men who must go up against Gawilghur Captain Torrance had enjoyed a
remarkably lucky evening. Jama had still not returned to the camp, and
his big green tents with their varied delights stood empty, but there
were plenty of other diversions in the British camp. A group of
Scottish officers, augmented by a sergeant who played the flute, gave a
concert, and though Torrance had no great taste for chamber music he
found the melodies were in tune with his jaunty mood. Sharpe was gone,
Torrance’s debts were paid, he had survived, and he had strolled on
from the concert to the cavalry lines where he knew he would find a
game of whist. Torrance had succeeded in taking fifty-three guineas
from an irascible major and another twelve from a whey-cheeked ensign
who kept scratching his groin.
“If you’ve got the pox,” the Major had finally said, ‘then get the hell
to a surgeon.”
“It’s lice, sir.”
“Then for Christ’s sake stop wriggling. You’re distracting me.”
“Scratch on,” Torrance had said, laying down a winning hand. He had
yawned, scooped up the coins, and bid his partners a good night.
“It’s devilish early,” the Major had grumbled, wanting a chance to win
his money back.
“Duty,” Torrance had said vaguely, then he had strolled to the merchant
encampment and inspected the women who fanned themselves in the torrid
night heat. An hour later, well pleased with himself, he had returned
to his quarters. His servant squatted on the porch, but he waved the
man away.
Sajit was still at his candle-lit desk, unclogging his pen of the soggy
paper scraps that collected on the nib. He stood, touched his inky
hands together and bowed as Torrance entered.
“Sahib.”
“All well?”
“All is well, sahib. Tomorrow’s chitties He pushed a pile of papers
across the desk.
“I’m sure they’re in order,” Torrance said, quite confident that he
spoke true. Sajit was proving to be an excellent clerk. He went to
the door of his quarters, then turned with a frown.
“Your uncle hasn’t come back?”
“Tomorrow, sahib, I’m sure.”
“Tell him I’d like a word. But not if he comes tonight. I don’t want
to be disturbed tonight.”
“Of course not, sahib.” Sajit offered another bow as Torrance
negotiated the door and the muslin screen.
The Captain shot the iron bolt, then chased down the few moths that had
managed to get past the muslin. He lit a second lamp, piled the
night’s winnings on the table, then called for Clare. She came sleepy
eyed from the kitchen.
’75
“Arrack, Brick,” Torrance ordered, then peeled off his coat while Clare
un stoppered a fresh jar of the fierce spirit. She kept her eyes
averted as Torrance stripped himself naked and lay back in his
hammock.
“You could light me a hookah, Brick,” he suggested, ‘then sponge me
down. Is there a clean shirt for the morning?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Not the darned one?”
“No, sir.”
He turned his head to stare at the coins which glittered so prettily in
the smoky lamplight. In funds again! Winning! Perhaps his luck had
turned. It seemed so. He had lost so much money at cards in the last
month that he had thought nothing but ruin awaited him, but now the
goddess of fortune had turned her other cheek. Rule of halves, he told
himself as he sucked on the hookah. Save half, gamble the other
half.
Halve the winnings and save half again. Simple really. And now that
Sharpe was gone he could begin some careful trading once more, though
how the market would hold up once the Mahrattas were defeated he could
not tell. Still, with a slice of luck he might make sufficient money
to set himself up in a comfortable civilian life in Madras. A
carriage, a dozen horses and as many women servants. He would have an
harem.
He smiled at the thought, imagining his father’s disgust. An harem, a
courtyard with a fountain, a wine cellar deep beneath his house that
should be built close to the sea so that cooling breezes could waft
through its windows. He would need to spend an hour or two at the
office each week, but certainly not more for there were always Indians