‘Then kill him,’ Appah Rao said.
‘A failed spy,’ the Tippoo said. ‘You say he is a Scot?’ he asked Gudin.
‘Indeed, Your Majesty.’
‘Not English, then?’
‘No, sire.’
The Tippoo shrugged at the distinction. ‘Whatever his tribe, he is an old man, but is that reason to show him mercy?’
The question was directed at Colonel Gudin who, once it was translated, stiffened. ‘He was captured in uniform, Your
Majesty, so he does not deserve death.’ Gudin would have liked to add that it would be uncivilized even to contemplate killing such a prisoner, but he knew the Tippoo hated being patronized and so he kept silent.
‘He is here, is he not?’ the Tippoo demanded. ‘Does that not deserve death? This is not his land, these are not his people, and the bread and water he consumes are not his.’
‘Kill him, Your Majesty,’ Gudin warned, ‘and the British will show no mercy on any prisoners they take.’
‘I am full of mercy,’ the Tippoo said, and mostly that was true. There was a time for being ruthless and a time for showing mercy, and maybe this Scotsman would be a useful pawn if there was a need to hold a hostage. Besides, the Tippoo’s dream the night before had promised well, and this morning’s auguries had been similarly hopeful, so today he could afford to show mercy. ‘Put him in the cells for now,’ the Tippoo said. Somewhere in the palace a French-made clock chimed the hour, reminding the Tippoo that it was time for his prayers. He dismissed his entourage, then went to the simple chamber where, facing west towards Mecca, he made his daily obeisances.
Outside, cheated of their prey, the tigers slunk back to the courtyard’s shadows. One beast yawned, another slept. There would be other days and other men to eat. That was what the six tigers lived for, the days when their master was not merciful.
While up in the Inner Palace, with his back to the canopied throne of gold, Colonel Jean Gudin turned the tiger’s handle. The tiger growled, the claws raked back and forth across the wooden, blood-painted flesh, and the redcoat cried aloud.
Sharpe had not meant to cry out. Before the punishment had begun he had been determined to show no weakness and he had even been angry with himself that he had flinched as the first blow fell, but that sudden pain had been so acute that
he had involuntarily shuddered. Since then he had closed his eyes and bitten down on the leather, but in his head a silent scream shrilled as the lashes landed one after the other.
‘One hundred and twenty-three!’ Bywaters shouted hoarsely.
The drummer boys’ arms were tiring, but they still knew better than to slacken their efforts for Sergeant Hakeswill was watching and savouring every blow.
‘One hundred and twenty-four,’ Bywaters called, and it was then, through the silent scream that was filling his head, Sharpe heard a whimper. Then he heard another, and realized that it was he who was making the noise and so he snarled instead, opened his eyes and stared his loathing at the bastard officers sitting on their horses a few paces away. He stared at them fixedly as if he could transfer the ghastly pain from his back onto their faces, but not one of them looked at him. They stared at the sky, they gazed at the ground, they all tried to ignore the sight of a man being beaten to death in front of their eyes.
‘One hundred and thirty-six,’ Bywaters shouted and the drummer boy beat his instrument again.
Blood had run down Sharpe’s back and stained the weave of his white trousers past his knees. More blood had spattered onto his greased and powdered hair, and still the lashes whistled down and each blow of the leather thongs splashed into the mess of broken flesh and ribboned skin, and more gleaming blood spurted away.
‘One hundred and forty. Keep it high, boy, keep it high! Not on the kidneys,’ Bywaters snapped, and the Sergeant Major looked across at the surgeon and saw that Micklewhite was staring vaguely up over the tripod’s peak, his jowly face looking as calm as though he was merely idling away a summer’s day. ‘Want to look at him, Mister Micklewhite, sir?’ the Sergeant Major suggested, but Micklewhite just shook his head. ‘Keep going, lads,’ the Sergeant Major told the