 Sharps Tiger by Bernard Cornwell, read by Sean Bean, Vultures, ugly things they were, rats with wings. Richard Sharpe thought about Vultures a lot, and he had a lot of time to think because he was a soldier, a private, so the army insisted on doing a lot of thinking for him. The army decided when he woke, slept, ate, marched, and when he was to sit about doing nothing, that was what he did most of the time. Nothing. Nothing. That was the army's way of doing things, and he was fed up with it and thinking of running. Him and Mary. Run. Desert. But where to? Half the natives were in British pain, would turn you in for a few farthings, and the other Indians were fighting the British, and if he ran to them, it would be forced to serve in their armies. Why change one uniform for another? No. You would have to run where the army would never find him, or else it would be the firing squad. A scrape in the earth for a grave, and next day the rats with wings would be yanking out your guts. Do not get caught, rule number one, because the Vultures were always there. They fed on death, and a marching army gave them a glutton's diet. In this last year of the 18th century, two Allied armies were crossing this hot fertile plain in southern India. One was British, and the other belonged to a British ally, the Nizam of Hyderabad, and both provided a feast of vulture fodder. Horses, oxen, camels, and people died. The armies had a great sprawl of camp followers, merchants, herders, whores, wives, and children, and among all of those the plagues ran riot. But this hot March Day promised new death, and the Vultures seemed to sense it, and more and more birds joined the spiring column of wings above the marching men. Ugly bastard birds, Sharp said. Rats with wings. No one in the thirty-third's light company had the breath to answer. The air was choking from the dust kicked up by the men ahead, so the ranks stumbled through a warm grit that parched their throats and stung their eyes. Most of the men were not even aware of the vultures, were so weary they had not even noticed the troop of cavalry that had suddenly appeared half a mile to the north. Sharp noticed them. British cavalry. The fancy boys come to see how proper soldiers fought. Ahead, from a low rise, where a second group of horsemen was silhouetted against the furnace whiteness of the sky, a gun fired. The crack of the cannon was immense, a billow of sound that punched hollow and mellignant across the plane. The shot missed the red-coated infantry by two hundred paces, but it woke the weary. Jesus! a voice said. What was that? A bloody awful shot, Sharp said. My mother could lay a gun better than that. I didn't think you had a mother, Private Gerard said. Everyone's got a mother, Tom. Not Sergeant Hakeswell, Gerard Spatt. Hakeswell was spawned of the Devil. Sharp wondered whether Tom would run with him, and would Mary come. Mary was Sergeant Bickerstaff's widow. She was half Indian and half English in twenty-two, which was the same age as Sharp. At least he thought it was. He was not really sure, when it came to having a whore for a mother. We did a runner after he was born. Left him for a foundling home to raise. Now talking! Sergeant Hakeswell's voice screeched. Save your godless breath. His eyes flicked to Sharp. What are you talking, Sharpie? Not me, Sarge. You ain't got orders to talk. The king wanted you to have a conversation, and I told you so. It says so in the scriptures. Give me a file up, Sharpie. Quick, now. Sharp handed his musket to the sergeant. It was Hakeswell's arrival in the company that persuaded Sharp to run. Hakeswell had added injustice to boredom. Not that Sharp cared about injustice, for only the rich had justice. But Hakeswell's injustice was touched with such malevolence that it was hardly a man in the light company not ready to rebel. Yet to look at Hakeswell was to see the perfect soldier. It was true that his lumpy face twitched every few seconds, as though an evil spirit was twisting beneath his sun-reddened skin. But his eyes were blue, his uniform was smart, and he performed drill so crisp and clean it was a pleasure to watch. But then his oddly childlike eyes would flicker sideways, and you could see the devil peering out. Sharp stood motionless as the sergeant untied the rag, protecting his musket's lock from the insidious dust. Hakeswell Sample complete. Ready to continue?