LITMIR.BIZ

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      McCandless looked into Kunwar Singh’s eyes. ‘Do your job well, my friend. Your master is valuable.’

      Kunwar Singh smiled and then, at a signal from Appah Rao, he took a roll of paper from inside his tunic. He unrolled the sheet and weighted its corners with a pistol, a knife, a handful of bullets and the lantern.

      McCandless leaned forward. The scroll was a map and it showed the big island in the River Cauvery on which the Tippoo’s capital of Seringapatam was built. The fortress town occupied the island’s western tip, while beyond its walls, to the east, were pleasure gardens, suburbs, the Tippoo’s summer palace and the mausoleum where the fearsome Hyder Ali was entombed.

      Appah Rao drew a knife from his belt. He tapped the island’s northern bank where it fronted the Cauvery’s main channel. ‘That is where General Cornwallis crossed. But since then the walls have been strengthened. The French advised us how to do it. There are new guns on the walls, hundreds of them.’ He looked up into McCandless’s eyes. ‘I mean hundreds, McCandless. That is not an exaggeration. The Tippoo is fond of cannon and rockets. He has thousands of rocketmen and deep arsenals crammed with weapons. All this’ – he swept the knife’s tip around the walls that faced the river – ‘has been rebuilt, refortified and given cannon and rockets.’

      ‘We have cannon too,’ McCandless said.

      Appah Rao ignored the comment. Instead he tapped the knife against the western ramparts that overlooked the Cauvery’s smaller channel. ‘At this time of year, McCandless, the river here is shallow. The crocodiles have gone to the deeper pools and a man can walk across the river with dry knees. And when your army reaches Seringapatam they will see that these walls’ – he tapped the western fortifications again – ‘have not been rebuilt. They are made of mud bricks and the rains have crumbled the rampart. It looks like a weak place and you will be tempted to attack there. Do not, for that is where the Tippoo wants you to attack.’ A beetle flew onto the map and crawled along the line marking the western walls. Appah Rao gently swept the insect aside. ‘There is another wall there, a new wall, hidden behind that rampart, McCandless, and when your men get through the first wall they will be in a trap. Here’ – he pointed to a bastion that connected the outer and inner walls – ‘that used to be a water gate, but it’s been blocked up and there are hundreds of pounds of gunpowder inside. Once your men are trapped between the two walls the Tippoo plans to blow the mine.’ Appah Rao shrugged. ‘Hundreds of pounds of powder, McCandless, just waiting for you. And when that attack has failed you will have no time to make another before the monsoon comes, and when the rains do come the river will rise and the roads will turn to mud and you will be forced to retreat, and every foot of your way back to Madras will be dogged by the Tippoo’s cavalry. That is how he plans to beat you.’

      ‘So we must attack anywhere but in the west?’

      ‘Anywhere but from the west,’ Appah Rao said. ‘The new inner wall’ – he demonstrated on the map with the tip of his knife – ‘extends all the way round the north. These other walls’ – he tapped the southern and eastern ramparts – ‘look stronger, but don’t be deceived. The west wall is a trap, and if you fall into it, it will be your death.’ He moved the weights off the corners of the map and let it roll itself up. Then he unshielded McCandless’s lantern and held one end of the scroll in the candle flame. The paper blazed, lighting the intricate carvings of the shrine. The three men watched as the paper burned to ash. ‘Anywhere but from the west,’ Appah Rao said, then, after a moment’s hesitation, he lifted the bag of gold coins from beside the lantern. ‘All this will go to my Rajah,’ he said. ‘I shall keep none.’

      ‘I never expected you to,’ McCandless said. ‘You have my thanks, General.’

      ‘I don’t want your thanks. I want my Rajah back. That is why I came. And if you disappoint me, then you English will have a new enemy.’

      ‘I’m a Scot.’

      ‘But you would still be my enemy,’ Appah Rao said, then turned away, but paused and looked back from the inner shrine’s threshold. ‘Tell your General that his men should be gentle with the people of the city.’

      ‘I will tell General Harris.’

      ‘Then I shall look to see you in Seringapatam,’ Appah Rao said heavily.

      ‘Me and thousands of others,’ McCandless said.

      ‘Thousands!’ Appah Rao’s tone mocked the claim. ‘You may have thousands, Colonel, but the Tippoo has tigers.’ He turned and walked to the temple’s outer gateway, followed by Kunwar Singh.

      McCandless burned the copy of Bonaparte’s letter, waited another half-hour and then, as silently as he had come to the temple, he left it. He would join his escort, sleep a few hours, then ride with his precious secret to the waiting army.

      Few men of the 33rd slept that night for the excitement of fighting and beating the Tippoo’s vaunted troops had filled them with a nervous energy. Some spent their loot on arrack, and those fell asleep soon enough, but the others stayed around their fires and relived the day’s brief excitement. For most of the troops it had been their first battle, and on its slim evidence they built a picture of war and their own valour.

      Mary Bickerstaff sat with Sharpe and listened patiently to the tales. She was accustomed to soldiers’ stories and shrewd enough to know which men exaggerated their prowess and which pretended not to have been nauseated by the horrors of the dead and wounded. Sharpe, after he returned from Captain Morris’s tent with the news that the Captain would ask Major Shee’s permission for them to marry, was silent and Mary sensed he was not really listening to the tales, not even when he pretended to be amused or amazed. ‘What is it?’ she asked him after a long while.

      ‘Nothing, lass.’

      ‘Are you worried about Captain Morris?’

      ‘If he says no, we just ask Major Shee,’ Sharpe said with a confidence he did not entirely feel. Morris was a bastard, but Shee was a drunk, and in truth there was little to choose between them. Sharpe had an idea that Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Wellesley, the 33rd’s real commanding officer, was a man who might be reasonable, but Wellesley had been temporarily appointed as one of the army’s two deputy commanders and had thus shrugged off all regimental business. ‘We’ll get our permission,’ he told Mary.

      ‘So what’s worrying you?’

      ‘I told you. Nothing.’

      ‘You’re miles away, Richard.’

      He hesitated. ‘Wish I was.’

      Mary tightened the grip of her hand on his fingers, then lowered her voice to something scarce above a whisper. ‘Are you thinking of running, Richard Sharpe?’

      He leaned away from the fire, trying to make a small private space where they could talk without being overheard. ‘Got to be a better life than this, love,’ he said.

      ‘Don’t do it!’ Mary said fiercely, but laying a hand on his cheek as she spoke. Some of the men on the other side of the fire saw the tender gesture and greeted it with a chorus of jeers and whistles. Mary ignored them. ‘They’ll catch you, Richard,’ she insisted, ‘catch you and shoot you.’

      ‘Not if we run far enough.’

      ‘We?’ she asked cautiously.

      ‘I’d want you, lass.’

      Mary took hold of one of his hands and squeezed it. ‘Listen,’ she hissed. ‘Work to become a sergeant! Once you’re a sergeant, you’re made. You could even become an officer! Don’t laugh, Richard! Mister Lambert in Calcutta, he was a sergeant once, and he was a private before that. They made him up to ensign.’

      Sharpe smiled and traced a finger down her cheek. ‘You’re mad, Mary. I love you, but you’re mad. I couldn’t be an officer! You have to know how to read!’

      ‘I can teach you,’ Mary said.

      Sharpe

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