Stevenson had given orders that every man who went into Gawilghur with
the attackers must be in uniform so that they were not mistaken for the
enemy. Syud Sevajee’s men, who planned to hunt down Beny Singh, had
been issued with some threadbare old sepoys’ jackets, some of them
still stained with the blood of their previous owners, but none of the
jackets had fitted Sharpe. Even Morris’s coat would be a tight fit,
but at least he had a uniform now.
“No trouble?”
Sharpe asked Ahmed.
“No bugger saw me,” the boy said proudly. His English was improving
every day, though Sharpe worried that it was not quite the King’s
English. Ahmed grinned again as Sharpe gave him a coin that he stuffed
into his robes.
Sharpe folded the jacket over his arm and stooped out of the tent.
He was looking for Clare and saw her a hundred paces away, walking with
a tall soldier who was dressed in a shirt, black trousers and spurred
boots. She was deep in conversation, and Sharpe felt a curious pang of
jealousy as he approached, but then the soldier turned round, frowned
at Sharpe’s ragged appearance, then recognized the man under the head
cloth. He grinned.
“Mister Sharpe,” he said.
“Eli Lockhart,” Sharpe said.
“What the hell are the cavalry doing here?” He jerked his thumb
towards the fort that was edged with white smoke as the defenders tried
to hammer the British batteries.
“This is a job for real soldiers.”
“Our Colonel persuaded the General that Mister Dodd might make a run
for it. He reckoned a dozen cavalrymen could head him off.”
“Dodd won’t run,” Sharpe said.
“He won’t have space to get a horse out.”
“So we’ll go in with you,” Lockhart said.
“We’ve got a quarrel with Mister Dodd, remember?”
Clare was looking shy and alarmed, and Sharpe reckoned she did not want
Sergeant Lockhart to know that she had spent time with Ensign Sharpe.
“I was looking for Mrs. Wall,” he explained to Lockhart.
“If you can spare me a few minutes, Ma’am?”
Clare shot Sharpe a look of gratitude.
“Of course, Mister Sharpe.”
“It’s this jacket, see?” He held out Morris’s coat.
“It’s got red facings and turn backs and I need white ones He took off
his head cloth.
“I
wondered if you could use this. I know it’s a bit filthy, and I hate
to trouble you, Ma’am, but I don’t reckon my sewing’s up to making turn
backs cuffs and collars.”
“You could take that captain’s badge off while you’re about it, love,”
Lockhart suggested to Clare, ‘and the skirmisher’s wings. Don’t reckon
Mister Sharpe wants that coat’s real owner to recognize it.”
“I’d rather he didn’t,” Sharpe admitted.
Clare took the coat, gave Sharpe another grateful look, then hurried
towards Sevajee’s tents. Lockhart watched her go.
“Been wanting a chance to talk to her for three years,” he said
wonderingly.
“So you found it, eh?”
Lockhart still watched her.
“A rare-looking woman, that.”
“Is she? I hadn’t really noticed,” Sharpe lied.
“She said you’d been kind to her,” Lockhart said.
“Well, I tried to help, you know how it is,” Sharpe said awkwardly.
“That bloody man Torrance killed himself and she had nowhere to go. And
you found her, eh? Most officers would try to take advantage of a
woman like that,” Lockhart said.
“I’m not a proper officer, am I?” Sharpe replied. He had seen the way
that Clare looked at the tall cavalryman, and how Lockhart had stared
at her, and Sharpe reckoned that it was best to stand aside.
“I had a wife,” Lockhart said, ‘only she died on the voyage out. Good
little woman, she was.”
“I’m sorry,” Sharpe said.
“And Mrs. Wall,” Lockhart went on, ‘lost her husband.” Widow meets
widower. Any minute now, Sharpe thought, and the word fate would be
used.
“It’s destiny,” Lockhart said in a tone of wonderment.
“So what are you going to do about her?” Sharpe asked.
“She says she ain’t got a proper home now,” Lockhart said, ‘except the
tent you lent her, and my Colonel won’t mind me taking a wife.”
“Have you asked her?”
“More or less,” Lockhart said, blushing.