“You don’t have a horse? Don’t have a horse? Good God alive, man,
what bloody use are you? You’ll just have to bloody well walk then. I
shall find you in Deogaum tomorrow afternoon and God help you if you
haven’t found me decent quarters. A front room, Sharpe, where Dilip
can conduct business. A large room for me, and a hole for Brick. I
would also like to have a walled garden with adequate shade trees and a
small pool.”
“Where is Deogaum?” Sharpe asked.
“Northwards, sahib,” Dilip answered.
“Close to the hills.”
“Beneath Gawilghur?” Sharpe guessed.
“Yes, sahib.”
Sharpe looked back to Torrance.
“Can I ask a favour of you, sir?”
Torrance sighed.
“If you insist.”
“At Gawilghur, sir, I’d like permission to join the assault party.”
Torrance stared at Sharpe for a long time.
“You want what?” he finally asked.
“I want to be with the attack, sir. There’s a fellow inside, see, who
killed a friend of mine. I want to see him dead.”
Torrance blinked at Sharpe.
“Don’t tell me you’re enthusiastic! Good God!” A sudden look of
terror came to the Captain’s face.
“You’re not a Methodist, are you?”
“No, sir.”
Torrance pointed the hookah’s mouthpiece towards a corner of the
room.
“There is a linen press, Sharpe, d’you see it? Inside it are my
clothes. Amidst my clothes you will find a pistol. Take the pistol,
remove yourself from my presence, apply the muzzle to your head and
pull the trigger. It is a much quicker and less painful way of
dying.”
“But you won’t mind if I join the attack?”
“Mind? You’re not, surely, labouring under the misapprehension that I
care about your existence? You think I might mourn you, even after
such a short acquaintance? My dear Sharpe, I fear I shall not miss you
at all. I doubt I’ll even remember your name once you’re dead. Of
course you can join the assaulting party. Do what you like! Now I
suggest you get some sleep. Not here, though, I like my privacy.
Find a tree, perhaps, and slumber beneath its sheltering branches.
Good night to you, Sharpe.”
“Good night, sir.”
“And don’t let any moths in!”
Sharpe negotiated the muslin and slipped out of the door. Torrance
listened to the footsteps go away, then sighed.
“A tedious man, Dilip.”
“Yes, sahib.”
“I wonder why he was made an officer?” Torrance frowned as he sucked
on his hookah, then shook his head.
“Poor Naig! Sacrificed to a mere ensign’s ambition. How did that
wretched Sharpe even know to look in Naig’s tent? Did he talk to
you?”
“Yes, sahib,” Dilip admitted.
Torrance stared at him.
“Did you let him look at the ledgers?”
“He insisted, sahib.”
“You’re a bloody fool, Dilip! A bloody, bloody fool. I should thrash
you if I wasn’t so tired. Maybe tomorrow.”
“No, sahib, please.”
“Oh, just bugger away off, Dilip,” Torrance snarled.
“And you can go too, Brick.”
The girl fled to the kitchen door. Dilip collected his ink bottle and
sand-sprinkler.
“Shall I take the chitties now, sahib, for the morning?”
“Go!” Torrance roared.
“You bore me! Go!” Dilip fled to the front room, and Torrance lay
back in the hammock. He was indeed bored.
He had nothing to do and nowhere to go. Most nights he would go to
Naig’s tents and there drink, gamble and whore, but he could hardly
visit the green pavilion this night, not after stringing Naig up by the
neck.
Damn it, he thought. He glanced at the table where a book, a gift from
his father, lay unopened. The first volume of Some Reflections on
Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians by the Reverend Courtney Mallison, and
it would be a frigid day in the devil’s house before Torrance read that
turgid tome. The Reverend Mallison had been Torrance’s childhood
tutor, and a vicious beast he had been. A whipper, that was
Mallison.
Loved to whip his pupils. Torrance stared at the ceiling. Money. It
was all down to money. Everything in the damned world was down to
money. Make money, he thought, and he could go home and make Courtney
Mallison’s life a misery. Have the bastard on his knees. And