Sharpe 3-Book Collection 1: Sharpe's Tiger, Sharpe's Triumph, Sharpe's Fortress

by Bernard Cornwell

  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 bejeweled 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 elephant-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 skeptical 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 maraudi
ng 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 pickets 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 pickets 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 8th Madras and the first of the 10th Madras, and lastly the kilted Highlanders of the King’s 78th. 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 rumor 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 practicing 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 saber 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 saber 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. “Millions of the buggers!”

  “We’re going to turn their flank,” Sharpe said, repeating what he had heard the General say. So far as Sharpe understood, the idea was to cross the river at the ford which no one except Wellesley believed existed, then make an attack on the left flank of the waiting infantry. The idea made sense to Sharpe, for the enemy line was facing south and, by coming at them from the east, the British could well plunge the compoos into confusion.

  “Millions of the buggers!” Fletcher said again in wonderment, but then the road dropped and took the enemy out of their view. The dragoon orderly sheathed his saber. “But he’s confident,” he said, nodding ahead at Wellesley who was dressed in his old uniform coat of the 33rd. The General wore a slim straight sword, but had no other weapon, not even a pistol.

  “He was always confident,” Sharpe said. “Cool as you like.”

  “He’s a good fellow,” Fletcher said loyally. “Proper officer. He ain’t friendly, of course, but he’s always fair.” He touched his spurs to the mare’s flanks because Wellesley and his aides had hurried ahead into the village of Peepulgaon where the villagers gaped at the foreigners in their red coats and black cocked hats. Wellesley scattered chickens from his path as he cantered down the dusty village street to where the road dropped down a precipitous bluff into the half-dry bed of the Kaitna. The pioneers arrived a moment later and began attacking the bluff to smooth its steep slope. On the river’s far bank Sharpe could see the road twist up into the trees that half obscured the village of Waroor. The General was right, he reckoned, and there had to be a ford, for why else would the road show on both banks? But whether the ford was shallow enough for the army to cross no one yet knew.

  Wellesley stood his horse at the top of the bluff and drummed the fingers of his right hand on his thigh. It was the only sign of nerves. He was staring across the river, thinking. No enemy was in sight, but nor should they have been for the Mahratta line was now two miles to the west, which meant that Scindia’s army was now between him and Stevenson. Wellesley grimaced, realizing that he had already abandoned his first principle for fighting this battle, which had been to secure his left flank so Stevenson could j
oin. Doubtless, the moment the guns began their proper, concentrated work, the sound of their cannonade would bring Stevenson hurrying across country, but now the older man would simply have to join the fight as best he could. But Wellesley had no regrets at posing such difficulties for Stevenson, for the chance to turn the enemy’s flank was heaven-sent. So long, that is, as the ford was practicable.

  The pioneer Captain led a dozen of his sepoys down towards the river. “I’ll just see to that far bank, sir,” the Captain called up to the General, startling Wellesley out of his reverie.

  “Come back!” Wellesley shouted angrily. “Back!”

  The Captain had almost reached the water, but now turned and stared at Wellesley in puzzlement. “Have to grade that bluff, sir,” he shouted, pointing to where the road climbed steeply to the screen of trees on the Kaitna’s northern bank. “Too steep for guns, sir.”

  “Come back!” Wellesley called again, then waited as the dozen men trudged back to the southern bank. “The enemy can see the river, Captain,” the General explained, “and I have no wish that they should see us yet. I do not want them knowing our intentions, so you will wait until the first infantry make the crossing, then do your work.”

  But the enemy had already seen the pioneers. The dozen men had only been visible in the river’s open bed for a few seconds, but someone in the Mahratta gun line was wide awake and there was a sudden and violent plume of water in the river and, almost simultaneously, the sky-battering sound of a heavy gun.

  “Good shooting,” McCandless said quietly when the fifteen-foot-high fountain had subsided to leave nothing but a whirling eddy in the river’s brown water. The range must have been almost two miles, yet the Mahrattas had turned a gun, trained and fired it in seconds, and their aim had been almost perfect. A second gun fired and its heavy ball plowed a furrow in the dry, crazed mud beside the river and bounced up to scatter bucket-loads of dry earth from the bluff’s face. “Eighteen-pounders,” McCandless guessed aloud, thinking of the two heavy siege guns that he had seen in front of Dodd’s men.