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

‘Got a job to do, sir,’ Sharpe answered vaguely. ‘And, sir? Can I thank you, sir? I couldn’t have done any of this without you.’ Sharpe was not used to offering such heartfelt compliments and he spoke awkwardly. ‘You’re a brave bugger, sir, you really are.’

Lawford felt absurdly pleased. He knew he should have stopped Sharpe from leaving, for this was no time for a man to be roaming Seringapatam’s streets, but Sharpe was already gone. Lawford turned his coat the right side out and pushed

his arms through the sleeves. Gudin, beside him, waved away a fly and wondered why the dust and smoke did not keep the pests away. ‘What will they do with me, Lieutenant?’ he asked Lawford.

‘They’ll treat you well, sir, I’m sure. They’ll probably send you back to France.’

‘I’d like that,’ Gudin said and suddenly realized that was all he really did want. ‘Your Private Sharpe . . .’ he said.

‘Sergeant Sharpe now, sir.’

‘Your Sergeant Sharpe, then. He’s a good man, Lieutenant.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Lawford said, ‘he is.’

‘If he lives, he’ll go far.’

‘If he lives, sir, yes.’ And if the army lets him live, Lawford thought.

‘Look after him, Lieutenant,’ Gudin said. ‘An army isn’t made of its officers, you know, though we officers like to think it is. An army is no better than its men, and when you find good men, you must look after them. That’s an officer’s job.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Lawford said dutifully. The first fugitives from the walls were visible at the end of the alley now, men in dust-smeared tiger tunics who staggered or limped away from the fighting. The noise of that fight was the continuous staccato of musket fire, shouts and screams, and it could not be long before the first murderous attackers broke into the streets. Lawford wondered if he should have demanded Gudin’s sword, then worried about having allowed Sharpe to go off on his own.

Sharpe lived so far. He had thought about putting on his red coat, then decided there was no point in making himself conspicuous, even though the coat was now so filthy that it hardly looked like a uniform any more, and so he left the turned jacket knotted about his neck and, with two muskets slung on each shoulder, ran northwards through the city. The crackle of muskets was constant, but above that crisp sound

he could also hear the roar of maddened men going into a brutal fight. In a few minutes that fight would spread into the city and Sharpe planned to use those minutes well. He ran through the small square where the rocket carts were still parked and then hurried past the Inner Palace where a tiger-striped guard, thinking that Sharpe was a deserter from the Tippoo’s European troops, shouted a challenge at him, but by the time the guard had cocked his musket Sharpe had already disappeared into the labyrinth of alleys and yards that lay to the north of the palace.

He pushed through a crowd of fearful women, passed the cheetah cages and so went back to the dungeons. The bodies of the three jettis were crawling with flies and beyond them the outer gate of the dungeons still swung open. Sharpe ran through the gate and jumped down the stairs to where his tiger lay dead.

‘Sharpie!’ Hakeswill came to the bars. ‘You came back, lad! I knew you would. So what’s happening, lad? No! Don’t do that!’ Hakeswill had seen Sharpe take a musket from his shoulder. ‘I like you, boy, always have! I might have seemed a bit hard on you at times, but only for your own good, Sharpie. You’re a good boy, you are. You’re a proper soldier. No!’ Sharpe had aimed the musket.

Sharpe turned the muzzle away from Hakeswill and aimed it at the padlock. He did not want to waste time with the picklock so he simply held the musket against the ancient loop of the padlock and pulled the trigger. The iron loop sheared and the lock fell from the hasp. Sharpe dragged the cell door open. ‘I’ve come to get you, Obadiah,’ he said.

‘Knew you would, Sharpie, knew you would.’ Hakeswill’s face twitched. ‘Knew you wouldn’t leave your sergeant to rot.’

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