Cornwell, Bernard 01 Sharpe’s Tiger-Serigapatam-Apr-May 1799

He drew his claymore, a brutal Scottish blade that had none of the finesse of more modern swords, yet Baird, at six feet four inches tall, had little need of finesse. He would carry his butcher’s blade into a breach of blood to pay back the Tippoo for forty-four months of hell.

In the batteries behind Baird the gunners blew on their linstocks to keep the fire burning. General Harris pulled out his watch. Colonel Arthur Wellesley, who would lead the second wave of attackers through the breach, adjusted his cravat, and thought of his responsibilities. The bulk of his men were from the Regiment de Meuron, a Swiss battalion that had once fought for the Dutch, but which had put itself under the command of the East India Company when the British had captured Ceylon. The men were mostly Swiss, but with a leavening from the German states, and they were a sober, steady battalion that Wellesley planned to lead to the Inner Palace to protect its contents and its harem from the ravages of the attackers. Seringapatam might fall, and the

Tippop might die, but the important thing was to gain Mysore’s friendship and Wellesley was determined to make certain that no unnecessary atrocities soured its citizens’ new allegiance. He adjusted the silver-gilt gorget about his neck, drew his sword an inch or two, then let it fall back into its scabbard before momentarily closing his eyes to say a prayer beseeching God’s protection on his men.

The Forlorn Hopes, their muskets loaded and tipped with steel, crouched in the trenches. The officers’ watches ticked on, the river ran gentle across its stones and the silent city waited.

‘Coat off,’ Sharpe said to Lawford, instinctively lapsing back into the relationship that had existed between them when they had served in Gudin’s battalion. ‘No point in showing a red coat till we have to,’ Sharpe explained, turning his own coat inside out. He did not put it back on, but knotted its sleeves about his neck so that the claw-torn jacket hung down against his scarred and naked back. The two men were crouched in a byre off the alley that led from the courtyard. Colonel McCandless had gone, led away to Appah Rao’s house, and Sharpe and Lawford were alone. ‘I don’t even have a gun,’ the Lieutenant said nervously.

‘Soon remedy that,’ Sharpe said confidently. ‘Come on now.’

Sharpe led, plunging into the intricate maze of small streets that surrounded the palace. A white man’s face was not so unusual as to attract attention in Seringapatam, for there were plenty of Europeans serving the Tippoo, but even so Sharpe did not fancy his chances in a red coat. He did not fancy his chances much at all, but he would be damned before he abandoned his fellow soldiers to the Tippoo’s mine.

He hurried past a shuttered goldsmith’s shop and half glimpsed, deep in its shadowed entrance, an armed man who was standing guard on the property. ‘Stay here,’ he told

Lawford, then slung the musket on his shoulder and doubled back. He pushed a wandering cow out of his way and ducked into the goldsmith’s entrance. ‘How are you feeling today?’ he said pleasantly to the man who, speaking no English, just frowned in confusion. He was still frowning when Sharpe’s left fist buried itself in his belly. He grunted, but then the right fist smacked him on the bridge of his nose and he was in no state to resist as Sharpe stripped him of musket and cartridge box. For good measure Sharpe gave the man a tap on the skull with the butt end of the musket, then went back to the street. ‘One musket, sir, filthy as hell, but she’ll fire. Cartridges too.’

Lawford opened the musket’s pan to check that it was loaded. ‘Just what do you plan to do, Sharpe?’ the Lieutenant asked.

‘Don’t know, sir. Won’t know till we get there.’

‘You’re going to the mine?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘There’ll be guards.’

‘Like as not.’

‘And only two of us.’

‘I can count, sir.’ Sharpe grinned. ‘It’s reading I find hard. But my letters are coming on, aren’t they?’

‘You’re reading well,’ Lawford said. Probably, the Lieutenant thought, as well as most seven-year-olds, but it had still been gratifying to see the pleasure Sharpe took from the process, even if his only reading matter was a crumpled page of the Revelation full of mysterious beasts with wings that covered their eyes. ‘I’ll get you some more interesting books when we’re out of here,’ Lawford promised.

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