‘Some men find it hard to shoot at their old comrades,’ Gudin told Lawford mildly, ‘and I want to make sure you’re not among them.’
‘Let’s hope the bastards are officers,’ Sharpe said, ‘begging your presence, sir.’
‘There they are!’ Gudin said, and, sure enough, just beside the cistern beneath the two palm trees across the river, were a pair of red coats. The men were examining the city walls through telescopes. Their horses were picketed behind them.
Sharpe knelt in a gun embrasure. He instinctively felt that the range was much too long for any firearm, but he had heard about the miracle of rifles and he was curious to see if the rumours were true. ‘You take the one on the left, Bill,’ he said, ‘and fire just after me.’ He glanced at Gudin and saw that the Colonel had moved a few feet down the cavalier to watch the effect of the shots from a place where the rifles’ smoke would not obscure his glass. ‘And aim well, Bill,’ Sharpe said in a low voice. ‘They’re probably only bloody cavalrymen, so who cares if we plug them with a pair of bloody goolies.’ He crouched behind the rifle and aligned its well-defined sights that were so much more impressive than the rudimentary stub that served a musket as a foresight. A man could stand fifty feet in front of a well-aimed musket and still stand a better than evens chance of walking away unscathed, but the delicacy of the rifle’s sights seemed to confirm what everyone had told Sharpe. This was a long-range killer.
He settled himself firmly, keeping the sights lined on the distant man, then gently raised the barrel so that the rifle’s muzzle obscured his target but would give the ball the needed trajectory. There was no wind to speak of, so he had no need to offset his aim. He had never fired a rifle, but it was just common sense really. Nor was he unduly worried about killing one of his own side. It was a sad necessity, something that needed to be done if he was to earn Gudin’s trust and
thus the freedom that might let him escape from the city. He took a breath, half let it out, then pulled the trigger. The gun banged into his shoulder, its recoil much harder than an ordinary musket’s blow. Lawford fired a half-second later, the smoke of his gun joining the dense cloud pumped out by Sharpe’s rifle.
‘The clerk wins!’ Gudin exclaimed in astonishment. He lowered his spyglass. ‘Yours went six inches past the man’s head, Sharpe, but I think you killed your man, Lawford. Well done! Well done indeed!’
Lawford reddened, but said nothing. He looked very troubled and Gudin put his evident confusion down to a natural shyness. ‘Is that the first man you’ve ever killed?’ he asked gently.
‘Yes, sir,’ Lawford said, truthfully enough.
‘You deserve to be better than a clerk. Well done. Well done both of you.’ He took the rifles from them and laughed at Sharpe’s rueful expression. ‘You expected to do better, Sharpe?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You will. Six inches off at that distance is very good shooting. Very good indeed.’ Gudin turned to watch as the uninjured redcoat dragged his companion back towards the horses. ‘I think, maybe,’ Gudin went on, ‘that you have a natural talent, Lawford. I congratulate you.’ The Colonel fished in his pouch and brought out a handful of coins. ‘An advance on your arrears of pay. Well done! Off you go, now!’
Sharpe glanced behind him, hoping to see what devilment the western walls held, but he could see nothing strange there and so he turned and followed Lawford down the ramp. Lawford was shaking. ‘I didn’t mean to kill him!’ the Lieutenant said when he was out of Gudin’s earshot.
I did,’ Sharpe muttered.
‘God, what have I done? I was aiming left!’
Don’t be a bloody fool,’ Sharpe said, ‘what you’ve done
is earned our freedom. You did bloody well.’ He dragged Lawford into a tavern. The Tippoo might be a Muslim, and the Muslims might preach an extraordinary hatred of alcohol, but most of the city was Hindu and the Tippoo was sensible enough to keep the taverns open. This one, close to Gudin’s barracks, was a big room, open to the street, with a dozen tables where old men played chess and young men boasted of the slaughter they would inflict on the besiegers. The tavern-keeper, a big woman with hard eyes, sold a variety of strange drinks: wine and arrack mostly, but she also kept a weird-tasting beer. Sharpe could still hardly speak a word of the local language, but he pointed to the arrack barrel and held up two fingers. Now that he and Lawford were dressed in the tiger-striped tunics and carried muskets they attracted little attention in the city and no hostility. ‘Here.’ He put the arrack in front of Lawford. ‘Drink that.’