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

by Bernard Cornwell

  Colquhoun suddenly barked orders in Gaelic and the men picked up their muskets, jumped into the irrigation ditch where they formed into four ranks and began trudging northward. Sharpe, taken by surprise, meekly followed. He supposed he should have asked Colquhoun what was happening, but he did not like to display ignorance, and then he saw that the rest of the battalion was also marching, so plainly Colquhoun had decided number six company should advance as well. The Sergeant had made no pretense of asking Sharpe for permission to move. Why should he? Even if Sharpe did give an order the men automatically looked for Colquhoun’s nod before they obeyed. That was how the company worked; Urquhart commanded, Colquhoun came next, and Ensign Sharpe tagged along like one of the scruffy dogs adopted by the men.

  Captain Urquhart spurred his horse back down the ditch. “Well done, Sergeant,” he told Colquhoun, who ignored the praise. The Captain turned the horse, its hooves breaking through the ditch’s crust to churn up clots of dried mud. “The rascals are waiting ahead,” Urquhart told Sharpe.

  “I thought they might have gone,” Sharpe said.

  “They’re formed and ready,” Urquhart said, “formed and ready.” The Captain was a fine-looking man with a stern face, straight back and steady nerve. The men trusted him. In other days Sharpe would have been proud to serve a man like Urquhart, but the Captain seemed irritated by Sharpe’s presence. “We’ll be wheeling to the right soon,” Urquhart called to Colquhoun, “forming line on the right in two ranks.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Urquhart glanced up at the sky. “Three hours of daylight left?” he guessed. “Enough to do the job. You’ll take the left files, Ensign.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sharpe said, and knew that he would have nothing to do there. The men understood their duty, the corporals would close the files and Sharpe would simply walk behind them like a dog tied to a cart.

  There was a sudden crash of guns as a whole battery of enemy cannon opened fire. Sharpe heard the round shots whipping through the millet, but none of the missiles came near the 74th. The battalion’s pipers had started playing and the men picked up their feet and hefted their muskets in préparation for the grim work ahead. Two more guns fired, and this time Sharpe saw a wisp of smoke above the seedheads and he knew that a shell had gone overhead. The smoke trail from the burning fuse wavered in the windless heat as Sharpe waited for the explosion, but none sounded.

  “Cut his fuse too long,” Urquhart said. His horse was nervous, or perhaps it disliked the treacherous footing in the bottom of the ditch. Urquhart spurred the horse up the bank where it trampled the millet. “What is this stuff?” he asked Sharpe. “Maize?”

  “Colquhoun says it’s millet,” Sharpe said, “pearl millet.”

  Urquhart grunted, then kicked his horse on towards the front of the company. Sharpe cuffed sweat from his eyes. He wore an officer’s red tailcoat with the white facings of the 74th. The coat had belonged to a Lieutenant Blaine who had died at Assaye and Sharpe had purchased the coat for a shilling in the auction of dead officers’ effects, then he had clumsily sewn up the bullet hole in the left breast, but no amount of scrubbing had rid the coat of Blaine’s blood which stained the faded red weave black. He wore his old trousers, the ones issued to him when he was a sergeant, red leather riding boots that he had taken from an Arab corpse in Ahmednuggur, and a tasseled red officer’s sash that he had pulled off a corpse at Assaye. For a sword he wore a light cavalry sabre, the same weapon he had used to save Wellesley’s life at the battle of Assaye. He did not like the sabre much. It was clumsy, and the curved blade was never where you thought it was. You struck with the sword, and just when you thought it would bite home, you found that the blade still had six inches to travel. The other officers carried claymores, big, straight-bladed, heavy and lethal, and Sharpe should have equipped himself with one, but he had balked at the auction prices.

  He could have bought every claymore in the auction if he had wished, but he had not wanted to give the impression of being wealthy. Which he was. But a man like Sharpe was not supposed to have money. He was up from the ranks, a common soldier, gutter-born and gutter-bred, but he had hacked down a half-dozen men to save Wellesley’s life and the General had rewarded Sergeant Sharpe by making him into an officer, and Ensign Sharpe was too canny to let his new battalion know that he possessed a king’s fortune. A dead king’s fortune: the jewels he had taken from the Tippoo Sultan in the blood- and smoke-stinking Water Gate at Seringapatam.

  Would he be more popular if it was known he was rich? He doubted it. Wealth did not give respectability, not unless it was inherited. Besides, it was not poverty that excluded Sharpe from both the officers’ mess and the ranks alike, but rather that he was a stranger. The 74th had taken a beating at Assaye. Not an officer had been left unwounded, and companies that had paraded seventy or eighty strong before the battle now had only forty to fifty men. The battalion had been ripped through hell and back, and its survivors now clung to each other. Sharpe might have been at Assaye, he might even have distinguished himself on the battlefield, but he had not been through the murderous ordeal of the 74th and so he was an outsider.

  “Line to the right!” Sergeant Colquhoun shouted, and the company wheeled right and shook itself into a line of two ranks. The ditch had emerged from the millet to join a wide, dry riverbed, and Sharpe looked northward to see a rill of dirty white gunsmoke on the horizon. Mahratta guns. But a long way away. Now that the battalion was free of the tall crops Sharpe could just detect a small wind. It was not strong enough to cool the heat, but it would waft the gunsmoke slowly away.

  “Halt!” Urquhart called. “Face front!”

  The enemy cannon might be far off, but it seemed that the battalion would march straight up the riverbed into the mouths of those guns. But at least the 74th was not alone. The 78th, another Highland battalion, was on their right, and on either side of those two Scottish battalions were long lines of Madrassi sepoys.

  Urquhart rode back to Sharpe. “Stevenson’s joined.” The Captain spoke loud enough for the rest of the company to hear. Urquhart was encouraging them by letting them know that the two small British armies had combined. General Wellesley commanded both, but for most of the time he split his forces into two parts, the smaller under Colonel Stevenson, but today the two small parts had” combined so that twelve thousand infantry could attack together. But against how many? Sharpe could not see the Mahratta army beyond their guns, but doubtless the bastards were there in force.

  “Which means the 94th’s off to our left somewhere,” Urquhart added loudly, and some of the men muttered their approval of the news. The 94th was another Scottish regiment, so today there were three Scottish battalions attacking the Mahrattas. Three Scottish and ten sepoy battalions, and most of the Scots reckoned that they could have done the job by themselves. Sharpe reckoned they could too. They may not have liked him much, but he knew they were good soldiers. Tough bastards. He sometimes tried to imagine what it must be like for the Mahrattas to fight against the Scots. Hell, he guessed. Absolute he’ll. “The thing is,” Colonel McCandless had once told Sharpe, “it takes twice as much to kill a Scot as it does to finish off an Englishman.”

  Poor McCandless. He had been finished off, shot in the dying moments of Assaye. Any of the enemy might have killed the Colonel, but Sharpe had convinced himself that the traitorous Englishman, William Dodd, had fired the fatal shot. And Dodd was still free, still fighting for the Mahrattas, and Sharpe had sworn over McCandless’s grave that he would take vengeance on the Scotsman’s behalf. He had made the oath as he had dug the Colonel’s grave, getting blisters as he had hacked into the dry soil. McCandless had been a good friend to Sharpe and now, with the Colonel deep buried so that no bird or beast could feast on his corpse, Sharpe felt friendless in this army.

  “Guns!” A shout sounded behind the 74th. “Make way!”

  Two batteries of six-pounder galloper guns were being hauled up the dry riverbed to form an artillery line ahead of th
e infantry. The guns were called gallopers because they were light and were usually hauled by horses, but now they were all harnessed to teams of ten oxen so they plodded rather than galloped. The oxen had painted horns and some had bells about their necks. The heavy guns were all back on the road somewhere, so far back that they would probably be too late to join this day’s party.

  The land was more open now. There were a few patches of tall millet ahead, but off to the east there were arable fields and Sharpe watched as the guns headed for that dry grassland. The enemy was watching too, and the first round shots bounced on the grass and ricocheted over the British guns.

  “A few minutes before the gunners bother themselves with us, I fancy,” Urquhart said, then kicked his right foot out of its stirrup and slid down beside Sharpe. “Jock!” He called a soldier. “Hold on to my horse, will you?” The soldier led the horse off to a patch of grass, and Urquhart jerked his head, inviting Sharpe to follow him out of the company’s earshot. The Captain seemed embarrassed, as was Sharpe, who was not accustomed to such intimacy with Urquhart. “D’you use a cigar, Sharpe?” the Captain asked.

  “Sometimes, sir.”

  “Here.” Urquhart offered Sharpe a roughly rolled cigar, then struck a light in his tinderbox. He lit his own cigar first, then held the box with its flickering flame to Sharpe. “The Major tells me a new draft has arrived in Madras.”

  “That’s good, sir.”

  “It won’t restore our strength, of course, but it’ll help,” Urquhart said. He was not looking at Sharpe, but staring at the British guns that steadily advanced across the grassland. There were only a dozen of the cannon, far fewer than the Mahratta guns. A shell exploded by one of the ox teams, blasting the beasts with smoke and scraps of turf, and Sharpe expected to see the gun stop as the dying beasts tangled the traces, but the oxen trudged on, miraculously unhurt by the shell’s violence. “If they advance too far,” Urquhart murmured, “they’ll become so much scrap metal. Are you happy here, Sharpe?”

  “Happy, sir?” Sharpe was taken aback by the sudden question.

  Urquhart frowned as if he found Sharpe’s response unhelpful. “Happy,” he said again, “content?”

  “Not sure a soldier’s meant to be happy, sir.”

  “Not true, not true,” Urquhart said disapprovingly. He was as tall as Sharpe. Rumor said that Urquhart was a very rich man, but the only sign of it was his uniform which was cut very elegantly in contrast to Sharpe’s shabby coat. Urquhart rarely smiled, which made it difficult to be easy in his company. Sharpe wondered why the Captain had sought this conversation, which seemed untypical of the unbending Urquhart. Perhaps he was nervous about the imminent battle? It seemed unlikely to Sharpe after Urquhart had endured the cauldron of fire at Assaye, but he could think of no other explanation. “A fellow should be content in his work,” Urquhart said with a flourish of his cigar, “and if he ain’t, it’s probably a sign that he’s in the wrong line of business.”

  “Don’t have much work to do, sir,” Sharpe said, wishing he did not sound so surly.

  “Don’t suppose you do,” Urquhart said slowly. “I do see your meaning. Indeed I do.” He shuffled his feet in the dust. “Company runs itself, I suppose. Colquhoun’s a good fellow, and Sergeant Craig’s showing well, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, sir.” Sharpe knew he did not need to call Urquhart “sir” all the time, but old habits died hard.

  “They’re both good Calvinists, you see,” Urquhart said. “Makes ’em trustworthy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sharpe said. He was not exactly sure what a Calvinist was, and he was not going to ask. Maybe it was the same as a Freemason, and there were plenty of those in the 74th’s mess, though Sharpe again did not really know what they were. He just knew he was not one of them.

  “Thing is, Sharpe,” Urquhart went on, though he did not look at Sharpe as he spoke, “you’re sitting on a fortune, if you follow me.”

  “A fortune, sir?” Sharpe asked with some alarm. Had Urquhart somehow smelled out Sharpe’s hoard of emeralds, rubies, diamonds and sapphires?

  “You’re an ensign,” Urquhart explained, “and if you ain’t happy you can always sell your commission. Plenty of fine fellows in Scotland who’ll pay you for the rank. Even some fellows here. I gather the Scotch Brigade has some gentlemen rankers.”

  So Urquhart was not nervous about the coming fight, but rather about Sharpe’s reaction to this conversation. The Captain wanted to be rid of Sharpe, and the realization made Sharpe even more awkward. He had wanted to be made an officer so badly, and already he wished he had never dreamed of the promotion. What had he expected? To be slapped on the back and welcomed like a long-lost brother? To be given a company of troops? Urquhart was watching him expectantly, waiting for a response, but Sharpe said nothing.

  “Four hundred pounds, Sharpe,” Urquhart said. “That’s the official rate for an ensign’s commission, but between you and me you can squeeze at least another fifty. Maybe even a hundred! And in guineas. But’ if you do sell to a ranker here, then make damn sure his note is good.”

  Sharpe said nothing. Were there really gentlemen rankers in the 94th? Such men could afford to be officers, and had an officer’s breeding, but until a commission was vacant they served in the ranks, yet ate in the mess. They were neither fish nor fowl. Like Sharpe himself. And any one of them would snap at the chance to buy a commission in the 74th. But Sharpe hardly needed the money. He possessed a fortune already, and if he wanted to leave the army then all he needed to do was resign his commission and walk away. Walk away a rich man.

  “Of course,” Urquhart went on, oblivious of Sharpe’s thoughts, “if the note’s written on a decent army agent then you won’t have any worries. Most of our fellows use John Borrey in Edinburgh, so if you see one of his notes then you can place full trust in it. Borrey’s an honest fellow. Another Calvinist, you see.”

  “And a Freemason, sir?” Sharpe asked. He was not really sure why he asked, but the question just got blurted out. He supposed he wanted to know if it was the same thing as a Calvinist.

  “I really couldn’t say.” Urquhart frowned at Sharpe and his voice became colder. “The point is, Sharpe, he’s trustworthy.”

  Four hundred and fifty guineas, Sharpe thought. It was not to be spat on. It was another small fortune to add to his jewels, and he felt the temptation to accept Urquhart’s advice. He was never going to be welcome in the 74th, and with his plunder he could set himself up in England.

  “Coins on the barrelhead,” Urquhart said. “Think on it, Sharpe, think on it. Jock, my horse!”

  Sharpe threw away the cigar. His mouth was dry with dust and the smoke was harsh, but as Urquhart mounted his horse he saw the scarcely smoked cigar lying on the ground and gave Sharpe an unfriendly look. For a second it seemed as if the Captain might say something, then he pulled on the reins and spurred away. Bugger it, Sharpe thought. Can’t do a thing right these days.

  The Mahratta cannon had got the range of the British galloper guns now and one of their round shot landed plumb on a carriage. One wheel splintered, tipping the six-pounder gun onto its side. The gunners leaped off the limber, but before they could detach the spare wheel, the ox team bolted. They dragged the broken gun back toward the sepoys, leaving a vast plume of dust where the axle boss dragged through the dry soil. The gunners ran to head the oxen off, but then a second team panicked. The beasts had their painted horns down and were galloping away from the bombardment. The Mahratta guns were firing fast now. A round shot slashed into another gun team, spurting ox blood bright into the sky. The enemy guns were big brutes, and with a much longer range than the small British six-pounders. A pair of shells exploded behind the panicked oxen, driving them even faster toward the sepoy battalions on the right of Wellesley’s line. The limbers were bouncing frantically on the uneven ground and every lurch sent shot tumbling or powder spilling. Sharpe saw General Wellesley turn his horse toward the sepoys. He was doubtless shouting at them to open ranks
and so allow the bolting oxen to pass through the line, but instead, quite suddenly, the men themselves turned and ran. “Jesus!” Sharpe said aloud, earning himself a reproving look from Sergeant Colquhoun.

  Two battalions of the sepoys were fleeing. Sharpe saw the General riding among the fugitives, and he imagined Wellesley shouting at the frightened men to stop and reform, but instead they kept running toward the millet. They had been panicked by the oxen and by the weight of enemy shot that beat the dry grassland with dust and smoke. The men vanished in the high stalks, leaving nothing behind but a scatter of embarrassed officers and, astonishingly, the two panicked gun teams which had inexplicably stopped short of the millet and now waited patiently for the gunners to catch them.

  “Sit yourselves down!” Urquhart called to his men, and the company squatted in the dry riverbed. One man took a stump of clay pipe from his pouch and lit it with a tinderbox. The tobacco smoke drifted slowly in the small wind. A few men drank from their canteens, but most were hoarding their water against the dryness that would come when they bit into their cartridges. Sharpe glanced behind, hoping to see the puckalees who brought the battalion water, but there was no sign of them. When he turned back to the north he saw that some enemy cavalry had appeared on the crest, their tall lances making a spiky thicket against the sky. Doubtless the enemy horsemen were tempted to attack the broken British line and so stampede more of the nervous sepoys, but a squadron of British cavalry emerged from a wood with their sabres drawn to threaten the flank of the enemy horsemen. Neither side charged, but instead they just watched each other. The 74th’s pipers had ceased their playing. The remaining British galloper guns were deploying now, facing up the long gentle slope to where the enemy cannon lined the horizon. “Are all the muskets loaded?” Urquhart asked Colquhoun.

  “They’d better be, sir, or I’ll want to know why.”

  Urquhart dismounted. He had a dozen full canteens of water tied to his saddle and he unstrung six of them and gave them to the company. “Share it out,” he ordered, and Sharpe wished he had thought to bring some extra water himself. One man cupped some water in his hands and let his dog lap it up. The dog then sat and scratched its fleas while its master lay back and tipped his shako over his eyes.