being hugely outnumbered, defied
his enemies with a pistol that he dragged from beneath his robe. The taunting cavalrymen
had made a ring and the Arab kept twisting around to find that his tormentor had skipped
away before he could aim the small gun.
The Arab was a short man, then he turned again and Sharpe saw the bruised, bloody face and
recognized the child who had charged the 74th so bravely. The boy was doomed, for the ring
of cavalrymen was slowly closing for the kill. One of the Mahrattas would probably die,
or at least be horribly injured by the pistol ball, but that was part of the game. The boy
had one shot, they had twenty. A man prodded the boy in the back with a lance point, making
him whip round, but the man with the lance had stepped fast back and another man slapped the
boy's headdress with a tulwar. The other cavalrymen laughed.
Sharpe reckoned the boy deserved better. He was a kid, nothing more, but brave as a
tiger, and so he crossed to the cavalrymen.
“Let him be!” he called.
The boy turned towards Sharpe. If he recognized that the British officer was trying to
save his life he showed no sign of gratitude; instead he lifted the pistol so that its
barrel pointed at Sharpe's face. The cavalrymen, reckoning this was even better sport,
urged him to shoot and one of them approached the boy with a raised tulwar, but did not
strike. He would let the boy shoot Sharpe, then kill him.
“Let him be,” Sharpe said.
“Stand back!” The Mahrattas grinned, but did not move.
Sharpe could take the single bullet, then they would tear the boy into sabre-shredded
scraps of meat.
The boy took a step towards Sharpe.
“Don't be a bloody fool, lad,” Sharpe said. The boy obviously did not speak English, but
Sharpe's tone was soothing. It made no difference. The lad's hand was shaking and he looked
frightened, but defiance had been bred into his bone. He knew he would die, but he would
take an enemy soul with him and so he nerved himself to die well. Tut the gun down," Sharpe
said softly.
He was wishing he had not intervened now. The kid was just distraught enough and mad
enough to fire, and Sharpe knew he could do nothing about it except run away and thus expose
himself to the jeers of the Mahrattas. He was close enough now to see the scratches on the
pistol's blackened muzzle where the rammer had scraped the metal.
“Don't be a bloody fool, boy,” he said again. Still the boy pointed the pistol. Sharpe
knew he should turn and run, but instead he took another pace forward. Just one more and he
reckoned he would be close enough to swat the gun aside.
Then the boy shouted something in Arabic, something about Allah, and pulled the
trigger.
The hammer did not move. The boy looked startled, then pulled the trigger again.
Sharpe began laughing. The expression of woe on the child's face was so sudden, and so
unfeigned, that Sharpe could only laugh. The boy looked as if he was about to cry.
The Mahratta behind the boy swung his tulwar. He reckoned he could slice clean through
the boy's grubby headdress and decapitate him, but Sharpe had taken the extra step and
now seized the boy's hand and tugged him into his belly. The sword hissed an inch behind the
boy's neck.
“I said to leave him alone!” Sharpe said.
“Or do you want to fight me instead?”
“None of us,” a calm voice said behind Sharpe, 'wants to fight Ensign Sharpe."
Sharpe turned. One of the horsemen was still mounted, and it was this man who had spoken.
He was dressed in a tattered European uniform jacket of green cloth hung with small
silver chains, and he ! l had a lean scarred face with a nose as hooked as Sir Arthur
Wellesley's.
He now grinned down at Sharpe.
“Syud Sevajee,” Sharpe said.
“I never did congratulate you on your promotion,” Sevajee said, and leaned down to
offer Sharpe his hand.
Sharpe shook it.
“It was McCandless's doing,” he said.
“No,”
his enemies with a pistol that he dragged from beneath his robe. The taunting cavalrymen
had made a ring and the Arab kept twisting around to find that his tormentor had skipped
away before he could aim the small gun.
The Arab was a short man, then he turned again and Sharpe saw the bruised, bloody face and
recognized the child who had charged the 74th so bravely. The boy was doomed, for the ring
of cavalrymen was slowly closing for the kill. One of the Mahrattas would probably die,
or at least be horribly injured by the pistol ball, but that was part of the game. The boy
had one shot, they had twenty. A man prodded the boy in the back with a lance point, making
him whip round, but the man with the lance had stepped fast back and another man slapped the
boy's headdress with a tulwar. The other cavalrymen laughed.
Sharpe reckoned the boy deserved better. He was a kid, nothing more, but brave as a
tiger, and so he crossed to the cavalrymen.
“Let him be!” he called.
The boy turned towards Sharpe. If he recognized that the British officer was trying to
save his life he showed no sign of gratitude; instead he lifted the pistol so that its
barrel pointed at Sharpe's face. The cavalrymen, reckoning this was even better sport,
urged him to shoot and one of them approached the boy with a raised tulwar, but did not
strike. He would let the boy shoot Sharpe, then kill him.
“Let him be,” Sharpe said.
“Stand back!” The Mahrattas grinned, but did not move.
Sharpe could take the single bullet, then they would tear the boy into sabre-shredded
scraps of meat.
The boy took a step towards Sharpe.
“Don't be a bloody fool, lad,” Sharpe said. The boy obviously did not speak English, but
Sharpe's tone was soothing. It made no difference. The lad's hand was shaking and he looked
frightened, but defiance had been bred into his bone. He knew he would die, but he would
take an enemy soul with him and so he nerved himself to die well. Tut the gun down," Sharpe
said softly.
He was wishing he had not intervened now. The kid was just distraught enough and mad
enough to fire, and Sharpe knew he could do nothing about it except run away and thus expose
himself to the jeers of the Mahrattas. He was close enough now to see the scratches on the
pistol's blackened muzzle where the rammer had scraped the metal.
“Don't be a bloody fool, boy,” he said again. Still the boy pointed the pistol. Sharpe
knew he should turn and run, but instead he took another pace forward. Just one more and he
reckoned he would be close enough to swat the gun aside.
Then the boy shouted something in Arabic, something about Allah, and pulled the
trigger.
The hammer did not move. The boy looked startled, then pulled the trigger again.
Sharpe began laughing. The expression of woe on the child's face was so sudden, and so
unfeigned, that Sharpe could only laugh. The boy looked as if he was about to cry.
The Mahratta behind the boy swung his tulwar. He reckoned he could slice clean through
the boy's grubby headdress and decapitate him, but Sharpe had taken the extra step and
now seized the boy's hand and tugged him into his belly. The sword hissed an inch behind the
boy's neck.
“I said to leave him alone!” Sharpe said.
“Or do you want to fight me instead?”
“None of us,” a calm voice said behind Sharpe, 'wants to fight Ensign Sharpe."
Sharpe turned. One of the horsemen was still mounted, and it was this man who had spoken.
He was dressed in a tattered European uniform jacket of green cloth hung with small
silver chains, and he ! l had a lean scarred face with a nose as hooked as Sir Arthur
Wellesley's.
He now grinned down at Sharpe.
“Syud Sevajee,” Sharpe said.
“I never did congratulate you on your promotion,” Sevajee said, and leaned down to
offer Sharpe his hand.
Sharpe shook it.
“It was McCandless's doing,” he said.
“No,”
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