‘I think you’d better sit, man,’ General Baird suggested, with a glance at Harris for his permission.
‘Fetch that stool,’ Harris ordered Sharpe, then saw that the private could not bend down to pick it up.
Baird fetched the stool. ‘Is it hurting?’ he asked sympathetically.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It’s supposed to hurt,’ Wellesley said curdy. ‘Pain is the point of punishment.’ He kept his back to Sharpe, pointedly demonstrating his disapproval. ‘I do not like cancelling a flogging,’ Wellesley went on to no one in particular. ‘It erodes good order. Once men think their sentences can be curtailed, then God only knows what roguery they’ll be up to.’ He suddenly twisted in his chair and gave Sharpe an icy glare. ‘If I had my way, Private Sharpe, I’d march you back to the triangle and finish the job.’
‘I doubt Private Sharpe even deserved the punishment,’ Lawford dared to intervene, blushing as he did.
‘The time for that sentiment, Lieutenant, was during the court martial!’ Wellesley snapped, his tone suggesting that it would have been a wasted sentiment anyway. ‘You’ve been lucky, Private Sharpe,’ Wellesley said with distaste. ‘I shall announce that you’ve been spared the rest of your punishment as a reward for fighting well the other day. Did you fight well?’
Sharpe nodded. ‘Killed my share of the enemy, sir.’
‘So I’m commuting your sentence. And tonight, damn your eyes, you’ll reward me by deserting.’
Sharpe wondered if he had heard right, decided it was best not to ask, and so he looked away from the Colonel, composed his face, and stared fixedly at the wall of the tent.
‘Have you ever thought about deserting, Sharpe?’ General Baird asked him.
‘Me, sir?’ Sharpe managed to look surprised. ‘Not me, sir, no, sir. Never crossed my mind, sir.’
Baird smiled. “We need a good liar for this particular service. So maybe you’re an excellent choice, Sharpe. Besides, anyone who looks at your back will know why you wanted to desert.’ Baird liked that idea and his face betrayed a sudden enthusiasm. ‘In fact if you hadn’t already conveniently had yourself flogged, man, we might have had to give you a few lashes anyway!’ He smiled.
Sharpe did not smile back. Instead he looked warily from one officer to the other. He could see that Mister Lawford was nervous, Baird was doing his best to be friendly, General Harris’s face was unreadable, while Colonel Wellesley had turned away in disgust. But Wellesley had always been a cold fish, so there was no point in trying to gain his approval. Baird was the man who had saved him, Sharpe guessed, and that fitted with Baird’s reputation in the army. The Scotsman was a soldier’s general, a brave man and well liked by the troops.
Baird smiled again, trying to put Sharpe at his ease. ‘Let me explain why you’re running, Sharpe. Three days ago we lost a good man, a Colonel McCandless. The Tippoo’s forces captured him and, so far as we know, they took him back to Seringapatam. We want you to go to that city and be captured by the Tippoo’s forces. Are you understanding me this far?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe said obediently.
‘Good man. Now, when you reach Seringapatam the Tippoo will want you to join his army. He likes to have white men in his ranks, so you won’t have any trouble taking his shilling. And once you’re trusted your job is to find Colonel McCandless and bring him out alive. Are you still following me, now?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe said stoically, and wondered why they did not first ask him to hop over to London and steal the crown jewels. Bloody idiots! Put a bit of gold lace on a man’s coat and his brain turned to mush! Still, they were doing what he wanted them to do, which was kicking him out of the army and so he sat very still, very quiet and very straight, not so much out of respect, but because his back hurt like the very devil every time he moved.
‘You won’t be going alone,’ Baird told Sharpe. ‘Lieutenant Lawford volunteered your services and he’s going as well. He’ll pretend to be a private and a deserter, and your job is to look after him.’