 Sharp's Triumph by Bernard Cornwall Read by Rupert Farley Chapter 1 It was not, Sergeant Richard Sharp's fault. He was not in charge. He was junior to at least a dozen men, including a major, a captain, a subedar, and two gemadars, yet he still felt responsible. He felt responsible, angry, hot, bitter, and scared. Blood crusted on his face where a thousand flies crawled. There were even flies in his open mouth. But he dared not move. The humid air stank of blood and of the rotted egg-smell made by powder-smoke. The very last thing he remembered doing was thrusting his pack, have a sack and cartridge box into the glowing ashes of a fire, and now the ammunition from the cartridge box exploded. Each blast of powder fountained sparks and ashes into the hot air. A couple of men laughed at the sight. They stopped to watch it for a few seconds, poked at the nearby bodies with their muskets, then walked on. Sharp lay still. A fly crawled on his eyeball, and he forced himself to stay absolutely motionless. There was blood on his face, and more blood had puddled in his right ear, though it was drying now. He blinked, fearing that the small motion would attract one of the killers, but no one noticed. Chassel Gowen. That's where he was. Chassel Gowen, a miserable, thorn-walled fort on the frontier of Hyderabad. And because the Raja of Hyderabad was a British ally, the fort had been garrisoned by a hundred seapoys of the East India Company, and fifty mercenary horsemen from Mysore. Only when Sharp arrived, half the seapoys, and all of the horsemen, had been out on patrol. Sharp had come from setting guppetum, leading a detail of six privates, and carrying a leather bag stuffed with rupees, and had been greeted by Major Crosby, who commanded at Chassel Gowen. The Major proved to be a plump, red-faced, bilious man who disliked the heat and hated Chassel Gowen, and he had slumped in his canvas chair as he unfolded Sharp's orders. He read them, grunted, then read them again. Why the hell did they send you? He finally asked. No one else to send, sir. Crosby frowned at the order. Why not an officer? No officers to spare, sir. Bloody responsible job for a sergeant, wouldn't you say? Won't let you down, sir? Sharp said, woodenly, staring at the leprous yellow of the tense canvas a few inches above the Major's head. You bloody well better not let me down, Crosby said, pushing the orders into a pile of damp papers on his camp-table. And you look bloody young to be a sergeant! I was born late, sir, Sharp said. He was twenty-six, or thought he was, and most sergeants were much older. Crosby, suspecting he was being mocked, stared up at Sharp, but there was nothing insolent on the sergeant's face. A good-looking man, Crosby thought, sourly, probably had the biebies of Serringapitam falling out of their saris. And Crosby, whose wife had died of the fever ten years before, and who consoled himself with a two-rupee village whore every Thursday night, felt a pang of jealousy. And how the devil do you expect to get the ammunition back to Serringapitam? Crosby demanded. Hi, Okskar, sir. Sharp had long perfected the way to address unhelpful officers. He gave them precise answers, added nothing unnecessary, and always sounded confident. With what? Promises? Money, sir. Sharp tapped his haversack, where he had the bag of rupees. Christ! They trust you with money? Sharp decided not to respond to that question, but just stared impassively at the canvas. Chassel Gowen, he decided, was not a happy place. It was a small fort built on a bluff above a river that should have been overflowing its banks, but the monsoon had failed and the land was cruelly dry. Sample complete. Ready to continue?