The interpreter had listened to this exchange and stared appalled at the tall Englishman. “But, sir . . .” he began to plead.
“The city’s lost,” Dodd growled, “and the second rule of war is not to reinforce failure.”
The interpreter wondered what the first rule was, but knew this was not the time to ask. “But the killadar, sir . . .”
“Is a lily-livered mouse and we are men. Our orders are to save the regiment so it can fight again. Now, go!”
Dodd saw the first redcoats burst out of the inner door of the bastion, heard the Arab volley that threw some of the attackers down into the bloodied dust, but then he turned away from the fight and followed his men into the city’s streets. It went against the grain to abandon a fight, but Dodd knew his duty. The city might die, but the regiment must live. Captain Joubert should be holding the north gate safe where Dodd’s guns waited, and where his own saddle horses and pack mule were ready, and so he called for his other French officer, the young Lieutenant Sillière, and told him to take a dozen men to rescue Simone Joubert from the panic that he knew was about to engulf the city. Dodd had rather hoped he could fetch Simone himself, posing as her protector, but he knew that the fall of the city was imminent and there would be no time for such gallantries. “Bring her safe, Lieutenant.”
“Of course, sir,” Sillière said and, glad to be given such a duty, he ordered a dozen men to follow him into the alleys.
Dodd gave one backward glance towards the south, then marched away from the fight. There was nothing for him here but failure. It was time to go north, for it was there, Dodd knew, beyond the wide rivers and among the far hills and a long way from their supplies, that the British would be lured to their deaths.
But Ahmednuggur, and everything inside it, was doomed.
CHAPTER 4
Sharpe followed McCandless into the gatehouse’s high archway, using the weight of his mare to push through the sepoys and Highlanders who jostled in the narrow roadway that was still half blocked by the six-pounder cannon. The mare shied from the thick powder smoke that hung in the air between the scorched and smoking remnants of the two gates and Sharpe, gripping the mane to keep in the saddle, kicked his heels back so that the horse shot forward and trampled through the fly-blown intestines of the sepoy who had been struck in the belly by the six-pound shot. He hauled on the reins, checking the mare’s fright among the sprawled bodies of the Arabs who had died trying to defend the gate. The fight here had been short and brutal, but there was no resistance left in the city by the time Sharpe caught up with McCandless who was staring in disapproval at the victorious redcoats who hurried into Ahmednuggur’s alleyways. The first screams were sounding. “Women and drink,” McCandless said disapprovingly. “That’s all they’ll be thinking of, women and drink.”
“Loot, too, sir,” Sharpe corrected the Scotsman. “It’s a wicked world, sir,” he added hastily, wishing he could be let off the leash himself to join the plunderers. Sevajee and his men were through the gate now, wheeling their horses behind Sharpe, who glanced up at the walls to see, with some surprise, that many of the city’s defenders were still on the firestep, though they were making no effort to fire at the red-coated enemy who flooded through the broken gate. “So what do we do, sir?” he asked.
McCandless, usually so sure of himself, seemed at a momentary loss, but then he saw a wounded Mahratta crawling across the cleared space inside the wall and, throwing his reins to Sharpe, he dismounted and crossed to the casualty. He helped the wounded man into the shelter of a doorway and there propped him against a wall and gave him a drink from his canteen. He spoke to the wounded man for a few seconds. Sevajee, his tulwar still drawn, came alongside Sharpe. “First we kill them, then we give them water,” the Indian said.
“Funny business, war, sir,” Sharpe said.
“Do you enjoy it?” Sevajee asked.
“Don’t rightly know, sir. Haven’t seen much.” A short skirmish in Flanders, the swift victory of Malavelly, the chaos at the fall of Seringapatam, the horror of Chasalgaon and today’s fierce escalade; that was Sharpe’s full experience of war and he harbored all the memories and tried to work out from them some pattern that would tell him how he would react when the next violence erupted in his life. He thought he enjoyed it, but he was dimly aware that perhaps he ought not to enjoy it. “You, sir?” he asked Sevajee.
“I love it, Sergeant,” the Indian said simply.
“You’ve never been wounded?” Sharpe guessed.
“Twice. But a gambler does not stop throwing dice because he loses.”
McCandless came running back from the wounded man. “Dodd’s heading for the north gate!”
“This way,” Sevajee said, sawing his reins and leading his cut-throats off to the right where he reckoned they would avoid the press of panicked people crowding the center of the city.
“That wounded man was the killadar,” McCandless said as he fiddled his left boot into the stirrup, then hauled himself into the saddle. “Dying, poor fellow. Took a bullet in the stomach.”
“Their chief man, eh?” Sharpe said, looking up at the gatehouse where a Highlander was ripping down Scindia’s flags.
“And he was bitterly unhappy with our Lieutenant Dodd,” McCandless said as he spurred his horse after Sevajee. “It seems he deserted the defenses.”
“He’s in a hurry to get away, sir,” Sharpe suggested.
“Then let us hurry to stop him,” McCandless said, quickening his horse so that he could push through Sevajee’s men to reach the front ranks of the pursuers. Sevajee was using the alleyways beneath the eastern walls and for a time the narrow streets were comparatively empty, but then the crowds increased and their troubles began. A dog yapped at the heels of McCandless’s horse, making it rear, then a holy cow with blue painted horns wandered into their path and Sevajee insisted they wait for the beast, but McCandless angrily banged the cow’s bony rump with the flat of his claymore to drive it aside, then his horse shied again as a blast of musketry sounded just around the corner. A group of sepoys were shooting open a locked door, but McCandless could not spare the time to stop their depredations. “Wellesley will have to hang some of them,” he said, spurring on. Refugees were fleeing into the alleys, hammering on locked doors or scaling mud walls to find safety. A woman, carrying a vast bundle on her head, was knocked to the ground by a sepoy who began slashing at the bundle’s ropes with his bayonet. Two Arabs, both armed with massive matchlock guns with pearl-studded stocks, appeared ahead of them and Sharpe unslung his musket, but the two men were not disposed to continue a lost fight and so vanished into a gateway. The street was littered with discarded uniform jackets, some green, some blue, some brown, all thrown off by panicking defenders who now tried to pass themselves off as civilians. The crowds thickened as they neared the city’s northern edge and the air of panic here was palpable. Muskets sounded constantly in the city and every shot, like every scream, sent a shudder through the crowds that eddied in hopeless search of an escape.
McCandless was shouting at the crowds, and using the threat of his sword to make a passage. There were plenty of men in the streets who might have opposed the Colonel’s party, and some of those men still had weapons, but none made any threatening move. Ahmednuggur’s surviving defenders only wanted to live, while the civilians had been plunged into terror. A crowd had invaded a Hindu temple where the women swayed and wailed in front of their garlanded idols. A child carrying a birdcage scurried across the road and McCandless wrenched his horse aside to avoid trampling the toddler, and then a loud volley of musketry sounded close ahead. There was a pause, and Sharpe imagined the men tearing open new cartridges and ramming the bullets into their muzzles, and then, exactly at the moment he expected it, the second volley sounded. This was not the ragged noise of plundering men blasting open locked doors, but a disciplined infantry fight. “I warrant that fight’s at the north gate!” McCandless called back excitedly.
“Sounds heavy, sir,” Sh
arpe said.
“It’ll be panic, man, panic! We’ll just ride in and snatch the fellow!” McCandless, so close to his quarry, was elated. A third volley sounded, and this time Sharpe heard the musket balls smacking against mud walls or ripping through the thatched roofs. The crowds were suddenly thinner and McCandless drove back his spurs to urge his big gelding closer to the firefight. Sevajee was alongside him, tulwar shining, and his men just behind. The city walls were close to their right-hand side, and ahead, over a jumble of thatched and slate roofs, Sharpe could see a blue-and-green-striped flag flying over the ramparts of a square tower like the bastion that crowned the south gate. The tower had to be above the north gate, and he kicked his horse on and hauled back the cock of his musket.
The horsemen cleared the last buildings and the gate was now only thirty yards ahead on the far side of an open, paved space, but the moment McCandless saw the gate he wrenched his reins to swerve his horse aside. Sevajee did the same, but the men behind, Sharpe included, were too late. Sharpe had thought that the disciplined volleys must be being fired by redcoats or sepoys, but instead two companies of white-jacketed soldiers were barring the way to the gate and it was those men who were firing to keep the space around the gate clear for other white-coated companies who were marching in double-quick time to escape the city. The volleys were being fired indiscriminately at civilians, redcoats and fugitive defenders alike, their aim solely to keep the gate free for the white-coated companies that were under the command of an unnaturally tall man mounted on a gaunt black horse. And just as Sharpe saw the man, and recognized him, so the left-hand company aimed at the horsemen and fired.
A horse screamed. Blood spurted fast and warm over the cobbles as the beast fell, trapping its rider and breaking his leg. Another of Sevajee’s men was down, his tulwar ringing as it skittered across the stones. Sharpe heard the whistle of musket balls all about him and he tugged on the reins, wrenching the mare back towards the alley, but she protested his violence and turned back towards the enemy. He kicked her. “Move, you bitch!” he shouted. “Move!” He could hear ramrods rattling in barrels and he knew it would only be seconds before another volley came his way, but then McCandless was beside him and the Scotsman leaned over, seized Sharpe’s bridle and hauled him safely into the shelter of an alley.
“Thank you, sir,” Sharpe said. He had lost control of his horse and felt ashamed. The mare was quivering and he patted her neck just as Dodd’s next volley hammered its huge noise through the city. The balls thumped into the mud-brick walls, shattered tiles and tore handfuls out of the palm thatch. McCandless had dismounted, so Sharpe now kicked his feet from the stirrups, dropped from the saddle and ran to join the Colonel at the mouth of the alley. Once there, he looked for Dodd through the clearing smoke, found him and aimed the musket.
McCandless hurriedly pushed the musket down. “What are you doing, man?”
“Killing the bugger, sir,” Sharpe snarled, remembering the stench of blood at Chasalgaon.
“You’ll do no such thing, Sergeant,” McCandless growled. “I want him alive!”
Sharpe cursed, but did not shoot. Dodd, he saw, was very calm. He had caused another massacre here, but this time he had been killing Ahmednuggur’s civilians to prevent them from crowding the gateway, and his killers, the two white-coated companies, still stood guard on the gate even though the remaining companies had all vanished into the sunlit country beyond the archway’s long dark tunnel. So why were those two companies lingering? Why did Dodd not extricate them before the rampaging sepoys and Highlanders caught up with him? The ground ahead of the two rearguard companies was littered with dead and dying fugitives and a horrid number of those corpses and casualties were women and children, while more weeping and shrieking people, terrified by the volley fire and equally frightened of the invaders spreading into the city behind them, were crammed into every street or alley that opened onto the cleared space by the gate.
“Why doesn’t he leave?” McCandless wondered aloud.
“He’s waiting for something, sir,” Sharpe said.
“We need men,” McCandless said. “Go and fetch some. I’ll keep an eye on Dodd.”
“Me, sir? Fetch men?”
“You’re a sergeant, aren’t you?” McCandless snapped. “So behave like one. Get me an infantry company. Highlanders, preferably. Now go!”
Sharpe cursed under his breath, then sprinted back into the city. How the hell was he expected to find men? There were plenty of redcoats in sight, but none was under discipline, and demanding that looters abandon their plunder to go into another fight would like as not prove a waste of time if not downright suicidal. Sharpe needed to find an officer, and so he bullied his way through the terrified crowd in hope of discovering a company of Highlanders that was still obeying orders.
A splintering crash directly above his head made him duck into a doorway just seconds before a flimsy balcony collapsed under the weight of three sepoys and a dark wooden trunk they had dragged from a bedroom. The trunk split apart when it hit the street, spilling out a trickle of coins, and the three injured sepoys screamed as they were trampled by a rush of soldiers and civilians who plunged in to collect the loot. A tall Scottish sergeant used his musket butt to clear a space about the broken trunk, then knelt and began scooping the coins into his upturned bearskin. He snarled at Sharpe, thinking him a rival for the plunder, but Sharpe stepped over the Sergeant, tripped on the broken leg of one of the sepoys, and shoved on. Bloody chaos!
A half-naked girl ran out of a potter’s shop, then suddenly stopped as her unwinding sari jerked her to a halt. Two redcoats hauled her back towards the shop. The girl’s father, blood on his temple, was slumped just outside the doorway amidst the litter of his wares. The girl stared into Sharpe’s eyes and he saw her mute appeal, then the door of the shop was slammed shut and he heard the bar dropping into place. Whooping Highlanders had discovered a tavern and were setting up shop, while another Highlander was calmly reading his Bible while sitting on a brass-bound trunk he had pulled from a goldsmith’s shop. “It’s a fine day, Sergeant,” he said equably, though he took care to keep his hand on his musket until Sharpe had safely gone past.
Another woman screamed in an alley, and Sharpe instinctively headed towards the terrible sound. He discovered a riotous mob of sepoys fighting with a small squad of white-jacketed soldiers who had to be among the very last of the city’s defenders still in recognizable uniforms. They were led by a very young European officer who flailed a slender sword from his saddle, but just as Sharpe caught sight of him, the officer was caught from behind by a bayonet. He arched his back, and his mouth opened in a silent scream as his sword faltered, then a mass of dark hands reached up and hauled him down from his white-eyed horse. Bayonets plunged down, then the officer’s blood-soaked uniform was being rifled for money.
Beyond the dead officer, and also on horseback, was a woman. She was wearing European clothes and had a white net veil hanging from the brim of her straw hat, and it was her scream that Sharpe had heard. Her horse had been trapped against a wall and she was clinging to a roof beam that jutted just above her head. She was sitting side-saddle, facing the street and screaming as excited sepoys clawed at her. Other sepoys were looting a pack mule that had been following her horse, and she turned and shouted at them to stop, then gasped as two men caught her legs. “No!” she shouted. A small riding whip hung from a loop about her right wrist and she tried letting go of the roof beam and slashing down with the leather thong, but the defiance only made her predicament worse.
Sharpe used his musket butt to hammer his way through the sepoys. He was a good six inches taller than any of them, and much stronger, and he used his anger as a weapon to drive them aside. He kicked a man away from the slaughtered officer, stepped over the body, and swung the musket butt into the skull of one of the men trying to pull the woman from her horse. That man went down and Sharpe turned the musket and drove its muzzle into the belly of the second sepoy. That ma
n doubled over and staggered backwards, but just then a third man seized the horse’s bridle and yanked it out from the wall so fast that the woman fell back onto the roadway. The sepoys, seeing her upended with her long legs in the air, shouted in triumph and surged forward and Sharpe whirled the musket like a club to drive them backwards. One of them aimed his musket at Sharpe who stared him in the eyes. “Go on, you bastard,” Sharpe said, “I dare you.”
The sepoys decided not to make a fight of it. There were other women in the city and so they backed away. A few paused to plunder the dead European officer, while others finished looting the woman’s pack mule which had been stripped of its load and grinning sepoys now tore apart her linen dresses, stockings and shawls. The woman was kneeling behind Sharpe, shaking and sobbing, and so he turned and took her by the elbow. “Come on, love,” he said, “you’re all right now. Safe now.”
She stood. Her hat had come off when she fell from her horse and her disheveled golden hair hung about her pale face. Sharpe saw she was tall, had an impression that she was pretty even though her blue eyes were wide with shock and she was still shaking. He stooped for her hat. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, you do,” he said, then shook the dust off her hat and held it out to her. Her horse was standing free in the street, so he grabbed the beast’s bridle then led woman and animal to a nearby gateway that opened into a courtyard. “Have to look after your horse,” he said, “valuable things, horses. You know how a trooper gets a replacement mount?” He was not entirely sure why he was talking so much and he did not even know if the woman understood him, but he sensed that if he stopped talking she would burst into tears again and so he kept up his chatter. “If a trooper loses his horse he has to prove it’s died, see? To show he hasn’t sold it. So he chops off a hoof. They carry little axes for that, some of them do. Can’t sell a three-footed horse, see? He shows the hoof to his officers and they issue a new horse.”
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 1: Sharpe's Tiger, Sharpe's Triumph, Sharpe's Fortress Page 48