T could do with a rest now,’ Sharpe admitted. The pain was terrible and every step was now an agony. ‘And I need to wet the bandages.’
‘Wet them?’ Lawford asked.
‘That’s what that bastard Micklewhite said. Said to keep the bandages damp or else the stripes won’t heal.’
‘We’ll wet them at the river,’ Lawford promised.
But they never reached the river bank. They were walking beside some beech trees when a shout sounded behind them and Sharpe turned to see horsemen coming from the west.
They were fine-looking men in tiger-striped tunics and with spiring brass helmets who couched their lances and galloped hard towards the three fugitives. Sharpe’s heart pounded. He stepped ahead of his companions and held up a hand to show they meant no harm, but the leading lancer only grinned in reply and lowered his lance point as he pricked back his spurs.
Sharpe shook his head and waved, then realized the man intended to skewer the spear into his belly. ‘Bastard!’ Sharpe shouted, and dropped his pack and put both hands on his musket as though it was a quarterstaff. Mary screamed in terror.
‘No!’ Lawford shouted at the galloping lancers. ‘No!’
The lancer thrust his blade at Sharpe who knocked the spear point aside with the muzzle of the gun, then swung the gun fast back so that its butt smacked hard onto the horse’s head. The beast whinnied and reared, throwing its rider backwards. The other lancers laughed, then sawed their reins to swerve past the fallen man. Mary was shouting at them in a language Sharpe did not understand, Lawford was waving his hands desperately, but the lancers bored on in, concentrating on Sharpe who stepped backwards from their wicked-looking spear points. He slashed a second lance aside, then a third man rammed his spurs back and attempted to drive his spear hard into Sharpe’s belly. Sharpe half managed to edge away from the blow and, instead of skewering his stomach, the lance sliced through the skin of his waist, through his coat and into the tree behind him. The lancer left his spear buried in the beech and wheeled his horse away. Sharpe was pinned to the bark, his back a sheet of agony where it was forced against the tree. He tugged at the lance, but his loss of blood had made him far too weak and the weapon would not budge, and then another lancer spurred towards him with his spear point aimed at Sharpe’s eyes. Mary shouted frantically.
The spear point paused an inch from Sharpe’s left eyeball.
The lancer looked at Mary, grimaced at her filthy state, then said something.
Mary answered.
The lancer, who was evidently an officer, looked back to Sharpe and seemed to be debating whether to kill or to spare him. Finally he grinned, leaned down and grasped the spear pinning Sharpe to the tree. He dragged it free.
Sharpe swore foully, then collapsed at the foot of the tree.
There were a score of horsemen and they all now gathered around the fugitives. Two of them held their razor-sharp lances at Lawford’s neck while the officer spoke to Mary. She answered defiantiy, and to Sharpe, who was struggling to stand, it seemed that the conversation went on for a long time. Nor did the lancers seem friendly. They were magnificent-looking men and Sharpe, despite his pain, noted how well they maintained their weapons. There was no rust on the lance heads, and the shafts were oiled smooth. Mary argued with the officer, and he seemed indifferent to her pleading, but at last she must have made her point for she turned and looked at Lawford. ‘He wants to know if you’re willing to serve in the Tippoo’s forces,’ she told the Lieutenant.
The lance tips were tickling Lawford’s neck, and as a recruiting device they worked wonders. The Lieutenant nodded eagerly. ‘Absolutely!’ he said. Just what we want! Volunteers! Tell him we’re ready to serve! Both of us! Long live the Tippoo!’
The officer did not need the enthusiastic reply translated. He smiled and ordered his lancers to take their weapons from the redcoat’s neck.
And thus Sharpe joined the enemy’s army.