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

‘Don’t shoot now!’ McCandless called softly. ‘Get close!’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe said. He kept his eyes on the tiger’s eyes as he slowly, slowly climbed to his feet and edged towards the beast. The fear was like a mad wild thing inside him. Hakeswill was spitting encouragement, but Sharpe heard nothing and he saw nothing but the tiger’s eyes. He wondered if he should attempt to duck back into the cell, but guessed that the tiger would spring while he was still trying to open the door. Better to face the beast and shoot it in the open pit, he decided. He held the pistol at arm’s length, keeping

the muzzle aimed at a patch of black fur just beneath the animal’s eyes. Fifteen feet away, twelve. His boots grated on the stone floor. How accurate was the pistol? It was a pretty enough thing, all ivory and silver, but did it fire true? And how tightly was the ball sized to the barrel? Even a gap between barrel and ball the width of a sheet of paper was enough to throw a bullet wide as it spat out of the muzzle. Even at twelve feet a pistol could miss a man-size target, let alone a small patch of matted fur between a man-eating tiger’s eyes.

‘Kill the bugger, Sharpie!’ Hakeswill urged.

‘Careful, man!’ McCandless hissed. ‘Make sure of your shot. Careful now!’

Sharpe edged forward. His eyes were still fixed on the tiger’s eyes. He was willing the beast to stay still, to receive its death gracefully. Ten feet. The tiger was motionless, just watching him. Sweat stung Sharpe’s eyes and the weight of the pistol was making his hand tremble. Do it now, he thought, do it now. Pull the trigger, put the bugger down and run like shit. He blinked, his eyes stinging with the sweat. The tiger did not even blink. Eight feet. He could smell the beast, see its unsheathed claws on the stone, see the glint in its eyes. Seven feet. Close enough, he reckoned, and he straightened his arm to line up the pistol’s rudimentary sights.

And the tiger sprang. It came from the ground so fast that it was almost on top of Sharpe before he even realized that the beast had moved. He had a wild glimpse of huge claws stretched far out of their pads and of feral yellow teeth in a snarling mouth, and he was unaware that he called aloud in panic. He was unaware, too, that he had pulled the trigger, not smoothly as he had planned, but in a desperate, panicked jerk. Then, instinctively, he dropped to the ground and curled tight so that the tiger’s leap would pass over him.

Lawford gasped. The echo of the pistol shot was hugely loud in the confines of the dungeon pit which suddenly reeked

with the sulphurous smell of powder smoke. Hakeswill was crouching in a corner of his cell, scarce daring to look, while McCandless was mouthing a silent prayer. Sharpe was on the ground, waiting for the agony of the claws to rip him apart.

But the tiger was dying. The bullet had struck the back of the tiger’s mouth. It was only a small bullet, but the force of it was sufficient to pierce through the throat’s tissues and into the brain stem. Blood spattered the cell bars as the tiger’s graceful leap slumped into death’s collapse. It had fallen at the foot of the steps, but some terrible instinct of surging life still animated the beast and it tried to stand. Its paws scrabbled against stone and its head jerked up for a snarling second as the tail lashed, then blood surged out of its mouth, the head fell back and the beast went still.

There was silence.

The first flies came down to explore the blood spilling from the tiger’s mouth. ‘Oh, sweet suffering Christ,’ Sharpe said, picking himself up. He was shaking. ‘Jesus bloody wept.’

McCandless did not reprove him. The Colonel knew a prayer when he heard one.

Sharpe fetched his torn jacket, pulled the cell door wide open, then gingerly sidled past the dead tiger as though he feared the beast might come back to life. McCandless and Lawford followed him up the stone stairs. ‘What about me?’ Hakeswill called. ‘You can’t leave me here. It ain’t Christian!’