 Sharps Tiger. By Bernard Cornwall. Read by Rupert Farley. Chapter 1 It was funny, Richard Sharpe thought, that there were no vultures in England. None that he had seen, anyway. Ugly things they were. Rats with wings. He thought about vultures a lot, and he had a lot of time to think, because he was a soldier, a private, and so the army insisted on doing a lot of his thinking for him. The army decided when he woke up, when he slept, when he ate, when he marched, and when he was to sit about doing nothing. And that was what he did most of the time. Nothing. Hurry up and do nothing. That was the army's way of doing things, and he was fed up with it. He was bored and thinking of running. Him and Mary run away, desert. He was thinking about it now, and it was an odd thing to worry about right now, because the army was about to give Richard Sharpe his first proper battle. He had been in one fight, but that was five years ago, and it had been a messy, confused business in fog, and no one had known why the Thirty-Third Regiment was in Flanders, or what they were supposed to be doing there. And in the end they had done nothing except fire some shots at the mist-shrouded French, and the whole thing had been over almost before young Richard Sharpe had known it had begun. He'd seen a couple of men killed. He remembered Sergeant Hawthorne's death best, because the sergeant had been hit by a musket-ball that drove a rib clean out of his red coat. There was hardly a drop of blood to be seen, just the white rib sticking out of the faded red cloth. "'You could hang your hat on that,' Hawthorne had said in a tone of wonder, and then he had sobbed, and after that he had choked up blood and collapsed. Sharpe had gone on loading and firing, and then just as he was beginning to enjoy himself, the battalion had marched away and sailed back to England. Some battle. Now he was in India. He did not know why he was invading Mysore, and nor did he particularly care. King George III wanted Richard Sharpe to be in India, so in India Richard Sharpe was, but Richard Sharpe had now become bored with the King's service. He was young, and he reckoned life had more to offer than hurrying up and doing nothing. There was money to be made. He was not sure how to make money except by thieving, but he did know that he was bored, and that he could do better than stay on the bottom of the dung-heap. That was where he was, he kept telling himself, the bottom of a dung-heap, and everyone knew what was piled on top of a dung-heap. Better to run, he told himself. All that was needed to get ahead in the world was a bit of sense and the ability to kick a bastard faster than the bastard could kick you, and Richard Sharpe reckoned he had those talents right enough. Though where to run in India? Half the natives seemed to be in British pay, and those would turn you in for a handful of tin pyser, and the pyser was only worth a farthing, and the other Indians were all fighting against the British, alreadying to fight them, and if he ran to them he would just be forced to serve in their armies. He would fetch more pay in a native army, probably far more than the tap-and-sa-day Sharpe got now, after stoppages, but why change one uniform for another? No, he would have to run to some place where the army would never find him, or else it would be the firing squad on some hot morning. A blast of musket shots, a scrape in the red earth for a grave, and next day the rats with wings would be yanking the guts out of your belly like a bunch of blackbirds tugging worms out of a lawn. That was why he was thinking about vultures. He was thinking that he wanted to run, but that he did not want to feed the vultures. Do not get caught, rule number one in the army, and the only rule that mattered, because— People complete. Ready to continue?