Sharpe's Tiger (15 page)

“Not true, Baird,” Harris had answered mildly. “Wellesley has ability.”

“Ability, my arse. He's got family!” Baird spat.

“We all have family.”

“Not prinking English popinjay families with too much bloody money.”

“He was born in Ireland.”

“Poor bloody Ireland, then, but he ain't Irish, Harris, and you know it. The man doesn't even drink, for God's sake! A little wine, maybe, but nothing I'd call a proper drink. Have you ever met an Irishman so sober?”

“Some, quite a few, a good number, to tell the truth,” Harris, a fair-minded man, had answered honestly, “but is inebriation such a desirable quality in a military commander?”

“Experience is,” Baird had growled. “Hell, man, you and I have seen some service! We've lost blood! And what has Wellesley lost? Money! Nothing but money while he purchased his way up to colonel. Man's never been in a battle!”

“He will still make a very good second-in-command, and that's all that matters,” Harris had insisted, and indeed Harris had been well pleased with Wellesley's performance. The Colonel's responsibilities lay mainly with the army of the Nizam of Hyderabad, and he had proved adept at persuading that potentate to submit to Harris's suggestions, a task Baird
could never have performed even half so well for the Scotsman was notorious for his hatred of all Indians.

That hatred went back to the years Baird had spent in the dungeons of the Tippoo Sultan in Seringapatam. Nineteen years before, in battle against the Tippoo's fierce father, Hyder Ali, the young David Baird had been captured. He and the other prisoners had been marched to Seringapatam and there endured forty-four humiliating months of hot, damp hell in Hyder Ali's cells. For some of those months Baird had been manacled to the wall and now the Scotsman wanted revenge. He dreamed of carrying his Scottish claymore across the city's ramparts and cornering the Tippoo, and then, by Christ, the hell of Seringapatam's cells would be paid back a thousandfold.

It was the memory of that ordeal and the knowledge that his fellow Scotsman, McCandless, was now doomed to endure it, that had persuaded Baird that McCandless must he freed. Colonel McCandless had himself suggested how that release might be achieved for, before setting out on his mission, he had left a letter with David Baird. The letter, which had instructions penned on its cover saying that it should only be opened if McCandless failed to return, suggested that if the Colonel should be captured, and should General Harris feel it was important to make an attempt to release him, then a trusted man should be sent secretly into Seringapatam where he should contact a merchant named Ravi Shekhar. “If any man has the resources to free me, it is Shekhar,” McCandless had written, “though I trust both you and the General will weigh well the risk of losing such a prized informant against whatever small advantages might be gained from my release.”

Baird had no doubts about McCandless's worth. McCandless alone knew the identities of the British agents in the Tippoo's service and no one in the army knew as much of
the Tippoo as did McCandless, and Baird was aware that should the Tippoo ever discover McCandless's true responsibilities then McCandless would be given to the tigers. It was Baird who had remembered that McCandless's English nephew, William Lawford, was serving in the army, and Baird who had persuaded Lawford to enter Seringapatam in an effort to free McCandless, and Baird who had then proposed the mission to General Harris. Harris had initially scorned the idea, though he had unbent sufficiently to suggest that maybe an Indian volunteer could be found who would stand a much greater chance of remaining undetected in the enemy capital, but Baird had vigorously defended his choice. “This is too important to be left to some blackamoor, Harris, and besides, only McCandless knows which of the bastards can be trusted. Me, I wouldn't trust any damned one of them.”

Harris had sighed. He led two armies, fifty thousand men, and all but five thousand of those soldiers were Indians, and if “blackamoors” could not be trusted then Harris, Baird, and everyone else was doomed, but the General knew he would make no headway against Baird's stubborn dislike of all Indians. “I would like McCandless freed,” Harris had allowed, “but, upon my soul, Baird, I can't see a white man living long in Seringapatam.”

“We can't send a blackamoor,” Baird had insisted. “They'll take money from us, then go straight to the Tippoo and get more money from him. Then you can kiss farewell to McCandless and to this Shekhar fellow.”

“But why send this young man Lawford?” Harris had asked.

“Because McCandless is a secretive fellow, sir, more cautious than most, and if he sees Willie Lawford then he'll know that we sent him, but if it's some other British fellow he might think it's some deserter sent to trap him by the
Tippoo. Never underestimate the Tippoo, Harris, he's a clever little bastard. He reminds me of Wellesley. He's always thinking.”

Harris had grunted. He had resisted the idea, but it had still tempted him, for the Havildar who had survived McCandless's ill-starred expedition had returned to the army, and his story suggested that McCandless had met with the man he hoped to meet, and, though Harris did not know who that man was, he did know that McCandless had been searching for the key to the Tippoo's city. Only a mission so important, a mission that could guarantee success, had persuaded Harris to allow McCandless to risk himself, and now McCandless was taken and Harris was being offered a chance to fetch him back, or at least to retrieve McCandless's news, even if the Colonel himself could not be fetched out of the Tippoo's dungeons. Harris was not so confident of British success in the campaign that he could disregard such a windfall. “But how in God's name is this fellow Lawford supposed to survive inside the city?” Harris had asked.

“Easy!” Baird had answered scornfully. “The Tippoo's only too damned eager for European volunteers, so we dress young Lawford in a private's uniform and he can pretend to be a deserter. He'll be welcomed with open arms! They'll be hanging bloody flowers round his neck and giving him first choice of the
bibbis.”

Harris had slowly allowed himself to be persuaded, though Wellesley, once introduced to the idea, had advised against it. Lawford, Wellesley insisted, could never pass himself off as an enlisted man, but Wellesley had been overruled by Baird's enthusiasm and so Lieutenant Lawford had been summoned to Harris's tent where he had complicated matters by agreeing with his Colonel. “I'd dearly like to help, sir,” he had told Harris, “but I'm not sure I'm capable of the pretence.”

“Good God, man.” Baird intervened, “spit and swear! It ain't difficult!”

“It will be very difficult,” Harris had insisted, staring at the diffident Lieutenant. He was doubtful whether Lawford had the resources to carry off the deception, for the Lieutenant, while plainly a decent man, seemed guileless.

Then Lawford had complicated matters still further. “I think it would he more plausible, sir,” he suggested respectfully, “if I could take another man with me. Deserters usually run in pairs, don't they? And if the man is the genuine article, a ranker, it'll be altogether more convincing.”

“Makes sense, makes sense,” Baird had put in encouragingly.

“You have a man in mind?” Wellesley had asked coldly.

“His name is Sharpe, sir,” Lawford said. “They're probably about to flog him.”

“Then he'll he no damned use to you,” Wellesley said in a tone which suggested the matter was now closed.

I'll go with no one else, sir.” Lawford retorted stubbornly, addressing himself to General Harris rather than to his Colonel, and Harris was pleased to see this evidence of backbone. The Lieutenant, it seemed, was not quite so diffident as he appeared.

“How many lashes is this fellow getting?” Harris asked.

“Don't know, sir. He's standing trial now, sir, and if I wasn't here I'd be giving evidence on his behalf. I doubt his guilt.”

The argument over whether to employ Sharpe had continued over a midday meal of rice and stewed goat. Wellesley was refusing to intervene in the court martial or its subsequent punishment, declaring that such an act would be prejudicial to discipline, but William Lawford stubbornly and respectfully refused to take any other man. It had, he said, to be a man he could trust. “We could send another officer,”
Wellesley had suggested, but that idea had faltered when the difficulties of finding a reliable volunteer were explored. There were plenty of men who might go, but few were steady, and the steady ones would be too sensible to risk their precious commissions on what Wellesley scathingly called a fool's errand. “So why are you willing to go?” Harris had asked Lawford. “You don't look like a fool.”

“I trust I'm not, sir. But my uncle gave me the money to purchase my commission.”

“Did he, by God! That's damned generous.”

“And I hope I'm damned grateful, sir.”

“Grateful enough to die for him?” Wellesley put in sourly.

Lawford had colored, but stuck to his guns. “I suspect Private Sharpe is resourceful enough for both of us, sir.”

The decision whether or not to employ Sharpe belonged, in the end, to General Harris who privately agreed with Wellesley that to spare a man his well-earned punishment was to display a dangerous laxity, but at last, persuaded that extraordinary measures were needed to save McCandless, the General surrendered to Baird's enthusiasm and so, with a heavy heart, Harris had ordered the unfortunate Sharpe fetched to the tent. Which was why, at long last, Private Richard Sharpe limped into the wan, yellow light cast through the tent's high canvas. He was dressed in a clean uniform, but everyone in the tent could see that he was still in dreadful pain. He moved stiffly, and the stiffness was not just caused by the yards of bandage that circled his torso, but by the agony of every movement of his body. He had tried to wash the blood out of his hair and had succeeded in taking out most of the powder as well so that when Colonel Wellesley told him to take off his shako he appeared with curiously mottled hair.

“I think you'd better sit, man,” General Baird suggested, with a glance at Harris for his permission.

“Fetch that stool,” Harris ordered Sharpe, then saw that the private could not bend down to pick it up.

Baird fetched the stool. “Is it hurting?” he asked sympathetically.

“Yes, sir.”

“It's supposed to hurt.” Wellesley said curtly. “Pain is the point of punishment.” He kept his back to Sharpe, pointedly demonstrating his disapproval. “I do not like cancelling a flogging,” Wellesley went on to no one in particular. “It erodes good order. Once men think their sentences can be curtailed, then God only knows what roguery they'll be up to.” He suddenly twisted in his chair and gave Sharpe an icy glare. “If I had my way, Private Sharpe, I'd march you back to the triangle and finish the job.”

“I doubt Private Sharpe even deserved the punishment,” Lawford dared to intervene, blushing as he did.

“The time for that sentiment, Lieutenant, was during the court martial!” Wellesley snapped, his tone suggesting that it would have been a wasted sentiment anyway. “You've been lucky, Private Sharpe,” Wellesley said with distaste. “I shall announce that you've been spared the rest of your punishment as a reward for fighting well the other day. Did you fight well?”

Sharpe nodded. “Killed my share of the enemy, sir.”

“So I'm commuting your sentence. And tonight, damn your eyes, you'll reward me by deserting.”

Sharpe wondered if he had heard right, decided it was best not to ask, and so he looked away from the Colonel, composed his face, and stared fixedly at the wall of the tent.

“Have you ever thought about deserting, Sharpe?” General Baird asked him.

“Me, sir?” Sharpe managed to look surprised. “Not me, sir, no, sir. Never crossed my mind, sir.”

Baird smiled. “We need a good liar for this particular service.
So maybe you're an excellent choice, Sharpe. Besides, anyone who looks at your back will know why you wanted to desert.” Baird liked that idea and his face betrayed a sudden enthusiasm. “In fact if you hadn't already conveniently had yourself flogged, man, we might have had to give you a few lashes anyway!” He smiled.

Sharpe did not smile back. Instead he looked warily from one officer to the other. He could see that Mister Lawford was nervous. Baird was doing his best to be friendly, General Harris's face was unreadable, while Colonel Wellesley had turned away in disgust. But Wellesley bad always been a cold fish, so there was no point in trying to gain his approval. Baird was the man who had saved him, Sharpe guessed, and that fitted with Baird's reputation in the army. The Scotsman was a soldier's general, a brave man and well liked by the troops.

Baird smiled again, trying to put Sharpe at his ease. “Let me explain why you're running, Sharpe. Three days ago we lost a good man, a Colonel McCandless. The Tippoo's forces captured him and, so far as we know, they took him back to Seringapatam. We want you to go to that city and be captured by the Tippoo's forces. Are you understanding me this far?”

“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said obediently.

“Good man. Now, when you reach Seringapatam the Tippoo will want you to join his army. He likes to have white men in his ranks, so you won't have any trouble taking his shilling. And once you're trusted your job is to find Colonel McCandless and bring him out alive. Are you still following me, now?”

“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said stoically, and wondered why they did not first ask him to hop over to London and steal the crown jewels. Bloody idiots! Put a bit of gold lace on a man's coat and his brain turned to mush! Still, they were doing
what he wanted them to do, which was kicking him out of the army and so he sat very still, very quiet, and very straight, not so much out of respect, but because his back hurt like the very devil every time he moved.