but like everyone else in the regiment he feared him. There was a wildness in the back of Hakeswill’s childlike eyes that spoke of terrible mischief, and, though the Sergeant was always punctilious in his dealings with officers, Micklewhite still felt obscurely threatened. ‘So what do you want, Sergeant?’
‘Major Shee asked me to say a word, sir.’
‘Couldn’t speak to me himself?’
‘You know the Major, sir. No doubt he’s thirsty. A hot day.’ Hakeswill’s face quivered in a series of tremors. ‘It’s about the prisoner, sir.’
‘What about him?’
‘Troublemaker, sir. Known for it. A thief, a liar and a cheat.’
‘So he’s a redcoat. So?’
‘So Major Shee ain’t keen to see him back among the living, sir, if you follow my meaning. Is this what I owe you for the mercury, sir?’ Hakeswill held up a gold coin, a haideri, which was worth around two shillings and sixpence. The coin was certainly not payment for the cure of his pox, for that cost had already been deducted from the Sergeant’s pay, so Micklewhite knew it was a bribe. Not a great bribe, but half a crown could still go a long way. Micklewhite glanced at it, then nodded. ‘Put it on the table, Sergeant.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Micklewhite tugged the silk stock tight, then waved Hakeswill off. He pulled on his coat and pocketed the gold coin. The bribe had not been necessary, for Micklewhite’s opposition to the coddling of flogging victims was well enough known in the battalion. Micklewhite hated caring for men who had been flogged, for in his experience they almost always died, and if he did stop a punishment then the recovering victim only cluttered up his sick cots. And if, by some miracle, the man was restored to health, it was only so he could be strapped to the triangle to be given the rest of his punishment and that second dose almost always proved fatal and so, all things considered, it was more prudent to let a man die at the first flogging. It saved money on medicine and, in Micklewhite’s view, it was kinder too. Micklewhite buttoned his coat and wondered just why Sergeant Hakeswill wanted this particular man dead. Not that Micklewhite really cared, he just wanted the bloody business over and done.
The 33rd paraded under the afternoon’s burning sun. Four companies faced the tripod, while three were arrayed at either side so that the battalion’s ten companies formed a hollow oblong with the tripod standing in the one empty long side. The officers sat on their horses in front of their companies while Major Shee, his aides and the adjutant stood their horses just behind the tripod. Mister Micklewhite, his head protected from the sun by a wide straw hat, stood to one side of the triangle. Major Shee, fortified by arrack and satisfied that everything was in proper order, nodded to Bywaters. ‘You will begin punishment, Sergeant Major.’
‘Sir!’ Bywaters acknowledged, then turned and bellowed for the prisoner to be fetched. The two drummer boys stood nervously with their whips in hand. They alone of the parading soldiers were in shirtsleeves, while everyone else was in full wool uniform. Women and children peered between the company intervals. Mary Bickerstaff was not there. Hakeswill had looked for her, wanting to enjoy her horror, but Mary had stayed away. The women who had come for the spectacle, like their men, were silent and sullen. Sharpe was a popular man, and Hakeswill knew that everyone here was hating him for engineering this flogging, but Obadiah Hakeswill had never been concerned by such enmity. Power did not lie in being liked, but in being feared.
Sharpe was brought to the triangle. He was bareheaded and already stripped to the waist. The skin of his chest and back were as white as his powdered hair and contrasted oddly with his darkly tanned face. He walked steadily, for though he had the best part of a pint of rum in his belly, the liquor had not seemed to have the slightest effect. He did not look at either Hakeswill or Morris as he walked to the tripod.
‘Arms up, lad,’ the Sergeant Major said quietly. ‘Stand against the triangle. Feet apart. There’s a good lad.’
Sharpe obediently stepped up to the triangular face of the tripod. Two corporals knelt at his feet and lashed his ankles to the halberds, then stood and pushed his arms over the crosswise halberd. They pulled his hands down and tied them to the uprights, thus forcing his naked back up and outwards. That way he could not sag between the triangle and so hope to exhaust some of the blows on the halberd staffs. The corporals finished their knots, then stepped back.
The Sergeant Major went to the back of the triangle and brought from his pouch a folded piece of leather that was deeply marked by tooth prints. ‘Open your mouth, lad,’ he said softly. He smelt the rum on the prisoner’s breath and hoped it would help him survive, then he pushed the leather between Sharpe’s teeth. The gag served a double purpose. It would stifle any cries the victim might make and would stop him biting off his tongue. ‘Be brave, boy,’ Bywaters said quietly. ‘Don’t let the regiment down.’
Sharpe nodded.
Bywaters stepped smartly back and came to attention. ‘Prisoner ready for punishment, sir!’ he called to Major Shee.
The Major looked to the surgeon. ‘Is the prisoner fit for punishment, Mister Micklewhite?’
Micklewhite did not even give Sharpe a glance. ‘Hale and fit, sir.’
‘Then carry on, Sergeant Major.’
‘Right, boys,’ the Sergeant Major said, ‘do your duty! Lay it on hard now, and keep the strokes high. Above his trousers. Drummer! Begin.’
A third drummer boy was standing behind the floggers. He lifted his sticks, paused, then brought the first stick down.
The boy to the right brought his whip hard down on Sharpe’s back.
‘One!’ Bywaters shouted.
The whip had left a red mark across Sharpe’s shoulder blades. Sharpe had flinched, but the rope fetters restricted his movement and only those close to the triangle saw the tremor run through his muscles. He stared up at Major Shee who took good care to avoid the baleful gaze.
‘Two!’ Bywaters called and the drummer brought down his stick as the second boy planted a red mark crosswise on the first.
Hakeswill’s face twitched uncontrollably, but he was smiling under the rictus. For the drumbeat of death had begun.
Colonel McCandless stood alone in the centre of the courtyard of the Tippoo’s Inner Palace inside Seringapatam. The Scotsman was still in his full uniform: red-coated, tartan-kilted and with his feather-plumed cocked hat on his head. Six tigers were chained to the courtyard’s walls and those tigers sometimes strained to reach him, but they were always checked by the heavy chains that quivered tautly whenever one of the muscled beasts sprang towards the Scotsman. McCandless did not move and the tigers, after one or two fruitless lunges, contented themselves with snarling at him. The tigers’ keepers, big men armed with long staves, watched from the courtyard entrance. It was those men who might receive the orders to unleash the tigers and McCandless was determined to show them a calm face.
The courtyard was covered with sand, its lower walls were of dressed stone, but above the stone the palace’s second storey was a riot of stuccoed teak that had been painted red, white, green and yellow. That decorated second storey was composed of Moorish arches and McCandless knew just enough Arabic to guess that the writing incised above each arch was a surah from the Koran. There were two entrances to the courtyard. The one behind McCandless, through which he had entered and where the tigers’ keepers now stood, was a plain double gateway that led to a tangle
