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

Mary too had doubts. She had persuaded herself she was in love with Sharpe, but she sensed a restlesness in him that made her think he might not always be in love with her. Still, she was happier here than back with the army, and that was not just because of Sergeant Hakeswill’s threat but because, although the army was the only life Mary had ever known, she sensed the world could offer her more. She had grown up in Calcutta and, though her mother had been Indian, Mary had never felt at home in either the army or in India. She was neither one thing nor the other. To the army she was a bibbi, while to the Indians she was outside their castes, and she was acceptable to neither. She was a half-breed, suspended in a purgatory of distrust, with only her looks to help her survive, and though the army was the place that provided the friendliest company, it hardly offered a secure future. Ahead of her stretched a succession of husbands, each one succeeding as the previous one was killed in battle or else died of a fever, and when she was too old to attract another man she would be left with her children to fend as

best she could. Mary, just like Sharpe, wanted to find some way up and out of that fate, but how she was to do it she did not know, though this expedition at least gave her a chance to break temporarily out of the trap.

Lawford led them to a slight hill from where, screened by flowering bushes, he scanned the country ahead. He thought he could see a gleam of water to the south and the small glimpse was sufficient to persuade him that it must be the River Cauvery. ‘That way,’ he said, ‘but we’ll have to avoid the villages.’ There were two in sight, both barring the direct path to the river.

‘The villagers will see us anyway,’ Mary said. ‘They don’t miss much.’

‘We’re not here to trouble them,’ Lawford said, ‘so perhaps they’ll leave us alone?’

‘Turn our coats, Bill,’ Sharpe suggested.

‘Turn our coats?’

‘We’re running, aren’t we? So put your coat on back to front as a sign that you’re on the run.’

‘The villagers will hardly realize the significance of that,’ Lawford observed tartly.

‘Bugger the villagers,’ Sharpe said. ‘It’s the Tippoo’s bloody men I’m worried about. If those bastards see red coats, they’ll shoot before they ask questions.’ Sharpe had already undone his crossbelts and was shrugging off the wool coat, grunting with the pain that the exertion gave to his back. Lawford, watching, saw that blood had seeped through the thick bandages to stain the dirty shirt.

Lawford was reluctant to turn his coat. A turned coat was a sign of disgrace. Battalions that had let the army down in battle were sometimes forced to turn their coats as a badge of shame, but once again the Lieutenant saw the wisdom of Sharpe’s argument and so he stripped and turned his coat so that its grey lining was outermost. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t carry the muskets?” he suggested.

‘No deserter would throw away his gun,’ Sharpe answered. He buckled his belt over the turned coat and picked up his gun and pack. He had carried the pack in his hand all night rather than have its weight press on his wounds. ‘Are you ready?’

‘In a moment,’ Lawford said, then, to Sharpe’s surprise, the Lieutenant went on one knee and said a silent prayer. ‘I don’t pray often,’ Lawford admitted as he stood, ‘but maybe some help from on high would be providential today.’ For today, Lawford guessed, would be the day they would meet die Tippoo’s patrols.

They walked south towards the gleam of water. All three were tired, and Sharpe was plainly weakened by the loss of blood, but anticipation gave them all a nervous energy. They skirted the nearest village, watched by cows with pendulous folds of skin hanging beneath their necks, then they walked through groves of cocoa trees as the sun climbed. They saw no one. A deer skittered away from their path in the late morning and an hour later an excited troupe of small monkeys scampered beside diem. At midday they rested in the small shade offered by a grove of bamboos, then pressed on again beneath the baking sun. By early afternoon the river was in sight and Lawford suggested they should rest on its bank. Mary’s eye had swollen and blackened, giving her the grotesque look she believed would protect her.

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