LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘If Ravi Shekhar won’t help us, sir,’ Baird suggested, ‘then Lawford and Sharpe must get themselves into McCandless’s jail, then find a way of getting themselves out.’ The Scotsman turned to Sharpe. ‘Were you by any chance a thief before you joined up?’

      A heartbeat’s hesitation, then Sharpe nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘What kind of a thief?’ Wellesley asked in a disgusted voice as though he was astonished to discover the ranks of his battalion contained criminals, and, when Sharpe did not answer, the Colonel became even more irritable. ‘A diver? A scamp?’

      Sharpe was surprised that his Colonel even knew such slang. He shook his head indignantly, denying he had ever been a mere pickpocket or a highwayman. ‘I was a house boner, sir,’ he said. ‘And proper trained too,’ he added proudly. In fact he had done his share on the highway, not so much holding up coaches as slicing the leather straps that held the passengers’ portmanteaus on the back of coaches. The job was done while the coach was speeding along a road so that the noise of the hooves and wheels would hide the sound of the tumbling luggage. It was a job for agile youngsters and Sharpe had been good at it.

      ‘A house boner means he was a burglar,’ Wellesley translated for his two senior officers, unable to hide his scorn.

      Baird was pleased with Sharpe’s answers. ‘Do you still have a picklock, Private?’

      ‘Me, sir? No, sir. But I suppose I could find one, sir, if I had a guinea.’

      Baird laughed, suspecting the true cost was nearer a shilling, but he still went to his coat which was hanging from a hook on one of the tent poles and fished out a guinea which he tossed onto Sharpe’s lap. ‘Find one before tonight, Private Sharpe,’ he said, ‘for who knows, it might be useful.’ He turned to Harris. ‘But I doubt it will come to that, sir. I pray it doesn’t come to that for I’m not sure that any man, even Private Sharpe here, can escape from the Tippoo’s dungeons.’ The tall General turned back to Sharpe. ‘I was near four years in those cells, Sharpe, and in all that time not one man escaped. Not one.’ Baird paced restlessly as he remembered the ordeal. ‘The Tippoo’s cells have barred doors with padlocks, so your picklock could take care of that, but when I was there we always had four jailers in the daytime, and some days there were even jettis on guard.’

      ‘Jettis, sir?’ Lawford asked.

      ‘Jettis, Lieutenant. The Tippoo inherited a dozen of the bastards from his father. They’re professional strongmen and their favourite trick is executing prisoners. They have several ways of doing it, none of them pleasant. You want to know their methods?’

      ‘No, sir,’ Lawford said hurriedly, blanching at the thought. Sharpe was disappointed, but dared not ask for the details.

      Baird grimaced. ‘Very unpleasant executions, Lieutenant,’ he said grimly. ‘You still want to go?’

      Lawford remained pale, but nodded. ‘I think it’s worth a try, sir.’

      Wellesley snorted at the Lieutenant’s foolishness, but Baird ignored the Colonel. ‘At night the guards are withdrawn,’ he went on, ‘but there’s still a sentry.’

      ‘Just one?’ Sharpe asked.

      ‘Just one, Private,’ Baird confirmed.

      ‘I can take care of one sentry, sir,’ Sharpe boasted.

      ‘Not this one,’ Baird said grimly, ‘because when I was there he was eight feet long if he was an inch. He was a tiger, Sharpe. A man-eater, and the eight foot don’t count his tail. He used to be put in the corridor every night, so pray you don’t ever end up in the Tippoo’s cells. Pray that Ravi Shekhar will know how to get McCandless out.’

      ‘Or at the very least,’ Harris intervened, ‘pray that Shekhar can discover what McCandless knows and that you can get that news out to us.’

      ‘So that’s what we want of you!’ Baird said to Sharpe with a brusque cheerfulness. ‘Are you willing to go, man?’

      Sharpe reckoned it was all idiocy, and he did not much like the sound of the tiger, but he knew better than to show any reluctance. ‘I reckon three is better than two thousand, sir,’ he said.

      ‘Three?’ Baird asked, puzzled.

      ‘Three stripes are better than two thousand lashes, sir. If we find out what you want to know or else fetch this Colonel McCandless out of jail, sir, can I be a sergeant?’ He asked the question of Wellesley.

      Wellesley looked enraged at Sharpe’s presumption, and for a second it was plain that he proposed to turn him down, but General Harris cleared his throat and mildly remarked that it sounded a reasonable suggestion to him.

      Wellesley thought about opposing the General, then decided that it was most unlikely that Sharpe would even survive this nonsense and so, albeit reluctantly, he nodded. ‘A sergeant’s stripes, Sharpe, if you succeed.’

      ‘Thank you, sir,’ Sharpe said.

      Baird dismissed him. ‘Go with Lieutenant Lawford now, Sharpe, he’ll tell you what to do. And one other thing …’ The Scotsman’s voice became urgent. ‘For God’s sake, man, don’t tell another soul what you’re doing.’

      ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,’ Sharpe said, flinching as he stood up.

      ‘Go then,’ Baird said. He waited till the two men were gone, then sighed. ‘A bright young fellow, that Sharpe.’ He spoke to Harris.

      ‘A rogue,’ Wellesley interjected. ‘I could provide you with a hundred others just as disreputable. Scum, all of them, and the only thing that keeps them from riot is discipline.’

      Harris rapped the table to stop the squabbling of his two seconds-in-command. ‘But will the rogue succeed?’ he asked.

      ‘Not a chance,’ Wellesley said confidently.

      ‘A woefully small chance,’ Baird admitted dourly, then added more vigorously, ‘but even a small chance is worth it if we can get McCandless back.’

      ‘At the risk of losing two good men?’ Harris asked.

      ‘One man who might become a decent officer,’ Wellesley corrected the General, ‘and one man whose loss the world won’t mourn for a second.’

      ‘But McCandless might hold the key to the city, General,’ Baird reminded Harris.

      ‘True,’ Harris said heavily, then unrolled a map that had lain scrolled on the edge of his table. The map showed Seringapatam and whenever he gazed at it he wondered how he was to set about besieging the city. Lord Cornwallis, who had captured the city seven years before, had assaulted the north side of the island and then attacked the eastern walls, but Harris doubted that he would be given that route again. The Tippoo would have been forewarned by that earlier success, which meant this new assault must come from either the south or the west. A dozen deserters from the enemy’s forces had all claimed that the west wall was in bad repair, and maybe that would give Harris his best chance. ‘South or west,’ he said aloud, reiterating the problem he had already discussed a score of times with his two deputies. ‘But either way, gentlemen, the place is crammed with guns, thick with rockets and filled with infantry. And we’ll have only the one chance before the rains come. Just one. West or south, eh?’ He stared at the map, hoping against hope that McCandless could be fetched from his dungeon to offer some guidance, but that, he admitted to himself, was a most unlikely outcome, which meant the decision would inevitably be all his to make. The final decision could wait till the army was close to the city and Harris had been given a chance to view the Tippoo’s defences, but once the army was ready to make camp the choice would have to be made swiftly and, all things being equal, Harris was fairly sure which route he would choose. For weeks now his instinct had been telling him where to attack, but he worried that the Tippoo might have foreseen the weakness in his city’s defences. But there was no point in wondering whether the Tippoo was outfoxing him, that way lay indecision, and so Harris tapped

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