Sharpe's Fortress Part 20

The tent had been dragged clear of the crates and was burning itself out harmlessly. The green-robed man now had sixteen or seventeen men with him, four of themjettis and all of them armed, while Sharpe had Lockhart and his battered troopers and one defiant child who was reloading a musket as tall as himself.

"I will give you my name," the fat man said unpleasantly, 'when you tell me yours."

"Sharpe. Ensign Sharpe."

"A mere ensign!" The fat man raised his eyebrows.

"I thought ensigns were children, like this young man." He patted the half-naked boy's head.

"I am Naig."

"So perhaps you can tell me," Sharpe said, 'why that tent was stuffed full of our supplies?"

"Your supplies!" Naig laughed.

"They are my goods, Ensign Sharpe.

Perhaps some of them are stored in old boxes that once belonged to your army, but what of that? I buy the boxes from the quartermaster's department."

"Lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Sergeant Lockhart growled. He had prised open the barrel with the number 19 incised on its side and now flourished a horseshoe.

"Ours!" he said.

Naig seemed about to order his guards to finish off Sharpe's small band, but then he glanced to his right and saw that two British officers had come from the larger tent. The presence of the two, both captains, meant that Naig could not just drive Sharpe away, for now there were witnesses. Naig might take on an ensign and a few troopers, but captains carried too much authority. One of the captains, who wore the red coat of the Scotch Brigade, crossed to Sharpe.

"Trouble?" he asked. His revels had plainly been interrupted, for his trousers were still unb.u.t.toned and his sword and sash were slung across one shoulder.

"This b.a.s.t.a.r.d, sir, has been pilfering our supplies." Sharpe jerked his thumb at Naig then nodded towards the crates.

"It's all marked as stolen in the supply ledgers, but I'll wager it's all there. Buckets, muskets, horseshoes."

The Captain glanced at Naig, then crossed to the crates.

"Open that one," he ordered, and Lockhart obediently stooped to the box and levered up its nailed lid with his sabre.

"I have been storing these boxes," Naig explained. He turned to the second captain, an extraordinarily elegant cavalryman in Company uniform, and he pleaded with him in an Indian language. The Company Captain turned away and Naig went back to the Scotsman. The merchant was in trouble now, and he knew it.

"I was asked to store the boxes!" he shouted at the Scotsman.

But the infantry Captain was staring down into the opened crate where ten brand new muskets lay in their wooden cradles. He stooped for one of the muskets and peered at the lock. Just forward of the hammer and behind the pan was an engraved crown with the letters GR beneath it, while behind the hammer the word Tower was engraved.

"Ours," the Scotsman said flatly.

"I bought them." Naig was sweating now.

"I thought you said you were storing them?" the Scotsman said.

"Now you say you bought them. Which is it?"

"My brother and I bought the guns from silladars," Naig said.

"We don't sell these Tower muskets," the Captain said, hefting the gun that was still coated with grease.

Naig shrugged.

"They must have been captured from the supply convoys. Please, sahib, take them. I want no trouble. How was I to know they were stolen?" He turned and pleaded again with the Company cavalry Captain who was a tall, lean man with a long face, but the cavalryman turned and walked a short distance away. A crowd had collected now and watched the drama silently, and Sharpe, looking along their faces, suspected there was not much sympathy for Naig. Nor, Sharpe thought, was there much hope for the fat man. Naig had been playing a dangerous game, but with such utter confidence that he had not even bothered to conceal the stolen supplies. At the very least he could have thrown away the government issue boxes and tried to file the lock markings off the muskets, but Naig must have believed he had powerful friends who would protect him. The cavalryman seemed to be one of those friends, for Naig had followed him and was hissing in his ear, but the cavalryman merely pushed the Indian away, then turned to Sharpe.

"Hang him," he said curtly.

"Hang him?" Sharpe asked in puzzlement.

"It's the penalty for theft, ain't it?" the cavalryman insisted.

Sharpe looked to the Scottish Captain, who nodded uncertainly.

"That's what the General said," the Scotsman confirmed.

"I'd like to know how he got the supplies, sir," Sharpe said.

"You'll give the fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d time to concoct a story?" the cavalryman demanded. He had an arrogance that annoyed Sharpe, but everything about the cavalryman irritated Sharpe. The man was a dandy. He wore tall, spurred boots that sheathed his calves and knees in soft, polished leather. His white breeches were skin tight, his waistcoat had gold b.u.t.tons, while his red tail coat was clean, uncreased and edged with gold braid. He wore a frilled stock, a red silk sash was draped across his right shoulder and secured at his left hip by a knot of golden braid, his sabre was scabbarded in red leather, while his c.o.c.ked hat was plumed with a lavishly curled feather that had been dyed pale green. The clothes had cost a fortune, and clearly his servants must spend hours on keeping their master so beautifully dressed. He looked askance at Sharpe, a slight wrinkle of his nostrils suggesting that he found Sharpe's appearance distressing. The cavalryman's face suggested he was a clever man, but also that he despised those who were less clever than himself.

"I don't suppose Sir Arthur will be vastly pleased when he hears that you let the fellow live, Ensign," he said acidly.

"Swift and certain justice, ain't that the penalty for theft? Hang the fat beast."

"That is what the standing orders say," the Scotch Brigade Captain agreed, 'but does it apply to civilians?"

"He should have a trial!" Sharpe protested, not because he was so committed to Naig's right to a hearing, but because he feared the whole episode was getting out of hand. He had thought to find the supplies, maybe have a mill with Naig's guards, but no one was supposed to die.

Naig deserved a good kicking, but death?

"Standing orders apply to anyone within the picquet lines," the cavalry Captain averred confidently.

"So for G.o.d's sake get on with it!

Dangle the b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" He was sweating, and Sharpe sensed that the elegant cavalryman was not quite so confident as he appeared.

"b.u.g.g.e.r a trial," Sergeant Lockhart said happily.

"I'll hang the b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

He snapped at his troopers to fetch a nearby ox cart. Naig had tried to retreat to the protection of his guards, but the cavalry Captain had drawn a pistol that he now held close to Naig's head as the grinning troopers trundled the empty ox cart into the open s.p.a.ce in front of the pilfered supplies.

Sharpe crossed to the tall cavalryman.

"Shouldn't we talk to him, sir?"

"My dear fellow, have you ever tried to get the truth out of an Indian?" the Captain asked.