Wellesley gazed in astonishment at the treasure.
“He said he didn’t have the money!”
“He’s a Scotsman, sir, the Colonel,” Sharpe had said, as though that explained everything, ‘and he’s sorry it ain’t real money, sir. Guineas.
But it’s the full price, sir. Four hundred.”
“Three hundred and eighty,” Wellesley said.
“Tell the Colonel I’ll return some to him. But a note would have done just as well! I’m supposed to carry gold on me?”
“Sorry, sir,” Sharpe had said lamely, but he could never have provided a note for the General, so instead he had sought out one of the bhinjanies who followed the army, and that merchant had exchanged emeralds for gold. Sharpe suspected he had been cheated, but he had wanted to give the Colonel the pleasure of owning a fine horse and so he had accepted the bhinjarrie’s price.
“Is it all right, sir?” he had asked Wellesley anxiously.
“Extraordinary way to do business,” Wellesley had said, but he had nodded his agreement.
“A fair sale, Sergeant,” he said, and he had almost held out his hand to shake Sharpe’s as a man always shook hands on the sale of a horse, then he remembered that Sharpe was a sergeant and so he had hastily converted his gesture into a vague wave.
And after Sharpe had gone and while he was scooping the coins into their bag, the General also remembered Sergeant Hakeswill. Not that it was any of his business, so perhaps it had been sensible not to mention the Sergeant’s presence to Sharpe.
McCandless now admired the gelding.
“Who paid for it?”
“Good-looking horse, ain’t he, sir?” Sharpe said.
“Good as your other, I’d say.”
“Sharpe! You’re blithering again. Who paid for it?”
Sharpe hesitated, but knew he was not going to be spared the interrogation.
“In a manner of speaking, sir,” he said, ‘the Tippoo did.”
“The Tippoo? Are you mad?”
Sharpe blushed.
“The fellow that killed the Tippoo, sir, he took some jewels off him.”
“A king’s ransom, I should imagine,” McCandless snorted.
“So I persuaded the fellow to buy the horse, sir. As a gift for you, sir.”
McCandless stared at Sharpe.
“It was you.”
“It was me who did what, sir?”
“You killed the Tippoo.” It was almost an accusation.
“Me, sir?” Sharpe asked innocently.
“No, sir.”
McCandless stared at the gelding.
“I can’t possibly accept, Sergeant.”
“He’s no good to me, sir. A sergeant can’t own a horse. Not a proper horse from Ireland, sir. And if I hadn’t been day-dreaming in Pohlmann’s camp, sir, I might have stopped those thieves, so it’s only fair that you should let me get you another.”
“You can’t do this, Sharpe!” McCandless protested, embarrassed by the generosity of the gift.
“Besides, in a day or two I hope to get my own horse back along with Mister Dodd.”
Sharpe had not thought of that, and for a second he cursed himself for throwing away his money. Then he shrugged.
“It’s done anyway, sir. General’s got the money and you’ve got the horse. Besides, sir, you’ve always been fair to me, so I wanted to do something for you.”
“It’s intolerable!” McCandless protested.
“Uncalled for. I shall have to repay you.”
“Four hundred guineas?” Sharpe asked.
“That’s the price of an ensign’s commission, sir.”
“So?” McCandless stared fiercely at Sharpe.
“So we’re going into battle, sir. You on that horse, and me on a Mahratta pony. It’s a chance, sir, a chance, but if I do well, sir, real well, I’ll need you to talk to the General.” Sharpe blushed as he spoke, amazed at his own temerity.
“That’s how you repay me, sir, but that’s not why I bought him. I just wanted you to have a proper horse, sir. Colonel like you shouldn’t be sitting on a scabby native pony, sir.”
McCandless, appalled at Sharpe’s ambition, did not know what to say.
He stroked the gelding, felt tears in his eyes and could not tell whether they were for Sharpe’s impossible dreams or because he had been so touched by the Sergeant’s gift.
“If you do well, Sharpe,” he promised, “I’ll talk to Colonel Wallace. He’s a good friend. It’s possible he’ll have a vacant ensign’s post, but don’t raise your hopes too high!” He paused, wondering if emotion had driven him to promise far too much.