to the beat of drums and the blare of trumpets. The Tippoo’s guns were still firing, but they had turned their barrels away from the 33rd for fear of hitting their own infantry and were instead aiming at the six Indian regiments that were hurrying to close the gap between themselves and the 33rd.
‘Draw ramrod!’ Hakeswill shouted and Sharpe tugged the ramrod free of the three brass pipes that held it under the musket’s thirty-nine-inch barrel. His mouth was salty with the taste of gunpowder. He was still nervous, not because the enemy was tramping ever closer, but because he had a sudden idiotic idea that he might have forgotten how to load a musket. He twisted the ramrod in the air, then placed the ramrod’s flared tip into the barrel.
‘Ram cartridge!’ Hakeswill snapped. Seventy-six men thrust down, forcing the ball, wadding and powder charge to the bottom of the barrels.
‘Return ramrod!’ Sharpe tugged the ramrod up, listening to it scrape against the barrel, then twirled it about so that its narrow end would slide down into the brass pipes. He let it drop into place.
‘Order arms!’ Captain Morris called and the Light Company, now with loaded muskets, stood to attention with their guns held against their right sides. The enemy was still too far off for a musket to be either accurate or lethal and the long, two-deep line of seven hundred redcoats would wait until their opening volley could do real damage.
‘’Talion!’ Sergeant Major Bywaters’s voice called from the centre of the line. ‘Fix bayonets!’
Sharpe dragged the seventeen-inch blade from its sheath which hung behind his right hip. He slotted the blade over the musket’s muzzle, then locked it in place by twisting its slot onto the lug. Now no enemy could pull the bayonet off the musket. Having the blade mounted made reloading the musket far more difficult, but Sharpe guessed that Colonel Wellesley had decided to shoot one volley and then charge. ‘Going to be a right mucky brawl,’ he said to Tom Garrard.
‘More of them than us,’ Garrard muttered, staring at the enemy. ‘The buggers look steady enough.’
The enemy indeed looked steady. The leading troops had momentarily paused to allow the men behind to catch up, but now, reformed into a solid column, they were readying to advance again. Their ranks and files were ramrod straight. Their officers wore waist sashes and carried highly curved sabres. One of the flags was being waved to and fro and Sharpe could just make out that it showed a golden sun blazoned against a scarlet sky. Vultures swooped lower. The galloper guns, unable to resist the target of the great column of infantry, poured solid shot into its flank, but the Tippoo’s men stoically endured the punishment as their officers made certain that the column was tight packed and ready to deliver its crushing blow on the waiting redcoat line.
Sharpe licked his dry lips. So these, he thought, were the Tippoo’s men. Fine-looking bastards they were, too, and close enough now so that he could see that their tunics were not plain pale purple, but were instead cut from a creamy-white cloth decorated with mauve tiger stripes. Their crossbelts were black and their turbans and waist sashes crimson. Heathens, they might be, but not to be despised for that, for only seventeen years before these same tiger-striped men had torn apart a British army and forced its survivors to surrender. These were the famed tiger troops of Mysore, the warriors of the Tippoo Sultan who had dominated all of southern India until the British thought to climb the ghats from the coastal plain and plunge into Mysore itself. The French were these men’s allies, and some Frenchmen served in the Tippoo’s forces, but Sharpe could see no white faces in the massive column that at last was ready and, to the deep beat of a single drum, lurched ponderously forward. The tiger-striped troops were marching directly towards the King’s 33rd and Sharpe, glancing to his left, saw that the sepoys of the East India Company regiments were still too far away to offer help. The 33rd would have to deal with the Tippoo’s column alone.
‘Private Sharpe!’ Hakeswill’s sudden scream was loud enough to drown the cheer that the Tippoo’s troops gave as they advanced. ‘Private Sharpe!’ Hakeswill screamed again. He was hurrying along the back of the Light Company and Captain Morris, momentarily dismounted, was following him. ‘Give me your musket, Private Sharpe!’ Hakeswill bellowed.
‘Nothing wrong with it,’ Sharpe protested. He was in the front rank and had to turn and push his way between Garrard and Mallinson to hand the gun over.
Hakeswill snatched the musket and gleefully presented it to Captain Morris. ‘See, sir!’ the Sergeant crowed. ‘Just as I thought, sir! Bastard sold his flint, sir! Sold it to an ’eathen darkie.’ Hakeswill’s face twitched as he gave Sharpe a triumphant glance. The Sergeant had unscrewed the musket’s doghead, extracted the flint in its folded leather pad and now offered the scrap of stone to Captain Morris. ‘Piece of common rock, sir, no good to man or beast. Must have flogged his flint, sir. Flogged it in exchange for a pagan whore, sir, I dare say. Filthy beast that he is.’
Morris peered at the flint. ‘Sell the flint, did you, Private?’ he asked in a voice that mingled derision, pleasure and bitterness.
‘No, sir.’
‘Silence!’ Hakeswill screamed into Sharpe’s face, spattering him with spittle. ‘Lying to an officer! Flogging offence, sir, flogging offence. Selling his flint, sir? Another flogging offence, sir. Says so in the scriptures, sir.’
‘It is a flogging offence,’ Morris said with a tone of satisfaction. He was as tall and lean as Sharpe, with fair hair and a fine-boned face that was just beginning to show the ravages of the liquor with which the Captain assuaged his boredom. His eyes betrayed his cynicism and something much worse: that he despised his men. Hakeswill and Morris, Sharpe thought as he watched them, a right bloody pair.
‘Nothing wrong with that flint, sir,’ Sharpe insisted.
Morris held the flint in the palm of his right hand. ‘Looks like a chip of stone to me.’
‘Common grit, sir,’ Hakeswill said. ‘Common bloody grit, sir, no good to man or beast.’
‘Might I?’ A new voice spoke. Lieutenant William Lawford had dismounted to join Morris and now, without waiting for his Captain’s permission, he reached over and took the flint from Morris’s hand. Lawford was blushing again, astonished by his own temerity in thus intervening. ‘There’s an easy way to check, sir,’ Lawford said nervously, then he drew out his pistol, cocked it and struck the loose flint against the pistol’s steel. Even in the day’s bright sunlight there was an obvious spark. ‘Seems like a good flint to me, sir,’ Lawford said mildly. Ensign Fitzgerald, standing behind Lawford, gave Sharpe a conspiratorial grin. ‘A perfectly good flint,’ Lawford insisted less diffidently.
Morris gave Hakeswill a furious look then turned on his heel and strode back towards his horse. Lawford tossed the flint to Sharpe. ‘Make your gun ready, Sharpe,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Lawford and Fitzgerald walked away as Hakeswill, humiliated, thrust the musket back at Sharpe. ‘Clever bastard, Sharpie, aren’t you?’
‘I’ll have the leather as well, Sergeant,’ Sharpe said and, once he had the flint’s seating back, he called after Hakeswill who had begun to walk away. ‘Sergeant!’
Hakeswill turned back.
‘You want this, Sergeant?’ Sharpe called. He took a chip of stone out of his pocket. He had found it when he had untied the rag from the musket’s lock and realized that Hakeswill had substituted the stone for the flint when he had pretended to inspect Sharpe’s musket. ‘No use to me, Sergeant,’ Sharpe said. ‘Here.’ He tossed the stone
