Read Online Sharpe's Tiger by Bernard Cornwell - Free Book Online

men good business that night.
    Captain Morris expected to visit the famous green tents of Naig, the
bhinjarrie
whose stock in trade was the most expensive whores of Madras, but for now he was stuck in his own tent where, under the feeble light of a candle that flickered on his table, he disposed of the company’s business. Or rather Sergeant Hakeswill disposed of it while Morris, his coat unbuttoned and silk stock loosened, sprawled in a camp chair. Sweat dripped down his face. There was a small wind, but the muslin screen hanging at the entrance to the tent took away its cooling effects, and if the screen was discarded the tent would fill with savagely huge moths. Morris hated moths, hated the heat, hated India. “Guard rosters, sir,” Hakeswill said, offering the papers.
    â€œAnything I should know?”
    â€œNot a thing, sir. Just like last week’s, sir. Ensign Hicksmade up the roster, sir. A good man, sir, Ensign Hicks. Knows his place.”
    â€œYou mean he does what you tell him to do?” Morris asked drily.
    â€œLearning his trade, sir, learning his trade, just like a good little ensign should. Unlike some as I could mention.”
    Morris ignored the sly reference to Fitzgerald and instead dipped his quill in ink and scrawled his name at the foot of the rosters. “I assume Ensign Fitzgerald and Sergeant Green have been assigned all the night duty?” he asked.
    â€œThey needs the practice, sir.”
    â€œAnd you need your sleep, Sergeant?”
    â€œPunishment book, sir,” Hakeswill said, offering the leather-bound ledger and taking back the guard roster without acknowledging Morris’s last comment.
    Morris leafed through the book. “No floggings this week?”
    â€œWill be soon, sir, will be soon.”
    â€œPrivate Sharpe escaped you today, eh?” Morris laughed. “Losing your touch, Obadiah.” There was no friendliness in his use of the Christian name, just scorn, but Sergeant Hakeswill took no offence. Officers were officers, at least those above ensigns were proper officers in Hakeswill’s opinion, and such gentlemen had every right to be scornful of lesser ranks.
    â€œI ain’t losing nothing, sir,” Hakeswill answered equably. “If the rat don’t die first shake, sir, then you puts the dog in again. That’s how it’s done, sir. Says so in the scriptures. Sick report, sir. Nothing new, except that Sears has the fever, so he won’t be with us long, but he won’t be no loss, sir. No good to man or beast, Private Sears. Better off dead, he is.”
    â€œAre we done?” Morris asked when he had signed the sick report, but then a tactful cough sounded at the tent’s opening and Lieutenant Lawford ducked under the flap and pushed through the muslin screen.
    â€œBusy, Charles?” Lawford asked Morris.
    â€œAlways pleased to see you, William,” Morris said sarcastically, “but I was about to go for a stroll.”
    â€œThere’s a soldier to see you,” Lawford explained. “Man’s got a request, sir.”
    Morris sighed as though he was too busy to be bothered with such trifles, but then he shrugged and waved a hand as if to suggest he was making a great and generous gesture by giving the man a moment of his precious time. “Who?” he asked.
    â€œPrivate Sharpe, sir.”
    â€œTroublemaker, sir,” Hakeswill put in.
    â€œHe’s a good man,” Lawford insisted hotly, but then decided his small experience of the army hardly qualified him to make such judgements and so, diffidently, he added that it was only his opinion. “But he seems like a good man, sir,” he finished.
    â€œLet him in,” Morris said. He sipped from a tin mug of arrack while Sharpe negotiated the muslin screen and then stood to attention beneath the ridge pole. “Hat off, boy!” Hakeswill snapped. “Don’t you know to take your hat off in the presence of