‘So we must attack anywhere but in the west?’
‘Anywhere but from the west,’ Appah Rao said. ‘The new inner wall’ – he demonstrated on the map with the tip of his knife – ‘extends all the way round the north. These other walls’ – he tapped the southern and eastern ramparts – ‘look stronger, but don’t be deceived. The west wall is a trap, and if you fall into it, it will be your death.’ He moved the weights off the corners of the map and let it roll itself up. Then he unshielded McCandless’s lantern and held one end of the scroll in the candle flame. The paper blazed, lighting the intricate carvings of the shrine. The three men watched as the paper burned to ash. ‘Anywhere but from the west,’ Appah Rao said, then, after a moment’s hesitation, he lifted the bag of gold coins from beside the lantern. ‘All this will go to my Rajah,’ he said. ‘I shall keep none.’
‘I never expected you to,’ McCandless said. ‘You have my thanks, General.”
‘I don’t want your thanks. I want my Rajah back. That is why I came. And if you disappoint me, then you English will have a new enemy.’
Tm a Scot.’
‘But you would still be my enemy,’ Appah Rao said, then turned away, but paused and looked back from the inner shrine’s threshold. ‘Tell your General that his men should be gentle with the people of the city.’
‘I will tell General Harris.’
‘Then I shall look to see you in Seringapatam,’ Appah Rao said heavily.
‘Me and thousands of others,’ McCandless said.
‘Thousands!’ Appah Rao’s tone mocked the claim. ‘You may have thousands, Colonel, but the Tippoo has tigers.’ He turned and walked to the temple’s outer gateway, followed by Kunwar Singh.
McCandless burned the copy of Bonaparte’s letter, waited another half-hour and then, as silently as he had come to the temple, he left it. He would join his escort, sleep a few hours, then ride with his precious secret to the wailing army.
Few men of the 33rd slept that night for the excitement of fighting and beating the Tippoo’s vaunted troops had filled them with a nervous energy. Some spent their loot on arrack, and those fell asleep soon enough, but the others stayed around their fires and relived the day’s brief excitement. For most of the troops it had been their first battle, and on its slim evidence they built a picture of war and their own valour.
Mary Bickerstaff sat with Sharpe and listened patiently to the tales. She was accustomed to soldiers’ stories and shrewd enough to know which men exaggerated their prowess and which pretended not to have been nauseated by the horrors of the dead and wounded. Sharpe, after he returned from Captain Morris’s tent with the news that the Captain would ask Major Shee’s permission for them to marry, was silent and Mary sensed he was not really listening to the tales, not even when he pretended to be amused or amazed. ‘What is it?’ she asked him after a long while.
‘Nothing, lass.’
‘Are you worried about Captain Morris?’
‘If he says no, we just ask Major Shee,’ Sharpe said with a confidence he did not entirely feel. Morris was a bastard, but Shee was a drunk, and in truth there was litde to choose between them. Sharpe had an idea that Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Wellesley, the 33rd’s real commanding officer, was a man who might be reasonable, but Wellesley had been
temporarily appointed as one of the army’s two deputy commanders and had thus shrugged off all regimental business. ‘We’ll get our permission,’ he told Mary.
‘So what’s worrying you?’
‘I told you. Nothing.’
‘You’re miles away, Richard.’
He hesitated. ‘Wish I was.’
Mary tightened the grip of her hand on his fingers, then lowered her voice to something scarce above a whisper. ‘Are you thinking of running, Richard Sharpe?’
He leaned away from the fire, trying to make a small private space where they could talk without being overheard. ‘Got to be a better life than this, love,’ he said.
‘Don’t do it!’ Mary said fiercely, but laying a hand on his cheek as she spoke. Some of the men on the other side of the fire saw the tender gesture and greeted it with a chorus of jeers and whistles. Mary ignored them. ‘They’ll catch you, Richard,’ she insisted, ‘catch you and shoot you.’