take her off his hands, is that it?”
“I've only ever seen her at a distance,” the Sergeant admitted.
“Torranee was in another regiment, one of the Madrassi's, but we camped together
often enough.”
“She's still there,” Sharpe said drily, 'still alive."
“He keeps her close, he does,” Lockhart said, then kicked a dog out of his path. The eight
men had left the village and entered the sprawling encampment where the merchants with
their herds, wagons and families were camped. Great white oxen with painted horns were
hobbled by pegs, and children scurried among the beasts collecting their dung which they
slapped into cakes that would be dried for fuel.
"So tell me about these jet tis Lockhart asked.
“Like circus strongmen,” Sharpe said, 'only it's some kind of religious thing. Don't
ask me. None of it makes bleeding sense to me. Got muscles like mountains, they have, but
they're slow. I killed four of the buggers at Seringapatam."
“And you know Hakeswill?”
“I know bloody Hakeswill. Recruited me, he did, and he's been persecuting me ever
since. He shouldn't even be with this army, he's supposed to be with the Havercakes down
south, but he came up here with a warrant to arrest me. That didn't work, so he's just
stayed, hasn't he? And he's working the bleeding system! You can wager your last shilling
that he's the bastard who supplies Naig, and splits the profit.”
Sharpe stopped to look for green tents.
“How come you don't carry your own spare horseshoes?”
“We do. But when they've gone you have to get more from the supplies. That's how the
system's supposed to work. And yesterday's pursuit left half the hooves wrecked. We need
shoes.”
Sharpe had seen a cluster of faded green tents.
“That's where the bastard is,” he said, then looked at Lockhart.
“This could get nasty.”
Lockhart grinned. He was as tall as Sharpe and had a face that looked as though it had
survived a lifetime of tavern brawls.
“Come this far, ain't I?”
“Is that thing loaded?” Sharpe nodded at the pistol at Lockhart's belt.
A sabre also hung there, just like the one at Sharpe's hip.
“It will be.” Lockhart drew the pistol and Sharpe turned to Ahmed and mimed the actions
of loading the musket. Ahmed grinned and pointed to the lock, indicating that his weapon
was already charged.
“How many of the buggers will be waiting for us?” Lockhart asked.
“A dozen?” Sharpe guessed.
Lockhart glanced back at his six men.
“We can deal with a dozen buggers.”
“Right,” Sharpe said, 'so let's bloody well make some trouble." He grinned, because for
the first time since he had become an officer he was enjoying himself.
Which meant someone was about to get a thumping.
CHAPTER 3
Major General Sir Arthur Wellesley rode northwards among a cavalcade of officers
whose horses kicked up a wide trail of dust that lingered in the air long after the
horsemen had passed. Two troops of East India Company cavalry provided the General's
escort. Manu Bappoo's army might have been trounced and its survivors sent skeltering back
into Gawilghur, but the Deccan Plain was still infested with Mahratta cavalry ready to
pounce on supply convoys, wood-cutting parties or the grass-cutters who supplied the
army's animals with fodder and so the two troops rode with sabres drawn. Wellesley set a
fast pace, revelling in the freedom to ride in the long open country.
“Did you visit Colonel Stevenson this morning?” he called back to an aide.
“I did, sir, and he's no better than he was.”
“But he can get about?”
“On his elephant, sir.”
Wellesley grunted. Stevenson was the commander of his smaller army, but the old
Colonel was ailing. So was Harness, the commander of one of Wellesley's two brigades, but
there was no point in asking about Harness. It was not just physical disease that
assaulted Harness, for the Scotsman's wits were gone as well. The doctors
“I've only ever seen her at a distance,” the Sergeant admitted.
“Torranee was in another regiment, one of the Madrassi's, but we camped together
often enough.”
“She's still there,” Sharpe said drily, 'still alive."
“He keeps her close, he does,” Lockhart said, then kicked a dog out of his path. The eight
men had left the village and entered the sprawling encampment where the merchants with
their herds, wagons and families were camped. Great white oxen with painted horns were
hobbled by pegs, and children scurried among the beasts collecting their dung which they
slapped into cakes that would be dried for fuel.
"So tell me about these jet tis Lockhart asked.
“Like circus strongmen,” Sharpe said, 'only it's some kind of religious thing. Don't
ask me. None of it makes bleeding sense to me. Got muscles like mountains, they have, but
they're slow. I killed four of the buggers at Seringapatam."
“And you know Hakeswill?”
“I know bloody Hakeswill. Recruited me, he did, and he's been persecuting me ever
since. He shouldn't even be with this army, he's supposed to be with the Havercakes down
south, but he came up here with a warrant to arrest me. That didn't work, so he's just
stayed, hasn't he? And he's working the bleeding system! You can wager your last shilling
that he's the bastard who supplies Naig, and splits the profit.”
Sharpe stopped to look for green tents.
“How come you don't carry your own spare horseshoes?”
“We do. But when they've gone you have to get more from the supplies. That's how the
system's supposed to work. And yesterday's pursuit left half the hooves wrecked. We need
shoes.”
Sharpe had seen a cluster of faded green tents.
“That's where the bastard is,” he said, then looked at Lockhart.
“This could get nasty.”
Lockhart grinned. He was as tall as Sharpe and had a face that looked as though it had
survived a lifetime of tavern brawls.
“Come this far, ain't I?”
“Is that thing loaded?” Sharpe nodded at the pistol at Lockhart's belt.
A sabre also hung there, just like the one at Sharpe's hip.
“It will be.” Lockhart drew the pistol and Sharpe turned to Ahmed and mimed the actions
of loading the musket. Ahmed grinned and pointed to the lock, indicating that his weapon
was already charged.
“How many of the buggers will be waiting for us?” Lockhart asked.
“A dozen?” Sharpe guessed.
Lockhart glanced back at his six men.
“We can deal with a dozen buggers.”
“Right,” Sharpe said, 'so let's bloody well make some trouble." He grinned, because for
the first time since he had become an officer he was enjoying himself.
Which meant someone was about to get a thumping.
CHAPTER 3
Major General Sir Arthur Wellesley rode northwards among a cavalcade of officers
whose horses kicked up a wide trail of dust that lingered in the air long after the
horsemen had passed. Two troops of East India Company cavalry provided the General's
escort. Manu Bappoo's army might have been trounced and its survivors sent skeltering back
into Gawilghur, but the Deccan Plain was still infested with Mahratta cavalry ready to
pounce on supply convoys, wood-cutting parties or the grass-cutters who supplied the
army's animals with fodder and so the two troops rode with sabres drawn. Wellesley set a
fast pace, revelling in the freedom to ride in the long open country.
“Did you visit Colonel Stevenson this morning?” he called back to an aide.
“I did, sir, and he's no better than he was.”
“But he can get about?”
“On his elephant, sir.”
Wellesley grunted. Stevenson was the commander of his smaller army, but the old
Colonel was ailing. So was Harness, the commander of one of Wellesley's two brigades, but
there was no point in asking about Harness. It was not just physical disease that
assaulted Harness, for the Scotsman's wits were gone as well. The doctors
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