Sharpe's Fortress (19 page)

“They should, they should. A battalion of skirmishers in these hills could keep us at
bay for a month! Well, I never, Sharpe! An ensign!”

The Major turned back to Pinckney.

“Sharpe and I ran the armoury at Seringapatam for four years.”

“You ran it, sir,” Sharpe said.

“I was just your sergeant.”

“Best sergeant I ever had,” Stokes told Pinckney enthusiastically.

“And it's not ”sir“' he turned to Sharpe 'but John.” He grinned at Sharpe.

“They were four good years, eh? Best we'll ever have, I daresay. And here you are now, an
officer! My dear fellow, I couldn't be more overjoyed.” He sniffed the air.

“Been blowing things up, Pinckney?”

“Cutting through that ridge, sir. I trust you don't mind that we didn't wait for you?”

“Mind? Why should I mind? You go ahead, dear fellow. I'm sure you know your business
better than I do. God knows why they need an engineer here at all! Probably to be
decorative, eh? Still, I'll make myself useful. I thought I might map the escarpment.
Hasn't been done, you see. Of course, Pinckney, if you need advice, just ask away, but I'll
probably be at sixes and sevens groping for an answer.” He beamed at the delighted
Pinckney, then looked at the rough country through which the road led.

“This is fine landscape, isn't it? Such a relief after the plains. It reminds me of
Scotland.”

“There are tigers here, Major,” Sharpe said.

“And there's all kinds of fierce things in Scotland too, Sharpe. I was once posted to Fort
William and might as well have been in darkest China! It was worse than Newfoundland. And
speaking of America, Sharpe, that young lady you sent me has travelled there.
Extraordinary thing to do, I thought, and I advised her to abandon the whole wretched
idea. There are bears, I told her, fierce bears, but she wouldn't be persuaded.”

“Simone, sir?” Sharpe asked, at first not believing his ears, then feeling a dreadful
premonition.

“A charming creature, I thought. And to be widowed so young!”

Stokes tutted and shook his head.

“She went to a fortune teller, one of those naked fellows who make funny faces in the
alley by the Hindu temple, and says she was advised to go to a new world. Whatever next,
eh?”

“I thought she was waiting for me, sir,” Sharpe said.

"Waiting for you? Good Lord, no. Gone to Louisiana, she says. She stayed in my house for a
week I moved out, of course, to stop any scandal and then she travelled to Madras with Mrs.
Pennington.

Remember Charlotte Pennington? The clergyman's widow? I can't think the two of them
will get along, but your friend said the fortune teller was adamant and so she chose to go."
The Major was eager to give Sharpe the rest of the news from Seringapatam. The armoury was
closing down, he said, now that the frontier of the British-held territory was so much
farther north, but Stokes had kept himself busy dismantling the town's inner
fortifications.

“Very ill made, Sharpe, disgraceful work, quite disgraceful. Walls crumbled to the
touch.”

But Sharpe was not listening. He was thinking of Simone. She had gone! By now she was
probably in Madras, and maybe already on board a ship. And she had taken his jewels. Only
a few of them, true, but enough. He touched the seam of his jacket where a good many of the
Tippoo's other jewels were hidden.

“Did Madame Joubert leave any message?” he asked Stokes when the Major paused to draw
breath. What did he hope, Sharpe wondered, that Simone would want him to join her in
America?

“A message? None, Sharpe. Too busy to write, I daresay. She's a remarkably wealthy
woman, did you know? She bought half the raw silk in town, hired a score of bearers and off
she went. Every officer in town was leaving a card for her, but she didn't have the time of
day for any of them. Off to Louisiana!” Stokes suddenly frowned.

“What is the matter, Sharpe? You look as if you've seen a ghost. You're not sickening,
are you?”

“No, no. It's just I thought she might have written.”

“Oh! I see! You were sweet on her!” Stokes shook his head.

“I feel for you, Sharpe, 'pon my soul, I do, but what hope could you have? A woman with her
sort of fortune doesn't look at fellows like us! ”Pon my soul, no. She's rich! She'll marry
high, Sharpe, or as high as a woman can in French America."

Her sort of fortune indeed! Simone had no fortune, she had been penniless when Sharpe
met her, but he had trusted her. God damn the Frog bitch! Stolen a small fortune.

“It doesn't matter,” he told Stokes, but somehow it did. Simone's betrayal was like a
stab to the belly. It was not so much the jewels, for he had kept the greater part of the
plunder, but the broken promises. He felt anger and pity and, above all, a fool. A great
fool. He turned away from Stokes and stared down the track to where a dozen oxen escorted by
two companies of sepoys were trudging towards him.

“I've got work coming,” he said, not wanting to discuss Simone any further.

“I passed those fellows on my way,” Stokes said, 'carrying powder, I think. I do like
blowing things up. So just what do you do here, Sharpe?"

“I keep the pioneers supplied with material, sir, and sign in all the convoys.”

“Hope it leaves you time to help me, Sharpe. You and me together again, eh? It'll be like
the old days.”

“That'd be good, sir,” Sharpe said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, then he
walked down the track and pointed to where the ox-drivers should drop their barrels of
gunpowder. The men crowded about him with their chitties and he pulled out a pencil and
scrawled his initials in the corner of each one, thus confirming that they had completed
and were owed for one journey.

The last man also handed Sharpe a sealed paper with his name written in a fine
copperplate hand.

“From the clerk, sahib,” the man said, the phrase plainly much practised for he spoke no
other English.

Sharpe tore the seal off as he walked back up the hill. The letter was not from the clerk
at all, but from Torrance.

“Bloody hell!” he cursed.

“What is it?” Stokes asked.

“A man called Torrance,” Sharpe complained.

“He's in charge of the bullocks. He wants me back at Deogaum because he reckons there
are forged chitties in the camp.”

“In the far south of India,” Stokes said, 'they call them shits."

Sharpe blinked at the Major.

“Sorry, sir?”

“You mustn't call me ”sir“, Sharpe. ”Pon my soul, yes. I had a Tamil servant who was
forever asking me to sign his shits. Had me all in a dither at first, I can tell you."

Sharpe crumpled Torrance's note into a ball.

“Why the hell can't Torrance sort out his own shits?” he asked angrily. But he knew
why.

Torrance was scared of another meeting with Wellesley, which meant the Captain would
now follow the rules to the letter.

“It won't take long,” Stokes said, 'not if you take my horse. But keep her to a steady walk,
Richard, because she's tired. And have her rubbed down and watered while you're sorting out
the shits."

Sharpe was touched by Stokes's generosity.

“Are you sure?”

“What are friends for? Go on, Richard! On horseback you'll be home for supper. I'll have
my cook brew up one of those mussallas you like so much.”

Sharpe left his pack with Stokes's baggage. The big ruby and a score of other stones were
in the pack, and Sharpe was half tempted to carry it to Deogaum and back, but if he could
not trust Stokes, who could he trust? He tried to persuade Ahmed to stay behind and keep an
eye on the baggage, but the boy refused to be parted from Sharpe and insisted on trotting
along behind the horse.

“Stokes won't hurt you,” Sharpe told Ahmed.

“I'm your havildar,” Ahmed insisted, hefting his musket and peering about the
deserted landscape for enemies. There was none in sight, but Ahmed's gesture reminded
Sharpe of Elliott's death and he wondered if he should have waited for the ox convoy to
return to Deogaum, for the convoys all had escorts of sepoys or mercenary horsemen. He
was tempted to kick the horse into a trot, but he resisted the impulse.

The danger was more acutC once he reached the lower hills, for Mahratta horsemen were
forever probing the perimeter of the British camp and being chased away by cavalry
patrols. Twice he saw horsemen in the distance, but neither group took any notice of
Sharpe who was ready to haul Ahmed up onto the horse and then ride for his life if he was
threatened. He did not relax until he met a patrol of Madrassi cavalry under the
command of a Company lieutenant who escorted him safely to the encampment.

Deogaum was now surrounded by a great spread of tents and make shift booths, homes to
soldiers and camp followers. A dancing bear was performing for a crowd of infantrymen
and the animal reminded Sharpe of Major Stokes's words about America. Simone! It was his
own damn fault. He should never have trusted the woman. The thought of his own foolishness
plunged Sharpe into a black mood that was not helped by the sight of two redcoat privates
lounging on a bench outside Torrance's quarters. Neither man moved as Sharpe slid from the
horse.

He gave the reins to Ahmed and mimed that the boy should rub the grey mare down with straw
and then water her.

The two redcoats shifted slightly as if acknowledging Sharpe's presence, but neither
man stood. He knew both of them; indeed, not so very long ago he had marched in the same ranks
as these two men whose coats had the red facings of the 33rd. Kendrick and Lowry, they were
called, and two worse characters it would have been hard to find in any light company. Both
were cronies of Hakeswill's, and both had been among the small party Hakeswill had brought
north in his failed attempt to arrest Sharpe.

“On your feet,” Sharpe said.

Kendrick glanced at Lowry, who looked back at Kendrick, and the two made faces at each
other as though they were surprised by Sharpe's demands. They hesitated just long enough
to make their insolence plain, but not quite long enough to make it punishable, then stood
to attention.

“Is that your 'orse, Mister Sharpe?” Kendrick asked, stressing the 'mister'.

Sharpe ignored the question and pushed into the house to find a new clerk sitting
behind the table. He was a young, good-looking Indian with oiled hair and a very white
robe. He wore an apron to protect the robe from ink spots.

“You have business, sahib?” he asked brusquely.

“With Captain Torrance.”

“The Captain is ill.” The Indian, whose English was very good, smiled.

“He's always bloody ill,” Sharpe said and walked past the protesting clerk to push open
the inner door.

Torrance was in his hammock, smoking his hookah, and dressed in an Indian gown
embroidered with dragons while Sergeant Hakeswill was sitting at a small table counting a
pile of coins.

“Sharpe!” Torrance sounded surprised. Hakeswill, looking equally surprised, sullenly
stood to attention.

“Wasn't expecting you till this evening,” Torrance said.

“I'm here,” Sharpe said unnecessarily.

“So it is apparent. Unless you're a spectre?”

Sharpe had no time for small talk.

"You've got a problem with chitties he asked abruptly.

“Tiresome, isn't it?” Torrance seemed uncomfortable.

“Very tiresome. Sergeant, you have business elsewhere?”

“I've got duties, sir!” Hakeswill snapped.

“Attend to them, dear fellow.”

“Sir!” Hakeswill stiffened, turned to the right, then marched from the room.

“So how are you, Sharpe? Keeping busy?” Torrance had swung himself off the hammock and
now scooped the coins into a leather bag.

“I hear poor Elliott died?”

“Shot, sir.”

Torrance shuddered as if the news was personal.

“So very sad,” he sighed, then retied the belt of his elaborate gown.

“I never did thank you, Sharpe, for being so supportive with Sir Arthur.”

Sharpe had not thought he had been supportive at all.

“I just told the truth, sir.”

“My father would be proud of you, and I'm deeply grateful to you. It seems Dilip was in
league with Naig.”

“He was?”

Torrance heard the disbelief in Sharpe's voice.

“No other explanation, is there?” he said curtly.

“Someone must have been telling Naig which convoys carried the vital supplies, and it
had to be Dilip. I must say I thought Wellesley was damned obtuse! There really is no point
in having scruples about hanging natives. There isn't exactly a shortage of them, is
there?” He smiled.

"There's something wrong with the chitties Sharpe demanded rudely.

“So there is, Sharpe, so there is. Our new clerk discovered the discrepancies. He's a
smart young fellow. Sajit!”

The young clerk came into the room, clasped his hands and offered Torrance a slight
bow.

“Sahib?”

“This is Ensign Sharpe, Sajit. He's by way of being my deputy and thus as much your sahib
as I am.”

Sajit offered Sharpe a bow.

“I am honoured, sahib.”

“Perhaps you could show Mister Sharpe the problematical chitties Sajit?” Torrance
suggested.

Sajit went back to the outer room and returned a moment later with a pile of the grubby
paper slips. He placed them on the table, then invited Sharpe to inspect them. All the
chitties had Sharpe's initials in the bottom right-hand corner, most of them in pencil,
but some had been initialled in ink and Sharpe set those aside.

“I didn't sign any of those,” he said confidently.

“I don't have a pen and ink.”

“You were right, Sajit!” Torrance said.

“You honour me, sahib,” Sajit said.

“And every chitty is a stolen anna,” Torrance said, 'so we have to discover which
bullock men gave us the false ones. That's the problem, Sharpe."

“They've got names on them,” Sharpe said, pointing at the slips of paper.

“You hardly needed to drag me down here to tell you who they were issued to!”