Sharpe’s Fortress: The Siege of Gawilghur, December 1803. Bernard Cornwell

dressed in a sari, but she looked European to Sharpe. She had been sewing gold braid onto the outer seams of a pair of breeches, but now stared in wide-eyed fright at the intruder. ‘Who are you, Ma’am?’ Sharpe asked.

      The woman shook her head. She had very black hair and very white skin. Her terror was palpable. ‘Is Captain Torrance here?’ Sharpe asked.

      ‘No,’ she whispered.

      ‘He’s sick, is that right?’

      ‘If he says so, sir,’ she said softly. Her London accent confirmed that she was English.

      ‘I ain’t going to hurt you, love,’ Sharpe said, for fear was making her tremble. ‘Are you Mrs Torrance?’

      ‘No!’

      ‘So you work for him?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘And you don’t know where he is?’

      ‘No, sir,’ she said softly, looking up at Sharpe with huge eyes. She was lying, he reckoned, but he guessed she had good reason to lie, perhaps fearing Torrance’s punishment if she told the truth. He considered soothing the truth out of her, but reckoned it might take too long. He wondered who she was. She was pretty, despite her terror, and he guessed she was Torrance’s bibbi. Lucky Torrance, he thought ruefully. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Ma’am,’ he said, then he negotiated the muslin curtain back into the front room.

      The clerk shook his head fiercely. ‘You should not have gone in there, sahib! That is private quarters! Private! I shall be forced to tell Captain Torrance.’

      Sharpe took hold of the clerk’s chair and tipped it, forcing the man off. The men waiting in the room gave a cheer. Sharpe ignored them, sat on the chair himself and pulled the tangle of ledgers towards him. ‘I don’t care what you tell Captain Torrance,’ he said, ‘so long as you tell me about the horseshoes first.’

      ‘They are lost!’ the clerk protested.

      ‘How were they lost?’ Sharpe asked.

      The clerk shrugged. ‘Things get lost,’ he said. Sweat was pouring down his plump face as he tentatively tried to tug some of the ledgers away from Sharpe, but he recoiled from the look on the Ensign’s face. ‘Things get lost,’ the clerk said again weakly. ‘It is the nature of things to get lost.’

      ‘Muskets?’ Sharpe asked.

      ‘Lost,’ the clerk admitted.

      ‘Buckets?’

      ‘Lost,’ the clerk said.

      ‘Paperwork,’ Sharpe said.

      The clerk frowned. ‘Paperwork, sahib?’

      ‘If something’s lost,’ Sharpe said patiently, ‘there’s a record. This is the bloody army. You can’t have a piss without someone making a note of it. So show me the records of what’s been lost.’

      The clerk sighed and pulled one of the big ledgers open. ‘Here, sahib,’ he said, pointing an inky finger. ‘One barrel of horseshoes, see? Being carried on an ox from Jamkandhi, lost in the Godavery on November 12th.’

      ‘How many horseshoes in a barrel?’ Sharpe asked.

      ‘A hundred and twenty.’ The long-legged cavalry Sergeant had come into the office and now leaned against the doorpost.

      ‘And there are supposed to be four thousand horseshoes in store?’ Sharpe asked.

      ‘Here!’ The clerk turned a page. ‘Another barrel, see?’

      Sharpe peered at the ill-written entry. ‘Lost in the Godavery,’ he read aloud.

      ‘And here.’ The clerk stabbed his finger again.

      ‘Stolen,’ Sharpe read. A drop of sweat landed on the page as the clerk turned it back. ‘So who stole it?’

      ‘The enemy, sahib,’ the clerk said. ‘Their horsemen are everywhere.’

      ‘Their bloody horsemen run if you so much as look at them,’ the tall cavalry Sergeant said sourly. ‘They couldn’t steal an egg from a chicken.’

      ‘The convoys are ambushed, sahib,’ the clerk insisted, ‘and things are stolen.’

      Sharpe pushed the clerk’s hand away and turned the pages back, looking for the date when the battle had been fought at Assaye. He found it, and discovered a different handwriting had been used for the previous entries. He guessed Captain Mackay must have kept the ledger himself, and in Mackay’s neat entries there were far fewer annotations reading ‘stolen’ or ‘lost’. Mackay had marked eight cannonballs as being lost in a river crossing and two barrels of powder had been marked down as stolen, but in the weeks since Assaye no fewer than sixty-eight oxen had lost their burdens to either accidents or thieves. More tellingly, each of those oxen had been carrying a scarce commodity. The army would not miss a load of round shot, but it would suffer grievously when its last reserve of horseshoes was gone. ‘Whose handwriting is this?’ Sharpe had turned to the most recent page.

      ‘Mine, sahib.’ The clerk was looking frightened.

      ‘How do you know when something is stolen?’

      The clerk shrugged. ‘The Captain tells me. Or the Sergeant tells me.’

      ‘The Sergeant?’

      ‘He isn’t here,’ the clerk said. ‘He’s bringing a convoy of oxen north.’

      ‘What’s the Sergeant’s name?’ Sharpe asked, for he could find no record in the ledger.

      ‘Hakeswill,’ the cavalry Sergeant said laconically. ‘He’s the bugger we usually deal with, on account of Captain Torrance always being ill.’

      ‘Bloody hell,’ Sharpe said, and pushed the chair back. Hakeswill! Obadiah bloody Hakeswill! ‘Why wasn’t he sent back to his regiment?’ Sharpe asked. ‘He isn’t supposed to be here at all!’

      ‘He knows the system,’ the clerk explained. ‘Captain Torrance wanted him to stay, sahib.’

      And no bloody wonder, Sharpe thought. Hakeswill had worked himself into the army’s most profitable billet! He was milking the cow, but making sure it was the clerk’s handwriting in the ledger. No flies on Obadiah. ‘How does the system work?’ he asked the clerk.

      ‘Chitties,’ the clerk said.

      ‘Chitties?’

      ‘An ox driver is given a chitty, sahib, and when he has delivered his load the chitty is signed and brought here. Then he is paid. No chitty, no money. It is the rule, sahib. No chitty, no money.’

      ‘And no bloody horseshoes either,’ put in the lean Sergeant of the 19th.

      ‘And Sergeant Hakeswill pays the money?’ Sharpe asked.

      ‘If he is here, sahib,’ the clerk said.

      ‘That doesn’t get me my damned horseshoes,’ the Company Lieutenant protested.

      ‘Or my buckets,’ the gunner put in.

      ‘The bhinjarries have all the essentials,’ the clerk insisted. He made shooing gestures. ‘Go and see the bhinjarries! They have necessaries! This office is closed till tomorrow.’

      ‘But where did the bhinjarries get their necessaries, eh? Answer me that?’ Sharpe demanded, but the clerk merely shrugged. The bhinjarries were merchants who travelled with the army, contributing their own vast herds of pack oxen and carts. They sold food, liquor, women and luxuries, and now, it seemed, they were offering military supplies as well, which meant that the army would be paying for things that were normally issued free, and doubtless, if bloody Hakeswill had a finger in the pot, things which had been stolen from the army in the first place. ‘Where do I go for horseshoes?’ Sharpe asked the clerk.

      The