Sharpe's Triumph: Richard Sharpe and the Battle of Assaye, September 1803

by Bernard Cornwell

  Hakeswill turned savagely on the private. “And since when, Private Lowry, did you dispose of soldiery? The Duke of York has made you an officer, has he? His Grace put braid on your coat without telling me, did he? What Sharpie did is no business of yours, Lowry.” The Sergeant was in trouble, and he knew it, but he was not broken yet. He turned and stared at McCandless who had given the horse to a dismounted officer and was now in deep conversation with Colonel Wallace. The two men glanced towards Hakeswill and the Sergeant guessed they were discussing him. “We follows that Scotchman,” Hakeswill said, “and this is for the man who puts him under the sod.” He fished a gold coin from his pocket and showed it to his six privates.

  The privates stared solemnly at the coin, then, all at once, they ducked as a cannonball screamed low over their heads. Hakeswill swore and dropped flat. Another gun sounded, and this time a barrelful of canister flecked the grass just south of Hakeswill.

  Colonel Wallace had been listening to McCandless, but now turned eastwards. Not all the gunners in the Mahratta line had been killed and those who survived, together with the cavalry which had been looking for employment, were now manning their guns again. They had turned the guns to face west instead of east and were now firing at the five regiments who were waiting for the battle to begin again. Except the gunners had surprised them, and the captured British guns, fetched from the east, now joined the battery to pour their shot, shell and canister into the red-coated infantry. They fired at three hundred paces, point-blank range, and their missiles tore bloodily through the ranks.

  For the Mahrattas, it seemed, were not beaten yet.

  William Dodd could smell victory. He could almost feel the sheen of the captured silk colors in his hands, and all it would take was two blasts of canister, a mucky slaughter with bayonets, and then the 74th would be destroyed. Horse Guards in London could cross the first battalion of the regiment off the army list, all of it, and mark down that it had been sacrificed to William Dodd’s talent. He snarled at his gunners to load their home-made canister, watched as the loaders rammed the missiles home, and then the trumpet sounded.

  The British and Company cavalry had been posted in the northern half of the battlefield to guard against enemy horsemen sweeping about the infantry’s rear, but now they came to the 74th’s rescue. The 19th Dragoons emerged from the gully behind the Highlanders and their charge curved northwards out of the low ground towards the 74th and the village beyond. The troopers were mostly recruits from the English shires, young men brought up to know horses and made strong by farm work, and they all carried the new light cavalry saber that was warranted never to fail. Nor did it.

  They struck the Mahratta horse first. The English riders were outnumbered, but they rode bigger horses and their blades were better made, and they cut through the cavalry with a maniacal savagery. It was hacking work, brutal work, screaming and fast work, and the Mahrattas turned their lighter horses away from the bloody sabers and fled northwards, and once the enemy horsemen were killed or fleeing, the British cavalry raked back their spurs and charged at the Mahratta infantry.

  They struck the battalion from Dupont’s compoo first, and because those men were not prepared for cavalry, but were still in line, it was more an execution than a fight. The cavalry were mounted on tall horses, and every man had spent hours of saber drill learning how to cut, thrust and parry, but all they had to do now was slash with their heavy, wide-bladed weapons that were designed for just such butchery. Slash and hack, scream and spur, then push on through panicking men whose only thought was flight. The sabers made dreadful injuries, the weight of the blade gave the weapons a deep bite and the curve of the steel dragged the newly sharpened edges back through flesh and muscle and bone to lengthen the wound.

  Some Mahratta cavalry bravely tried to stem the charge, but their light tulwars were no match for Sheffield steel. The 74th were standing and cheering as they watched the English horsemen carve into the enemy who had come so terribly close, and behind the Englishmen rode Company cavalry, Indians on smaller horses, some carrying lances, who spread the attack wider to drive the broken Mahratta horsemen northwards.

  Dodd did not panic. He knew he had lost this skirmish, but the helpless mass of Dupont’s battalion was protecting his right flank and those doomed men gave Dodd the few seconds he needed. “Back,” he shouted, “back!” and he needed no interpreter now. The Cobras hurried back towards the cactus-thorn hedge. They did not run, they did not break ranks, but stepped swiftly backwards to leave the enemy’s horse room to sweep across their front, and, as the horsemen passed, those of Dodd’s men who still had loaded muskets fired. Horses stumbled and fell, riders sprawled, and still the Cobras went backwards.

  But the regiment was still in line and Dupont’s panicked infantry were now pushing their way into Dodd’s right-hand companies, and the second rank of dragoons rode in among that chaos to slash their sabers down onto the white-coated men. Dodd shouted at his men to form square, and they obeyed, but the two right-hand companies had been reduced to ragged ruin and their survivors never joined the square which was so hastily made that it was more of a huddle than an ordered formation. Some of the fugitives from the two doomed companies tried to join their comrades in the square, but the horsemen were among them and Dodd shouted at the square to fire. The volley cut down his own men with the enemy, but it served to drive the horsemen away and so gave Dodd time to send his men back through the hedge and still further back to where they had first waited for the British attack. The Rajah of Berar’s infantry, who had been on Dodd’s left, had escaped more lightly, but none had stayed to fight. Instead they ran back to Assaye’s mud walls. The gunners by the village saw the cavalry coming and fired canister, killing more of their own fugitives than enemy cavalry, but the brief cannonade at least signaled to the dragoons that the village was defended and dangerous.

  The storm of cavalry passed northwards, leaving misery in its wake. The two four-pounder cannon that Joubert had taken forward were abandoned now, their teams killed by the horsemen, and where the 74th had been there was now nothing but an empty enclosure of dead men and horses that had formed the barricade. The survivors of the beleaguered square had withdrawn eastwards, carrying their wounded with them, and it seemed to Dodd that a sudden silence had wrapped about the Cobras. It was not a true silence, for the guns had started firing again on the southern half of the battlefield, the distant sound of hooves was neverending and the moaning of the nearby wounded was loud, but it did seem quiet.

  Dodd spurred his horse southwards in an attempt to make some sense of the battle. Dupont’s compoo next to him had lost one regiment to the sabers, but the next three regiments were intact and the Dutchman was now turning those units to face southwards. Dodd could see Pohlmann riding along the back of those wheeling regiments and he suspected that the Hanoverian would now turn his whole line to face south. The British had broken the far end of the line, but they had still not broken the army.

  Yet the possibility of annihilation existed. Dodd fidgeted with the elephant hilt of his sword and contemplated what less than an hour before had seemed an impossibility: defeat. God damn Wellesley, he thought, but this was no time for anger, just for calculation. Dodd could not afford to be captured and he had no mind to die for Scindia and so he must secure his line of retreat. He would fight to the end, he decided, then run like the wind. “Captain Joubert?”

  The long-suffering Joubert trotted his horse to Dodd’s side. “Monsieur?”

  Dodd did not speak at once, for he was watching Pohlmann come nearer. It was clear now that the Hanoverian was making a new battle line, and one, moreover, that would lie to the west of Assaye with its back against the river. The regiments to Dodd’s right, which had yet to be attacked, were now pulling back and the guns were going with them. The whole line was being redeployed, and Dodd guessed the Cobras would move from the east side of the mud walls to the west, but that was no matter. The best ford across the Juah ran out of the village it
self, and it was that ford Dodd wanted. “Take two companies, Joubert,” he ordered, “and march them into the village to guard this side of the ford.”

  Joubert frowned. “The Rajah’s troops, surely . . .” he began to protest.

  “The Rajah of Berar’s troops are useless!” Dodd snapped. “If we need to use the ford, then I want it secured by our men. You secure it.” He jabbed at the Frenchman with a finger. “Is your wife in the village?”

  “Oui, Monsieur.”

  “Then now’s your chance to impress her, Monsewer. Go and protect her. And make sure the damn ford isn’t captured or clogged up with fugitives.”

  Joubert was not unhappy to be sent away from the fighting, but he was dismayed by Dodd’s evident defeatism. Nevertheless he took two companies, marched into the village, and posted his men to guard the ford so that if all was lost, there would still be a way out.

  Wellesley had ridden north to investigate the furious fighting that had erupted close to the village of Assaye. He rode with a half-dozen aides and with Sharpe trailing behind on the last of the General’s horses, the roan mare. It was a furious ride, for the area east of the infantry was infested with Mahratta horsemen, but the General had faith in the size and speed of his big English and Irish horses and the enemy was easily outgalloped. Wellesley came within sight of the beleaguered 74th just as the dragoons crashed in on their besiegers from the south. “Well done, Maxwell!” Wellesley shouted aloud, though he was far out of earshot of the cavalry’s leader, and then he curbed his horse to watch the dragoons at work.

  The mass of the Mahratta horsemen who had been waiting for the 74th’s square to collapse, now fled northwards and the British cavalry, having hacked the best part of an enemy infantry regiment into ruin, pursued them. The cavalry’s good order was gone now, for the blue-coated troopers were spurring their horses to chase their broken enemy across country. Men whooped like fox hunters, closed on their quarry, slashed with saber, then spurred on to the next victim. The Mahratta horsemen were not even checked by the River Juah, but just plunged in and spurred their horses through the water and up the northern bank. The British and Indian cavalry followed so that the pursuit vanished in the north. The 74th, who had fought so hard to stay alive, now marched out of range of the cannon by the village and Wellesley, who had smelled disaster just a few minutes before, breathed a great sigh of relief. “I told them to stay clear of the village, did I not?” he demanded of his aides, but before anyone could answer, new cannon fire sounded from the south. “What the devil?” Wellesley said, turning to see what the gunfire meant.

  The remaining infantry of the Mahratta line were pulling back, taking their guns with them, but the artillery which had stood in front of the enemy’s defeated right wing, the same guns that had been overrun by the red-coated infantry, were now coming alive again. The weapons had been turned and were crashing back on their trails and jetting smoke from their muzzles, and behind the guns was a mass of enemy cavalry ready to protect the gunners who were flaying the five battalions that had defeated the enemy infantry. “Barclay?” Wellesley called.

  “Sir?” The aide spurred forward.

  “Can you reach Colonel Harness?”

  The aide looked at the southern part of the battlefield. A moment before it had been thick with Mahratta horsemen, but those men had now withdrawn behind the revived guns and there was a space in front of those guns, a horribly narrow space, but the only area of the battlefield that was now free of enemy cavalry. If Barclay was to reach Harness then he would have to risk that narrow passage and, if he was very lucky, he might even survive the canister. And dead or alive, Barclay thought, he would win the lottery of bullet holes in his coat. The aide took a deep breath. “Yes, sir.”

  “My compliments to Colonel Harness, and ask him to retake the guns with his Highlanders. The rest of his brigade will stay where they are to keep the cavalry at bay.” The General was referring to the mass of cavalry that still threatened from the west, none of which had yet entered the battle. “And my compliments to Colonel Wallace,” the General went on, “and his sepoy battalions are to move northwards, but are not to engage the enemy until I reach them. Go!” He waved Barclay away, then twisted in his saddle. “Campbell?”

  “Sir?”

  “Who’s that?” The General pointed eastwards to where one single cavalry unit had been left out of the charge that had rescued the 74th, presumably in case the dragoons had galloped into disaster and needed a rescue.

  Campbell peered at the distant unit. “7th Native Cavalry, sir.”

  “Fetch them. Quick now!” The General drew his sword as Campbell galloped away. “Well, gentlemen,” he said to his remaining aides, “time to earn our keep, I think. Harness can drive the wretches away from the southernmost guns, but we shall have to take care of the nearer ones.” For a moment Sharpe thought the General planned to charge the guns with just the handful of men who remained with him, then he realized Wellesley was waiting for the 7th Native Cavalry to arrive. For a few seconds Wellesley had considered summoning the survivors of the 74th, but those men, who had retreated back across the gully, were still recovering from their ordeal. They were collecting their wounded, taking the roll call and reorganizing ten broken companies into six. The 7th Native Cavalry would have to beat down the guns and Campbell brought them across the battlefield, then led their commanding officer, a red-faced major with a bristling mustache, to Wellesley’s side. “I need to reach our infantry, Major,” the General explained, “and you’re going to escort me to them, and the quickest way is through their gun line.”

  The Major gaped at the guns with their crowd of attendant cavalry. “Yes, sir,” he said nervously.

  “Two lines, if you please,” the General ordered brusquely. “You will command the first line and drive off the cavalry. I shall ride in the second and kill the gunners.”

  “You’ll kill the gunners, sir?” the Major asked, as though he found that idea novel, then he realized his question was dangerously close to insubordination. “Yes, sir,” he said hurriedly, “of course, sir.” The Major stared at the gun line again. He would be charging the line’s flank, so at least no gun would be pointing at his men. The greater danger was the mass of Mahratta cavalry that had gathered behind the guns and which far outnumbered his troopers, but then, sensing Wellesley’s impatience, he spurred his horse back to his men and shouted at his troopers. “Two lines by the right!” The Major commanded a hundred and eighty men and Sharpe saw them grin as they drew their sabers and spurred their horses into formation.

  “Ever been in a cavalry charge, Sergeant?” Campbell asked Sharpe.

  “No, sir. Never wanted to be, sir.”

  “Nor me. Should be interesting.” Campbell had his claymore drawn and he gave the huge sword a cut in the air which almost took his horse’s ears off. “You might find it more enjoyable, Sergeant,” he said helpfully, “if you drew your saber.”

  “Of course, sir,” Sharpe said, feeling foolish. He had somehow imagined that his first battle would be spent in an infantry battalion, firing and reloading as he had been trained to do, but instead it seemed that he was to fight as a cavalry trooper. He drew the heavy weapon which felt unnatural in his hand, but then this whole battle seemed unnatural. It swung from moments of bowel-loosening terror to sudden calm, then back to terror again. It also ebbed and flowed, flaring in one part of the field, then dying down as the tide of killing passed to another patch of dun-colored farmland.

  “And our job is to kill the gunners,” Campbell explained, “to make sure they don’t fire at us again. We’ll let the experts look after their cavalry and we just slaughter whatever they leave us. Simple.”

  Simple? All Sharpe could see was a mass of enemy horsemen behind the huge guns that were bucking and rearing as they crashed out smoke, flame and death, and Campbell thought it was easy? Then he realized that the young Scots officer was just trying to reassure him, and he felt grateful. Campbell was watching Captain Barclay ride thr
ough the artillery barrage. It seemed the Captain must be killed, for he went so close to the Mahratta guns that at one point his horse vanished in a cloud of powder smoke, but a moment later he reappeared, low in his saddle, his horse galloping, and Campbell cheered when he saw Barclay swerve away towards Harness’s brigade.

  “A canteen, Sergeant, if you please?” Wellesley demanded, and Sharpe, who had been watching Barclay, fumbled to loosen one of the canteen straps. He gave the water to the General, then opened his own canteen and drank from it. Sweat was pouring down his face and soaking his shirt. Wellesley drank half the water, stoppered it and gave the canteen back, then trotted his horse into a gap in the right-hand side of the second line of the cavalry. The General drew his slim sword. The other aides also found places in the line, but there seemed no space for Sharpe and so he positioned himself a few yards behind the General. “Go!” Wellesley shouted to the Major.

  “Forward line, by the center,” the Major shouted. “Walk! March!”

  It seemed an odd order, for Sharpe had expected the two lines to start at the gallop, but instead the leading line of horsemen set off at a walk and the second line just waited. Leaving the wide gap made sense to Sharpe, for if the second line was too close to the first then it could get entangled with whatever carnage the leading line made, whereas if there was a good distance between the two lines then there was space for the second to swerve around obstacles, but even so, walking a horse into battle seemed idiocy to Sharpe. He licked his lips, already dry again, then wiped his sweaty hand on his trousers before regripping the saber’s hilt.

  “Now, gentlemen!” Wellesley said and the second line started forward at the same sedate pace as the first. Curb chains jingled and empty scabbards flapped. After a few seconds the Major in the first line called out an order and the two lines went into the trot. Dust swirled away from the hooves. The troopers’ black hats had tall scarlet plumes that tossed prettily, while their curved sabers flashed with reflected sunlight. Wellesley spoke to Blackiston beside him and Sharpe saw the Major laugh, then the trumpeter beside the Major blew a call and the twin lines went into the canter. Sharpe tried to keep up, but he was a bad rider and the mare kept swerving aside and tossing her head. “Keep going!” Sharpe snarled at her. The Mahrattas had seen the attack coming now and the gunners were desperately trying to lever the northernmost gun about to face the threat while a mass of enemy cavalrymen was spurring forward to confront the charge.