‘Father went bankrupt, sir,’ Lawford said, conjuring the worst disaster that he could ever imagine.
‘But the son of a bankrupt father can take employment, can he not?’ Gudin looked again at the soft fingers, then released Lawford’s hand. ‘And any job, surely, is better than the life of a British soldier?’
‘I got drunk, sir,’ Lawford said miserably, ‘and I met a recruiting sergeant.’ The Lieutenant’s misery was not at the imagined memory, but at the difficulty he was having in telling the lie, but his demeanour impressed Gudin. ‘It was in a pub, sir, in Sheffield,’ Lawford went on. ‘The Hawse in the Lake, sir. In Sheffield, sir. In Pond Lane, sir, on market day.’ His voice tailed away as he suddenly realized he did not know which day of the week the market was held.
‘In Sheffield?’ Gudin asked. ‘Is that not where they make iron? And – what is the word? – cutlery! You don’t look like a cutler, Lawford.’
‘I was a lawyer’s apprentice, sir.’ Lawford was blushing violently. He knew he had mixed up the name of the pub, though it was doubtful that Colonel Gudin would ever know the difference, but the Lieutenant was certain his lies were as transparent as a pane of glass.
‘And your job in the army?’ Gudin asked.
‘Company clerk, sir.’
Gudin smiled. ‘No ink on your breeches, Lawford! In our army the clerks spatter ink everywhere.’
For a moment it seemed as though Lawford was about to abandon his lie and, in his misery, confess the whole truth to the Frenchman, but then the Lieutenant had a sudden inspiration. ‘I wear an apron, sir, when I’m writing. I don’t want to be punished for a dirty uniform, sir.’
Gudin laughed. In truth he had never doubted Lawford’s story, mistaking the Lieutenant’s embarrassment for shame at his family’s bankruptcy. If anything, the Frenchman felt sorry for the tall, fair-haired and fastidious young man who should plainly never have become a soldier, and that, to Gudin, was enough to explain Lawford’s nervousness. ‘You’re a clerk, eh? So does that mean you see paperwork?’
‘A lot, sir.’
‘So do you know how many guns the British are bringing here?’ Gudin asked. ‘How much ammunition?’
Lawford shook his head in consternation. For a few seconds he was speechless, then managed to say that he never saw that sort of paperwork. ‘It’s just company papers I see, sir. Punishment books, that sort of thing.’
‘Bloody thousands,’ Sharpe interjected. ‘Beg pardon for speaking, sir.’
‘Thousands of what?’ Gudin asked.
‘Bullocks, sir. Six eighteen-pounder shot strapped on apiece, sir, and some of the buggers have got eight. But it’s thousands of round shot.’
‘Two thousand? Three?’ Gudin asked.
‘More than that, sir. I ain’t seen a herd the size of it, not even when the Scots drive the beeves down from Scodand to London.’
Gudin shrugged. He very much doubted whether these two could tell him anything useful, certainly nothing that the Tippoo’s scouts and spies had not already discovered, but the
questions had to be asked. Now, waving flies from his face, he told the two deserters what they might expect. ‘His Majesty the Tippoo Sultan will decide your fate, and if he is merciful he will want you to serve in his forces. I assume you are willing?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe said eagerly. ‘It’s why we came, sir.’
‘Good,’ Gudin said. ‘The Tippoo might want you in one of his own cushoons. That’s the word they use for a regiment here, a cushoon. They’re all good soldiers and well trained, and you’ll be made welcome, but there is one disadvantage. You will both have to be circumcised.’
Lawford went pale, while Sharpe just shrugged. ‘Is that bad, sir?’
‘You know what circumcision is, Private?’
‘Something the army does to you, sir? Like swear you in?’
Gudin smiled. ‘Not quite, Sharpe. The Tippoo is a Muslim and he likes his foreign volunteers to join his religion. It means one of his holy men will cut your foreskin off. It’s quite quick, just like slicing the top from a soft-boiled egg, really.’
‘My prick?’ Sharpe was as aghast as Lawford now.
‘It’s over in seconds,’ Gudin reassured them, ‘though the bleeding can last for a while and you cannot, how shall I say. .. ?’ He glanced at Mary, then back to Sharpe. ‘You can’t let the egg become hard boiled for a few weeks.’