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

‘Not if we run far enough.’

‘We?’ she asked cautiously.

Td want you, lass.’

Mary took hold of one of his hands and squeezed it. ‘Listen,’ she hissed. ‘Work to become a sergeant! Once you’re a sergeant, you’re made. You could even become an officer! Don’t laugh, Richard! Mister Lambert in Calcutta, he was a sergeant once, and he was a private before that. They made him up to ensign.’

Sharpe smiled and traced a finger down her cheek. ‘You’re mad, Mary. I love you, but you’re mad. I couldn’t be an officer! You have to know how to read!’

‘I can teach you,’ Mary said.

Sharpe glanced at her with some surprise. He had never known she could read and the knowledge made him somewhat nervous of her. ‘I wouldn’t want to be an officer anyway,’ he said scathingly. ‘Stuck-up bastards, all of them.’

‘But you can be a sergeant,’ Mary insisted, ‘and a good one. But don’t run, love. Whatever you do, don’t run.’

‘Is that the lovebirds?’ Sergeant Hakeswill’s mocking voice cut through their conversation. ‘Ah, it’s sweet, isn’t it? Good to see a couple in love. Restores a man’s faith in human nature it does.’

Sharpe and Mary sat up and disentangled their fingers as the Sergeant stalked through the ring of men beside the fire. ‘I want you, Sharpie,’ Hakeswill said when he reached their side. ‘Got a message for you, I have.’ He touched his hat to Mary. ‘Not you, Ma’am,’ he said as she stood to accompany Sharpe. ‘This is men’s business, Mrs Bickerstaff. Soldiers’ business. No business for bibbis. Come on, Sharpie! Ain’t got all night! Look lively now!’ He strode away, thumping the ground with the butt of his halberd as he threaded his way between the fires. ‘Got news for you, Sharpie,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘good news, lad, good news.’

‘I can marry?’ Sharpe asked eagerly.

Hakeswill threw a sly glance over his shoulder as he led Sharpe towards the picketed lines of officers’ horses. ‘Now why would a lad like you want to marry? Why throw all your spunk away on one bibbi, eh? And that one used goods, too? Another man’s leavings, that’s all Mary Bickerstaff is. You should spread it about, boy. Enjoy yourself when you’re still young.’ Hakeswill pushed his way between the horses to reach the dark space between the two picketed lines where he turned and faced Sharpe. ‘Good news, Sharpe. You can’t marry. Permission is refused. You want to know why, boy?’

Sharpe felt his hopes crumbling. At that moment he hated Hakeswill more than ever, but his pride forced him not to show that hate, nor his disappointment. ‘Why?’ he asked.

‘I’ll tell you why, Sharpie,’ Hakeswill said. ‘And stand still, boy! When a sergeant condescends to talk to you, you stand

still! ‘Tenshun! That’s better, lad. Bit of respect, like what is proper to show to a sergeant.’ His face twitched as he grinned. ‘You want to know why, boy? Because I don’t want you to marry her, Sharpie, that is why. I don’t want little Mrs Bickerstaff married to anyone. Not to you, not to me, not even to the King of England himself, God bless him.’ He was circling Sharpe as he talked. ‘And do you know why, boy?’ He stopped in front of Sharpe and pushed his face up towards the younger man. ‘Because that Mrs Bickerstaff is a bibbi, Sharpie, with possibilities. Possibibbibilities!’ He giggled at his joke. ‘Got a future, she has.’ He grinned again, and the grin was suddenly twisted as his face shuddered with its distorting rictus. ‘You familiar with Naig? Nasty Naig? Answer me, boy’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ Sharpe said.

‘Fat bugger, Sharpie, he is. Fat and rich. Rides a helephant, he does, and he’s got a dozen green tents. One of the army’s followers, Sharpie, and rich as a rich man can be. Richer than you’ll ever be, Sharpie, and you know why? ‘Cos Nasty Naig provides the officers with their women, that’s why. And I’m not talking about those rancid slags the other heathens hires out to you nasty common soldiers, I’m talking about the desirable women, Sharpie. Desirable.’ He lingered on the word. ‘Nasty’s got a whole herd of expensive whores, Sharpie, he does, all riding in those closed wagons with the coloured curtains. Full of officers’ meat, those wagons are, fat ones, skinny ones, dark ones, light ones, dirty ones, clean ones, tall ones, short ones, all sorts of ones, and all of ’em are prettier than you could ever dream of, but there ain’t one of them as pretty as little Mrs Bickerstaff, and there ain’t one who looks as white as pretty little Mary does, and if mere’s one thing an English officer abroad wants once in a while, Sharpie, it’s a spot of the white meat. That’s the itch Morris has got, Sharpie, got it bad, but he ain’t no different from the others. They get bored with the dark meat, Sharpie. And

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