Sharpe’s Fortress: The Siege of Gawilghur, December 1803. Bernard Cornwell
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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 bastard 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 buttons, 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 cocked 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 God’s sake get on with it! Dangle the bastard!’ He was sweating, and Sharpe sensed that the elegant cavalryman was not quite so confident as he appeared.
‘Bugger a trial,’ Sergeant Lockhart said happily. ‘I’ll hang the bastard.’ 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 space 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. ‘They swear by a thousand gaudy gods that they’ll tell the truth, then lie like a rug! Be quiet!’ Naig had begun to protest and the cavalryman rammed the pistol into the Indian’s mouth, breaking a tooth and gashing Naig’s gum. ‘Another damned word, Naig, and I’ll castrate you before I hang you.’ The cavalryman glanced at Sharpe, who was frowning. ‘Are you squeamish, Ensign?’
‘Don’t seem right, sir. I mean I agree he deserves to be hung, but shouldn’t we talk to him first?’
‘If you like conversation so much,’ the cavalryman drawled, ‘institute a Philosophical Society. Then you can enjoy all the hot air you like. Sergeant?’ This last was to Lockhart. ‘Take the bastard off my hands, will you?’
‘Pleasure, sir.’ Lockhart seized Naig and shoved him towards the cart. One of the cavalry troopers had cut a length of guy rope from the burnt remnants of the tent and he now tied one end to the tip of the single shaft that protruded from the front of the ox cart. He made a loop in the rope’s end.
Naig screamed and tried to pull away. Some of his guards started forward, but then a hard voice ordered them back and Sharpe turned to see that a tall, thin Indian in a black and green striped robe had come from the larger tent. The newcomer, who looked to be in his forties, walked with a limp. He crossed to the cavalry Captain and spoke quietly, and Sharpe saw the cavalryman shake his head vehemently, then shrug as if to suggest that he was powerless. Then the Captain gestured to Sharpe and the tall Indian gave the Ensign a look of such malevolence that Sharpe instinctively put his hand on his sabre’s hilt. Lockhart had pulled the noose over Naig’s head. ‘Are you sure, sir?’ he asked the cavalry Captain.
‘Of course I’m sure, Sergeant,’ the cavalryman said angrily. ‘Just get on with it.’
‘Sir?’ Sharpe appealed to the Scots Captain, who frowned uncertainly, then turned and walked away as though he wanted nothing more to do with the affair. The tall Indian in the striped robe spat into the dust, then limped back to the tent.
Lockhart ordered his troopers to the back of the cart. Naig was attempting to pull the noose free of his neck, but Lockhart slapped his hands down. ‘Now, boys!’ he shouted.
The troopers reached up and hauled down on the back-board so that the cart tipped like a seesaw on its single axle and, as the troopers pulled down, so the shaft rose into the air. The rope stretched and tightened. Naig screamed, then the cavalryman jumped up to sit on the cart’s back and the shaft jerked higher still and the scream was abruptly choked off. Naig was dangling now, his feet kicking wildly under the lavishly embroidered robe. None of the crowd moved, none protested.
Naig’s face was bulging and his hands were scrabbling uselessly at the noose which was tight about his neck. The cavalry officer watched with a small smile. ‘A pity,’ he said in his elegant voice. ‘The wretched man ran the best brothel I ever found.’
‘We’re not killing his girls, sir,’ Sharpe said.
‘That’s true, Ensign, but will their next owner treat them as well?’ The cavalryman turned to the big tent’s entrance and took off his plumed hat to salute a group of sari-clad girls who now watched wide-eyed as their employer did the gallows dance. ‘I saw Nancy Merrick hang in Madras,’ the cavalryman said, ‘and she did the jig for thirty-seven minutes! Thirty-seven! I’d wagered on sixteen, so lost rather a lot of tin. Don’t think I can watch Naig dance for half an hour. It’s too damned hot. Sergeant? Help his soul to perdition, will you?’
Lockhart crouched beneath the dying man and caught hold of his heels. Then he tugged down hard, swearing when Naig pissed on him. He tugged again, and at last the body went still. ‘Do you see what happens when you steal from us?’ the cavalry Captain shouted at the crowd, then repeated the words in an Indian language. ‘If you steal from us, you will die!’ Again he translated his words, then gave Sharpe a crooked grin. ‘But only, of course, if you’re stupid enough to be caught, and I didn’t think Naig was stupid at all. Rather the reverse. Just how did you happen to discover the supplies, Ensign?’
‘Tent was on fire, sir,’ Sharpe said woodenly. ‘Me and Sergeant Lockhart decided to rescue whatever was inside.’
‘How very public-spirited of you.’ The Captain gave Sharpe a long, speculative look, then turned back to Lockhart. ‘Is he dead, Sergeant?’
‘Near as makes no difference, sir,’ Lockhart called back.
‘Use your pistol to make sure,’ the Captain ordered, then sighed. ‘A shame,’ he said. ‘I rather liked Naig. He was a rogue, of course, but rogues are so much more amusing than honest men.’ He watched as Lockhart lowered the shaft, then stooped over the prostrate body and put a bullet into its skull. ‘I suppose I’ll have to find some carts to fetch these supplies back where they belong,’ the Captain said.
‘I’ll do that, sir,’ Sharpe said.
‘You will?’ The Captain seemed astonished to discover such willingness. ‘Why on earth would you want to do