Sharpe's Tiger (Sharpe, #1)

by Bernard Cornwell

man!” Morris slapped at a moth that had managed to slip through the screen. “What do we do?” he asked again. Hakeswill sat on a stool opposite the camp table. He scratched his head, glanced into the night, then looked back to Morris. “He’s a sharp one, Sharpie, he is. Slippery. But I’ll do him.” He paused. “Of course, sir, if you helped, it’d be quicker. Much quicker.” Morris looked dubious. “The girl will only find herself another protector,” he said. “I think you’re wasting my time, Sergeant.” “What me, sir? No, sir. Not at all, sir. I’ll have the girl, sir, just you watch, and Nasty Naig says you can have all you want of her. Free and gratis, sir, like you ought to.” Morris stood, pulled on his jacket and picked up his hat and sword. “You think I’d share your woman, Hakeswill?” The Captain shuddered. “And get your pox?” “Pox, sir? Me, sir?” Hakeswill stood. “Not me, sir. Clean as a whistle, I am, sir. Cured, sir. Mercury.” His face twitched. “Ask the surgeon, sir, he’ll tell you.” Morris hesitated, thinking of Mary Bickerstaff. He thought a great deal about Mary Bickerstaff. Her beauty ensured that, and men on campaign were deprived of beauty and so Mary’s allure only increased with every mile the army marched westward. Morris was not alone. On the night when Mary’s husband had died, the 33rd’s officers, at least those who had a mind for such games, had wagered which of them would first take the widow to their bed and so far none of them had succeeded. Morris wanted to ...

the fact that he was no common soldier. As for the Tippoo,