LITMIR.BIZ

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bloody Ireland, then, but he ain’t Irish, Harris, and you know it. The man doesn’t even drink, for God’s sake! A little wine, maybe, but nothing I’d call a proper drink. Have you ever met an Irishman so sober?’

      ‘Some, quite a few, a good number, to tell the truth,’ Harris, a fair-minded man, had answered honestly, ‘but is inebriation such a desirable quality in a military commander?’

      ‘Experience is,’ Baird had growled. ‘Hell, man, you and I have seen some service! We’ve lost blood! And what has Wellesley lost? Money! Nothing but money while he purchased his way up to colonel. Man’s never been in a battle!’

      ‘He will still make a very good second-in-command, and that’s all that matters,’ Harris had insisted, and indeed Harris had been well pleased with Wellesley’s performance. The Colonel’s responsibilities lay mainly with the army of the Nizam of Hyderabad, and he had proved adept at persuading that potentate to submit to Harris’s suggestions, a task Baird could never have performed even half so well for the Scotsman was notorious for his hatred of all Indians.

      That hatred went back to the years Baird had spent in the dungeons of the Tippoo Sultan in Seringapatam. Seventeen years before, in battle against the Tippoo’s fierce father, Hyder Ali, the young David Baird had been captured. He and the other prisoners had been marched to Seringapatam and there endured forty-four humiliating months of hot, damp hell in Hyder Ali’s cells. For some of those months Baird had been manacled to the wall and now the Scotsman wanted revenge. He dreamed of carrying his Scottish claymore across the city’s ramparts and cornering the Tippoo, and then, by Christ, the hell of Seringapatam’s cells would be paid back a thousandfold.

      It was the memory of that ordeal and the knowledge that his fellow Scotsman, McCandless, was now doomed to endure it, that had persuaded Baird that McCandless must be freed. Colonel McCandless had himself suggested how that release might be achieved for, before setting out on his mission, he had left a letter with David Baird. The letter, which had instructions penned on its cover saying that it should only be opened if McCandless failed to return, suggested that if the Colonel should be captured, and should General Harris feel it was important to make an attempt to release him, then a trusted man should be sent secretly into Seringapatam where he should contact a merchant named Ravi Shekhar. ‘If any man has the resources to free me, it is Shekhar,’ McCandless had written, ‘though I trust both you and the General will weigh well the risk of losing such a prized informant against whatever small advantages might be gained from my release.’

      Baird had no doubts about McCandless’s worth. McCandless alone knew the identities of the British agents in the Tippoo’s service and no one in the army knew as much of the Tippoo as did McCandless, and Baird was aware that should the Tippoo ever discover McCandless’s true responsibilities then McCandless would be given to the tigers. It was Baird who had remembered that McCandless’s English nephew, William Lawford, was serving in the army, and Baird who had persuaded Lawford to enter Seringapatam in an effort to free McCandless, and Baird who had then proposed the mission to General Harris. Harris had initially scorned the idea, though he had unbent sufficiently to suggest that maybe an Indian volunteer could be found who would stand a much greater chance of remaining undetected in the enemy capital, but Baird had vigorously defended his choice. ‘This is too important to be left to some blackamoor, Harris, and besides, only McCandless knows which of the bastards can be trusted. Me, I wouldn’t trust any damned one of them.’

      Harris had sighed. He led two armies, fifty thousand men, and all but five thousand of those soldiers were Indians, and if ‘blackamoors’ could not be trusted then Harris, Baird and everyone else was doomed, but the General knew he would make no headway against Baird’s stubborn dislike of all Indians. ‘I would like McCandless freed,’ Harris had allowed, ‘but, upon my soul, Baird, I can’t see a white man living long in Seringapatam.’

      ‘We can’t send a blackamoor,’ Baird had insisted. ‘They’ll take money from us, then go straight to the Tippoo and get more money from him. Then you can kiss farewell to McCandless and to this Shekhar fellow.’

      ‘But why send this young man Lawford?’ Harris had asked.

      ‘Because McCandless is a secretive fellow, sir, more cautious than most, and if he sees Willie Lawford then he’ll know that we sent him, but if it’s some other British fellow he might think it’s some deserter sent to trap him by the Tippoo. Never underestimate the Tippoo, Harris, he’s a clever little bastard. He reminds me of Wellesley. He’s always thinking.’

      Harris had grunted. He had resisted the idea, but it had still tempted him, for the Havildar who had survived McCandless’s ill-starred expedition had returned to the army, and his story suggested that McCandless had met with the man he hoped to meet, and, though Harris did not know who that man was, he did know that McCandless had been searching for the key to the Tippoo’s city. Only a mission so important, a mission that could guarantee success, had persuaded Harris to allow McCandless to risk himself, and now McCandless was taken and Harris was being offered a chance to fetch him back, or at least to retrieve McCandless’s news, even if the Colonel himself could not be fetched out of the Tippoo’s dungeons. Harris was not so confident of British success in the campaign that he could disregard such a windfall. ‘But how in God’s name is this fellow Lawford supposed to survive inside the city?’ Harris had asked.

      ‘Easy!’ Baird had answered scornfully. ‘The Tippoo’s only too damned eager for European volunteers, so we dress young Lawford in a private’s uniform and he can pretend to be a deserter. He’ll be welcomed with open arms! They’ll be hanging bloody flowers round his neck and giving him first choice of the bibbis.’

      Harris had slowly allowed himself to be persuaded, though Wellesley, once introduced to the idea, had advised against it. Lawford, Wellesley insisted, could never pass himself off as an enlisted man, but Wellesley had been overruled by Baird’s enthusiasm and so Lieutenant Lawford had been summoned to Harris’s tent where he had complicated matters by agreeing with his Colonel. ‘I’d dearly like to help, sir,’ he had told Harris, ‘but I’m not sure I’m capable of the pretence.’

      ‘Good God, man,’ Baird intervened, ‘spit and swear! It ain’t difficult!’

      ‘It will be very difficult,’ Harris had insisted, staring at the diffident Lieutenant. He was doubtful whether Lawford had the resources to carry off the deception, for the Lieutenant, while plainly a decent man, seemed guileless.

      Then Lawford had complicated matters still further. ‘I think it would be more plausible, sir,’ he suggested respectfully, ‘if I could take another man with me. Deserters usually run in pairs, don’t they? And if the man is the genuine article, a ranker, it’ll be altogether more convincing.’

      ‘Makes sense, makes sense,’ Baird had put in encouragingly.

      ‘You have a man in mind?’ Wellesley had asked coldly.

      ‘His name is Sharpe, sir,’ Lawford said. ‘They’re probably about to flog him.’

      ‘Then he’ll be no damned use to you,’ Wellesley said in a tone which suggested the matter was now closed.

      ‘I’ll go with no one else, sir,’ Lawford retorted stubbornly, addressing himself to General Harris rather than to his Colonel, and Harris was pleased to see this evidence of backbone. The Lieutenant, it seemed, was not quite so diffident as he appeared.

      ‘How many lashes is this fellow getting?’ Harris asked.

      ‘Don’t know, sir. He’s standing trial now, sir, and if I wasn’t here I’d be giving evidence on his behalf. I doubt his guilt.’

      The argument over whether to employ Sharpe had continued over a midday meal of rice and stewed goat. Wellesley was refusing to intervene in the court martial or its subsequent punishment, declaring that such an act would be prejudicial to discipline, but William Lawford stubbornly and respectfully refused to take any other man. It had, he said, to be a man he could trust. ‘We could send another officer,’ Wellesley had suggested, but that idea had faltered when the difficulties of finding a reliable volunteer were explored.

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