Over they rode.

Garratt got down to spy the approaches. The tree was too spiny to climb into, but the trunk was cover enough to lean against, to steady the aim, and the grass was so poor that naught but a mouse would be able to get within twenty yards without being seen. It would do very well. He turned on his heel and slapped his thigh as if overcoming a great dispute. But Corporal Simpson had a knife out.

‘The deuce! Leave the blasted goat be. It can’t possibly stink more dead than alive. Tie it to the tree, Simpson.’

‘Sir.’

It would also have the merit of being fresher meat on return to barracks, but that was a lesser consideration. Garratt told the syce to put away his knife too: ‘Unlike Abraham, I’ll spare the goat also.’

‘Accha, sahib.’ He hadn’t the faintest idea what the major meant by ‘Abraham’, but he’d no objection to leaving the goatskin where it was for the moment.

‘That were a ram, though, weren’t it, sir? This ’un’s a she-goat.’

‘Admirable knowledge of scripture, Corporal. I shall commend you as a reader to the chaplain.’

Simpson could only hope the major was in jest – he’d said it with some asperity – and set about tethering the bait.

‘When you’re done,’ he continued, indicating a clump of bamboo fifty yards towards the village, ‘take Askew’s horse with you yonder, and field at Long-stop.’

Cricket – another of the major’s passions. Simpson wondered if Askew was to be batsman or wicket-keeper, but it wasn’t the time to try the major’s humour. Besides, though Askew was a prisoner, a man under sentence, he saw no reason to add to the dragoon’s disquiet. ‘Sir.’

‘And Private Askew …’ added Garratt, beckoning the syce to remount, and gathering up his reins.

‘Sir?’

‘Screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail.’

‘Sir.’

The Bible, cricket, and now Shakespeare – officers. Corporal Simpson sighed to himself. He’d certainly have plenty for the wet canteen’s hearing later that night – if he ever saw it again.

Garratt now withdrew to his vidette post, as he put it, except that for several minutes he was undecided whether or not he could remain mounted. A shot from the saddle was always perilous, but at least he’d be able to see his quarry. From the ground it was uncertain, and his aim would be unsupported anyway, though he might risk resting on the saddle if his horse was quiet. If he lay down he’d see no further than the end of his rifle.

In the end he decided to stay astride. Without line of sight, all effort would be to no avail; he was the best of shots, so the risk at least was as small as may be. The syce sat down nearby with his reins over his shoulder and began cleaning his old Company blunderbuss. It had killed many a meal and many a man, though never a tiger. What would be the point? Its shot made so great a mess that no sahib would ever buy the skin.