Sharpe's Fortress Part 8

"Stand back!" The Mahrattas grinned, but did not move.

Sharpe could take the single bullet, then they would tear the boy into sabre-shredded sc.r.a.ps of meat.

The boy took a step towards Sharpe.

"Don't be a b.l.o.o.d.y fool, lad," Sharpe said. The boy obviously did not speak English, but Sharpe's tone was soothing. It made no difference. The lad's hand was shaking and he looked frightened, but defiance had been bred into his bone. He knew he would die, but he would take an enemy soul with him and so he nerved himself to die well. Tut the gun down," Sharpe said softly.

He was wishing he had not intervened now. The kid was just distraught enough and mad enough to fire, and Sharpe knew he could do nothing about it except run away and thus expose himself to the jeers of the Mahrattas. He was close enough now to see the scratches on the pistol's blackened muzzle where the rammer had sc.r.a.ped the metal.

"Don't be a b.l.o.o.d.y fool, boy," he said again. Still the boy pointed the pistol. Sharpe knew he should turn and run, but instead he took another pace forward. Just one more and he reckoned he would be close enough to swat the gun aside.

Then the boy shouted something in Arabic, something about Allah, and pulled the trigger.

The hammer did not move. The boy looked startled, then pulled the trigger again.

Sharpe began laughing. The expression of woe on the child's face was so sudden, and so unfeigned, that Sharpe could only laugh. The boy looked as if he was about to cry.

The Mahratta behind the boy swung his tulwar. He reckoned he could slice clean through the boy's grubby headdress and decapitate him, but Sharpe had taken the extra step and now seized the boy's hand and tugged him into his belly. The sword hissed an inch behind the boy's neck.

"I said to leave him alone!" Sharpe said.

"Or do you want to fight me instead?"

"None of us," a calm voice said behind Sharpe, 'wants to fight Ensign Sharpe."

Sharpe turned. One of the hors.e.m.e.n was still mounted, and it was this man who had spoken. He was dressed in a tattered European uniform jacket of green cloth hung with small silver chains, and he ! l had a lean scarred face with a nose as hooked as Sir Arthur Wellesley's.

He now grinned down at Sharpe.

"Syud Sevajee," Sharpe said.

"I never did congratulate you on your promotion," Sevajee said, and leaned down to offer Sharpe his hand.

Sharpe shook it.

"It was McCandless's doing," he said.

"No," Sevajee disagreed, 'it was yours." Sevajee, who led this band of hors.e.m.e.n, waved his men away from Sharpe, then looked down at the boy who struggled in Sharpe's grip.

"You really want to save that little wretch's life?"

"Why not?"

"A tiger cub plays like a kitten," Sevajee said, 'but it still grows into a tiger and one day it eats you."

"This one's no kitten," Sharpe said, thumping the boy on the ear to stop his struggles.

Sevajee spoke in quick Arabic and the boy went quiet.

"I told him you saved his life," Sevajee explained to Sharpe, 'and that he is now beholden to you." Sevajee spoke to the boy again who, after a shy look at Sharpe, answered.

"His name's Ahmed," Sevajee said, 'and I told him you were a great English lord who commands the lives and deaths of a thousand men."

"You told him what?"

"I told him you'd beat him b.l.o.o.d.y if he disobeys you," Sevajee said, looking at his men who, denied their entertainment, had gone back to looting the dead.

"You like being an officer?" he asked Sharpe.

"I hate it."

Sevajee smiled, revealing red-stained teeth.

"McCandless thought you would, but didn't know how to curb your ambition." Sevajee slid down from his saddle.

"I am sorry McCandless died," the Indian said.

"Me too."

"You know who killed him?"

"I reckon it was Dodd."

Sevajee nodded.

"Me too." Syud Sevajee was a high-born Mahratta, the eldest son of one of the Rajah of Berar's warlords, but a rival in the Rajah's service had murdered his father, and Sevajee had been seeking revenge ever since. If that revenge meant marching with the enemy British, then that was a small price to pay for family pride. Seva^e had ridden with Colonel McCandless when the Scotsman had pursued Dodd, and thus he had met Sharpe.

"Beny Singh was not with the enemy today," he told Sharpe.

Sharpe had to think for a few seconds before remembering that Beny Singh was the man who had poisoned Sevajee's father.

"How do you know?"

"His banner wasn't among the Mahratta flags. Today we faced Manu Bappoo, the Rajah's brother. He's a better man than the Rajah, but he refuses to take the throne for himself. He's also a better soldier than the rest, but not good enough, it seems. Dodd was there."

"He was?"

"He got away." Sevajee turned and gazed northwards.

"And I know where they're going."

"Where?"

"To Gawilghur," Sevajee said softly, 'to the sky fort."

"Gawilghur?"

"I grew up there." Sevajee spoke softly, still gazing at the hazed northern horizon.