LITMIR.BIZ

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would think,’ the Tippoo remarked to Gudin, ‘to drive a nail into a skull.’

      ‘So Your Majesty has been kind enough to inform me before,’ Gudin answered drily.

      The Tippoo laughed. ‘You do not enjoy this, Colonel?’

      ‘The death of traitors is ever necessary, sire,’ Gudin said evasively.

      ‘But I should like to think you derive amusement from it. Surely you appreciate my men’s strength?’

      ‘I do admire it, sire.’

      ‘Then admire it now,’ the Tippoo said, ‘for the next death takes even more strength than the nail.’ The Tippoo smiled and turned back to look into the courtyard where the second jetti waited behind the prisoner. The Tippoo pointed at the merchant, held the gesture as before, then dropped his hand abruptly. The merchant screamed in anticipation, then began to shake like a leaf as the jetti placed his hands against the sides of the merchant’s skull. His touch was gentle at first, almost a caress. His palms covered the merchant’s ears as his fingers groped to find a purchase among the skull bones beneath the victim’s fat cheeks. Then the jetti suddenly tightened his grip, distorting the plump face, and the merchant’s scream became frantic until, at last, he had no breath left to scream and could only mew in terror. The jetti drew breath, paused to concentrate all his force, then gave a great shout that made the six tigers leap to their feet in alarm.

      As he shouted the jetti twisted the merchant’s head. He was wringing his victim’s neck like a man would wring a chicken’s gullet, only this neck was thick and fat, but the jetti’s first great effort twisted it so far around that the face was already looking back across its right shoulder when the executioner made his second effort, marked by a grunt, which pulled the head all the way around and Gudin, flinching from the sight on the balcony, heard the distinct crack as the merchant’s spine was broken. The jetti let go of the head and sprang back, proud of his work as the dead merchant collapsed off the stool. The Tippoo applauded, then tossed down two small bags of gold. ‘Take that one to the pigs,’ he said, pointing at the Muslim. ‘And leave the other here. Let the tigers loose.’

      The balcony shutters were closed. Somewhere deep in the palace, perhaps from the harem where the Tippoo’s six hundred wives, concubines and handmaidens all lived, a harp tinkled prettily, while down in the courtyard the tigers’ keepers used their long staves to herd the beasts as they released them from their chains. The Tippoo smiled at his followers. ‘Back to the walls, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We have work to do.’

      The keepers released the last tiger, then followed the jettis out through the gateway. The dead soldier had been dragged away. For a moment the tigers watched the remaining body, then one of the beasts crossed to the merchant’s corpse and eviscerated the fat belly with one blow of its huge paw.

      And so Ravi Shekhar had died. And now was eaten.

      Sharpe was back with his company before sunset. He was greeted ebulliently by men who saw in his release from the flogging a small victory for the lower ranks against blind authority. Private Mallinson even clapped Sharpe on the back, and was rewarded with a stream of curses.

      Sharpe ate with his usual six companions who, as ever, were joined by three wives and by Mary. The supper was a stew of beans, rice and salt beef, and it was at the end of the small meal, when they were sharing a canteen of arrack, that Sergeant Hakeswill appeared. ‘Private Sharpe!’ He was carrying a cane that he pointed towards Sharpe. ‘I wants you!’

      ‘Sergeant.’ Sharpe acknowledged Hakeswill, but did not move.

      ‘A word with you, Private. On your feet now!’

      Sharpe still did not move. ‘I’m excused company duties, Sergeant. Colonel’s orders.’

      Hakeswill’s face wrenched itself in a grotesque twitch. ‘This ain’t your duty,’ the Sergeant said, ‘this is your bleeding pleasure. So get on your bloody feet and come here.’

      Sharpe obediently stood, flinching as his coat tugged at his grievously wounded back. He followed the Sergeant to an open space behind the surgeon’s tent where Hakeswill turned and rammed his cane into Sharpe’s chest. ‘How the hell did you escape that flogging, Sharpie?’

      Sharpe ignored the question. Hakeswill’s broken nose was still swollen and bruised, and Sharpe could see the worry in the Sergeant’s eyes.

      ‘Didn’t you hear me, boy?’ Hakeswill shoved the cane’s tip into Sharpe’s belly. ‘How come you was cut down?’

      ‘How come you were cut down from the scaffold, Sergeant?’ Sharpe asked.

      ‘No lip from you, boy. No lip, or by God I’ll have you strapped to the tripod again. Now tell me what the General wanted.’

      Sharpe shook his head. ‘If you want to know that, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘you’d better ask General Harris yourself.’

      ‘Stand still! Stand straight!’ Hakeswill snapped, then cut with his cane at a nearby guy rope. He sniffed, wondering how best to worm the information out of Sharpe and decided, for a change, to try gentleness. ‘I admire you, Sharpie,’ the Sergeant said hoarsely. ‘Not many men have the guts to walk after getting two hundred tickles of the whip. Takes a strong man to do that, Sharpie, and I’d hate to see you getting even more tickles. It’s in your best interest to tell me, Sharpie. You know that. It’ll go bad with you else. So why was you released, lad?’

      Sharpe pretended to relent. ‘You know why I was released, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘The Colonel announced it.’

      ‘No, I don’t know, lad,’ Hakeswill said. ‘Upon my soul, I don’t. So you tell me now.’

      Sharpe shrugged. ‘Because we fought well the other day, Sergeant. It’s a reward, like.’

      ‘No, it bleeding ain’t!’ Hakeswill shouted, then dodged to one side and slashed his cane onto Sharpe’s wounded back. Sharpe almost screamed with the pain. ‘You don’t get called away to a general’s tent for that, Sharpie!’ Hakeswill said. ‘Stands to reason! Never heard nothing like it in all my born days. So you tell me why, you bastard.’

      Sharpe turned to face his persecutor. ‘You lay that cane on me again, Obadiah,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll tell General Harris about you. I’ll have you skinned of your stripes, I will, and turned back into a private. Would you like that, Obadiah? You and me in the same file? I’d like that, Obadiah.’

      ‘Stand still!’ Hakeswill spat.

      ‘Shut your face, Sergeant,’ Sharpe said. He had called Hakeswill’s bluff, and there was pleasure in that. The Sergeant had doubtless thought he could bully the truth out of Sharpe, but Sharpe held all the trump cards here. ‘How’s your nose?’ he asked Hakeswill.

      ‘Be careful, Sharpie. Be careful.’

      ‘Oh, I am, Sergeant, I am. I’m real careful. Have you done now?’ Sharpe did not wait for an answer, but just walked away. The next time he faced Obadiah, he thought, he would have the stripes on his sleeve, and God help Hakeswill then.

      He talked to Mary for half an hour, then it was time to make the excuses that Lieutenant Lawford had rehearsed with him. He picked up his pack, took his musket, and said he had to report to the paymaster’s tent. ‘I’m on light duties till the stripes heal,’ he told his mates, ‘doing sentry-go on the money. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

      Major General Baird had made all the arrangements. The camp’s western perimeter was guarded by men he could trust, and those men had orders to disregard anything they saw, while next day, Baird promised Lawford, the army would take care not to send any cavalry patrols directly west in case those patrols discovered the two fugitives. ‘Your job is to go as far west as you can tonight,’ Baird told Sharpe and Lawford when he met them close to the western picquet line, ‘and then keep walking west in the morning. You understand now?’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ Lawford answered. The Lieutenant, beneath

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