Sharpe's Tiger (42 page)

The tiger saw the motion, twisted away from Hakeswill's cage, and sprang toward the coat. The red jacket had flown the best part of twenty feet and the tiger covered the distance in one powerful leap. It batted the coat with its claws, then batted it again, but found no flesh and blood inside the cloth.

Sharpe had slipped through the door, turned to the steps, and snatched up the pistol. He turned back, hoping to regain the safety of the cell before the tiger noticed him, but his foot slipped on the lowest step and he fell backward against
the stone stairs. The tiger heard him, turned, and went still. The yellow eyes stared at Sharpe, Sharpe gazed back, then slowly thumbed the cock of the pistol. The tiger heard the click and its tail lashed once. The merciless eyes watched Sharpe, then, very slowly, the tiger crouched. Its tail swung back and forth once more.

“Don't shoot now!” McCandless called softly. “Get close!”

“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said. He kept his eyes on the tiger's eyes as he slowly, slowly climbed to his feet and edged toward the beast. The fear was like a mad wild thing inside him. I Hakeswill was spitting encouragement, but Sharpe heard nothing and he saw nothing but the tiger's eyes. He wondered if he should attempt to duck back into the cell, but guessed that the tiger would spring while he was still trying to open the door. Better to face the beast and shoot it in the open pit, he decided. He held the pistol at arm's length, keeping the muzzle aimed at a patch of black fur just beneath the animal's eyes. Fifteen feet away, twelve. His boots grated on the stone floor. How accurate was the pistol? It was a pretty enough thing, all ivory and silver, but did it fire true? And how tightly was the ball sized to the barrel? Even a gap between barrel and ball the width of a sheet of paper was enough to throw a bullet wide as it spat out of the muzzle. Even at twelve feet a pistol could miss a man-size target, let alone a small patch of matted fur between a man-eating tiger's eyes.

“Kill the bugger, Sharpie!” Hakeswill urged.

“Careful, man!” McCandless hissed. “Make sure of your shot. Careful now!”

Sharpe edged forward. His eyes were still fixed on the tiger's eyes. He was willing the beast to stay still, to receive its death gracefully. Ten feet. The tiger was motionless, just watching him. Sweat stung Sharpe's eves and the weight of the pistol was making his hand tremble. Do it now, he thought, do it now. Pull the trigger, put the bugger down,
and run like shit. He blinked, his eyes stinging with the sweat. The tiger did not even blink. Eight feet. He could smell the beast, see its unsheathed claws on the stone, see the glint in its eyes. Seven feet. Close enough, he reckoned, and he straightened his arm to line up the pistol's rudimentary sights.

And the tiger sprang. It came from the ground so fast that it was almost on top of Sharpe before he even realized that the beast had moved. He had a wild glimpse of huge claws stretched far out of their pads and of feral yellow teeth in a snarling mouth, and he was unaware that he called aloud in panic. He was unaware, too, that he had pulled the trigger, not smoothly as he had planned, but in a desperate, panicked jerk. Then, instinctively, he dropped to the ground and curled tight so that the tiger's leap would pass over him.

Lawford gasped. The echo of the pistol shot was hugely loud in the confines of the dungeon pit which suddenly reeked with the sulfurous smell of powder smoke. Hakeswill was crouching in a corner of his cell, scarce daring to look, while McCandless was mouthing a silent prayer. Sharpe was on the ground, waiting for the agony of the claws to rip him apart.

But the tiger was dying. The bullet had struck the back of the tiger's mouth. It was only a small bullet, but the force of it was sufficient to pierce through the throat's tissues and into the brain stem. Blood spattered the cell bars as the tiger's graceful leap slumped into death's collapse. It had fallen at the foot of the steps, but some terrible instinct of surging life still animated the beast and it tried to stand. Its paws scrabbled against stone and its head jerked up for a snarling second as the tail lashed, then blood surged out of its mouth, the head fell back, and the beast went still.

There was silence.

The first flies came down to explore the blood spilling
from the tiger's mouth. “Oh, sweet suffering Christ,” Sharpe said, picking himself up. He was shaking. “Jesus bloody wept.”

McCandless did not reprove him. The Colonel knew a prayer when he heard one.

Sharpe fetched his torn jacket, pulled the cell door wide open, then gingerly sidled past the dead tiger as though he feared the beast might come back to life. McCandless and Lawford followed him up the stone stairs. “What about me?” Hakeswill called. “You can't leave me here. It ain't Christian!”

“Leave him.” McCandless ordered.

“I was planning on it, sir,” Sharpe said. He found his picklock again and reached for the padlock on the outer gate. This lock was much simpler, merely a crude one-lever mechanism, and it took only seconds to snap the ancient lock open. “Where are we going?” Lawford asked.

“To ground, man,” McCandless said. The sudden freedom seemed to have lifted the Colonel's fever. “We must find somewhere to hide.”

Sharpe pushed the gate outward, then saw Mary gazing at him from a doorway across the courtyard and he smiled, then saw she was not smiling back, but was instead looking terrified. There were men with her, and they too were unmoving with fear. Then Sharpe saw why.

Three
jettis
were crossing the courtyard toward the dungeon cage. Three monsters. Three men with bare oiled chests and muscles like tiger thews. One carried a coiled whip while the other two were armed with hugely long spears with which they had planned to subdue the tiger before opening the prisoners' cell. Sharpe swore. He dropped his coat and picklock.

“Can you lock us in again?” McCandless asked.

“Those buggers are strong enough to tear the padlocks
clean away, sir. We have to kill the bastards.” Sharpe darted through the gate and ran to his right.
The jettis
followed him, but more slowly. They were not fast men, though their massive strength gave them an easy confidence as they spread out into a line to trap Sharpe in a corner of the courtyard. “Throw me a musket!” Sharpe called to Mary. “Quick, lass, quick!”

Mary snatched a musket from one of Kunwar Singh's men and, before the astonished man could protest, she tossed it to Sharpe. He caught it, held it at his waist, but did not cock the weapon. Then he advanced on the middle
jetti
. The man had seen that the musket was uncocked and he smiled, anticipating an easy victory, then slashed out his whip so that its coiled end wound round Sharpe's throat. He tugged, planning to pull Sharpe off balance, but Sharpe was already running toward him, cheating the whip's tension, and
the jetti
had never faced a man as quick as Sharpe. Nor as lethal. The
jetti
was still recovering from his surprise when the muzzle of the musket rammed into his Adam's apple with the force of a sledgehammer. He choked, his eyes widened, then Sharpe kicked him in the crotch and the huge man staggered and collapsed. One big muscle-bound brute was down, gasping desperately for breath, but the long spears were turning toward Sharpe who, with the whip still trailing from his throat, turned fast to his right. He knocked the
next jetti's
spear aside with his musket barrel, then reversed the weapon and charged. The
jetti
abandoned his spear and reached for the musket, but Sharpe checked his rush so that the big man's hands closed on nothing, and then Sharpe swung the musket by its barrel so that its brass-bound butt slammed into the man's temple with the sound of an axe biting into soft wood.

Two of the bastards were down. The soldiers on the inner ramparts' battery were watching the fight, but not interfering.
They were confused, for Kunwar Singh was standing right beside the fight and doing nothing, and his jewels made him appear a man of high authority, and so they followed his example and did not try to intervene. Some of the watching soldiers were even cheering, for, though the
jettis
were admired, they were also resented because they received privileges far above any ordinary soldier's expectations.

Lawford had moved to help Sharpe, but his uncle held him back. “Let him be, Willie,” McCandless said quietly. “He's doing the Lord's work and I've rarely seen it done better.”

The third
jetti
lumbered at Sharpe with his spear. He advanced warily, confused by the ease with which this foreign demon had downed his two companions.

Sharpe smiled at the third
jetti
, shouldered the musket, pulled back the cock, and fired.

The bullet drummed into
the jetti's
chest, making all his huge muscles shudder with the force of its impact.
The jetti
slowed, then tried to charge again, but his knees gave way and he fell forward onto his face. He twitched, his hands scrabbled for an instant, then he was still. From the ramparts above the soldiers cheered.

Sharpe uncoiled the whip from his neck, picked up one of the clumsy spears, and finished off the two
jettis
who still lived. One had been stunned and the other was almost unable to breathe, and both now had their throats cut. From the windows of the low buildings around the courtyard men and women stared at Sharpe in shock.

“Don't just stand there!” Sharpe snarled at Lawford. “Sir,” he added hastily.

Lawford and McCandless came through the gate, while Kunwar Singh, as if released from a spell, suddenly hurried to meet them. Mary crossed to Sharpe. “Are you all right?”

“Never better, lass,” he said. In truth he was shaking as he
picked up his red coat and as Kunwar Singh's six men stared at him as though he was a devil come from nightmare. Sharpe wiped sweat from his eyes. He was oblivious of most of what had just happened for he had fought as he had always fought, fast and with a lethal skill, but it was instinct that led him, not reason, and the fight had left him with a seething hate. He wanted to slake that hate by killing more men, and perhaps Kunwar Singh's soldiers picked up that ferocity, for none of them dared move.

Lawford crossed to Sharpe. “We think the assault is about to come, Sharpe,” the Lieutenant said, “and Colonel McCandless is being taken to a place of saferty. He's insisted that we go with him. The fellow in the jewels isn't happy about that, but McCandless won't go without us. And well done, by the wav.”

Sharpe glanced up into the Lieutenant's eyes. “I'm not going with him, sir, I'm going to fight.”

“Sharpe!” Lawford reproved him.

“There's a bloody great mine, sir!” Sharpe raised his voice angrily. “Just waiting to kill our lads! I ain't letting that happen. You can do what you bloody well like, but I'm going to kill some more of these bastards. You can come with me, sir, or stay with the Colonel, I don't care. You, lad!” This was to one of Kunwar Singh's uncomprehending soldiers. “Give me some cartridges. Come on, hurry!” Sharpe crossed to the man, pulled open his pouch, and helped himself to a handful of cartridges that he shoved into a pocket. Kunwar Singh made no move to stop him. Indeed, everyone in the courtyard seemed to be stunned by the ferocity that had reduced three of the Tippoo's prized
jettis
to dead meat, though the officer commanding the troops on the inner wall did now call down to demand to know what was happening. Kunwar Singh shouted back that they were doing the Tippoo's bidding.

McCandless had overheard Sharpe talking to Lawford. “If I can help, Private “the Colonel said.

“You're weak, sir, begging your pardon, sir. But Mister Lawford will help me.”

Lawford said nothing for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, of course I will.”

“What will you do?” McCandless asked. He spoke to Sharpe, not Lawford.

“Blow the bloody mine, sir, blow it to kingdom come.”

“God bless you, Sharpe. And keep you.”

“Save your prayers for the bloody enemy, sir,” Sharpe said curtly. He rammed a bullet home, then plunged into an alleyway that led southward. He was loose in his enemy's rear, he was angry, and he was ready to give the bastards a taste of hell on earth.

Major General Baird hauled a huge watch from his fob pocket, sprang open the lid, and stared at the hands. One o'clock. On the fourth of May, 1799. A Saturday. A drop of sweat landed on the watch crystal and he carefully wiped it away with a tassel of his red sash. His mother had made the sash. “You'll not let us down, young Davy,” she had said sternly, giving him the strip of tasseled silk and then saying no more as he had walked away to join the army. The sash was over twenty years old now, and it was frayed and threadbare, but Baird reckoned it would last him. He would take it back to Scotland one day.

It would be good, he thought, to go home and see the new century. Maybe the eighteen hundreds would bring a different world, even a better one, but he doubted that the new era would manage to dispense with soldiers. Till time ended, Baird suspected, there would be uses for a man and his sword. He took off his mildewed hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Almost time.

He peered between two sandbags that formed the forward lip of the trench. The South Cauvery rippled prettily between its flat boulders, the paths across its bed marked with the little white flags on their bamboo sticks. In a moment he would launch men across those paths, then through the gap in the glacis and up that mound of stone, brick, mud, and dust. He counted eleven cannonballs stranded on the breach, looking for all the world like plums stuck in a pudding. Three hundred yards of ground to cover, one river to cross, and one plum pudding to climb. He could see men peering from between the city's battered crenellations. Flags flew there. The bastards would have guns mounted crosswise to the breach and perhaps a mine buried in the nibble. God preserve the Forlorn Hopes, he thought, though God was not usually merciful in such matters. If Colonel Gent was right, and there was a massive mine waiting for the attackers, then the Forlorn Hopes would be slaughtered, and then the main attack would have to assault the breach and climb its shoulders to where the enemy was massed on the outer ramparts. So be it. Too late to worry now.