Sharpe's Tiger (9 page)

“And you will restore the Wodeyars?”

“I promise it.”

Appall Rao looked past McCandless, gazing up at the small light reflecting off the serene image of a Hindu goddess. The temple was still here, as were all Mysore's temples, for though the Tippoo was a Muslim he had not torn down the Hindu sanctuaries. Indeed, like his father, the Tippoo had restored some of the temples. Life was not hard under the Tippoo, but all the same the Tippoo was not the ancestral ruler of Appall Rao's country. That ruler was a boy kept in poverty in a small house in a back alley of Seringapatam, and Appall Rao's hidden loyalty was to the Wodeyar dynasty, not to the Muslim interlopers. The General's dark eyes shifted
to McCandless. “You British captured the city seven years ago. Why didn't you replace the Tippoo then?”

“A mistake,” McCandless admitted candidly. “We thought he could be trusted to keep his promises, but we were wrong. This time, if God wills it, we shall replace him. A man bitten by a snake once does not let the snake live a second time.”

Appah Rao brooded for a while. Bats flickered in the courtyard. The two men in the gateway watched as McCandless let the silence stretch. The Colonel knew it would not serve to pressure this General too hard, but McCandless also knew he did not need to press. Appah Rao might not be certain that a British victory would be in Mysore's best interest, but what would serve that interest in these hard, confusing times? Appah Rao's choice lay between the Muslim usurpers and foreign domination, and McCandless knew only too well of the simmering distrust that lay between Hindus and Muslims. It was that breach that the Scotsman was assaulting in the hope that he could widen the rift into full betrayal.

Appall Rao finally shook his head, then raised an arm and beckoned. One of the two men in the gateway came running forward and knelt beside the General. He was a young man of startling good looks, black-haired and with a fine long face of strong bones and defiant eyes. Like Appall Rao he wore the tiger tunic and had a gold-hilted sword slung at his hip. “This is Kunwar Singh,” Appall Rao introduced the young man. “He is the son of a cousin of mine”—he announced the relationship vaguely, intimating that it was not close—”and the commander of my bodyguard.”

McCandless looked into Kunwar Singh's eyes. “Do your job well, my friend. Your master is valuable.”

Kunwar Singh smiled and then, at a signal from Appah Rao, he took a roll of paper from inside his tunic. He
unrolled the sheet and weighted its corners with a pistol, a knife, a handful of bullets, and the lantern.

McCandless leaned forward. The scroll was a map and it showed the big island in the River Cauvery on which the Tippoo's capital of Seringapatam was built. The fortress town occupied the island's western tip, while beyond its walls, to the east, were pleasure gardens, suburbs, the Tippoo's summer palace, and the mausoleum where the fearsome Hyder Ali was entombed.

Appall Rao drew a knife from his belt. He tapped the island's northern bank where it fronted the Cauvery's main channel. “That is where General Comwallis crossed. But since then the walls have been strengthened. The French advised us how to do it. There are new guns on the walls, hundreds of them.” He looked up into McCandless's eyes. “I mean hundreds, McCandless. That is not an exaggeration. The Tippoo is fond of cannon and rockets. He has thousands of rocketmen and deep arsenals crammed with weapons. All this”—he swept the knife's tip around the walls that faced the river—”has been rebuilt, refortified, and given cannon and rockets.”

“We have cannon too,” McCandless said.

Appah Rao ignored the comment. Instead he tapped the knife against the western ramparts that overlooked the Cauvery's smaller channel. “At this time of year, McCandless, the river here is shallow. The crocodiles have gone to the deeper pools and a man can walk across the river with dry knees. And when your army reaches Seringapatam they will see that these walls”—he tapped the western fortifications again—”have not been rebuilt. They are made of mud bricks and the rains have crumbled the rampart. It looks like a weak place and you, will be tempted to attack there. Do not, for that is where the Tippoo wants you to attack.” A beetle flew onto the map and crawled along the line marking the western
walls. Appah Rao gently swept the insect aside. “There is another wall there, a new wall, hidden behind that rampart, McCandless, and when your men get through the first wall they will be in a trap. Here”—he pointed to a bastion that connected the outer and inner walls—”that used to be a water gate, but it's been blocked up and there are hundreds of pounds of gunpowder inside. Once your men are trapped between the two walls the Tippoo plans to blow the mine.” Appah Rao shrugged. “Hundreds of pounds of powder, McCandless, just waiting for you. And when that attack has failed you will have no time to make another before the monsoon comes, and when the rains do come the river will rise and the roads will turn to mud and you will be forced to retreat, and every foot of your way back to Madras will be dogged by the Tippoo's cavalry. That is how he plans to beat you.”

“So we must attack anywhere but in the west?”

“Anywhere but from the west,” Appah Rao said. “The new inner wall”—he demonstrated on the map with the tip of his knife—”extends all the way around the north. These other walls”—he tapped the southern and eastern ramparts—”look stronger, but don't be deceived. The west wall is a trap, and if you fall into it, it will be your death.” He moved the weights off the corners of the map and let it roll itself up. Then he unshielded McCandless's lantern and held one end of the scroll in the candle flame. The paper blazed, lighting the intricate carvings of the shrine. The three men watched as the paper burned to ash. “Anywhere but from the west,” Appah Rao said, then, after a moment's hesitation, he lifted the bag of gold coins from beside the lantern. “All this will go to my Rajah,” he said. “I shall keep none.”

“I never expected you to,” McCandless said. “You have my thanks, General.”

“I don't want your thanks. I want my Rajah back. That is
why I came. And if you disappoint me, then you English will have a new enemy.”

“I'm a Scot.”

“But you would still be my enemy,” Appah Rao said, then turned away, but paused and looked back from the inner shrine's threshold. “Tell your General that his men should be gentle with the people of the city.”

“I will tell General Harris.”

“Then I shall look to see you in Seringapatam,” Appah Rao said heavily.

“Me and thousands of others,” McCandless said.

“Thousands!” Appah Rao's tone mocked the claim. “You may have thousands, Colonel, but the Tippoo has tigers.” He turned and walked to the temple's outer gateway, followed by Kunwar Singh.

McCandless burned the copy of Bonaparte's letter, waited another half-hour, and then, as silently as he had come to the temple, he left it. He would join his escort, sleep a few hours, then ride with his precious secret to the waiting army.

Few men of the 33rd slept that night for the excitement of fighting and beating the Tippoo's vaunted troops had filled them with a nervous energy. Some spent their loot on arrack, and those fell asleep soon enough, but the others stayed around their fires and relived the day's brief excitement. For most of the troops it had been their first battle, and on its slim evidence they built a picture of war and their own valor.

Mary Bickerstaff sat with Sharpe and listened patiently to the tales. She was accustomed to soldiers' stories and shrewd enough to know which men exaggerated their prowess and which pretended not to have been nauseated by the horrors of the dead and wounded. Sharpe, after he returned from Captain Morris's tent with the news that the Captain would ask Major Shee's permission for them to marry, was silent
and Many sensed he was not really listening to the tales, not even when he pretended to be amused or amazed. “What is it?” she asked him after a long while.

“Nothing, lass.”

“Are you worried about Captain Morris?”

“If he says no, we just ask Major Shee,” Sharpe said with a confidence he did not entirely feel. Morris was a bastard, but Shee was a drunk, and in truth there was little to choose between them. Sharpe had an idea that Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Wellesley, the 33rd's real commanding officer, was a man who might be reasonable, but Wellesley had been temporarily appointed as one of the army's two deputy commanders and had thus shrugged off all regimental business. “We'll get our permission,” he told Mary.

“So what's worrying you?”

“I told you. Nothing.”

“You're miles away, Richard.”

He hesitated. “Wish I was.”

Mary tightened the grip of her hand on his fingers, then lowered her voice to something scarce above a whisper. “Are you thinking of running, Richard Sharpe?”

He leaned away from the fire, trying to make a small private space where they could talk without being overheard. “Got to be a better life than this, love,” he said.

“Don't do it!” Mary said fiercely, but laying a hand on his cheek as she spoke. Some of the men on the other side of the fire saw the tender gesture and greeted it with a chorus of jeers and whistles. Mary ignored them. “They'll catch you, Richard,” she insisted, “catch you and shoot you.”

“Not if we run far enough.”

“We?” she asked cautiously.

“I'd want you, lass.”

Mary took hold of one of his hands and squeezed it. “Listen,” she hissed. “Work to become a sergeant! Once you're a
sergeant, you're made. You could even become an officer! Don't laugh, Richard! Mister Lambert in Calcutta, he was a sergeant once, and he was a private before that. They made him up to ensign.”

Sharpe smiled and traced a finger down her cheek. “You're mad, Mary. I love you, but you're mad. I couldn't be an officer! You have to know how to read!”

“I can teach you.” Mary said.

Sharpe glanced at her with some surprise. He had never known she could read and the knowledge made him somewhat nervous of her. “I wouldn't want to be an officer anyway,” he said scathingly. “Stuck-up bastards, all of them.”

“But you can be a sergeant,” Mary insisted, “and a good one. But don't run, love. Whatever you do, don't run.”

“Is that the lovebirds?” Sergeant Hakeswill's mocking voice cut through their conversation. “Ah, it's sweet, isn't it? Good to see a couple in love. Restores a man's faith in human nature, it does.”

Sharpe and Mary sat up and disentangled their fingers as the Sergeant stalked through the ring of men beside the fire. “I want you, Sharpie,” Hakeswill said when he reached their side. “Got a message for you, I have.” He touched his hat to Mary. “Not you, Ma'am,” he said as she stood to accompany Sharpe. “This is men's business, Mrs. Bickerstaff. Soldiers' business. No business for
bibbis
. Come on. Sharpie! Ain't got all night! Look lively now!” He strode away, thumping the ground with the butt of his halberd as he threaded his way between the fires. “Got news for you, Sharpie,” he called over his shoulder, “good news, lad, good news.”

“I can marry?” Sharpe asked eagerly.

Hakeswill threw a sly glance over his shoulder as he led Sharpe toward the picketed lines of officers' horses. “Now why would a lad like you want to marry? Why throw all your spunk away on one
bibbi
, eh? And that one used goods, too?
Another man's leavings, that's all Mary Bickerstaff is, You should spread it about, boy. Enjoy yourself when you're still young.” Hakeswill pushed his way between the horses to reach the dark space between the two picketed lines where he turned and faced Sharpe. “Good news, Sharpe. You can't marry. Permission is refused. You want to know why, boy?”

Sharpe felt his hopes crumbling. At that moment he hated Hakeswill more than ever, but his pride forced him not to show that hate, nor his disappointment. “Why?” he asked.

“I'll tell you why. Sharpie,” Hakeswill said. “And stand still, boy! When a sergeant condescends to talk to you, you stand still! Tenshun! That's better, lad. Bit of respect, like what is proper to show to a sergeant.” His lace twitched as he grinned. “You want to know why, boy? Because I don't want you to marry her, Sharpie, that is why. I don't want little Mrs. Bickerstaff married to anyone. Not to you, not to me, not even to the King of England himself, God bless him.” He was circling Sharpe as he talked. “And do you know why, boy?” He stopped in front of Sharpe and pushed his face up toward the younger man. “Because that Mrs. Bickerstaff isxk
a
bibbi
, Sharpie, with possibilities. Possi
bibbi
bilities!” He giggled at his joke. “Got a future, she has.” He grinned again, and the grin was suddenly twisted as his face shuddered with its distorting rictus. “You familiar with Naig? Nasty Naig? Answer me, boy!”

“I've heard of him,” Sharpe said.

“Fat bugger, Sharpie, he is. Fat and rich. Rides a helephant, he does, and he's got a dozen green tents. One of the army's followers, Sharpie, and rich as a rich man can be. Richer than you'll ever be, Sharpie, and you know why? ‘Cos Nasty Naig provides the officers with their women, that's why. And I'm not talking about those rancid slags the other heathens hires out to you nasty common soldiers, I'm talking about the desirable women, Sharpie. Desirable.” He fingered
on the word. “Nasty's got a whole herd of expensive whores, Sharpie, he does, all riding in those closed wagons with the colored curtains. Full of officers' meat, those wagons are, fat ones, skinny ones, dark ones, light ones, dirty ones, clean ones, tall ones, short ones, all sorts of ones, and all of ‘em are prettier than you could ever dream of, but there ain't one of them as pretty as little Mrs. Bickerstaff, and there ain't one who looks as white as pretty little Mary does, and if there's one thing an English officer abroad wants once in a while, Sharpie, it's a spot of the white meat. That's the itch Morris has got, Sharpie, got it bad, but he ain't no different from the others. They get bored with the dark meat, Sharpie. And the Indian officers! Naig tells me they'll pay a month's wages for a white. You following me, Sharpie? You and me marching in step, are we?”