Then the attackers outside the fort, who had despaired of making another charge into the smoke- and blood-stinking alley where so many had died, heard the fight on the ramparts and so they came back, flooding into the shadow of the arch and there aiming up at the fire steps. The muskets hammered, more men came, and the Cobras were assailed from in front and from below. “Rockets!” Dodd shouted, and some of his men lit the missiles and tossed them down into the passageway, but they were nervous of the attackers coming along the top of the rampart. Those attackers were big men, crazed with battle, slashing with swords and bayonets as they snarled their way along the wall. Sergeant Green’s men fired from below, picking off defenders and forcing others to duck.
“Fire across! Fire across!” Captain Campbell, down in the passageway, had seen the defenders thickening in front of the men attacking along the tops of the walls and now he cupped his hands and shouted at the men behind the front ranks of the attackers. “Fire across!” He pointed, showing them that they should angle their fire over the passageway to strike the defenders on the opposite wall and the men, understanding him, loaded their muskets. It took a few seconds, but at last the crossfire began and the pressure in front of Sharpe gave way. He swung the huge sword backhanded, half severing a man’s head, twisted the blade, thrust it into a belly, twisted it again, and suddenly the Cobras were backing away, terrified of the bloody blades.
The second gate was opened. Campbell was the first man through and now there was only one gate left. His sergeant had brought a score of men into the passageway and those Scotsmen began to fire up at the walls, and the Cobras were crumbling now because there were redcoats below them on both sides, and more were hacking their way along the rampart, and the defenders were pinned in a small place with nowhere to go. The only steps to the gateway’s fire step were in redcoat hands, and Dodd’s men could either jump or surrender. A piper had started playing, and the mad skirl of the music drove the attackers to a new fury as they closed on the remnants of Dodd’s Cobras. The redcoats were screaming a terrible war cry that was a compound of rage, madness and sheer terror. Sharpe’s tattered white facings were now so soaked in blood that it looked as if he wore the red-trimmed coat of the 33rd again. His arm was tired, his hip was a great aching sore, and the wall was still not clear. A musket ball snatched at his sleeve, another fanned his bare head, and then he snarled at an enemy, cut again, and Campbell had the last bar out of its brackets and his men were heaving on the gate, and the attackers who had come from outside the fort were pulling on it, while beyond the outermost arch, on the slope above the ravine, an officer beckoned to all the troops waiting to the north.
A cheer sounded, and a flood of redcoats ran down into the ravine and up the track towards the Inner Fort. They smelled loot and women. The gates were open. The fortress in the sky had fallen.
Dodd was the last man on Sharpe’s wall. He knew he was beaten, but he was no coward, and he came forward, sword in hand, then recognized the bloody man opposing him. “Sergeant Sharpe,” he said, and raised his gold-hiked sword in an ironic salute. He had once tried to persuade Sharpe to join him in the Cobras, and Sharpe Had been tempted, but fate had kept him in his red coat and brought him to this last meeting on Gawilghur’s ramparts.
“I’m Mr. Sharpe now, you bastard,” Sharpe said, and he waved Lockhart and Garrard back, then jumped forward, cutting with the claymore, but Dodd parried it easily and lunged at Sharpe, piercing his coat and glancing the sword point off a rib. Dodd stepped back, flicked the claymore aside, and lunged again, and this time the blade cut into Sharpe’s right cheek, opening it clean up to the bone beside his eye.
“Marked for life,” Dodd said, “though I fear it won’t be a long life, Mr. Sharpe.” Dodd thrust again and Sharpe parried desperately, deflecting the blade more by luck than skill, and he knew he was a dead man because Dodd was too good a swordsman. McCandless had warned him of this. Dodd might be a traitor, but he was a soldier, and a good one.
Dodd saw Sharpe’s sudden caution, and smiled. “They made an officer out of you, did they? I never knew the British army had that much sense.” He advanced again, sword low, inviting an attack from Sharpe, but then a redcoat ran past Sharpe, sabre swinging, and Dodd stepped fast back, surprised by the sudden charge, although he parried it with an instinctive skill. The force of the parry knocked the redcoat off balance and Dodd, still with a smile, lunged effortlessly to skewer the redcoat’s throat. It was Ahmed, and Sharpe, recognizing the boy, roared with rage and ran at Dodd who flicked the sword back, blood streaming from its tip, and deflected the claymore’s savage cut, turned his blade beneath it and was about to thrust the slim blade into Sharpe’s belly when a pistol banged and Dodd was thrown hard back, blood showing on his right shoulder. His sword arm, numbed by the pistol bullet, hung low.
Sharpe walked up to him and saw the fear in Dodd’s eyes. “This is for McCandless,” he said, and kicked the renegade in the crotch. Dodd gasped and befit double. “And this is for Ahmed,” Sharpe said, and swept the claymore up so that its heavy blade ripped into Dodd’s throat, and Sharpe, still holding the sword double-handed, pulled it hard back and the steel sawed through sinew and muscle and gullet so that the fire step was suddenly awash with blood as the tall Dodd collapsed. Eli Lockhart, the long horse pistol still smoking in his hand, edged Sharpe aside to make certain Dodd was dead. Sharpe was stooped by Ahmed, but the boy was dying. Blood bubbled at his throat as he tried to breathe. His eyes looked up into Sharpe’s face, but there was no recognition there. His small body heaved frantically, then was still. He had gone to his paradise. “You stupid bastard,” Sharpe said, tears trickling to dilute the blood pouring from his cheek. “You stupid little bastard.”
Lockhart used his sabre to cut the ropes holding the flag above the gatehouse and a roar of triumph sounded from the ravine as the flag came down. Then Lockhart helped Sharpe strip Ahmed of his red jacket and, lacking a British flag to hoist, they pulled the faded, blood-reddened coat up to the top of the pole. Gawilghur had yielded.
Sharpe cuffed tears and blood from his face. Lockhart was grinning at him, and Sharpe forced a smile in return. “We did it, Eli.”
“We bloody did.” Lockhart held out a hand and Sharpe gripped it.
“Thank you,” Sharpe said fervently, then he let go of the cavalryman’s hand and kicked Dodd’s corpse. “Look after that body, Eli. It’s worth a fortune.”
“That’s Dodd?”
“That’s the bastard. That corpse is worth seven hundred guineas to you and Clare.”
“You and me, sir,” Lockhart said. The Sergeant looked as ragged and bloody as Sharpe. His blue jacket was torn and bloodstained. “We’ll share the reward,” he said, “you and me, sir.”
“No,” Sharpe said, “he’s all yours. I just wanted to see the bastard dead. That’s reward enough for me.” Blood was pouring from his cheek to add to the gore on his coat. He turned to Garrard who was leaning against the parapet, gasping for air. “Look after the boy for me, Tom.”
Garrard, seeing that Ahmed was dead, frowned in puzzlement.
“I’m going to give him a proper burial,” Sharpe explained, then he turned and walked down the wall where exhausted redcoats rested among the dead and dying Cobras, while beneath them, in the passage that Campbell had opened, a stream of soldiers poured unopposed into the fort.
“Where are you going?” Garrard shouted after Sharpe.
Sharpe did not answer. He just walked on. He had another enemy to hunt, and an even richer reward to win.
The defenders were hunted down and killed. Even when they tried to surrender, they were killed, for their fortress had resisted and that was the fate of garrisons that showed defiance. Blood-maddened redcoats, fed on arrack and rum, roamed the vast stronghold with bayonets and greed both sharpened. There was little enough loot, but plenty of women, and so the, screaming began.
Some defenders, knowing Gawilghur’s geography, slipped to those parts of the perimeter where no wal
l faced outward and dangerously narrow paths led down the cliffs. They streamed like ants down the rock, going to oblivion. Some hid, knowing that the rage of the attackers would soon enough be exhausted. Those who could not escape or find a hiding place died.
Flies buzzed in the palace where the dead were already stinking in the heat. Officers wandered the rooms, marveling at their poverty. They had expected to find another mansion like the Tippoo Sultan’s palace, a glittering trove of gems, gold, ivory and silk, but the Rajah of Berar had never been rich. Some discovered the cellars and they noted the great armory, but were more interested in the barrels of cash, though when they saw the coins were all of copper they spat in disgust. A company of sepoys found some silver plate that they cut apart with their bayonets. Syud Sevajee had found his enemy, his father’s murderer, but Beny Singh was already dead and Sevajee could do little more than spit on his corpse.
Beneath the palace, redcoats splashed in the lake, slaking their thirst. Some had discarded their red jackets, hanging them from the trees, and a ragged man, who had slipped unseen from the palace, stole one of the coats and pulled it on before limping toward the captured gatehouse. He was a white man, and wore a pair of dirty trousers and a ragged shirt, while a white coat and a black sash were bundled under one arm. His hair was lank, his skin filthy, and his face twitched as he shuffled along the path. No one took any notice of him, for he looked like any other redcoat who had found his small scrap of loot, and so Obadiah Hakeswill slunk northward with a fortune in jewels concealed in his shabby clothes. He reckoned he had only to get through the gate, and across the Outer Fort, and then he would run. Where? He did not know. Just run. He was rich now, but he would still need to steal a horse. There would be plenty of officers’ horses in the camp, and maybe he would be lucky and find a dead man’s horse so that the loss would not be noticed for days. Then he would ride southward. South to Madras, and in Madras he could sell the jewels, buy proper clothes and become a gentleman. Obadiah Hakeswill, Gent. Then he would go home. Home to England. Be a rich gentleman there.
He ignored the redcoats. The buggers had won, and it was not fair. He could have been a rajah, but at least he was as rich as any rajah, and so he sidled down the dusty path and the gatehouse was not very far away now. An officer was ahead, standing with a drawn claymore beside the snake pit and staring down into its horror, and then he turned and walked toward Hakeswill. The officer was hatless, bloody-faced, and Obadiah limped off the track, praying that he would not be noticed. The officer went safely past and Hakeswill breathed a silent prayer of thanks and swerved back to the track. Only a trickle of men came through the gate now, and most of them were too intent on joining the plundering to care about a single man limping the other way. Hakeswill grinned, knowing he would get away. He would be a gentleman.
Then a sword point pricked his spine and Hakeswill froze.
“I’ve been looking for you for days, Obadiah,” a hated voice said, and Hakeswill turned to look up into Sharpe’s face, but the face was half hidden by blood, which was why he had not recognized the officer standing beside the snake pit.
“I was a prisoner,” Hakeswill whined, “a prisoner.”
“You’re a bloody liar.”
“For the love of God, help me.” Obadiah pretended not to recognize Sharpe, pretended to be mad. He twitched and moaned, let spittle dribble from his mouth and twisted his hands in submission. “Locked me up,” he said, “the heathen bastards locked me up. Ain’t seen daylight in days.”
Sharpe leaned forward and snatched the coat that was bundled under Hakeswill’s arm. Hakeswill stiffened, and Sharpe smiled as he saw the flash of anger in the Sergeant’s eyes. “Want the coat back, Obadiah? So fight me for it.”
“I was a prisoner,” Hakeswill insisted, no longer moaning like a mad thing.
Sharpe shook the coat open. “So why’s the jacket white, Obadiah? You’re a bleeding liar.” He felt the coat’s pockets, felt the hard lumps and knew his jewels were safe again. Hakeswill’s eyes glinted with a terrible and frustrated rage. “Go on, Obadiah,” Sharpe said, “fight me.”
“I was a prisoner,” Hakeswill said, and he glanced to his right, hoping he could make a run for it, for though he might have lost the jewels in the coat, he had others in his trousers. And Sharpe, he now saw, had a wound in the hip. Perhaps Sharpe could not run. So run now, he told himself, and then the flat of the claymore’s blade struck him hard across the scalp. He yelped, then went still as the sword point pricked at his throat.
“You sold me to Jama, didn’t you?” Sharpe said. “But that was a mistake, Obadiah, because I beat his jettis into pulp. I’ll do that to you now. But take your clothes off first.”
“You can’t do this to me!” Hakeswill shouted, hoping to attract attention. His face twitched. “You can’t do this! ’Gainst regulations, it is!”
“Strip, Obadiah,” Sharpe said.
“There are rules! Regulations! Says so in the scriptures!”
The claymore’s point jabbed at Hakeswill’s throat, drawing blood from the scar that had been left when they had tried to hang the young Obadiah. The pain quietened the Sergeant, and Sharpe smiled. “I half beat Captain Morris to death, Sergeant, so do you think it worries me that there are rules which say I mustn’t touch you? Now you’ve got a choice. You can strip naked, or you can let me strip your corpse naked. I don’t care which it is. I don’t care if they bloody hang me for your murder. It’d be worth it. So shut the hell up, and get your bloody clothes off.”
Hakeswill looked for help, but there was none in sight, and the sword point twisted in his broken skin and he gabbled that he was undressing himself, and he scrabbled at the rope belt on his trousers, and tore the buttons out of his shirt. “Don’t kill me!” he shouted. “I can’t be killed! I can’t die!” He pulled off the shirt, tugged off his boots and pulled down his trousers.
“Now the foot cloths,” Sharpe said.
Hakeswill sat and unwrapped the filthy strips and so was left white and naked under the terrible sun. Sharpe used the sword’s tip to pull the clothes into a pile. He would search them, extract the gems, then leave them.
“On your feet now, Obadiah,” he said, encouraging the naked man with the sword’s reddened tip.
“I can’t die, Sharpie!” Hakeswill pleaded, his face racked by twitches. “I can’t! You tried! The tigers wouldn’t eat me and the elephant wouldn’t kill me. You know why? Because I can’t die! I’ve got an angel, I do, my own soul’s angel and she looks after me.” He shouted the words, and all the while he was being pressed backward by the sword tip, and he danced on the rocks because they were so hot and his feet were bare. “You can’t kill me. The angel looks after me. It’s Mother, Sharpie, that’s who the angel is, it’s Mother all white and shiny. No, Sharpie, no! I can’t die!” And the sword stabbed at his belly and Hakeswill jumped back, and jumped back again when the tip slashed at his scrawny ribs. “They tried to hang me but they couldn’t!” he declared. “I dangled and I danced, and the rope wouldn’t kill me, and here I am! I cannot die!” And then he screamed, because the sword had stabbed one last time and Hakeswill had stepped back to avoid the lunge, only this time there was no rock behind him, only a void, and he screamed as he fell into the shadows of the snake pit.
He screamed again as he hit the stone floor with a thump. “I can’t die!” he shouted triumphantly, and stared up at the black shape of his enemy. “I can’t die!” Hakeswill called again, then something sinuous and shadowy flickered to his left and he had no time to worry about Sharpe. He screamed, because the snakes were staring at him with hard flat eyes. “Sharpie!” he shouted. “Sharpie!”
But Sharpe had gone to collect the pile of rags.
And Hakeswill was alone with the serpents.
Wellesley heard the distant cheers, but could not tell whether it was his own men who celebrated or the enemy who was making the noise. The smoke cloud that had hung so thick and constant beyond the fortress faded.
H
e waited.
The defenders on the south wall still fought. They fired their cannon at the 74th’s skirmish line which, because it was well spread out and sheltered by the rocks on the steep hillside, survived the sporadic cannonade. The smoke of the guns hung by the walls. Wellesley looked at his watch. Four o’clock. If the fort had not fallen, then it would soon be too late. Night would come and he would have to retreat ignominiously to the plain below. The intermittent crackle of muskets from the north told him that something was still happening, but whether it was men looting, or the sound of the defenders firing at defeated attackers, he could not tell.
Then the guns on the south wall fell silent. Their smoke lingered, then drifted away in the hot wind. Wellesley waited, expecting the cannon to fire again, but they remained quiet. “Maybe they’ve run,” he said. The green and gold flag still hung over the gate-tower, but Wellesley could see no defenders there.
“If the fortress has fallen, sir,” Wallace pointed out, “then why aren’t they running out of this gate?”
“Because they know we’re here,” Wellesley said, and took out his telescope. By mistake he had brought the new glass, the one he intended to give to Sharpe which had been engraved with the date of Assaye, and he put it to his eye and examined the southern wall. The embrasures were empty. The guns were still there, their blackened muzzles just showing, but no men. “I think we shall advance, Wallace,” Wellesley said, snapping the glass shut.
“It could be a trap, sir.”
“We shall advance,” Wellesley said firmly.
The 74th marched with colors flying, drummers beating and pipers playing. A battalion of sepoys followed, and the two regiments made a brave sight as they climbed the last stretch of the steep road, but still the great Southern Gate of Gawilghur was closed before them. Wellesley spurred ahead, half expecting the defenders to spring a surprise and appear on the ramparts, but instead it was a redcoat who suddenly showed there and Wellesley’s heart leaped with relief. He could sail home to England with another victory in his pocket.
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 1: Sharpe's Tiger, Sharpe's Triumph, Sharpe's Fortress Page 108