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

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Sahib?” the Femadar said, tugging his tulwar from the body of a dead man.

  “Find the gold! Make sure it’s loaded on the elephants, then open the courtyard gate!” Dodd snapped the orders, then went on killing. He was consumed with a huge anger. How could any fool have lost this battle? How could a man, given a hundred thousand troops, be beaten by a handful of redcoats? It was Pohlmann’s fault, all Pohlmann, and Dodd knew Pohlmann had to be somewhere in the house or courtyard and so he hunted him and vented his rage on Pohlmann’s guards, pursuing them from room to room, slaughtering them mercilessly, and all the while the great guns hammered the sky with their noise and the round shot thumped into the village walls.

  Most of the Rajah of Berar’s infantry fled. Those on the makeshift ramparts could see the redcoats massing beyond the smoke of the big cannon and they did not wait for that infantry to attack, but instead ran northwards. Only the Arab mercenaries stayed, and some of those men decided caution was better than bravery and so joined the other infantry that splashed through the ford where Captain Joubert waited with Dodd’s regiment.

  Joubert was nervous. The village’s defenders were fleeing, Dodd was missing, and Simone was still somewhere in the village. It was like Ahmednuggur all over again, he thought, only this time he was determined that his wife would not be left behind and so he kicked back his heels and urged his horse towards the house where she had taken refuge.

  That house was hard by the courtyard where Dodd was searching for Pohlmann, but the Hanoverian had vanished. His gold was all in its panniers, and Pohlmann’s bodyguard had succeeded in strapping the panniers onto the two pack elephants before Dodd’s men attacked, but there was no sign of Pohlmann himself. Dodd decided he would let the bastard live, and so, abandoning the hunt, he sheathed his sword then lifted the locking bar from the courtyard gates. “Where’s my horse?” he shouted to the men he had left guarding the alley.

  “Dead, sahib!” a man answered.

  Dodd ran down the alley to see that his precious new gelding had been struck by a bullet from the one volley fired by Pohlmann’s bodyguard. The beast was not yet dead, but it was leaning against the alley wall with its head down, dulled eyes and blood dripping from its mouth. Dodd swore. The big guns were still firing beyond the village, showing that the redcoats were not advancing yet, but suddenly they went silent and Dodd knew he had only minutes left to make his escape, and just then he saw another horse turn into the alley. Captain Joubert was in the saddle, and Dodd ran to him. “Joubert!”

  Joubert ignored Dodd. Instead he cupped his hands and shouted up at the house where the wives had been sheltered during the fighting. “Simone!”

  “Give me your horse, Captain!” Dodd demanded.

  Joubert still ignored the Major. “Simone!” he called again, then spurred his horse on up the alley. Had she already gone? Was she north of the Juah? “Simone?” he shouted.

  “Captain!” Dodd screamed behind him.

  Joubert turned, summoned the courage to tell the Englishman to go to hell, but as he turned he saw that Dodd was holding a big pistol.

  “No!” Joubert protested.

  “Yes, Monsewer,” Dodd said, and fired. The ball snatched Joubert back against the alley wall and he slid down to leave a trail of blood. A woman screamed from a window above the alley as Dodd pulled himself into the Frenchman’s saddle. Gopal was already leading the first elephant out of the gate. “To the ford, Gopal!” Dodd shouted, then he spurred into the courtyard to make certain that the second elephant was ready to leave.

  While outside, in the alleys, there was a sudden silence. Most of the village’s garrison had fled, the dust drifted from its broken walls, and then the order was given for the redcoats to advance. Assaye was doomed.

  Colonel McCandless had watched Dodd’s men retreat into the village and he doubted that the traitor was leading his men to reinforce the doomed garrison. “Sevajee!” McCandless called. “Take your men to the far side!”

  “Across the river?” Sevajee asked.

  “Watch to see if he crosses the ford,” McCandless said.

  “Where will you be, Colonel?”

  “In the village.” McCandless slid from Aeolus’s back and limped towards the captured guns that had started to fire at the mud walls. The shadows were long now, the daylight short and the battle ending, but there was still time for Dodd to be trapped. Let him be a hero, McCandless prayed, let him stay in the village just long enough to be caught.

  The big guns were only three hundred paces from the village’s thick wall and each shot pulverized the mud bricks and started great clouds of red dust that billowed thick as gunsmoke. Wellesley summoned the survivors of the 74th and a Madrassi battalion and lined them both up behind the guns. “They won’t stand, Wallace,” Wellesley said to the 74th’s commander. “We’ll give them five minutes of artillery, then your fellows can take the place.”

  “Allow me to congratulate you, sir,” Wallace said, taking a hand from his reins and holding it towards the General.

  “Congratulate me?” Wellesley asked with a frown.

  “On a victory, sir.”

  “I suppose it is a victory. ‘Pon my soul, so it is. Thank you, Wallace.” The General leaned across and shook the Scotsman’s hand.

  “A great victory,” Wallace said heartily, then climbed out of his saddle so that he could lead the 74th into the village.

  McCandless joined him. “You don’t mind if I come, Wallace?”

  “Glad of your company, McCandless. A great day, is it not?”

  “The Lord has been merciful to us,” McCandless agreed. “Praise His name.”

  The guns ceased, their smoke drifted northwards and the dying sun shone on the broken walls. There were no defenders visible, nothing but dust and fallen bricks and broken timbers.

  “Go, Wallace!” Wellesley called, and the 74th’s lone piper hoisted his instrument and played the redcoats and the sepoys forward. The other battalions watched. Those other battalions had fought all afternoon, they had destroyed an army, and now they sprawled beside the Juah and drank its muddy water to slake their powder-induced thirst. None crossed the river, only a handful of cavalry splashed through the water to chase the laggard fugitives on the farther bank.

  Major Blackiston brought Wellesley a captured standard, one of a score that had been abandoned by the fleeing Mahrattas. “They left all their guns, too, sir, every last one of them!”

  Wellesley acknowledged the standard with a smile. “I’d rather you brought me some water, Blackiston. Where are my canteens?”

  “Sergeant Sharpe still has them, sir,” Campbell answered, holding his own canteen to the General.

  “Ah yes, Sharpe.” The General frowned, knowing there was unfinished business there. “If you see him, bring him to me.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Sharpe was not far away. He had walked north through the litter of the Mahratta battle line, going to where the guns fired on the village and, just as they stopped, so he saw McCandless walking behind the 74th as it advanced on the village. He hurried to catch up with the Colonel and was rewarded with a warm smile from McCandless. “Thought I’d lost you, Sharpe.”

  “Almost did, sir.”

  “The General released you, did he?”

  “He did, sir, in a manner of speaking. We ran out of horses, sir. He had two killed.”

  “Two! An expensive day for him! It sounds as if you had an eventful time!”

  “Not really, sir,” Sharpe said. “Bit confusing, really.”

  The Colonel frowned at the blood staining the light infantry insignia on Sharpe’s left shoulder. “You’re wounded, Sharpe.”

  “A scratch, sir. Bastard with—sorry, sir—man with a tulwar tried to tickle me.”

  “But you’re all right?” McCandless asked anxiously.

  “Fine, sir.” He raised his left arm to show that the wound was not serious.

  “The day’s not over yet,” McCandless said, then gestured at
the village. “Dodd’s there, Sharpe, or he was. I’m glad you’re here. He’ll doubtless try to escape, but Sevajee’s on the far side of the river and between us we might yet trap the rogue.”

  Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill was a hundred paces behind McCandless. He too had seen the Colonel following the 74th and now Hakeswill followed McCandless, for if McCandless wrote his letter, then Hakeswill knew his sergeantcy was imperiled. “It ain’t that I like doing it,” he said to his men as he stalked after the Colonel, “but he ain’t giving me a choice. No choice at all. His own fault. His own fault.” Three of his men were following him, the others had refused to come.

  A musket fired from Assaye’s rooftops, showing that not all the defenders had fled. The ball fluttered over Wallace’s head and the Colonel, not wanting to expose his men to any other fire that might come from the village, shouted at his men to double. “Just get in among the houses, boys,” he called. “Get in and hunt them down! Quick now!”

  More muskets fired from the houses, but the 74th were running now, and cheering as they ran. The first men scrambled over the makeshift breach blown by the big guns, while others hauled aside a cart that blocked an alleyway and, with that entrance opened, a twin stream of Scotsmen and sepoys hurried into the village. The Arab defenders fired their last shots, then retreated ahead of the redcoat rush. A few were trapped in houses and died under Scottish or Indian bayonets.

  “You go ahead, Sharpe,” McCandless said, for his wounded leg was making him limp and he was now far behind the Highlanders. “See if you can spot the man,” McCandless suggested, though he doubted Sharpe would. Dodd would be long gone by now, but there was always a chance he had waited until the end and, if men of the 74th had trapped Dodd, then Sharpe could at least try and make sure that the wretch was taken alive. “Go, Sharpe,” the Colonel ordered, “hurry!”

  Sharpe dutifully ran on ahead. He clambered up the dust of the breach and jumped down into the pitiful wreckage of a room. He pushed through the house, stepped over a dead Arab sprawled in the outer door, edged about a dung heap in the courtyard, then plunged into an alleyway. Shots sounded from the river and so he headed that way past houses that were being looted of what little remained after the Mahratta occupation. A sepoy emerged from one house with a broken pot while a Highlander had found a broken brass weighing-scale, but the plunder was nothing like the riches that had been taken in Ahmednuggur. Another volley sounded ahead and Sharpe broke into a run, turned a corner and then stopped above the village’s ford.

  Dodd’s regiment was on the far side of the river where two white-coated companies had formed a rear guard. It was just like Ahmednuggur, where Dodd had guarded his escape route with volley fire, and now the Major had done it again. He was safely over the river with Pohlmann’s two elephants, and his men had been firing at any redcoats who dared show on the ford’s southern bank, but then, just as Sharpe arrived at the ford, the rear guard about turned and marched north.

  “He got away,” a man said, “the bastard got clean away,” and Sharpe looked at the speaker and saw an East India Company sergeant in a doorway a few yards away. The man was smoking a cheroot and appeared to be standing guard over a group of prisoners in the house behind him.

  Sharpe turned to watch Dodd’s regiment march into the shadow of some trees. “The bastard,” Sharpe spat. He could see Dodd on his horse just ahead of the two rear guard companies, and he was tempted to raise his musket and try one last shot, but the range was much too great and then Dodd vanished among the shadows. His rear guard followed him. Sharpe could see Sevajee off to the west, but the Indian was helpless. Dodd had five hundred men in ranks and files, and Sevajee had but ten horsemen. “He bloody got away again,” Sharpe said, and spat towards the river.

  “With my gold,” the East India Company sergeant said miserably, and Sharpe looked again at the man.

  “Bloody hell,” Sharpe said in astonishment, for he was looking at Anthony Pohlmann who had donned his old sergeant’s uniform. Pohlmann’s “prisoners” were a small group of his bodyguard.

  “A pity,” Pohlmann said, spitting a scrap of tobacco from between his teeth. “Ten minutes ago I was one of the richest men in India. Now I suppose I’m your prisoner?”

  “I couldn’t care less about you, sir,” Sharpe said, slinging the musket on his shoulder.

  “You don’t want to march me to Wellesley?” the Hanoverian asked. “It would be a great feather in your cap.”

  “That bastard doesn’t give feathers,” Sharpe said. “He’s a stuck-up, cold-hearted bastard, he is, and I’d rather fillet him than you.”

  Pohlmann grinned. “So I can go, Sergeant Sharpe?”

  “Do what you bloody like,” Sharpe said. “How many men have you got in there?”

  “Five. That’s all he left me. He slaughtered the rest.”

  “Dodd did?”

  “He tried to kill me, but I hid under some straw. A shameful end to my career as a warlord, wouldn’t you say?” Pohlmann smiled. “I think you did well, Sergeant Sharpe, to turn down my commission.”

  Sharpe laughed bitterly. “I know my place, sir. Down in the gutter. Officers don’t want men like me joining them. I might scratch my arse on parade or piss in their soup.” He walked to the small house and peered through the open door. “Better tell your fellows to take their coats off, sir. They’ll be shot otherwise.” Then he went very still for, crouching at the back of the small room, was a woman in a shabby linen dress and a straw hat. It was Simone. Sharpe pulled off his shako. “Madame?”

  She stared at him, seeing only his silhouette against the dazzle of the day’s last sun.

  “Simone?” Sharpe said.

  “Richard?”

  “It’s me, love.” He grinned. “Don’t tell me you got left behind again!”

  “He killed Pierre!” Simone cried. “I watched him. He shot him!”

  “Dodd?”

  “Who else?” Pohlmann asked behind Sharpe.

  Sharpe stepped into the room and held his hand towards Simone. “You want to stay here,” he asked her, “or come with me?”

  She hesitated a second, then stood and took his hand. Pohlmann sighed. “I was hoping to console the widow, Sharpe.”

  “You lost, sir,” Sharpe said, “you lost.” And he walked away with Simone, going to find McCandless to give him the bad news. Dodd had escaped.

  Colonel McCandless limped up the breach and into Assaye. He sensed that Dodd was gone, for there was no more fighting in the village, though some shots still sounded from the river bank, but even those shots ended as the Scotsman edged past the dead man in the house doorway and through the courtyard into the street.

  And perhaps, he thought, it did not really matter any longer, for this day’s victory would echo throughout all India. The redcoats had broken two armies, they had ruined the power of two mighty princes, and from this day on Dodd would be hunted from refuge to refuge as the British power spread northwards. And it would spread, McCandless knew. Each new advance was declared to be the last, but each brought new frontiers and new enemies and so the redcoats marched again, and maybe they would never stop marching until they reached the great mountains in the very north. And maybe it was there, McCandless thought, that Dodd would at last be trapped and shot down like a dog.

  And suddenly McCandless did not care very much. He felt old. The pain in his leg was terrible. He was still weak from his fever. It was time, he thought, to go home. Back to Scotland. He should sell Aeolus, repay Sharpe, take his pension, and board a ship. Go home, he thought, to Lochaber and to the green slopes of Glen Scaddle. There was work to be done in Britain, useful work, for he was corresponding with men in London and Edinburgh who wished to establish a society to spread Bibles throughout the heathen world and McCandless decided he could find a small house in Lochaber, hire a servant, and spend his days translating God’s word into the Indian languages. That, he thought, would be a job worth doing, and he wondered why he had waited so long. A small house, a large fir
e, a library, a table, a supply of ink and paper and, with God’s help, he could do more for India from that one small house than he could ever achieve by hunting down one traitor.

  The thought of the great task cheered him, then he turned a corner and saw Pohlmann’s great elephant wandering free in an alleyway. “You’re lost, boy,” he said to the elephant and took hold of one of its ears. “Someone left the gate open, didn’t they?”

  He turned the elephant which followed him happily enough. They walked past a dead horse, and then McCandless saw a dead European in a white jacket, and for an instant he thought it must be Dodd, then he recognized Captain Joubert lying on his back with a bullet hole in his breast. “Poor man,” he said, and he guided the elephant through the gate into the courtyard. “I’ll make sure you’re brought some food,” he told the beast, then he turned and barred the gate.

  He left the courtyard through the house, picking his way across the welter of bodies in the kitchen. He pushed open the outer door and found himself staring into Sergeant Hakeswill’s blue eyes.

  “I’ve been looking for you, sir,” Hakeswill said.

  “You and I have no business, Sergeant,” McCandless said.

  “Oh, but we does, sir,” Hakeswill said, and his three men blocked the alley behind him. “I wanted to talk to you, sir,” Hakeswill said, “about that letter you ain’t going to write to my Colonel Gore.”

  McCandless shook his head. “I have nothing to say to you, Sergeant.”

  “I hates the bleeding Scotch,” Hakeswill said, his face twitching. “All prayers and morals, ain’t you, Colonel? But I ain’t cumbered with morals. It’s an advantage I have.” He grinned, then drew his bayonet and slotted it onto the muzzle of his musket. “They hanged me once, Colonel, but I lived ‘cos God loves me, He does, and I ain’t going to be punished again, not ever. Not by you, Colonel, not by any man. Says so in the scriptures.” He advanced on McCandless with the bayonet. His three men hung back and McCandless reckoned they were nervous, but Hakeswill showed no fear of this confrontation.