Sharpe's Fortress Part 86

Sharpe cuffed tears and blood from his face. Lockhart was grinning at him, and Sharpe forced a smile in return.

"We did it, Eli."

"We b.l.o.o.d.y did." Lockhart held out a hand and Sharpe gripped it.

"Thank you," Sharpe said fervently, then he let go of the cavalryman's hand and kicked Dodd's corpse.

"Look after that body, Eli. It's worth a fortune."

"That's Dodd?"

"That's the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. That corpse is worth seven hundred guineas to you and Clare."

"You and me, sir," Lockhart said. The Sergeant looked as ragged and b.l.o.o.d.y as Sharpe. His blue jacket was torn and bloodstained.

"We'll share the reward," he said, 'you and me, sir."

"No," Sharpe said, 'he's all yours. I just wanted to see the b.a.s.t.a.r.d dead. That's reward enough for me." Blood was pouring from his cheek to add to the gore on his coat. He turned to Garrard who was leaning against the parapet, gasping for air.

"Look after the boy for me, Tom."

Garrard, seeing that Ahmed was dead, frowned in puzzlement.

"I'm going to give him a proper burial," Sharpe explained, then he turned and walked down the wall where exhausted redcoats rested among the dead and dying Cobras, while beneath them, in the pa.s.sage that Campbell had opened, a stream of soldiers poured unopposed into the fort.

"Where are you going?" Garrard shouted after Sharpe.

Sharpe did not answer. He just walked on. He had another enemy to hunt, and an even richer reward to win.

The defenders were hunted down and killed. Even when they tried to surrender, they were killed, for their fortress had resisted and that was the fate of garrisons that showed defiance. Blood-maddened redcoats, fed on arrack and rum, roamed the vast stronghold with bayonets and greed both sharpened. There was little enough loot, but plenty of women, and so the screaming began.

Some defenders, knowing Gawilghur's geography, slipped to those parts of the perimeter where no wall faced outwards and dangerously narrow paths led down the cliffs. They streamed like ants down the rock, going to oblivion. Some hid, knowing that the rage of the attackers would soon enough be exhausted. Those who could not escape or find a hiding place died.

Flies buzzed in the palace where the dead were already stinking in the heat. Officers wandered the rooms, marvelling at their poverty. They had expected to find another mansion like the Tippoo Sultan's palace, a glittering trove of gems, gold, ivory and silk, but the Rajah of Berar had never been rich. Some discovered the cellars and they noted the great armoury, but were more interested in the barrels of cash, though when they saw the coins were all of copper they spat in disgust. A company of sepoys found some silver plate that they cut apart with their bayonets.

Syud Sevajee had found his enemy, his father's murderer, but Beny Singh was already dead and Sevajee could do little more than spit on his corpse.

Beneath the palace, redcoats splashed in the lake, slaking their thirst.

Some had discarded their red jackets, hanging them from the trees, and a ragged man, who had slipped unseen from the palace, stole one of the coats and pulled it on before limping towards the captured gatehouse.

He was a white man, and wore a pair of dirty trousers and a ragged s.h.i.+rt, while a white coat and a black sash were bundled under one arm. His hair was lank, his skin filthy, and his face twitched as he shuffled along the path. No one took any notice of him, for he looked like any other redcoat who had found his small sc.r.a.p of loot, and so Obadiah Hakeswill slunk northwards with a fortune in jewels concealed in his shabby clothes.

He reckoned he had only to get through the gate, and across the Outer Fort, and then he would run. Where? He did not know. Just run. He was rich now, but he would still need to steal a horse. There would be plenty of officers' horses in the camp, and maybe he would be lucky and find a dead man's horse so that the loss would not be noticed for days. Then he would ride southwards. South to Madras, and in Madras he could sell the jewels, buy proper clothes and become a gentleman. Obadiah Hakeswill, Gent. Then he would go home. Home to England. Be a rich gentleman there.

He ignored the redcoats. The b.u.g.g.e.rs had won, and it was not fair.

He could have been a rajah, but at least he was as rich as any rajah, and so he sidled down the dusty path and the gatehouse was not very far away now. An officer was ahead, standing with a drawn claymore beside the snake pit and staring down into its horror, and then he turned and walked towards Hakeswill. The officer was hatless, b.l.o.o.d.y-faced, and Obadiah limped off the track, praying that he would not be noticed. The officer went safely past and Hakeswill breathed a silent prayer of thanks and swerved back to the track. Only a trickle of men came through the gate now, and most of them were too intent on joining the plundering to care about a single man limping the other way. Hakeswill grinned, knowing he would get away. He would be a gentleman.

Then a sword point p.r.i.c.ked his spine and Hakeswill froze.

"I've been looking for you for days, Obadiah," a hated voice said, and Hakeswill turned to look up into Sharpe's face, but the face was half hidden by blood, which was why he had not recognized the officer standing beside the snake pit.

"I was a prisoner," Hakeswill whined, 'a prisoner."

"You're a b.l.o.o.d.y liar."

"For the love of G.o.d, help me." Obadiah pretended not to recognize Sharpe, pretended to be mad. He twitched and moaned, let spittle dribble from his mouth and twisted his hands in submission.

"Locked me up," he said, 'the heathen b.a.s.t.a.r.ds locked me up. Ain't seen daylight in days."

Sharpe leaned forward and s.n.a.t.c.hed the coat that was bundled under Hakeswill's arm. Hakeswill stiffened, and Sharpe smiled as he saw the flash of anger in the Sergeant's eyes.

"Want the coat back, Obadiah? So fight me for it."

"I was a prisoner," Hakeswill insisted, no longer moaning like a mad thing.

Sharpe shook the coat open.

"So why's the jacket white, Obadiah?

You're a bleeding liar." He felt the coat's pockets, felt the hard lumps and knew his jewels were safe again. Hakeswill's eyes glinted with a terrible and frustrated rage.

"Go on, Obadiah," Sharpe said, 'fight me."

"I was a prisoner," Hakeswill said, and he glanced to his right, hoping he could make a run for it, for though he might have lost the jewels in the coat, he had others in his trousers. And Sharpe, he now saw, had a wound in the hip. Perhaps Sharpe could not run. So run now, he told himself, and then the flat of the claymore's blade struck him hard across the scalp. He yelped, then went still as the sword point p.r.i.c.ked at his throat.

"You sold me to Jama, didn't you?" Sharpe said.

"But that was a mistake, Obadiah, because I beat his jet tis into pulp. I'll do that to you now. But take your clothes off first."

"You can't do this to me!" Hakeswill shouted, hoping to attract attention. His face twitched.

"You can't do this!

"Gainst regulations, it is!"

"Strip, Obadiah," Sharpe said.

"There are rules! Regulations! Says so in the scriptures!"

The claymore's point jabbed at Hakes wilTs throat, drawing blood from the scar that had been left when they had tried to hang the young Obadiah. The pain quietened the Sergeant, and Sharpe smiled.

"I half beat Captain Morris to death, Sergeant, so do you think it worries me that there are rules which say I mustn't touch you? Now you've got a choice. You can strip naked, or you can let me strip your corpse naked. I don't care which it is. I don't care if they b.l.o.o.d.y hang me for your murder. It'd be worth it. So shut the h.e.l.l up, and get your b.l.o.o.d.y clothes off."

Hakeswill looked for help, but there was none in sight, and the sword point twisted in his broken skin and he gabbled that he was undressing himself, and he scrabbled at the rope belt on his trousers, and tore the b.u.t.tons out of his s.h.i.+rt.

"Don't kill me!" he shouted.