the claymore aside, and lunged again, and this time the blade cut into
Sharpe’s right cheek, opening it clean up to the bone beside his eye.
“Marked for life,” Dodd said, ‘though I fear it won’t be a long life,
Mister Sharpe.” Dodd thrust again and Sharpe parried desperately,
deflecting the blade more by luck than skill, and he knew he was a dead
man because Dodd was too good a swordsman. McCandless had warned him
of this. Dodd might be a traitor, but he was a soldier, and a good
one.
Dodd saw Sharpe’s sudden caution, and smiled.
“They made an officer out of you, did they? I never knew the British
army had that much sense.” He advanced again, sword low, inviting an
attack from Sharpe, but then a redcoat ran past Sharpe, sabre swinging,
and Dodd stepped fast back, surprised by the sudden charge, although he
parried it with an instinctive skill. The force of the parry knocked
the redcoat off balance and Dodd, still with a smile, lunged
effortlessly to skewer the redcoat’s throat. It was Ahmed, and Sharpe,
recognizing the boy, roared with rage and ran at Dodd who flicked the
sword back, blood streaming from its tip, and deflected the claymore’s
savage cut, turned his blade beneath it and was about to thrust the
slim blade into Sharpe’s belly when a pistol banged and Dodd was thrown
hard back, blood showing on his right shoulder. His sword arm, numbed
by the pistol bullet, hung low.
Sharpe walked up to him and saw the fear in Dodd’s eyes.
“This is for McCandless,” he said, and kicked the renegade in the
crotch. Dodd gasped and bent double.
“And this is for Ahmed,” Sharpe said, and swept the claymore up so that
its heavy blade ripped into Dodd’s throat, and Sharpe, still holding
the sword double-handed, pulled it hard back and the steel sawed
through sinew and muscle and gullet so that the fire step was suddenly
awash with blood as the tall Dodd collapsed. Eli Lockhart, the long
horse pistol still smoking in his hand, edged Sharpe aside to make
certain Dodd was dead. Sharpe was stooped by Ahmed, but the boy was
dying. Blood bubbled at his throat as he tried to breathe. His eyes
looked up into Sharpe’s face, but there was no recognition there.
His small body heaved frantically, then was still. He had gone to his
paradise.
“You stupid bastard,” Sharpe said,
tears trickling to dilute the blood pouring from his cheek.
“You stupid little bastard.”
Lockhart used his sabre to cut the ropes holding the flag above the
gatehouse and a roar of triumph sounded from the ravine as the flag
came down. Then Lockhart helped Sharpe strip Ahmed of his red jacket
and, lacking a British flag to hoist, they pulled the faded, blood
reddened coat up to the top of the pole. Gawilghur had yielded.
Sharpe cuffed tears and blood from his face. Lockhart was grinning at
him, and Sharpe forced a smile in return.
“We did it, Eli.”
“We bloody did.” Lockhart held out a hand and Sharpe gripped it.
“Thank you,” Sharpe said fervently, then he let go of the cavalryman’s
hand and kicked Dodd’s corpse.
“Look after that body, Eli. It’s worth a fortune.”
“That’s Dodd?”
“That’s the bastard. That corpse is worth seven hundred guineas to you
and Clare.”
“You and me, sir,” Lockhart said. The Sergeant looked as ragged and
bloody as Sharpe. His blue jacket was torn and bloodstained.
“We’ll share the reward,” he said, ‘you and me, sir.”
“No,” Sharpe said, ‘he’s all yours. I just wanted to see the bastard
dead. That’s reward enough for me.” Blood was pouring from his cheek
to add to the gore on his coat. He turned to Garrard who was leaning
against the parapet, gasping for air.
“Look after the boy for me, Tom.”
Garrard, seeing that Ahmed was dead, frowned in puzzlement.
“I’m going to give him a proper burial,” Sharpe explained, then he
turned and walked down the wall where exhausted redcoats rested among
the dead and dying Cobras, while beneath them, in the passage that
Campbell had opened, a stream of soldiers poured unopposed into the