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

‘’Course I bloody lied!’ Sharpe snarled. ‘What kind of a fool admits to having a picklock?’

For a moment Lawford looked as though he would reprove Sharpe for dishonesty, but the Lieutenant controlled the urge. He merely shook his head in mute disapproval, then sat with his back against the bare brick wall. The floor was made of small green tiles on which Sharpe lay on his belly. In minutes he was asleep. Mary sat beside him, sometimes stroking his hair and Lawford found himself embarrassed by her display of affection. He felt he ought to talk with Mary, but found he had nothing to say and so decided it was better not to speak in case he woke Sharpe. He waited. Somewhere deep in the palace a fountain splashed. Once there was a great clatter of hooves as cavalrymen led their horses out from the inner stables, but most of the time it was quiet in the room. It was also blessedly cool.

Sharpe woke after dark. He groaned as the pains in his back registered and Mary hushed him. ‘What time is it, love?’ Sharpe asked her.

‘Late.’

‘Jesus,’ Sharpe said as a stab of agony tore down his spine. He sat up, whimpering with the effort, and tried to prop himself against the wall. A wan moonlight came through the small barred window and Mary, in its dim light, could see the bloodstains spreading through the bandages and onto Sharpe’s shirt. ‘Have they forgotten us?’ Sharpe asked.

‘No,’ Mary said. ‘They brought us some water while you were asleep. Here.’ She lifted the jug towards him. ‘And they gave us a bucket.’ She gestured across the dim cell. ‘For …’ she faltered.

‘I can smell what the bucket’s for,’ Sharpe said. He took the jug and drank. Lawford was slumped against the far wall and there was a small open book face down on the floor beside the sleeping Lieutenant. Sharpe grimaced. ‘Glad the bugger’s brought something useful,’ he said to Mary.

‘You mean this?’ Lawford said, indicating the book. He had not been asleep after all.

Sharpe wished he had not used the insult, but did not know how to retrieve it. ‘What is it?’ he asked instead.

‘A Bible.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Sharpe said.

‘You don’t approve?’ Lawford asked icily.

‘I had a bellyful of the good book when I was in the foundlings’ home,’ Sharpe said. ‘If they weren’t reading it to us they were hitting us round the head with it, and it wasn’t some little book like that one, but a bloody great big thick thing. Could have stunned an ox, that Bible.’

‘Did they teach you to read it?’ Lawford asked.

‘We weren’t reckoned good enough to read. Good enough to pick hemp, we were, but not read. No, they just read it to us at breakfast. It was the same every morning: cold porridge, tin of water and an earful of Abraham and Isaac.’

‘So you can’t read?’ Lawford asked.

‘Of course I can’t read!’ Sharpe laughed scornfully. ‘What the bloody hell’s the use of reading?’

‘Don’t be a fool, Dick,’ Lawford said patiently. ‘Only a fool takes pride in pretending that a skill he doesn’t possess is worthless.’ For a second Lawford was tempted to launch himself on a panegyric of reading; how it would open a new world to Sharpe, a world of drama and story and information and poetry and timeless wisdom, then he thought better of it. ‘You want your sergeant’s stripes, don’t you?’ he asked instead.

‘A man doesn’t have to read to be a sergeant,’ Sharpe said stubbornly.

‘No, but it helps, and you’ll be a better sergeant if you can read. Otherwise the company clerks tell you what the reports say, and what the lists say, and what the punishment book says, and the quartermasters will rob you blind. But if you can read then you’ll know when they’re lying to you.’

There was a long silence. Somewhere in the palace a sentry’s footsteps echoed off stone, then came a sound so familiar that it almost made Lawford weep for homesickness. It was a clock striking the hour. Twelve o’clock. Midnight. ‘Is it hard?’ Sharpe finally asked.

‘Learning to read?’ Lawford said. ‘Not really.’

‘Then you and Mary had better teach me, Bill, hadn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Lawford said. ‘Yes. We had.’

They were taken out of the guardroom in the morning. Four tiger-striped soldiers fetched them and pushed them down the arcade, then into a narrow corridor that seemed to run beside the kitchens, and afterwards through a shadowed tangle of stables and storerooms that led to a double gate which opened into a large courtyard where the bright sun made them blink. Then Sharpe’s eyes adjusted to the brilliant daylight and he saw what waited for them in the courtyard, and he swore. There were six tigers, all of them huge beasts with yellow eyes and dirty teeth. The animals stared at the three newcomers, then one of the tigers rose, arched its back, shook himself, and slowly padded towards them. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Sharpe said, but just then the tiger’s chain lifted from the dusty ground, stretched taut, and the tiger, cheated of its breakfast, growled and went back to the shadows. Another beast scratched itself, a third yawned. ‘Look at the size of the bastards!’ Sharpe said.

‘Just big pussy cats,’ Lawford said with an insouciance he did not entirely feel.

‘Then you go and scratch their chins,’ Sharpe said, ‘and see if they purr. Bugger off, you.’ This was to another curious beast that was straining towards him from the end of its chain. ‘Need a big mouse to feed one of those bastards.’

‘The tigers can’t reach you.’ A voice spoke in English from behind them. ‘Unless their keepers release them from their chains. Good morning.’ Sharpe turned. A tall, middle-aged officer with a black moustache had come into the courtyard. He was a European and wore the blue uniform of France. ‘I am Colonel Gudin,’ the officer said, ‘and you are?’

For a moment none of them spoke, then Lawford straightened to attention. ‘William Lawford, sir.’

‘His name’s Bill,’ Sharpe said. ‘I’m called Dick, and this is my woman.’ He put an arm round Mary’s shoulder.

Gudin grimaced as he looked at Mary’s swollen black eye and her filthy skirts. ‘You have a name’ – he paused – ‘Mademoiselle?’ He finally decided that was the most appropriate way to address Mary.

‘Mary, sir.’ She made a small curtsey and Gudin returned the courtesy with an inclination of his head. ‘And your name?’ he asked Sharpe.

‘Sharpe, sir. Dick Sharpe.’

‘And you are deserters?’ the Colonel asked with a measure of distaste.

‘Yes, sir,’ Lawford said.

‘I am never certain that deserters are to be trusted,’ Gudin said mildly. He was accompanied by a burly French sergeant who kept giving the tigers nervous glances. ‘If a man can betray one flag,’ Gudin observed, ‘why not another?’

‘A man might have good reason to betray his flag, sir,’ Sharpe said defiantly.

‘And your reason, Sharpe?’

Sharpe turned round so that the blood on his back was visible. He let Gudin stare at the stains, then turned back. ‘Is that good enough, sir?’

Gudin shuddered. ‘I never understand why the British flog their soldiers. It is barbarism.’ He waved irritably at the flies which buzzed about his face. ‘Sheer barbarism.’

‘You don’t flog in the French army, sir?’

‘Of course not,’ Gudin said scornfully. He put a hand on Sharpe’s shoulder and turned him around again. ‘When was this done to you?’

‘Couple of days ago, sir.’

‘Have you changed the bandages?’

‘No, sir. Wetted them, though.’

‘You’ll still be dead in a week unless we do something,’ Gudin said, then turned and spoke to the sergeant who walked briskly out of the courtyard. Gudin turned Sharpe around again. ‘So what had you done to deserve such barbarism, Private Sharpe?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘Beyond nothing,’ Gudin said tiredly, as though he had heard every excuse imaginable.

‘I hit a sergeant, sir.’

‘And you?’ Gudin challenged Lawford. ‘Why did you run?’