Sharpe's Triumph

by Bernard Cornwell

  "You could watch from there, and I credit no British soldier will come near you."

  "I could not bear to watch a slaughter, Major," Simone had said feelingly.

  "Your squeamishness does you credit, Ma'am," Dodd had answered.

  "War is man's work." It was then that Dodd had spotted the British soldiers on the opposite bank and had trained his telescope on the distant men. Simone, knowing now where to look, rested the glass on her husband's shoulder and trained its lens on the far hill. She could see two men there, one in a cocked hat and the other in a shako. Both were keeping low.

  "Why are they so far down the river?" she asked.

  "They're looking for a way round our flank," Dodd said.

  "Is there one?"

  "No. They must cross here, Ma'am, or else they don't cross at all."

  Dodd gestured at the fords in front of the compoo. A band of cavalrymen was galloping through the shallow water, spraying silver from their horses' hooves as they crossed to the Kaitna's south bank.

  "And those horsemen," Dodd explained, 'are going to see whether they will cross or not."

  Simone collapsed the telescope and handed it back to the Major.

  "They might not attack?"

  "They won't," her husband answered in English for Dodd's benefit.

  "They have too much sense."

  "Boy Wellesley don't have sense," Dodd said scathingly.

  "Look how he attacked at Ahmednuggur? Straight at the wall! A hundred rupees says he will attack."

  Captain Joubert shook his head. 'I do not gamble, Major."

  "A soldier should relish risk," Dodd said.

  "And if they don't cross," Simone asked, 'there is no battle?"

  "There'll be a battle, Ma'am," Dodd said grimly.

  "Pohlmann's gone to fetch Scindia's permission for us to cross the river. If they won't come to us, we'll go to them."

  Pohlmann had indeed gone to find Scindia. The Hanoverian had dressed for battle, donning his finest coat, which was a blue silk jacket, trimmed in scarlet and decorated with loops of gold braid and black aiguillettes. He wore a white silk sash on which was blazoned a star of diamonds and from which hung a gold-hiked sword, though Dupont, the Dutchman, who accompanied Pohlmann to meet Scindia, noted that the Colonel's breeches and boots were old and shabby.

  "I wear them for luck," Pohlmann said, noting Dupont's puzzled glance at his decrepit breeches.

  "They're from my old East India Company uniform." The Hanoverian was in a fine mood. His short march eastwards had achieved all he had desired, for it had brought one of the two small British armies into his lap while it was still far away from the other.

  All he needed to do now was snap it up like a minnow, then march on Stevenson's force, but Scindia had been insistent that no infantry were to cross the Kaitna's fords without his permission and Pohlmann now needed that permission. The Hanoverian did not plan to cross immediately, for first he wanted to be certain that the British were retreating, but nor did he wish to wait for permission once he heard news of the enemy's withdrawal.

  "Our lord and master will be scared at the thought of attacking,"

  Pohlmann told Dupont, 'so we'll flatter the bugger. Slap on the ghee with a shovel, Dupont. Tell him he'll be lord of all India if he lets us loose."

  "Tell him there are a hundred white women in Wellesley's camp and he'll lead the attack himself," Dupont observed drily.

  "Then that is what we shall tell him," Pohlmann said, 'and promise him that every little darling will be his concubine."

  Except that when Pohlmann and Dupont reached the tree-shaded stretch of ground above the River Juah where the Maharajah of Gwalior had been awaiting his army's victory, there was no sign of his lavish tents.

  They had been struck, all of them, together with the striped tents of the Rajah of Berar, and all that remained were the cook tents that even now were being collapsed and folded onto the beds of a dozen ox carts.

  All the elephants but one were gone, the horses of the royal bodyguards were gone, the concubines were gone and the two princes were gone.

  The one remaining elephant belonged to Surjee Rao and that minister, ensconced in his howdah where he was being fanned by a servant, smiled benevolently down on the two sweating and red-faced Europeans.

  "His Serene Majesty deemed it safer to withdraw westwards," he explained airily, 'and the Rajah of Berar agreed with him."

  "They did what?" Pohlmann snarled.

  "The omens," Surjee Rao said vaguely, waving a bejewelled hand to indicate that the subtleties of such supernatural messages would be beyond Pohlmann's comprehension.

  "The bloody omens are propitious!" Pohlmann insisted.

  "We've got the buggers by the balls! What more omens can you want?"

  Surjee Rao smiled.

  "His Majesty has sublime confidence in your skill, Colonel."

  "To do what?" the Hanoverian demanded.

  "Whatever is necessary," Surjee Rao said, then smiled.

  "We shall wait in Borkardan for news of your triumph, Colonel, and eagerly anticipate seeing the banners of our enemies heaped in triumph at the foot of

  His Serene Majesty's throne." And with that hope expressed he snapped his fingers and the mahout prodded the elephant which lumbered away westwards.

  "Bastards," Pohlmann said to Dupont, loudly enough for the retreating minister to hear.

  "Lily-livered bastards! Cowards!" Not that he cared whether Scindia and the Rajah of Berar were present at the battle; indeed, given the choice, he would much prefer to fight without them, but that was not true of his men who, like all soldiers, fought better when their rulers were watching, and so Pohlmann was angry for his men.

  Yet, he consoled himself as he returned southwards, they would still fight well. Pride would see to that, and confidence, and the promise of plunder.

  And Surjee Rao's final words, Pohlmann decided, had been more than enough to give him permission to cross the River Kaitna. He had been told to do whatever was necessary, and Pohlmann reckoned that gave him a free hand, so he would give Scindia a victory even if the yellow bastard did not deserve it.

  Pohlmann and Dupont cantered back to the left of the line where they saw that Major Dodd had called his men out from the shade of the trees and into their ranks. The sight suggested that the enemy was approaching the Kaitna and Pohlmann spurred his horse into a gallop, clamping one hand onto his extravagantly plumed hat to stop it falling off. He slewed to a stop just short of Dodd's regiment and stared above their heads across the river.

  The enemy had come, except this enemy was merely a long line of cavalrymen with two small horse-drawn galloper guns. It was a screen, of course. A screen of British and Indian horsemen intended to stop his own patrols from discovering what was happening in the hidden country beyond.

  "Any sign of their infantry?" he called to Dodd.

  "None, sir."

  "The buggers are running!" Pohlmann exulted.

  "That's why they've put up a screen." He suddenly noticed Simone Joubert and hastily took off his feathered hat.

  "My apologies for my language, Madame." He put his hat back on and twisted his horse about.

  "Harness the guns!" he shouted.

  "What is happening?" Simone asked anxiously.

  "We're crossing the river," her husband said quietly, 'and you must go back to Assaye."

  Simone knew she must say something loving to him, for was that not expected of a wife at a moment such as this?

  "I shall pray for you," she said shyly.

  "Go back to Assaye," her husband said again, noting that she had not given him any love, 'and stay there till it is all over."

  It would not take long. The guns needed to be attached to their limbers, but the infantry were ready to march and the cavalry were eager to begin their pursuit. The existence of the British cavalry screen suggested that Wellesley must be withdrawing, so all Pohlmann needed to do was cross the river and then crush the enemy. Dodd drew his e
lephant-hilted sword, felt its newly honed edge and waited for the orders to begin the slaughter.

  The Mahratta cavalry pursued Wellesley's party the moment they saw that the General was retreating from his observation post above the river.

  "We must look to ourselves, gentlemen!" Wellesley had called and driven back his heels so that Diomed had sprung ahead. The other horsemen matched his pace, but Sharpe, on his small captured Mahratta horse, could not keep up. He had mounted in a hurry, and in his haste he could not fit his right boot into the stirrup and the horse's jolting motion made it all the more difficult, but he dared not curb the beast for he could hear the enemy's shouts and the beat of their hooves not far behind. For a few moments he was in a panic. The thud of the pursuing hooves grew louder, he could see his companions drawing ever farther ahead of him and his horse was blowing hard and trying to resist the frantic kicks he gave, and each kick threatened to unseat him so that he clung to the saddle's pommel and still his right boot would not find the stirrup. Sevajee, racing free on the right flank, saw his predicament and curved back towards him.

  "You're not a horseman, Sergeant."

  "Never bloody was, sir. Hate the bloody things."

  "A warrior and his horse, Sergeant, are like a man and a woman,"

  Sevajee said, leaning over and pushing the stirrup iron onto Sharpe's boot. He did it without once checking his own horse's furious pace, then he slapped Sharpe's small mare on the rump and she took off like one of the enemy's rockets, almost tipping Sharpe backwards.

  Sharpe clung on to the pommel, while his musket, which was hanging by its sling from his left elbow, banged and thumped his thigh. His shako blew off and he had no time to rescue it, but then a trumpet sounded off to his right and he saw a stream of British cavalrymen riding to head off the pursuit. Still more cavalrymen were spurring north from Naulniah and Wellesley, as he passed them, urged them on towards the Kaitna.

  "Thank you, sir," Sharpe said to Sevajee.

  "You should learn horsemanship."

  "I'll stay a foot soldier, sir. Safer. Don't like sitting on things with hooves and teeth."

  Sevajee laughed. Wellesley had slowed now and was patting the neck of his horse, but the brief pursuit had only increased his high spirits.

  He turned Diomed to watch the Mahratta cavalry spur away.

  "A good omen!" he said happily.

  'For what, sir?" Sevajee asked.

  Wellesley heard the Indian's sceptical tone.

  "You don't think we should give battle?"

  Sevajee shrugged, seeking some tactful way of expressing his disagreement with Wellesley's decision.

  "The battle isn't always to the largest army, sir."

  "Always, no," Wellesley said, 'but usually, yes? You think I am being impetuous?" Sevajee refused to be drawn and simply shrugged again in answer.

  "We shall see, we shall see," the General said.

  "Their army looks fine, I grant you, but once we break the regular compoos, the others will run."

  "I do hope so, sir."

  "Depend on it," Wellesley said, then spurred on.

  Sharpe looked at Sevajee.

  "Are we mad to fight, sir?"

  "Quite mad," Sevajee said, 'completely mad. But maybe there's no choice."

  "No choice?"

  "We blundered, Sergeant. We marched too far and came too close to the enemy, so either we attack him or run away from him, and either way we have to fight. By attacking him we just make the fight shorter." He twisted in the saddle and pointed towards the now hidden Kaitna.

  "Do you know what's beyond that river?"

  "No, sir."

  "Another river, Sharpe, and they meet just a couple of miles downstream' he pointed eastwards towards the place where the waters met 'and if we cross that ford we shall find ourselves on a tongue of land and the only way out is forward, through a hundred thousand

  Mahrattas. Death on one side and water on the other." Sevajee laughed.

  "Blundering, Sergeant, blundering!"

  But if Wellesley had blundered he was still in high spirits. Once back at Naulniah he ordered Diomed unsaddled and rubbed down, then began issuing commands. The army's baggage would stay at Naulniah, dragged into the village's alleyways which were to be barricaded so that no marauding Mahratta cavalry could plunder the wagons which would be guarded by the smallest battalion of sepoys. McCandless heard that order given, understood its necessity, but groaned aloud when he realized that almost five hundred infantrymen were thus being shorn from the attacking army.

  The cavalry that remained in Naulniah were ordered to saddle their horses and ride to the Kaitna, there to form a screen on the southern bank, while the tired infantry, who had marched all morning, were now rousted from their tents and chivvied into ranks.

  "No packs!" the sergeants called.

  "Firelocks and cartridge boxes only. No packs! Off to a Sunday battle, lads! Save your bleeding prayers and hurry up! Come on, Johnny, boots on, lad! There's a horde of heathens to kill. Look lively, now! Wake yourselves up! On your feet!"

  The picquets of the day, composed of a half company from each of the army's seven battalions, marched first. They splashed through the small river north of Naulniah and were met on its far bank by one of the General's aides who guided them onto the farm track that led to Peepulgaon. The picquets were followed by the King's 74th accompanied by their battalion artillery, while behind them came the second battalion of the 12th Madras Regiment, the first battalion of the 4th Madras, the first of the 78th Madras and the first of the 10th Madras, and lastly the kilted Highlanders of the King's 778th. Six battalions crossed the river and followed the beaten-earth track between fields of millet beneath the furnace of an Indian sun. No enemy was visible as they marched, though rumour said the whole of the Mahratta army was not far away.

  Two guns fired around one o'clock. The sound was flat and hard, echoing across the heat-shimmering land, but the infantry could see nothing. The sound came from their left, and the battalion officers said there was cavalry somewhere out there, and that doubtless meant that the cavalry's light galloper guns had engaged the enemy, or else the enemy had brought cannon to face the British cavalry, but the fighting did not seem to be ominous for there was silence after the two shots. McCandless, his nerves strung by the disaster he feared was imminent, galloped Aeolus a few yards westwards as if wanting to find an explanation for the two gunshots, but then he thought better of it and turned his horse back to the road.

  More cannon fire sounded a few moments later, but there was nothing urgent in the distant shots which were monotonous, flat and sporadic.

  If battle had been brewing to the boil the gunshots would have sounded hard and fast, but these shots were almost lackadaisical, as though the gunners were merely practising on Aldershot Heath on a lazy summer's day.

  "Their guns or ours, sir?" Sharpe asked McCandless.

  "Ours, I suspect," the Scotsman said.

  "Cavalry galloper guns keeping the enemy horse on their toes." He tugged on Aeolus's rein, moving the gelding out of the path of sixty sepoy pioneers who were doubling down the road's left verge with pick-axes and shovels on their shoulders.

  The pioneers' task was to reach the Kaitna and make certain that its banks were not too steep for the ox-drawn artillery. Wellesley cantered after the pioneers, riding to the head of the column and trailing a succession of aides. McCandless joined the General's party and Sharpe kicked his horse alongside Daniel Fletcher who was mounted on a big roan mare and leading an unsaddled Diomed by a long rein.

  "He'll want him when the bay's tired," Fletcher told Sharpe, nodding ahead at Wellesley who was now riding a tall bay stallion.

  "And the mare's in case both horses get shot," he added, slapping the rump of the horse he rode.

  "So what do you do?" Sharpe asked the dragoon.

  "Just stay close until he wants to change horses and keep him from getting thirsty," Fletcher said. He carried no less than five water canteens on his
belt, bulked over a heavy sabre in a metal scabbard, the first time Sharpe had ever seen the orderly carrying a weapon.

  "Vicious thing, that," Fletcher said when he saw Sharpe glance at the weapon, 'a good wide blade, perfect for slicing."

  "Ever used it?" Sharpe asked.

  "Against Dhoondiah," Fletcher answered. Dhoondiah had been a bandit chieftain whose depredations in Mysore had finally persuaded Wellesley to pursue him with cavalry. The resultant battle had been a short clash of horsemen that had been won in moments by the British.

  "And I killed a goat with it for the General's supper a week ago,"

  Fletcher continued, drawing the heavy curved blade, 'and I think the poor bugger died of fright when it saw the blade coming. Took its head clean off, it did. Look at this, Sergeant." He handed the blade to Sharpe.

  "See what it says there? Just above the hilt?"

  Sharpe tipped the sabre to the sun. '"Warranted Never to Fail"," he read aloud. He grinned, for the boast seemed oddly out of place on a thing designed to kill or maim.

  "Made in Sheffield," Fletcher said, taking the blade back, 'and guaranteed never to fail! Good slicer this is, real good. You can cut a man in half with one of these if you get the stroke right."

  Sharpe grinned.

  "I'll stick with a musket."

  "Not on horseback, you won't, Sergeant," Fletcher said.

  "A firelock's no good on horseback. You want a blade."

  "Never learned to use one," Sharpe said.

  "It ain't difficult," Fletcher said with the scorn of a man who had mastered a difficult trade.

  "Keep your arm straight and use the point when you're fighting cavalry, because if you bend the elbow the bastards will chop through your wrist as sure as eggs, and slash away like a haymaker at infantry because there ain't bugger all they can do back to you, not once they're on the run. Not that you could use any kind of sword off the back of that horse." He nodded at Sharpe's small native beast.

  "It's more like an overgrown dog, that is. Does it fetch?"

  The road reached the high point between the two rivers and Fletcher, mounted high on the General's mare, caught his first glimpse of the enemy army on the distant northern bank of the Kaitna. He whistled softly.