He was as good as his word, and next morning McCandless was invited to inspect all of Pohlmann’s compoo. “I wish there were more troops here,” Pohlmann said, “but Scindia is a few miles northwards with Saleur’s and Dupont’s compoos. I like to think they’re not as able as mine, but in truth they’re both very good units. Both have European officers, of course, and both are properly trained. I can’t say as much for the Rajah of Berar’s infantry, but his gunners are the equal of ours.”
McCandless said very little all morning, and Sharpe, who had learned to read the Scotsman’s moods, saw that he was severely discomfited. And no wonder, for Pohlmann’s troops looked as fine as any in the Company’s service. The Hanoverian commanded six and a half thousand infantry, five hundred cavalry and as many pioneers who served as engineers, and possessed thirty-eight guns. This compoo alone outnumbered the infantry of Wellesley’s army, and was much stronger in guns, and there were two similar compoos in Scindia’s service let alone his horde of cavalry. It was no surprise, Sharpe thought, that McCandless’s spirits were falling, and they fell even further when Pohlmann arranged for a demonstration of his artillery and the Scotsman, feigning gratitude to his host, was forced to watch as teams of gunners served a battery of big eighteen-pounder guns with all the alacrity and efficiency of the British army.
“Well-made pieces, too,” Pohlmann boasted, leading McCandless up to the hot guns that stood behind the swathes of burnt grass caused by their muzzle fire. “A little gaudy, perhaps, for European tastes, but none the worse for that.” The guns were all painted in bright colors and some had names written in a curly script on their breeches. “Megawati,” Pohlmann read aloud, “the goddess of clouds. Inspect them, Colonel! They’re well made. Our axletrees don’t break, I can assure you.”
Pohlmann was willing to show McCandless even more, but after dinner the Scotsman elected to spend the afternoon in his borrowed tent. He claimed he wished to rest, but Sharpe suspected the Scotsman had endured enough humiliation and wanted some quiet in which to make notes on all he had seen. “We’ll leave tonight, Sharpe,” the Colonel said. “You can occupy yourself till then?”
“Colonel Pohlmann wants me to ride with him on his elephant, sir.”
The Colonel scowled. “He likes to show off.” For a moment he seemed about to order Sharpe to refuse the invitation, then he shrugged. “Don’t get seasick.”
The motion of the elephant’s howdah was indeed something like a ship, for it swayed from side to side as the beast plodded northwards and at first Sharpe had to grip onto the edge of the basket, but once he had accustomed himself to the motion he relaxed and leaned back on the cushioned seat. The howdah had two seats, one in front of the other, and Sharpe had the rearmost, but after a while Pohlmann twisted in his seat and showed how he could raise his own backrest and lay it flat so that the whole howdah became one cushioned bed that could be concealed by the curtains that hung from the wicker-framed canopy. “It’s a fine place to bring a woman, Sergeant,” Pohlmann said as he restored the backrest to its upright position, “but the girth straps broke once and the whole thing fell off! It fell slowly, luckily, and I still had my breeches on so not too much dignity was lost.”
“You don’t look like a man who worries much about dignity, sir.”
“I worry about reputation,” Pohlmann said, “which isn’t the same thing. I keep my reputation by winning victories and giving away gold. Those men”—he gestured at his purple-coated bodyguards who marched on either flank of the elephant—“are each paid as much as a lieutenant in British service. And as for my European officers!” He laughed. “They’re all making more money than they dreamed possible. Look at ’em!” He jerked his head at the score of European officers who followed the elephant. Dodd was among them, but riding apart from the others and with a morose expression on his long face as though he resented having to pay court to his commanding officer. His horse was a sway-backed, hard-mouthed mare, a poor beast as ungainly and sullen as her master. “Greed, Sharpe, greed, that’s the best motive for a soldier,” Pohlmann said. “Greed will make them fight like demons, if our lord and master ever allows us to fight.”
“You think he won’t, sir?”
Pohlmann grinned. “Scindia listens to his astrologers rather more than he listens to his Europeans, but I’ll slip the bastards some gold when the time comes, and they’ll tell him the stars are propitious and he’ll give me the whole army and let me loose.”
“How big is the whole army, sir?”
Pohlmann smiled, recognizing that Sharpe was asking questions on behalf of Colonel McCandless. “By the time you face us, Sergeant, we should have over a hundred thousand men. And of those? Fifteen thousand infantry are first class, thirty thousand infantry are reliable, and the rest are horsemen who are only good for plundering the wounded. We’ll also have a hundred guns, all of them as good as any in Europe. And how big will your army be?”
“Don’t know, sir,” Sharpe said woodenly.
Pohlmann smiled. “Wellesley has, maybe, seven and a half thousand men, infantry and cavalry, while Colonel Stevenson has perhaps another seven thousand so together you’ll number, what? Fourteen and a half thousand? With forty guns? You think fourteen thousand men can beat a hundred thousand? And what happens, Sergeant Sharpe, if I manage to catch one of your little armies before the other can support it?” Sharpe said nothing, and Pohlmann smiled. “You should think about selling me your skills, Sharpe.”
“Me, sir?” Sharpe answered lightly.
“You, Sergeant Sharpe,” Pohlmann said forcibly, and the Hanoverian twisted in his seat to stare at Sharpe. “That’s why I invited you this afternoon. I need European officers, Sharpe, and any man as young as you who becomes a sergeant must have a rare ability. I am offering you rank and riches, Sharpe. Look at me! Ten years ago I was a sergeant like you, now I ride to war on an elephant, need two more to carry my gold and have three dozen women competing to sharpen my sword. Have you ever heard of George Thomas?”
“No, sir.”
“An Irishman, Sergeant, and not even a soldier! George was an illiterate seaman out of the gutters of Dublin, and before he drank himself to death, poor man, he’d become the Begum Somroo’s general. I think he was her lover, too, but that ain’t any distinction with that particular lady, but before he died George needed a whole herd of elephants to haul his gold about. And why? Because the Indian princes, Sergeant, need our skills. Equip yourself with a good European and you win your wars. I captured seventy-two guns at the battle of Malpura and I demanded the weight of one of those guns in pure gold as my reward. I got it, too. In ten years you could be as rich as you want, rich as Benoît de Boigne. You must have heard of him?”
“No, sir.”
“He was a Savoyard, Sergeant, and in just four years he made a hundred thousand pounds and then he went off home and married a seventeen-year-old girl fresh from her father’s castle. In only four years! From being a captain in Savoy’s army to being governor of half Scindia’s territory. There’s a fortune to be made here and rank and birth don’t come into it. Only ability counts. Nothing but ability.” Pohlmann paused, his eyes on Sharpe. “I’ll make you a lieutenant tomorrow, Sergeant, and you can fight in my compoo, and if you’re any damn good then you’ll be a captain by month’s end.” Sharpe looked at the Hanoverian, but said nothing. Pohlmann smiled. “What are your chances of getting a commission in the British army?”
Sharpe grinned. “No chance, sir.”
“So? I offer you rank, wealth and as many bibbis as you can handle.”
“Is that why Mister Dodd deserted, sir?”
Pohlmann smiled. “Major Dodd deserted, Sharpe, because he faces execution for murder, and because he’s sensible, and because he wants my job. Not that he’ll admit to that.” The Hanoverian twisted in the howdah. “Major Dodd!” he shouted.
The Major urged his awkward horse to the elephant’s side and looked up into the howdah. “Sir?”
“Sergeant Sharpe
wants to know why you joined us.”
Dodd gave Sharpe a suspicious look, but then shrugged. “I ran because there’s no future in the Company,” he said. “I was a lieutenant for twenty-two years, Sergeant, twenty-two years! It don’t matter to the Company how good a soldier you are, you have to wait your turn, and all the while I watched wealthy young fools buying themselves majorities in the King’s ranks and I had to bow and scrape to the useless bastards. Yes, sir, no, sir, three bloody bags full, sir, and can I carry your bags, sir, and wipe your arse, sir.” Dodd had been getting angrier and angrier as he spoke, but now made an effort to control himself. “I couldn’t join the King’s army, Sergeant, because my father runs a grist mill in Suffolk and there ain’t no money to buy a King’s commission. That meant I was only fit for the Company, and King’s officers treat Company men like dirt. I can outfight twenty of the bastards, but ability don’t count in the Company. Keep your nose clean, wait your turn, then die for the shareholders when the Court of Directors tells you.” He was becoming angry again. “That’s why,” he finished curtly.
“And you, Sergeant?” Pohlmann asked. “What opportunities will the army offer you?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“You do know,” Pohlmann said, “you do know.” The elephant had stopped and the Hanoverian now pointed ahead and Sharpe saw that they had come to the edge of a wood, and a half-mile away was a great city with walls like those the Scots had climbed at Ahmednuggur. The city walls were bright with flags, while its embrasures glinted with the reflection of sunlight from gun barrels. “That’s Aurungabad,” Pohlmann said, “and everyone inside those walls is pissing themselves in fear that I’m about to start a siege.”
“But you’re not?”
“I’m looking for Wellesley,” Pohlmann said, “and you know why? Because I’ve never lost a battle, Sharpe, and I’m going to add a British major-general’s sword to my trophies. Then I’ll build myself a palace, a bloody great marble palace, and I’ll line the halls with British guns and hang British colors to shield my bedroom from the sun and I’ll bounce my bibbis on a mattress stuffed with the hair of British horses.” Pohlmann luxuriated in that dream for a while and then, with a last glance at the city, ordered the mahout to turn the elephant about. “When is McCandless leaving?” he asked Sharpe.
“Tonight, sir.”
“After dark?”
“Around midnight, sir, I think.”
“That gives you plenty of time to think, Sergeant. To think of your future. To contemplate what the red coat offers you, and what I offer you. And when you have thought about those things, come to me.”
“I’m thinking on it, sir,” Sharpe said, “I’m thinking on it.” And he was.
CHAPTER 6
Colonel McCandless excused himself from Pohlmann’s supper, but did not forbid Sharpe to attend. “But don’t get drunk,” he warned the Sergeant, “and be at my tent at midnight. I want to be back at the River Godavery by dawn.”
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said dutifully, then went to Pohlmann’s tent where most of the compoo’s officers had gathered. Dodd was there, and so were a half-dozen wives of Pohlmann’s European officers and among them was Simone Joubert, though there was no sign of her husband. “He is in charge of the army picquets tonight,” Simone explained when Sharpe asked her, “and Colonel Pohlmann invited me to eat.”
“He invited me to join his army,” Sharpe told her.
“He did?” Her eyes widened as she stared up from her chair. “And will you?”
“It would mean I’d be close to you, Ma’am,” Sharpe said, “and that’s an inducement.”
Simone half smiled at the clumsy gallantry. “I think you would not be a good soldier if you changed your loyalty for a woman, Sergeant.”
“He says I’ll be an officer,” Sharpe said.
“And is that what you want?”
Sharpe squatted on his heels so that he could be closer to her. The other European wives saw him crouch and pursed their mouths with a disapproval born of envy, but Sharpe was oblivious of their gaze. “I think I’d like to be an officer, yes. And I can think of one very good reason to be an officer in this army.”
Simone blushed. “I am a married woman, Sergeant. You know that.”
“But even married women need friends,” Sharpe said, and just then a large hand took unceremonious hold of his clubbed hair and hauled him to his feet.
Sharpe turned belligerently on whoever had manhandled him, then saw that it was a smiling Major Dodd. “Can’t have you stooping to women, Sharpe,” Dodd said before offering an ungainly bow to Simone. “Good evening, Madame.”
“Major,” Simone acknowledged him coldly.
“You will forgive me, Madame, if I steal Sergeant Sharpe from you?” Dodd asked. “I want a word with him. Come on, Sharpe.” He plucked Sharpe’s arm, guiding him across the tent. The Major was very slightly drunk and evidently intent on becoming more drunk for he snatched a whole jug of arrack from a servant, then scooped up two beakers from a table. “Fancy Madame Joubert, do you?” he asked Sharpe.
“I like her well enough, sir.”
“She’s spoken for, Sergeant. Remember that if you join us, she’s spoken for.”
“You mean she’s married, sir?”
“Married?” Dodd laughed, then poured the arrack and gave one beaker to Sharpe. “How many European officers can you see here? And how many European women? And how many of them are young and pretty like Madame Joubert? Work it out, lad. And you’re not jumping the queue.” Dodd smiled as he spoke, evidently meaning his tone to be jocular. “But you are joining us, aren’t you?”
“I’m thinking about it, sir.”
“You’ll be in my regiment, Sharpe,” Dodd said. “I need European officers. I’ve only got Joubert and he’s no damn use, so I’ve spoken with Pohlmann and he says you can join my Cobras. I’ll give you three companies of your own to look after, and God help you if they’re not kept in prime condition. I like to look after the men, because come battle they look after you, but God help any officer who lets me down.” He paused to drink half his arrack and pour some more. “I’ll work you hard, Sharpe, I’ll work you damned hard, but there’ll be plenty of gold washing around this army once we’ve thrashed Boy Wellesley. Money’s your reward, lad, money.”
“Is that why you’re here, sir?”
“It’s why we’re all here, you fool. All except Joubert, who was posted here by his government and is too damned timid to help himself to Scindia’s gold. So report to me in the morning. We’re marching north tomorrow night, which means you’ll have one day to learn my ropes and after that you’re Mister Sharpe, gentleman. Come to me tomorrow morning, Sharpe, at dawn, and get rid of that damned red coat.” He poked Sharpe’s chest hard. “I see a red coat,” he went on, “and I want to start killing.” He grinned, showing yellow teeth.
“Is that what happened at Chasalgaon, sir?” Sharpe asked.
Dodd’s grin vanished. “Why the hell do you ask that?” he growled.
Sharpe had asked because he had been remembering the massacre, and wondering if he could ever serve under a man who had ordered such a killing, but he said none of that. He shrugged instead. “I heard tales, sir, but no one ever tells us anything proper. You know that, sir, so I just wondered what happened there.”
Dodd considered that answer for a moment, then shrugged. “I didn’t take prisoners, Sharpe, that’s what happened. Killed the bastards to the last man.”
And to the last boy, Sharpe thought, remembering Davi Lal. He remained impassive, not letting a hint of memory or hate show. “Why not take prisoners, sir?”
“Because it’s war!” Dodd said vehemently. “When men fight me, Sergeant, I want them to fear me, because that way the battle’s half won before it’s started. It ain’t kind, I’m sure, but who ever said war was kind? And in this war, Sergeant”—he waved his hand towards the officers clustering about Colonel Pohlmann—“it’s dog eat dog. We’re all in competition, and you k
now who’ll win? The most ruthless, that’s who. So what did I do at Chasalgaon? I made sure of a reputation, Sharpe. Made a name for myself. That’s the first rule of war, Sergeant. Make the bastards fear you. And you know what the second rule is?”
“Don’t ask questions, sir?”
Dodd grinned. “No, lad, the second rule is never to reinforce failure, and the third, lad, is to look after your men. You know why I had that goldsmith thrashed? You’ve heard of that, haven’t you? I’ll tell you. It wasn’t because he’d cheated me, which he did, but because he cheated some of my men. So I looked after them and let them give him a solid kicking, and the bastard died. Which he deserved to do, rich fat bastard that he was.” The Major turned and scowled at the servants bringing dishes from Pohlmann’s cook tent. “And they’re just as bad here, Sharpe. Look at all that food! Enough to feed two regiments there, Sharpe, and the men are going hungry. No proper supply system, see? It costs money, that’s why. You don’t get issued food in this army, you go out and steal it.” He plainly disapproved. “I’ve told Pohlmann, I have. Lay on a commissary, I said, but he won’t, because it costs money. Scindia hoards food in his fortresses, but he won’t issue it, not unless he’s paid, and Pohlmann won’t give up a penny of profit, so no food ever comes. It just rots in the warehouses while we have to keep moving, because after a week we’ve stripped one set of fields bare and have to go on to the next. It’s no bloody way to run an army.”
“Maybe one day you’ll change the system, sir,” Sharpe said.
“I will!” Dodd said vigorously. “I bloody will! And if you’ve any sense, lad, you’ll be here helping me. You learn one thing as a miller’s son, Sergeant, and that’s not just how to grind corn, but that a fool and his money are easily parted. And Scindia’s a fool, but given a chance I’ll make the bugger into the Emperor of India.” He turned as a servant beat a gong with a muffled stick. “Time for our vittles.”
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 1: Sharpe's Tiger, Sharpe's Triumph, Sharpe's Fortress Page 53