Sharpe's Tiger by Bernard Cornwell Page A

business,” Sharpe said.
    â€œAin’t my business! Oh, listen to it!” Hakeswill sneered, then prodded the sword forward again. He wanted to provoke Sharpe into resisting, for then he could charge him with attacking a superior, but the tall young man just backed away from the blade. “You listen, Sharpie,” Hakeswill said, “and you listen well. She’s a sergeant’s wife, not the whore of some common ranker like you.”
    â€œSergeant Bickerstaff’s dead,” Sharpe protested.
    â€œSo she needs a man!” Hakeswill said. “And a sergeant’s widow doesn’t get rogered by a stinking bit of dirt like you. It ain’t right. Ain’t natural. It’s beneath her station, Sharpie, and it can’t be allowed. Says so in the scriptures.”
    â€œShe can choose who she wants,” Sharpe insisted.
    â€œChoose, Sharpie? Choose?” Hakeswill laughed. “Women don’t choose, you soft bugger. Women get taken by the strongest. Says so in the scriptures, and if you stand in my way, Sharpie”—he pushed the sword hard forward—”then I’llhave your spine laid open to the daylight. A lost flint? That would have been two hundred lashes, lad, but next time? A thousand. And laid on hard! Real hard! Be blood and bones, boy, bones and blood, and who’ll look after your Mrs. Bicker-staff then? Eh? Tell me that. So you takes your filthy hands off her. Leave her to me, Sharpie.” He leered at Sharpe, but still the younger man refused to be provoked and Hakeswill at last abandoned the attempt. “Worth a few guineas, this sword,” the Sergeant said again as he backed away. “Obliged to you, Sharpie.”
    Sharpe swore uselessly at Hakeswill’s back, then turned as a woman hailed him from among the heaped bodies that had been the leading ranks of the Tippoo’s column. Those bodies were now being dragged apart to be searched and Mary Bickerstaff was helping the work along.
    He walked toward her and, as ever, was struck by the beauty of the girl. She had black hair, a thin face, and dark big eyes that could spark with mischief. Now, though, she looked worried. “What did Hakeswill want?” she asked.
    â€œYou.”
    She spat, then crouched again to the body she was searching. “He can’t touch you, Richard,” she said, “not if you do your duty.”
    â€œThe army’s not like that. And you know it.”
    â€œYou’ve just got to be clever,” Mary insisted. She was a soldier’s daughter who had grown up in the Calcutta barrack lines. She had inherited her dark Indian beauty from her mother and learned the ways of soldiers from her father who had been an engineer sergeant in the Old Fort’s garrison before an outbreak of cholera had killed him and his native wife. Mary’s father had always claimed she was pretty enough to marry an officer and so rise in the world, but no officer would marry a half-caste, at least no officer who cared about advancement, and so after her parents’ death Maryhad married Sergeant Jem Bickerstaff of the 33rd, a good man, but Bickerstaff had died of the fever shortly after the army had left Madras to climb to the Mysore plateau and Mary, at twenty-two, was now an orphan and a widow. She was also wise to the army’s ways. “If you’re made up to sergeant, Richard,” she told Sharpe now, “then Hakeswill can’t touch you.”
    Sharpe laughed. “Me? A sergeant? That’ll be the day, lass. I made corporal once, but that didn’t last.”
    â€œYou can be a sergeant,” she insisted, “and you should be a sergeant. And Hakeswill couldn’t touch you if you were.”
    Sharpe shrugged. “It ain’t me he wants to touch, lass, but you.”
    Mary had been cutting a tiger-striped tunic from a dead man, but now she paused and looked quizzically up at Sharpe. She had not been in love with Jem