Sharpe 3-Book Collection 1: Sharpe’s Tiger, Sharpe’s Triumph, Sharpe’s Fortress. Bernard Cornwell

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СКАЧАТЬ errand, and she had not taken much persuading, but now she was here Sharpe was concerned that he could not protect both her and Lawford. But despite his worries he still felt free. He was, after all, off the army’s leash and he reckoned he could survive so long as Lawford made no mistake, and if Sharpe survived he knew how to prosper. The rules were simple: trust no one, be ever watchful and if trouble came hit first and hit hard. It had worked for him so far.

      Mary too had doubts. She had persuaded herself she was in love with Sharpe, but she sensed a restlessness in him that made her think he might not always be in love with her. Still, she was happier here than back with the army, and that was not just because of Sergeant Hakeswill’s threat but because, although the army was the only life Mary had ever known, she sensed the world could offer her more. She had grown up in Calcutta and, though her mother had been Indian, Mary had never felt at home in either the army or in India. She was neither one thing nor the other. To the army she was a bibbi, while to the Indians she was outside their castes, and she was acceptable to neither. She was a half-breed, suspended in a purgatory of distrust, with only her looks to help her survive, and though the army was the place that provided the friendliest company, it hardly offered a secure future. Ahead of her stretched a succession of husbands, each one succeeding as the previous one was killed in battle or else died of a fever, and when she was too old to attract another man she would be left with her children to fend as best she could. Mary, just like Sharpe, wanted to find some way up and out of that fate, but how she was to do it she did not know, though this expedition at least gave her a chance to break temporarily out of the trap.

      Lawford led them to a slight hill from where, screened by flowering bushes, he scanned the country ahead. He thought he could see a gleam of water to the south and the small glimpse was sufficient to persuade him that it must be the River Cauvery. ‘That way,’ he said, ‘but we’ll have to avoid the villages.’ There were two in sight, both barring the direct path to the river.

      ‘The villagers will see us anyway,’ Mary said. ‘They don’t miss much.’

      ‘We’re not here to trouble them,’ Lawford said, ‘so perhaps they’ll leave us alone?’

      ‘Turn our coats, Bill,’ Sharpe suggested.

      ‘Turn our coats?’

      ‘We’re running, aren’t we? So put your coat on back to front as a sign that you’re on the run.’

      ‘The villagers will hardly realize the significance of that,’ Lawford observed tartly.

      ‘Bugger the villagers,’ Sharpe said. ‘It’s the Tippoo’s bloody men I’m worried about. If those bastards see red coats, they’ll shoot before they ask questions.’ Sharpe had already undone his crossbelts and was shrugging off the wool coat, grunting with the pain that the exertion gave to his back. Lawford, watching, saw that blood had seeped through the thick bandages to stain the dirty shirt.

      Lawford was reluctant to turn his coat. A turned coat was a sign of disgrace. Battalions that had let the army down in battle were sometimes forced to turn their coats as a badge of shame, but once again the Lieutenant saw the wisdom of Sharpe’s argument and so he stripped and turned his coat so that its grey lining was outermost. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t carry the muskets?’ he suggested.

      ‘No deserter would throw away his gun,’ Sharpe answered. He buckled his belt over the turned coat and picked up his gun and pack. He had carried the pack in his hand all night rather than have its weight press on his wounds. ‘Are you ready?’

      ‘In a moment,’ Lawford said, then, to Sharpe’s surprise, the Lieutenant went on one knee and said a silent prayer. ‘I don’t pray often,’ Lawford admitted as he stood, ‘but maybe some help from on high would be providential today.’ For today, Lawford guessed, would be the day they would meet the Tippoo’s patrols.

      They walked south towards the gleam of water. All three were tired, and Sharpe was plainly weakened by the loss of blood, but anticipation gave them all a nervous energy. They skirted the nearest village, watched by cows with pendulous folds of skin hanging beneath their necks, then they walked through groves of cocoa trees as the sun climbed. They saw no one. A deer skittered away from their path in the late morning and an hour later an excited troupe of small monkeys scampered beside them. At midday they rested in the small shade offered by a grove of bamboos, then pressed on again beneath the baking sun. By early afternoon the river was in sight and Lawford suggested they should rest on its bank. Mary’s eye had swollen and blackened, giving her the grotesque look she believed would protect her.

      ‘I could do with a rest now,’ Sharpe admitted. The pain was terrible and every step was now an agony. ‘And I need to wet the bandages.’

      ‘Wet them?’ Lawford asked.

      ‘That’s what that bastard Micklewhite said. Said to keep the bandages damp or else the stripes won’t heal.’

      ‘We’ll wet them at the river,’ Lawford promised.

      But they never reached the river bank. They were walking beside some beech trees when a shout sounded behind them and Sharpe turned to see horsemen coming from the west. They were fine-looking men in tiger-striped tunics and with spiring brass helmets who couched their lances and galloped hard towards the three fugitives. Sharpe’s heart pounded. He stepped ahead of his companions and held up a hand to show they meant no harm, but the leading lancer only grinned in reply and lowered his lance point as he pricked back his spurs.

      Sharpe shook his head and waved, then realized the man intended to skewer the spear into his belly. ‘Bastard!’ Sharpe shouted, and dropped his pack and put both hands on his musket as though it was a quarterstaff. Mary screamed in terror.

      ‘No!’ Lawford shouted at the galloping lancers. ‘No!’

      The lancer thrust his blade at Sharpe who knocked the spear point aside with the muzzle of the gun, then swung the gun fast back so that its butt smacked hard onto the horse’s head. The beast whinnied and reared, throwing its rider backwards. The other lancers laughed, then sawed their reins to swerve past the fallen man. Mary was shouting at them in a language Sharpe did not understand, Lawford was waving his hands desperately, but the lancers bored on in, concentrating on Sharpe who stepped backwards from their wicked-looking spear points. He slashed a second lance aside, then a third man rammed his spurs back and attempted to drive his spear hard into Sharpe’s belly. Sharpe half managed to edge away from the blow and, instead of skewering his stomach, the lance sliced through the skin of his waist, through his coat and into the tree behind him. The lancer left his spear buried in the beech and wheeled his horse away. Sharpe was pinned to the bark, his back a sheet of agony where it was forced against the tree. He tugged at the lance, but his loss of blood had made him far too weak and the weapon would not budge, and then another lancer spurred towards him with his spear point aimed at Sharpe’s eyes. Mary shouted frantically.

      The spear point paused an inch from Sharpe’s left eyeball. The lancer looked at Mary, grimaced at her filthy state, then said something.

      Mary answered.

      The lancer, who was evidently an officer, looked back to Sharpe and seemed to be debating whether to kill or to spare him. Finally he grinned, leaned down and grasped the spear pinning Sharpe to the tree. He dragged it free.

      Sharpe swore foully, then collapsed at the foot of the tree.

      There were a score of horsemen and they all now gathered around the fugitives. Two of them held their razor-sharp lances at Lawford’s neck while the officer spoke to Mary. She answered defiantly, and to Sharpe, who was struggling to stand, it seemed СКАЧАТЬ