stood, clasped his hands, and bowed low.

Sharpe twisted round to see that a group of Indians had come into the courtyard. At their head was a shortish plump man, maybe fifty years old, with a round face and a neatly trimmed black mustache. He was dressed in a white silk tunic above white silk leggings and black leather boots, but the simple clothes glittered with jewels. He wore rubies on his turban, diamond-studded bangles on his arms, and pearls were sewn onto his blue silk sash from which there hung a sapphire-studded scabbard in which rested a sword with a golden hilt fashioned into the face of a snarling tiger. Doctor Venkatesh backed hurriedly away, still bowing, while Gudin stood respectfully at attention. “The Tippoo!” Gudin warned Sharpe and Lawford in a whisper, and Sharpe struggled to his feet and, like the Frenchman, stood to attention.

The Tippoo stopped a half-dozen paces short of Sharpe and Lawford. He stared at them for a few seconds, then spoke softly to his interpreter. “Turn around,” the interpreter ordered Sharpe.

Sharpe obediently turned, showing his back to the Tippoo, who, fascinated by the open wounds, stepped close so he could inspect the damage. Sharpe could feel the Tippoo's breath on the back of his neck, he could smell the man's subtle perfume, and then he felt a spider-soft touch as the Tippoo fingered a strip of hanging skin.

Then a sudden pain like the blow of a red-hot poker slammed through Sharpe. He almost cried aloud, but instead he stiffened and flinched. The Tippoo had thrust the tiger hilt of his sword against the deepest wound to see Sharpe's reaction. He ordered Sharpe to turn around and peered up
to see whether there were any tears showing. Tears were pricking at Sharpe's eyes, but none spilt onto his cheeks.

The Tippoo nodded approval and stepped back. “So tell me about them,” he ordered Gudin.

“Ordinary deserters,” Gudin said in French to the interpreter. “That one”—he indicated Sharpe—”is a tough soldier who'd probably be a credit to any army. The other one's just a clerk.”

Lawford tried not to show his disapproval of the judgement. The Tippoo glanced at him, saw nothing to interest him, and looked at Mary instead. “The woman?” he asked Gudin.

“She's with the tall one,” Gudin said, again indicating Sharpe, then waited as the interpreter turned his answer into Persian.

The Tippoo gave Mary a brief inspection. She was slouching, trying to accentuate her drab, bruised, and dirty appearance, but when she saw his pensive gaze she became flustered and tried to make a curtsy. The Tippoo seemed amused by the gesture, then looked back to Gudin. “So what do they know of the British plans?” he asked, gesturing at Lawford and Sharpe.

“Nothing.”

“They say they know nothing,” the Tippoo corrected Gudin. “And they're not spies?”

Gudin shrugged. “How can one tell? But I think not.”

“I think we can tell,” the Tippoo said. “And I think we can discover what land of soldiers they are too.” He turned and rapped some orders to an aide, who bowed, then ran out of the courtyard.

The aide returned with a pair of hunting muskets. The long-barreled weapons were like no guns Sharpe had ever seen, for their stocks were crusted with jewels and inlaid with a delicate ivory filigree. The jewelled butts had an extravagant
flair at their shoulder pieces and the two guns' trigger guards were rimmed with small rubies. The dogheads that held the flints had been fashioned into tiger heads with diamonds for the tigers' eyes. The Tippoo took the guns, made sure their flints were properly seated within the tiger jaws, then tossed one gun to Lawford and the other to Sharpe. The aide then placed a pot filled with black powder on the ground and beside it a pair of musket balls that Sharpe could have sworn were made of silver. “Load the guns,” the interpreter said.

A British soldier, like any other, learned to load with a paper cartridge, but there was no mystery about using naked powder and ball. Plainly the Tippoo wished to see how proficient the two men were and, while Lawford hesitated, Sharpe stooped to the pot and took out a handful of powder. He straightened up and let the black powder trickle down the gun's chased barrel. The powder was extraordinarily fine and a fair bit blew away on the small wind, but he had enough to spare and, once the charge was safe inside the barrel, he stooped again, picked up the bullet, shoved it into the muzzle, and scraped the ramrod out of its three golden hoops. He twirled the ramrod, let it slide through his hand onto the bullet, and then slammed the missile hard down onto the powder charge. The Tippoo had provided no wadding, but Sharpe guessed it did not matter. He pulled the ramrod out, reversed it, and let it fall into the precious loops beneath the long barrel. Then he stooped again, took a pinch of powder, primed the gun, closed the frizzen, and stood to attention with the gun's jeweled butt grounded beside him, “Sir!” he said, signifying he was done.

Lawford was still trying to trickle powder into the muzzle. The Lieutenant was just as proficient at loading a gun as Sharpe, but being an officer he was never required to do it quickly, for that was the one indispensable skill of a private
soldier. Lawford only loaded guns while hunting, but in the army he had a servant who loaded his pistols and never in his life had he needed to be quick with a gun and now he demonstrated a lamentable slowness. “He was a clerk, sir,” Sharpe explained to Gudin. He paused to lick the powder residue off his fingers. “He never needed to fight, like.”

The interpreter translated the words for the Tippoo who waited patiently as Lawford finished loading the musket. The Tippoo, like his entourage, was amused at the Englishman's slowness, but Sharpe's explanation that Lawford had been a clerk seemed to convince them. Lawford at last finished and, very self-consciously, stood to attention.

“You can evidently load,” the Tippoo said to Sharpe, “but can you shoot?”

“Aye, sir,” Sharpe answered the interpreter.

The Tippoo pointed over Sharpe's shoulder. “Then shoot him.”

Sharpe and Lawford both turned to see an elderly British officer being escorted through the courtyard's gate. The man was weak and pale, and he stumbled as the bright sunlight struck his eyes. He cuffed with a manacled hand at his face, then looked up and recognized Lawford. For a second an expression of disbelief crossed his face, then he managed to hide whatever emotion he was feeling. The officer was white-haired and dressed in a kilt and red jacket, both garments stained with dust and damp, and Sharpe, horrified to see a British officer so dishevelled and humiliated, presumed this had to be Colonel McCandless.

“You can't shoot” Lawford began.

“Shut up, Bill,” Sharpe said and brought the musket up to his shoulder and swung its muzzle to face the horrified Scots officer.

“Wait!” Gudin shouted, then spoke urgently to the Tippoo.

The Tippoo laughed away Gudin's protest. Instead he had his interpreter ask Sharpe what he thought about British officers.

“Scum, sir,” Sharpe said loudly enough for Colonel McCandless to hear. “Goddamn bloody scum, sir. Think they're better than us because the bastards can read and were born with a bit of money, but there ain't one I couldn't beat in a fight.”

“You are willing to shoot that one?” the interpreter asked.

“I'd pay for the chance,” Sharpe said vengefully. Lawford hissed at him, but Sharpe ignored the warning. “Pay for it,” he said again.

“His Majesty would like you to do it very close,” the interpreter said. “He wants you to blow the man's head off.”

“It'll be a bloody pleasure,” Sharpe said enthusiastically. He cocked the gun as he walked toward the man he presumed he had been sent to save. He stared at McCandless as he approached and there was nothing but brute pleasure on Sharpe's bard face. “Stuck-up Scotch bastard,” Sharpe spat at him. He looked at the two guards who still flanked the Colonel. “Move out the way, you stupid sods, else you'll be smothered in the bastard's blood.” The two men stared blankly at him, but neither moved and Sharpe guessed that neither man spoke any English. Doctor Venkatesh, who had been trying to hide in the gateway's shadows, shook his head in horror at what was about to happen.

Sharpe raised the musket so that its muzzle was no more than six inches from McCandless's face. “Any message for General Harris?” he asked softly.

McCandless again hid his reaction, other than sparing one glance at Lawford. Then he looked back to Sharpe and spat at him. “Attack anywhere but from the west,” the Scotsman said quietly, and then, much louder, “May God forgive you.”

“Bugger God,” Sharpe said, then pulled the trigger. The
flint fell, it snapped its spark on the frizzen, and nothing else happened. McCandless's face jerked back as the flint sparked, then an expression of pure relief crossed his face. Sharpe hesitated a second, then drove the gun's muzzle into the Colonel's belly. The blow looked hard, but he checked it at the last moment. McCandless still doubled over, gasping, and Sharpe raised the jeweled butt to bring it hard down on the officer's gray head. “Stop!” Gudin shouted.