'No, sir. Cured, sir. Thanks to your worship's skill, sir. Clean as a whistle I am, sir.'swore as the knot in the damned stock loosened. He did not like Hakeswill, but like everyone else in the regiment he feared him. There was a wildness in the back of Hakeswill's childlike eyes that spoke of terrible mischief, and, though the Sergeant was always punctilious in his dealings with officers, Micklewhite still felt obscurely threatened. 'So what do you want, Sergeant?'
'Major Shee asked me to say a word, sir.'
'Couldn't speak to me himself?'
'You know the Major, sir. No doubt he's thirsty. A hot day.' Hakeswill's face quivered in a series of tremors. 'It's about the prisoner, sir.'
'What about him?'
'Troublemaker, sir. Known for it. A thief, a liar and a cheat.'
'So he's a redcoat. So?'
'So Major Shee ain't keen to see him back among the living, sir, if you follow my meaning. Is this what I owe you for the mercury, sir?' Hakeswill held up a gold coin, a haideri, which was worth around two shillings and sixpence. The coin was certainly not payment for the cure of his pox, for that cost had already been deducted from the Sergeant's pay, so Micklewhite knew it was a bribe. Not a great bribe, but half a crown could still go a long way. Micklewhite glanced at it, then nodded. 'Put it on the table, Sergeant.'
'Thank you, sir.'tugged the silk stock tight, then waved Hakeswill off. He pulled on his coat and pocketed the gold coin. The bribe had not been necessary, for Micklewhite's opposition to the coddling of flogging victims was well enough known in the battalion. Micklewhite hated caring for men who had been flogged, for in his experience they almost always died, and if he did stop a punishment then the recovering victim only cluttered up his sick cots. And if, by some miracle, the man was restored to health, it was only so he could be strapped to the triangle to be given the rest of his punishment and that second dose almost always proved fatal and so, all things considered, it was more prudent to let a man die at the first flogging. It saved money on medicine and, in Micklewhite's view, it was kinder too. Micklewhite buttoned his coat and wondered just why Sergeant Hakeswill wanted this particular man dead. Not that Micklewhite really cared, he just wanted the bloody business over and done.33rd paraded under the afternoon's burning sun. Four companies faced the tripod, while three were arrayed at either side so that the battalion's ten companies formed a hollow oblong with the tripod standing in the one empty long side. The officers sat on their horses in front of their companies while Major Shee, his aides and the adjutant stood their horses just behind the tripod. Mister Micklewhite, his head protected from the sun by a wide straw hat, stood to one side of the triangle. Major Shee, fortified by arrack and satisfied that everything was in proper order, nodded to Bywaters. 'You will begin punishment, Sergeant Major.'
'Sir!' Bywaters acknowledged, then turned and bellowed for the prisoner to be fetched. The two drummer boys stood nervously with their whips in hand. They alone of the parading soldiers were in shirtsleeves, while everyone else was in full wool uniform. Women and children peered between the company intervals. Mary Bickerstaff was not there. Hakeswill had looked for her, wanting to enjoy her horror, but Mary had stayed away. The women who had come for the spectacle, like their men, were silent and sullen. Sharpe was a popular man, and Hakeswill knew that everyone here was hating him for engineering this flogging, but Obadiah Hakeswill had never been concerned by such enmity. Power did not lie in being liked, but in being feared.was brought to the triangle. He was bareheaded and already stripped to the waist. The skin of his chest and back were as white as his powdered hair and contrasted oddly with his darkly tanned face. He walked steadily, for though he had the best part of a pint of rum in his belly, the liquor had not seemed to have the slightest effect. He did not look at either Hakeswill or Morris as he walked to the tripod.
'Arms up, lad,' the Sergeant Major said quietly. 'Stand against the triangle. Feet apart. There's a good lad.'obediently stepped up to the triangular face of the tripod. Two corporals knelt at his feet and lashed his ankles to the halberds, then stood and pushed his arms over the crosswise halberd. They pulled his hands down and tied them to the uprights, thus forcing his naked back up and outwards. That way he could not sag between the triangle and so hope to exhaust some of the blows on the halberd staffs. The corporals finished their knots, then stepped back.Sergeant Major went to the back of the triangle and brought from his pouch a folded piece of leather that was deeply marked by tooth prints. 'Open your mouth, lad,' he said softly. He smelt the rum on the prisoner's breath and hoped it would help him survive, then he pushed the leather between Sharpe's teeth. The gag served a double purpose. It would stifle any cries the victim might make and would stop him biting off his tongue. 'Be brave, boy,' Bywaters said quietly. 'Don't let the regiment down.'nodded.stepped smartly back and came to attention. 'Prisoner ready for punishment, sir!' he called to Major Shee.Major looked to the surgeon. 'Is the prisoner fit for punishment, Mister 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.'third drummer boy was standing behind the floggers. He lifted his sticks, paused, then brought the first stick down.boy to the right brought his whip hard down on Sharpe's back.
'One!' Bywaters shouted.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.'s face twitched uncontrollably, but he was smiling under the rictus. For the drumbeat of death had begun.McCandless stood alone in the centre 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 cocked hat 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 towards 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.courtyard was covered with sand, its lower walls were of dressed stone, but above the stone the palace's second storey was a riot of stuccoed teak that had been painted red, white, green and yellow. That decorated second storey 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 tigers' 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.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 sceptical.shrugged. 'Their horses are thin.'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 ho 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.'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?'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.'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 rumours, 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 centre 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.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, and 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.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 northwards 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.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 slaughter-yard 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.walked past the throne to stare at his favourite tiger. This one was a life-size 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.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.'Tippoo shrugged at the distinction. 'Whatever his tribe, he is an old man, but is that reason to show him mercy?'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 towards Mecca, he made his daily obeisances., 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.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.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.drummer boys' arms were tiring, but they still knew better than to slacken their efforts for Sergeant Hakeswill was watching and savouring 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.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 the 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.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.waved a fly away from his face and stared up at a small cloud that was drifting northwards. Must be some wind up there, he thought, and it was a pity that there 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.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.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.
'Yes, sir.' Shee was nervous, wondering if he had made some terrible mistake. 'At once, sir,' he added, though he gave no orders.
'I dislike stopping a well-deserved punishment,' Wellesley said loudly enough for all the nearby officers to hear, 'but Private Sharpe is to be taken to General Harris's tent as soon as he's recovered.'
'General Harris, sir?' Major Shee asked in astonishment. General Harris was the commander of this expedition against the Tippoo, and what possible business could the commanding General have with a half-flogged private? 'Yes, sir, of course, sir,' Shee added quickly when he saw that his query had annoyed Wellesley. 'At once, sir.'
'Then do it!' Wellesley snapped. The Colonel was a thin young man with a narrow face, hard eyes and a prominently beaked nose. Many older men resented that the twenty-nine-year-old Wellesley was already a full colonel, but he came from a wealthy and titled family and his elder brother, the Earl of Mornington, was Governor-General of the East India Company's British possessions in India, so it was hardly surprising that the young Arthur Wellesley had risen so high so fast. Any officer given the money to buy promotion and lucky enough to possess relations who could put him in the way of advancement was bound to rise, but even the less fortunate men who resented Wellesley's privileges were forced to admit that the young Colonel had a natural and chilling authority, and maybe, some thought, even a talent for soldiering. He was certainly dedicated enough to his chosen trade if that was any sign of talent.nudged his horse forward and stared down as the prisoner's bonds were cut loose. 'Private Sharpe?' He spoke with utter disdain, as though he dirtied himself by even addressing Sharpe.looked up, blinked, then made a guttural noise. Bywaters ran forward and worked the gag out of Sharpe's mouth. Freeing the pad took some manipulation, for Sharpe had sunk his teeth deep into the folded leather. 'Good lad now,' Bywaters said softly, 'good lad. Didn't cry, did you? Proud of you, lad.' The Sergeant Major at last managed to work the gag free and Sharpe tried to spit.
'Private Sharpe?' Wellesley's disdainful voice repeated.forced his head up. 'Sir?' The word came out as a croak. 'Sir,' he tried again and this time it sounded like a moan.'s face twitched with distaste for what he was doing. 'You're to be fetched to General Harris's tent. Do you understand me, Sharpe?'blinked up at Wellesley. His head was spinning and the pain in his body was vying with disbelief at what he heard and with rage against the army.
'You heard the Colonel, boy,' Bywaters prompted Sharpe.
'Yes, sir,' Sharpe managed to answer Wellesley.turned to Micklewhite. 'Bandage him, Mister Micklewhite. Put a salve on his back, whatever you think best. I want him compos mentis within the hour. You understand me?'
'Within an hour!' the surgeon said in disbelief, then saw the anger on his young Colonel's face. 'Yes, sir,' he said swiftly, 'within an hour, sir.'
'And give him clean clothes,' Wellesley ordered the Sergeant Major before giving Sharpe one last withering look and spurring his horse away.last of the ropes holding Sharpe to the tripod were cut away. Shee and the officers watched, all of them wondering just what extraordinary business had caused a summons to General Harris's tent. No one spoke as the Sergeant Major plucked away the last strands of rope from Sharpe's right wrist, then offered his own hand. 'Here, lad. Hold onto me. Gently now.'shook his head. 'I'm all right, Sergeant Major,' he said. He was not, but he would be damned before he showed weakness in front of his comrades, and double damned before he showed it in front of Sergeant Hakeswill who had watched aghast as his victim was cut down from the triangle. 'I'm all right,' Sharpe insisted and he slowly pushed himself away from the tripod, then, tottering slightly, turned and took three steps.cheer sounded in the Light Company.
'Quiet!' Captain Morris snapped. 'Take names, Sergeant Hakeswill!'
'Take names, sir! Yes, sir!'staggered twice and almost fell, but he forced himself to stand upright and then to take some steady steps towards the surgeon. 'Reporting for bandaging, sir,' he croaked. Blood had soaked his trousers, his back was carnage, but he had recovered most of his wits and the look he gave the surgeon almost made Micklewhite flinch because of its savagery.
'Come with me, Private,' Micklewhite said.
'Help him! Help him!' Bywaters snapped at the drummer boys and the two sweating lads dropped their whips and hurried to support Sharpe's elbows. He had managed to remain upright, but Bywaters had seen him swaying and feared he was about to collapse.half walked and was half carried away. Major Shee took off his hat, scratched his greying hair, and then, unsure what he should do, looked down at Bywaters. 'It seems we have no more business today, Sergeant Major.'
'No, sir.'paused. It was all so irregular.
'Dismiss the battalion, sir?' Bywaters suggested.nodded, glad to have been given some guidance. 'Dismiss them, Sergeant Major.'
'Yes, sir.'had survived.4seemed airless inside General Harris's tent. It was a large tent, as big as a parish marquee, and though both its wide entrances had been brailed back there was no wind to stir the damp air trapped under the high ridge. The light inside the big tent was yellowed by the canvas to the colour of urine and gave the grass underfoot a dank unhealthy look.men waited inside the tent. The youngest and most nervous was William Lawford who, because he was a mere lieutenant and by far the most junior officer present, was sitting far off to one side on a gilt chair of such spindly and fragile construction it seemed a miracle that it had survived its transport on the army's wagons. Lawford scarcely dared move lest he draw attention to himself, and so he sat awkward and uncomfortable as the sweat trickled down his face and dripped onto the crown of his cocked hat which rested on his thighs.Lawford, and utterly ignoring the younger man, sat his Colonel, Arthur Wellesley. The Colonel made small talk, but gruffly, as though he resented being forced to wait. Once or twice he pulled a watch from his fob pocket, snapped open the lid, glared at the revealed face, then restored the watch to his pocket without making a comment.Harris, the army's commander, sat behind a long table that was spread with maps. The commander of the allied armies was a trim, middle-aged man who possessed an uncommon measure of common sense and a great deal of practical ability, and both were qualities he recognized in his younger deputy, Colonel Wellesley. George Harris was an affable man, but now, waiting in the tent's yellow gloom, he seemed distracted. He stared at the maps, he wiped the sweat from his face with a big blue handkerchief, but he rarely looked up to acknowledge the stilted conversation. Harris was uneasy for, like Wellesley, he did not really approve of what they were about to do. It was not so much the irregularity of the action that concerned the two men, for neither was hidebound, but rather because they suspected that the proposed operation would fail and that two good men, or rather one good man and one bad, would be lost.fourth man in the tent refused to sit, but instead strode up and down between the tables and the scatter of flimsy chairs. It was this man who kept alive what little conversation managed to survive the tent's stiff, damp and airless atmosphere. He jollied his companions, he encouraged them, he tried to amuse them, though every now and then his efforts would fail and then he would stride to one of the tent doorways and stoop to peer out. 'Can't be long now,' he would say each time and then begin his pacing again. His name was Major General David Baird and he was the senior and older of General Harris's two deputy commanders. Unlike his colleagues he had discarded his uniform coat and waistcoat, stripping down to a dirty, much-darned shirt and letting the braces of his breeches hang down to his knees. His dark hair was damp and tousled, while his broad face was so tanned that, to Lawford's nervous gaze, Baird looked more like a labourer than a general. The resemblance was even more acute because there was nothing delicate or refined about David Baird's appearance. He was a huge Scotsman, tall as a giant, broad-shouldered and muscled like a coal-heaver. It had been Baird who had persuaded his two colleagues to act, or rather he had persuaded General Harris to act much against that officer's better judgement, and Baird frankly did not give a tinker's damn whether Colonel Arthur bloody Wellesley approved or not. Baird disliked Wellesley, and bitterly resented the fact that the younger man had been made into his fellow second-in-command. Baird, never a man to let his grudges simmer unspoken, had protested Arthur Wellesley's appointment to Harris. 'If his brother wasn't Governor-General, Harris, you'd never have promoted him.'
Дата добавления: 2015-11-04; просмотров: 28 | Нарушение авторских прав
| <== предыдущая лекция | | | следующая лекция ==> |