Sharpe 3-Book Collection 1: Sharpe's Tiger, Sharpe's Triumph, Sharpe's Fortress Read online

  Sharpe nodded.

  Bywaters stepped smartly back and came to attention. “Prisoner ready for punishment, sir!” he called to Major Shee.

  The Major looked to the surgeon. “Is the prisoner fit for punishment, Mister Micklewhite?”

  Micklewhite did not even give Sharpe a glance. “Hale and fit, sir.”

  “Then carry on, Sergeant Major.”

  “Right, boys,” the Sergeant Major said, “do your duty! Lay it on hard now, and keep the strokes high. Above his trousers. Drummer! Begin.”

  A third drummer boy was standing behind the floggers. He lifted his sticks, paused, then brought the first stick down.

  The boy to the right brought his whip hard down on Sharpe’s back.

  “One!” Bywaters shouted.

  The whip had left a red mark across Sharpe’s shoulder blades. Sharpe had flinched, but the rope fetters restricted his movement and only those close to the triangle saw the tremor run through his muscles. He stared up at Major Shee who took good care to avoid the baleful gaze.

  “Two!” Bywaters called and the drummer brought down his stick as the second boy planted a red mark crosswise on the first.

  Hakeswill’s face twitched uncontrollably, but he was smiling under the rictus. For the drumbeat of death had begun.

  Colonel McCandless stood alone in the center of the courtyard of the Tippoo’s Inner Palace inside Seringapatam. The Scotsman was still in his full uniform: red-coated, tartan-kilted, and with his feather-plumed hat cocked on his head. Six tigers were chained to the courtyard’s walls and those tigers sometimes strained to reach him, but they were always checked by the heavy chains that quivered tautly whenever one of the muscled beasts sprang toward the Scotsman. McCandless did not move and the tigers, after one or two fruitless lunges, contented themselves with snarling at him. The tigers’ keepers, big men armed with long staves, watched from the courtyard entrance. It was those men who might receive the orders to unleash the tigers and McCandless was determined to show them a calm face.

  The courtyard was covered with sand, its lower walls were of dressed stone, but above the stone the palace’s second story was a riot of stuccoed teak that had been painted red, white, green, and yellow. That decorated second story was composed of Moorish arches and McCandless knew just enough Arabic to guess that the writing incised above each arch was a surah from the Koran. There were two entrances to the courtyard. The one behind McCandless, through which he had entered and where the tiger’s keepers now stood, was a plain double gateway that led to a tangle of stables and storehouses behind the palace, while in front of him, and evidently leading into the palace’s staterooms, was a brief marble staircase rising to a wide door of black wood that had been decorated with patterns of inlaid ivory. Above that lavish door was a balcony that jutted out from three of the stuccoed arches. A screen of intricately carved wood hid the balcony, but McCandless could see that there were men behind the screen. He suspected the Tippoo was there and, the Scotsman trusted, so was the Frenchman who had first questioned him. Colonel Gudin had struck him as an honest fellow and right now, McCandless hoped, Gudin was pleading to let him live, though McCandless had taken good care not to offer the Frenchman his real name. He feared that the Tippoo would recognize it, and realize just what a prize his cavalry had taken, and so the Scotsman had given his name as Ross instead.

  McCandless was right. Colonel Gudin and the Tippoo were both staring down through the screen. “This Colonel Ross,” the Tippoo asked, “he says he was looking for forage?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gudin replied through the interpreter.

  “You believe him?” It was plain from his tone that the Tippoo was skeptical.

  Gudin shrugged. “Their horses are thin.”

  The Tippoo grunted. He had done his best to deny the advancing enemy any food, but the British had taken to making sudden marches north or south of their approach to enter territory where his horsemen had not yet destroyed the villagers’ supplies. Not only that, but they had brought a vast amount of food with them. Yet even so the Tippoo’s spies reported that the enemy was going hungry. Their horses and oxen were especially ill fed, so it was not unlikely that this British officer had been searching for forage. But why would a full colonel be sent on such an errand? The Tippoo could find no answer to that, and the question fed his suspicions. “Could he have been spying?”

  “Scouting, maybe,” Gudin said, “but not spying. Spies do not ride in uniform, Your Majesty.”

  The Tippoo grunted when the answer was translated into Persian. He was a naturally suspicious man, as any ruler should be, but he consoled himself with the observation that whatever this Britisher had been doing, he must have failed. The Tippoo turned to his entourage and saw the tall, dark-faced Appah Rao. “You think this Colonel Ross was looking for food, General?”

  Appah Rao knew exactly who Colonel Ross truly was, and what McCandless had been looking for, and worse, Rao now knew that his own treachery was in dire danger of being discovered which meant that this was no time to look weak in front of the Tippoo. But nor was Appah Rao ready to betray McCandless. That was partly because of an old friendship, and partly because Appah Rao half suspected he might have a better future if he was allied to the British. “We know they’re short of food,” he said, “and that man looks thin enough.”

  “So you don’t consider him a spy?”

  “Spy or not,” Appah Rao said coldly, “he is your enemy.”

  The Tippoo shrugged at the evasive answer. His good sense suggested that the prisoner was not a spy, for why would he wear his uniform? But even if he was, that did not worry the Tippoo overmuch. He expected Seringapatam was full of spies, just as he had two score of his own men marching with the British, but most spies, in the Tippoo’s experience, were useless. They passed on rumors, they inflated guesses, and they muddled far more than they ever made plain.

  “Kill him,” one of the Tippoo’s Muslim generals suggested.

  “I shall think about it,” the Tippoo said, and turned back through one of the balcony’s inner archways into a gorgeous room of marble pillars and painted walls. The room was dominated by his throne, which was a canopied platform eight feet wide, five foot deep, and held four feet above the tiled floor by a model of a snarling tiger that supported the platform’s center and was flanked on each side by four carved tiger legs. Two silver gilt ladders gave access to the throne’s platform which was made of ebony wood on which a sheet of gold, thick as a prayer mat, had been fixed with silver nails. The edge of the platform was carved with quotations from the Koran, the Arabic letters picked out in gold, while above each of the throne’s eight legs was a finial in the form of a tiger’s head. The tiger heads were each the size of a pineapple, cast from solid gold and studded with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. The central tiger, whose long, lean body supported the middle of the throne, was made of wood covered with gold, while its head was entirely of gold. The tiger’s mouth was open, revealing teeth cut from rock crystal between which a gold tongue was hinged so that it could be moved up and down. The canopy above the golden platform was supported by a curved pole which, like the canopy itself, had been covered with sheet gold. The fringes of the canopy were made of strung pearls, and at its topmost point was a golden model of the fabulous hummah, the royal bird that rose from fire. The hummah, like the tiger finials, was studded with jewels; its back was one solid glorious emerald and its peacock-like tail a dazzle of precious stones arrayed so thickly that the underlying gold was scarcely visible.

  The Tippoo did not spare the gorgeous throne a glance. He had ordered the throne made, but had then sworn an oath that he would never climb its silver steps nor sit on the cushions of its golden platform until he had at last driven the British from southern India. Only then would he take his royal place beneath the pearl-strung canopy and until that bright day the tiger throne would stay empty. The Tippoo had made his oath, and the oath meant that he would either sit on the tiger throne or else he would die, a
nd the Tippoo’s dreams had given him no presentiment of death. Instead he expected to expand Mysore’s frontiers and to drive the infidel British into the sea where they belonged, for they had no business here. They had their own land, and if that far country was not good enough for them, then let them all drown.

  So the British must go, and if their destruction meant an alliance with the French, then that was a small price to pay for the Tippoo’s ambitions. He envisaged his empire spreading throughout southern India, then northward into the Mahratta territories which were all ruled by weak kings or child kings or by tired kings and in their place the Tippoo would offer what his dynasty had already given to Mysore: a firm and tolerant government. The Tippoo was a Muslim, and a devout one, but he knew the surest way to lose his throne was to upset his Hindu subjects and so he took good care to show their temples reverence. He did not entirely trust the Hindu aristocracy, and he had done what he could to weaken that elite over the years, but he wished only prosperity on his other Hindu subjects for if they were prosperous then they would not care what god was worshipped in the new mosque that the Tippoo had built in the city. In time, he prayed, every person in Mysore would kneel to Allah, but until that happy day he would take care not to stir the Hindus into rebellion. He needed them. He needed them to fight for him against the infidel British. He needed them to cut down the red-coated enemy before the walls of Seringapatam.

  For it was here, on his island capital, that the Tippoo expected to defeat the British and their allies from Hyderabad. Here, in front of his tiger-muzzled guns, the redcoats would be beaten down like rice under a flail. He hoped they could be lured into the slaughteryard he was preparing on the western bastions, but even if they did not take the bait and came at the southern or eastern walls, he was still ready for them. He had thousands of cannon and thousands of rockets and thousands of men ready to fight. He would turn their infidel army into blood and he would destroy the army of Hyderabad and then he would hunt down the Nizam of Hyderabad, a fellow Muslim, and torture him to a slow and deserved death which the Tippoo would watch from his canopied golden throne.

  He walked past the throne to stare at his favorite tiger. This one was a lifesize model, made by a French craftsman, that showed a full-grown beast crouching above the carved figure of a British redcoat. There was a handle in the tiger’s flank and when it was turned the tiger’s paw mauled at the redcoat’s face and reeds hidden within the tiger’s body made a growling sound and a pathetic noise that imitated the cries of a man dying. A flap opened in the tiger’s flank to reveal a keyboard on which an organ, concealed in the tiger’s belly, could be played, but the Tippoo rarely bothered with the instrument, preferring to operate the separate bellows that made the tiger growl and the victim cry out. He turned the handle now, delighting in the thin, reedy sound of the dying man. In a few days’ time, he thought, he would stun the very heavens with the genuine cries of dying redcoats.

  The Tippoo finally let the tiger organ fall silent. “I suspect the man is a spy,” he said suddenly.

  “Then kill him,” Appah Rao said.

  “A failed spy,” the Tippoo said. “You say he is a Scot?” he asked Gudin.

  “Indeed, Your Majesty.”

  “Not English, then?”

  “No, sire.”

  The Tippoo shrugged at the distinction. “Whatever his tribe, he is an old man, but is that reason to show him mercy?”

  The question was directed at Colonel Gudin who, once it was translated, stiffened. “He was captured in uniform, Your Majesty, so he does not deserve death.” Gudin would have liked to add that it would be uncivilized even to contemplate killing such a prisoner, but he knew the Tippoo hated being patronized and so he kept silent.

  “He is here, is he not?” the Tippoo demanded. “Does that not deserve death? This is not his land, these are not his people, and the bread and water he consumes are not his.”

  “Kill him, Your Majesty,” Gudin warned, “and the British will show no mercy on any prisoners they take.”

  “I am full of mercy,” the Tippoo said, and mostly that was true. There was a time for being ruthless and a time for showing mercy, and maybe this Scotsman would be a useful pawn if there was a need to hold a hostage. Besides, the Tippoo’s dream the night before had promised well, and this morning’s auguries had been similarly hopeful, so today he could afford to show mercy. “Put him in the cells for now,” the Tippoo said. Somewhere in the palace a French-made clock chimed the hour, reminding the Tippoo that it was time for his prayers. He dismissed his entourage, then went to the simple chamber where, facing west toward Mecca, he made his daily obeisances.

  Outside, cheated of their prey, the tigers slunk back to the courtyard’s shadows. One beast yawned, another slept. There would be other days and other men to eat. That was what the six tigers lived for, the days when their master was not merciful.

  While up in the Inner Palace, with his back to the canopied throne of gold, Colonel Jean Gudin turned the tiger’s handle. The tiger growled, the claws raked back and forth across the wooden, blood-painted flesh, and the redcoat cried aloud.

  Sharpe had not meant to cry out. Before the punishment had begun he had been determined to show no weakness and he had even been angry with himself that he had flinched as the first blow fell, but that sudden pain had been so acute that he had involuntarily shuddered. Since then he had closed his eyes and bitten down on the leather, but in his head a silent scream shrilled as the lashes landed one after the other.

  “One hundred and twenty-three!” Bywaters shouted hoarsely.

  The drummer boys’ arms were tiring, but they still knew better than to slacken their efforts for Sergeant Hakeswill was watching and savoring every blow.

  “One hundred and twenty-four,” Bywaters called, and it was then, through the silent scream that was filling his head, Sharpe heard a whimper. Then he heard another, and realized that it was he who was making the noise and so he snarled instead, opened his eyes, and stared his loathing at the bastard officers sitting on their horses a few paces away. He stared at them fixedly as if he could transfer the ghastly pain from his back onto their faces, but not one of them looked at him. They stared at the sky, they gazed at the ground, they all tried to ignore the sight of a man being beaten to death in front of their eyes.

  “One hundred and thirty-six,” Bywaters shouted and the drummer boy beat his instrument again.

  Blood had run down Sharpe’s back and stained the weave of his white trousers past his knees. More blood had spattered onto his greased and powdered hair, and still the lashes whistled down and each blow of the leather thongs splashed into the mess of broken flesh and ribboned skin, and more gleaming blood spurted away.

  “One hundred and forty. Keep it high, boy, keep it high! Not on the kidneys,” Bywaters snapped, and the Sergeant Major looked across at the surgeon and saw that Micklewhite was staring vaguely up over die tripod’s peak, his jowly face looking as calm as though he was merely idling away a summer’s day. “Want to look at him, Mister Micklewhite, sir?” the Sergeant Major suggested, but Micklewhite just shook his head. “Keep going, lads,” the Sergeant Major told the drummer boys, not bothering to keep the disapproval from his voice.

  The flogging went on. Hakeswill watched it with delight, but most of the men stared into the sky and prayed that Sharpe would not cry aloud. That would be his victory, even if he died in achieving it. Some Indian troops had gathered around the hollow square to watch the flogging. Such punishments were not permitted in the East India Company and most of the sepoys found it inexplicable that the British inflicted it upon themselves.

  “One hundred and sixty-nine!” Bywaters shouted, then saw a gleam of white under a lash. The gleam was instantly obscured by a trickle of blood. “Can see a rib, sir!” the Sergeant Major called to the Surgeon.

  Micklewhite waved a fly away from his face and stared up at a small cloud that was drifting northward. Must be some wind up there, he thought, and it was a pity that t
here was none down here to alleviate the heat. A tiny droplet of blood splashed onto his blue coat and he fastidiously backed farther away.

  “One hundred and seventy-four,” Bywaters shouted, trying to imbue the bare numbers with a tone of disapproval.

  Sharpe was scarcely conscious now. The pain was beyond bearing. It was as if he was being burned alive and being stabbed at the same time. He was whimpering with each blow, but the sound was tiny, scarce loud enough to be audible to the two sweating boys whose aching arms brought the lashes down again and again. Sharpe kept his eyes closed. The breath hissed in and out of his mouth, past the gag, and the sweat and saliva dribbled down his chin and dripped onto the earth where his blood showed as dark splashes in the dust.

  “Two hundred and one,” Bywaters called, and wondered if he dared take a sip of water from his canteen. His voice was becoming hoarse.

  “Stop!” a voice shouted.

  “Two hundred and two.”

  “Stop!” the voice shouted again, and this time it was as if the whole battalion had been suddenly woken from a sleep. The drummer boy gave a last hesitant tap, then let his hands fall to his sides as Sergeant Major Bywaters held up his hand to stop the next stroke which was already faltering. Sharpe lifted up his head and opened his eyes, but saw nothing but a blur. The pain surged through him, he whimpered, then dropped his face again and a string of spittle fell slowly from his mouth.

  Colonel Arthur Wellesley had ridden up to the tripod. For a moment Shee and his aides looked at their Colonel almost guiltily, as though they had been caught in some illicit pastime. No one spoke as the Colonel edged his horse closer to the prisoner. Wellesley looked down sourly, then put his riding crop under Sharpe’s chin to lift up his head. The Colonel almost recoiled from the look of hatred he saw in the victim’s eyes. He pulled the crop away, then wiped its tip on his saddle cloth to remove the spittle. “The prisoner is to be cut down, Major Shee,” the Colonel said icily.