Sharpe's Triumph (8 page)

“Enough, Sergeant!” Gore said.

“It ain't a Christian act, sir,” Hakeswill muttered resentfully.

“Not with a jakes pot, sir. Says so in the scriptures.”

Gore rubbed his face. The rain had taken the edge off the damp heat, but not by much, and
he found the atmosphere horribly oppressive.

Maybe the itch was just a reaction to the heat. He rubbed his hand across his belly, but
it did not help.

“Why would Sergeant Sharpe assault you without warning, Captain?” he asked.

Morris shrugged.

“He's a disagreeable sort, sir,” he offered weakly.

“He never liked the Captain, sir, Sharpie didn't,” Hakeswill said, 'and it's my belief,
sir, that he thought the Captain had come to summon him back to the battalion, where he
ought to be soldiering instead of living off the fat of the land, but he don't want to come
back, sir, on account of being comfortable, sir, like he's got no right to be.

He never did know his place, sir, not Sharpe, sir. Got above himself, sir, he has, and
he's got cash in his breeches. On the fiddle, I dare say."

Gore ignored the last accusation.

“How badly are you hurt?” he asked Morris.

“Only cuts and bruises, sir.” Morris straightened in the chair.

“But it's still a court-martial offence, sir.”

“A capital offence, sir,” Hakeswill said.

“Up against the wall, sir, and God have mercy on his black soul, which I very much doubts
God will, God having better things to worry about than a sorry piece of scum like
Sharpie.”

Gore sighed. He suspected there was a great deal more to the story than he was hearing,
but whatever the real facts Captain Morris was still right. All that mattered was that
Sergeant Sharpe was alleged to have struck an officer, and no excuse in the world could
explain away such an offence. Which meant Sergeant Sharpe would have to be tried and very
probably shot, and Gore would regret that for he had heard some very good things of the young
Sergeant Sharpe.

“I had great hopes of Sergeant Sharpe,” the Colonel said sadly.

“Got above himself, sir,” Hakeswill snapped.

“Just 'cos he blew the mine at Seringapatam, sir, he thinks he's got wings and can fly.
Needs to have his feathers clipped, sir, says so in the scriptures.”

Gore looked scornfully at the twitching Sergeant.

“And what did you do at the assault of the city, Sergeant?” he asked.

“My duty, sir, my duty,” Hakeswill answered.

“What is all I ever expects any other man to do, sir.”

Gore shook his head regretfully. There really was no way out of this dilemma. If
Sharpe had struck an officer, then Sharpe must be punished.

“I suppose he'll have to be fetched back here,” Gore admitted.

“Of course,” Morris agreed.

Gore frowned in irritation. This was all such a damned nuisance!

Gore had desperately hoped that the 33rd would be attached to Wellesley's army which
was about to plunge into Mahratta territory, but instead the battalion had been
ordered to stay behind and guard Mysore against the bandits who still plagued the roads and
hills. Now, it seemed, overstretched as the battalion was, Gore would have to detach a
party to arrest Sergeant Sharpe.

“Captain Lawford could go for him,” he suggested.

“Hardly a job for an officer, sir,” Morris said.

“A sergeant could do the thing just as well.”

Gore considered the matter. Sending a sergeant would certainly be less disruptive to
the battalion than losing an officer, and a sergeant could surely do the job as well as
anyone.

“How many men would he need?” Gore asked.

“Six men, sir,” Hakeswill snapped.

“I could do the job with six men.”

“And Sergeant Hakeswill's the best man for the job,” Morris urged.

He had no particular wish to lose Hakeswill's services for the few days that it would
take to fetch Sharpe, but Hakeswill had hinted that there was money in this business.
Morris was not sure how much money, but he was in debt and Hakeswill had been
persuasive.

“By far the best man,” he added.

“On account of me knowing the little bugger's cunning ways, sir,” Hakeswill explained,
'if you'll excuse my Hindi."

Gore nodded. He would like nothing more than to rid himself of Hakeswill for a while, for
the man was a baleful influence on the battalion. Hakeswill was hated, that much Gore had
learned, but he was also feared, for the Sergeant declared that he could not be killed. He
had survived a hanging once, indeed the scar of the rope was still concealed beneath the
stiff leather stock, and the men believed that Hakeswill was somehow under the protection
of an evil angel. The Colonel knew that was a nonsense, but even so the very presence of the
Sergeant made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“I'll have my clerk write the orders for you, Sergeant,” the Colonel said.

“Thank you, sir!” Hakeswill said.

“You won't regret it, sir. Obadiah Hakeswill has never shirked his duty, sir, not like
some as I could name.”

Gore dismissed Hakeswill who waited for Captain Morris under the building's porch and
watched the rain pelt onto the street. The Sergeant's face twitched and his eyes held a
peculiar malevolence that made the single sentry edge away. But in truth Sergeant
Obadiah Hakeswill was a happy man. God had put Richard Sharpe into his grasp and he would
pay Sharpe back for all the insults of the last few years and especially for the ghastly
moment when Sharpe had hurled Hakeswill among the Tippoo Sultan's tigers. Hakeswill had
thought the beasts would savage him, but his luck had held and the tigers had ignored him. It
seemed they had been fed not an hour before and thus the guardian angel who preserved
Hakeswill had once again come to his rescue.

So now Obadiah Hakeswill would have his revenge. He would choose six men, six bitter men
who could be trusted, and they would take Sergeant Sharpe, and afterwards, somewhere on the
road home from Seringapatam where there were no witnesses, they would find Sharpe's money
and then finish him. Shot while attempting to escape, that would be the explanation, and
good riddance too. Hakeswill was happy and Sharpe was condemned.

Colonel McCandless led Sharpe north towards the wild country where the frontiers of
Hyderabad, Mysore and the Mahratta states met.

“Till I hear otherwise,” McCandless told Sharpe, I'm assuming our traitor is in
Ahmednuggur."

“What's that, sir? A city?”

“A city and a fort next to each other,” the Colonel said. McCandless's big gelding
seemed to eat up the miles, but Sharpe's smaller mare offered a lumpy ride. Within an hour
of leaving Seringapatam Sharpe's muscles were sore, within two he felt as though the backs
of his thighs were burning, and by late afternoon the stirrup leathers had abraded through
his cotton trousers to grind his calves into bloody patches.

“It's one of Scindia's frontier strongholds,” the Colonel went on, 'but I doubt it can hold
out long. Wellesley plans to capture it, then strike on north."

“So we're going to war, sir?”

“Of course.” McCandless frowned.

“Does that worry you?”

“No, sir,” Sharpe said, nor did it. He had a good life in Seringapatam, maybe as good a
life as any soldier had ever had anywhere, but in the four years between the fall of
Seringapatam and the massacre at Chasalgaon Sharpe had not heard a shot fired in anger, and
a part of him was envious of his old colleagues in the 33rd who fought brisk skirmishes
against the bandits and rogues who plagued western Mysore.

“We're going to fight the Mahrattas,” McCandless said.

“You know who they are?”

“I hear they're bastards, sir.”

McCandless frowned at Sharpe's foul language.

“They are a confederation of independent states, Sharpe,” he said primly, 'that
dominate much of western India. They are also warlike, piratical and

untrustworthy, except, of course, for those which are our allies, who are romantic,
gallant and heroic."

“Some are on our side, sir?”

“A few. The Peshwa, for one, and he's their titular leader, but small notice they take
of him. Others are staying aloof from this war, but two of the biggest princes have decided
to make a fight of it. One's called Scindia, and he's the Maharajah of Gwalior, and the
other's called Bhonsla, and he's the Rajah of Berar.”

Sharpe tried standing in the stirrups to ease the pain in his seat, but it only made the
chafing of his calves worse.

“And what's our quarrel with those two, sir?”

“They've been much given to raiding into Hyderabad and Mysore lately, so now it's time
to settle them once and for all.”

“And Lieutenant Dodd's joined their army, sir?”

“From what we hear, he's joined Scindia's army. But I haven't heard much.” The Colonel had
already explained to Sharpe how he had been keeping his ears open for news of Dodd ever
since the Lieutenant had persuaded his sepoys to defect, but then had come the terrible
news of Chasalgaon, and McCandless, who had been travelling north to join Wellesley's
army, had seen Sharpe's name in the report and so had turned around and hurried south to
Seringapatam. At the same time he had sent some of his own Mahratta agents north to
discover Dodd's whereabouts.

“We should meet those fellows today,” the Colonel said, 'or tomorrow at the
latest."

The rain had not stopped, but nor was it heavy. Mud spattered up the horses' flanks and
onto Sharpe's boots and white trousers. He tried sitting half sideways, he tried leaning
forward or tipping himself back, but the pain did not stop. He had never much liked
horses, but now decided he hated them.

“I'd like to meet Lieutenant Dodd again, sir,” he told McCandless as the two men rode
under dripping trees.

“Be careful of him, Sharpe,” McCandless warned.

“He has a reputation.”

“For what, sir?”

“A fighter, of course. He's no mean soldier. I've not met him, of course, but I've heard
tales. He's been up north, in Calcutta mostly, and made a name for himself there. He was
first over the pettah wall at Panhapur. Not much of a wall, Sharpe, just a thicket of
cactus thorn really, but it took his sepoys five minutes to follow him, and by the time
they reached him he'd killed a dozen of the enemy. He's a tall man who can use a sword and is
a fine pistol shot too. He is, in brief, a killer.”

“If he's so good, sir, why is he still a lieutenant?”

The Colonel sighed.

"I fear that is the way of the Company's army, Sharpe. A man can't buy his way up the
ladder as he can in the King's army, and there's no promotion for good service. It all goes
by seniority.

Dead men's shoes, Sharpe. A fellow must wait his turn in the Company, and there's no way
round it."

“So Dodd has been waiting, sir?”

“A long time. He's forty now, and I doubt he'd have got his captaincy much before he was
fifty.”

“Is that why he ran, sir?”

“He ran because of the murder. He claimed a goldsmith cheated him of money and had his
men beat the poor fellow so badly that he died. He was court-martial led of course, but the
only sentence he got was six months without pay. Six months without pay! That's
sanctioning murder, Sharpe! But Wellesley insisted the Company discharge him, and he
planned to have Dodd tried before a civilian court and condemned to death, so Dodd ran.” The
Colonel paused.

“I wish I could say we're pursuing him because of the murder, Sharpe,” he went on, 'but
that isn't so. We're pursuing him because he persuaded his men to defect. Once that rot
starts, it might never stop, and we have to show the other sepoys that desertion will
always be punished."

Just before nightfall, when the rain had stopped and Sharpe thought his sore muscles and
bleeding calves would make him moan aloud in agony, a group of horsemen came cantering
towards them. To Sharpe they looked like silladars, the mercenary horsemen who hired
themselves, their weapons and their horses to the British army, and he pulled his mare over
to the left side of the road to give the heavily armed men room to pass, but their leader
slowed as he approached, then raised a hand in greeting.

“Colonel!” he shouted.

“Sevajee!” McCandless cried and spurred his horse towards the oncoming Indian. He
held out his hand and Sevajee clasped it.

“You have news?” McCandless asked.

Sevajee nodded.

“Your fellow is inside Ahmednuggur, Colonel. He's been given Mathers's regiment.” He
was pleased with his news, grinning broadly to reveal red-stained teeth. He was a young man
dressed in the remnants of a green uniform Sharpe did not recognize. The jacket had
European epaulettes hung with silver chains, and over it was

strapped a sword sling and a sash, both of white silk and both stained brown with dried
blood.

“Sergeant Sharpe,” McCandless made the introductions, 'this is Syud Sevajee."

Sharpe nodded a wary greeting.

“Sahib,” he said, for there was something about Syud Sevajee that suggested he was a
man of rank.

“The Sergeant has seen Lieutenant Dodd,” McCandless explained.

“He'll make sure we capture the right man.”

“Kill all the Europeans,” Sevajee suggested, 'and you'll be sure." The suggestion,
it seemed to Sharpe, was not entirely flippant.

“I want him captured alive,” McCandless said irritably.

“Justice must be seen to be done. Or would you rather that your people believe a British
officer can beat a man to death without any punishment?”

“They believe that anyway,” Sevajee said carelessly, 'but if you wish to be
scrupulous, McCandless, then we shall capture Mister Dodd."

Sevajee's men, a dozen wild-looking warriors armed with everything from bows and
arrows to lances, had fallen in behind McCandless.

“Syud Sevajee is a Mahratta, Sharpe,” McCandless explained.

“One of the romantic ones, sir?”

“Romantic?” Sevajee repeated the word in surprise.