Sergeant Rothiere shouted at Sharpe and Lawford from the inner wall of the Mysore Gate, pointing to the big bastion at the city’s south-western corner. ‘Colonel Gudin wants us,’ Lawford translated for Sharpe.
‘Vitel’ Rothiere bellowed.
‘Now,’ Lawford said nervously.
The two men threaded their way through the spectators who crowded the parapets until they found Colonel Gudin in a cavalier that jutted south from the huge square bastion. ‘How’s your back?’ the Frenchman greeted Sharpe.
‘Mending wonderfully, sir.’
Gudin smiled, pleased at the news. ‘It’s Indian medicine, Sharpe. If I ever go back to France I’ve a mind to take a native doctor with me. Much better than ours. All a French doctor would do is bleed you dry, then console your widow.’ The Colonel turned and gestured south across the river. ‘Your old friends,’ he said, indicating where the British and Indian cavalry were exploring the land between the army’s encampment and the city. Most were staying well out of range of Seringapatam’s cannon, but a few braver souls were galloping closer to the city, either to tempt the Tippoo’s cavalry to come out and dare single combat, or else to provoke the gunners on the city wall. One especially flamboyant group was shouting towards the city, and even waving, as though inviting cannon fire, and every now and then a cannon would boom or a rocket scream across the river, though somehow the jeering cavalrymen always remained untouched. ‘They’re distracting us,’ Gudin explained, ‘drawing attention away from some others. There, see? Some bushes. Beside the cistern.’ He was pointing across the river. ‘There are some scouts there. On foot. They are trying to see what defences we have close to the river. You see them? Look in the bushes under the two palm trees.’
Sharpe stared, but could see nothing. ‘You want us to go and get them, sir?’ he offered.
‘I want you to shoot them,’ Gudin said.
The bushes under the twin palms were nearly quarter of a mile away. ‘Long bloody range for a musket, sir,’ Sharpe said dubiously.
‘Try this, then,’ Gudin said and held out a gun. It must have been one of the Tippoo’s own weapons, for its stock was decorated with ivory, its tiger-head lock was chased with gold and its barrel engraved with Arabic writing.
Sharpe took and hefted the gun. ‘Might be pretty, sir,’ he said, ‘but no amount of fancy work on the outside will make it more accurate than that plain old thing.’ He patted his heavy French musket.
‘You’re wrong,’ Gudin said. ‘That’s a rifle.’
‘A rifle!’ Sharpe had heard of such weapons, but he had never handled one, and now he peered inside the muzzle and saw that the barrel was indeed cut in a pattern of spiralling grooves. He had heard that the grooves spun the bullet which somehow made a rifle far more accurate than a shot from a smoothbore musket. Why that should be the case he had not the slightest idea, but every man he had ever spoken to about rifles had sworn it was true. ‘Still,’ he said dubiously, ‘near a quarter-mile? Long ways for a bullet, sir, even if it is spinning.’
‘That rifle can kill at four hundred paces, Sharpe,’ Gudin said confidently. ‘It’s loaded, by the way,’ the Colonel added, and Sharpe, who had been peering down the muzzle again, jerked back. Gudin laughed. ‘Loaded with the best powder and with its bullet wrapped in oiled leather. I want to see how good a shot you are.’
‘No, you don’t, sir,’ Sharpe said, ‘you want to see if I’m willing to kill my own countrymen.’
‘That too, of course,’ Gudin agreed placidly, and laughed at having had his small ploy discovered. ‘At that range you should aim about six or seven feet above your target. I have another rifle for you, Lawford, but I don’t suppose we can expect a clerk to be as accurate as a skirmisher like Sharpe?’
‘I’Il do my best, sir,’ Lawford said and took the second rifle from Gudin. Lawford might be clumsy at loading a gun, but he was a practised shot in the hunting field and had been firing rifled fowling pieces since he was eight years old.