Sharpe's Triumph Read online

  Colonel McCandless led Sharpe north towards the wild country where the frontiers of Hyderabad, Mysore and the Mahratta states met.

  "Till I hear otherwise," McCandless told Sharpe, I'm assuming our traitor is in Ahmednuggur."

  "What's that, sir? A city?"

  "A city and a fort next to each other," the Colonel said. McCandless's big gelding seemed to eat up the miles, but Sharpe's smaller mare offered a lumpy ride. Within an hour of leaving Seringapatam Sharpe's muscles were sore, within two he felt as though the backs of his thighs were burning, and by late afternoon the stirrup leathers had abraded through his cotton trousers to grind his calves into bloody patches.

  "It's one of Scindia's frontier strongholds," the Colonel went on, 'but I doubt it can hold out long. Wellesley plans to capture it, then strike on north."

  "So we're going to war, sir?"

  "Of course." McCandless frowned.

  "Does that worry you?"

  "No, sir," Sharpe said, nor did it. He had a good life in Seringapatam, maybe as good a life as any soldier had ever had anywhere, but in the four years between the fall of Seringapatam and the massacre at Chasalgaon Sharpe had not heard a shot fired in anger, and a part of him was envious of his old colleagues in the 33rd who fought brisk skirmishes against the bandits and rogues who plagued western Mysore.

  "We're going to fight the Mahrattas," McCandless said.

  "You know who they are?"

  "I hear they're bastards, sir."

  McCandless frowned at Sharpe's foul language.

  "They are a confederation of independent states, Sharpe," he said primly, 'that dominate much of western India. They are also warlike, piratical and untrustworthy, except, of course, for those which are our allies, who are romantic, gallant and heroic."

  "Some are on our side, sir?"

  "A few. The Peshwa, for one, and he's their titular leader, but small notice they take of him. Others are staying aloof from this war, but two of the biggest princes have decided to make a fight of it. One's called Scindia, and he's the Maharajah of Gwalior, and the other's called Bhonsla, and he's the Rajah of Berar."

  Sharpe tried standing in the stirrups to ease the pain in his seat, but it only made the chafing of his calves worse.

  "And what's our quarrel with those two, sir?"

  "They've been much given to raiding into Hyderabad and Mysore lately, so now it's time to settle them once and for all."

  "And Lieutenant Dodd's joined their army, sir?"

  "From what we hear, he's joined Scindia's army. But I haven't heard much." The Colonel had already explained to Sharpe how he had been keeping his ears open for news of Dodd ever since the Lieutenant had persuaded his sepoys to defect, but then had come the terrible news of Chasalgaon, and McCandless, who had been travelling north to join Wellesley's army, had seen Sharpe's name in the report and so had turned around and hurried south to Seringapatam. At the same time he had sent some of his own Mahratta agents north to discover Dodd's whereabouts.

  "We should meet those fellows today," the Colonel said, 'or tomorrow at the latest."

  The rain had not stopped, but nor was it heavy. Mud spattered up the horses' flanks and onto Sharpe's boots and white trousers. He tried sitting half sideways, he tried leaning forward or tipping himself back, but the pain did not stop. He had never much liked horses, but now decided he hated them.

  "I'd like to meet Lieutenant Dodd again, sir," he told McCandless as the two men rode under dripping trees.

  "Be careful of him, Sharpe," McCandless warned.

  "He has a reputation."

  "For what, sir?"

  "A fighter, of course. He's no mean soldier. I've not met him, of course, but I've heard tales. He's been up north, in Calcutta mostly, and made a name for himself there. He was first over the pettah wall at Panhapur. Not much of a wall, Sharpe, just a thicket of cactus thorn really, but it took his sepoys five minutes to follow him, and by the time they reached him he'd killed a dozen of the enemy. He's a tall man who can use a sword and is a fine pistol shot too. He is, in brief, a killer."

  "If he's so good, sir, why is he still a lieutenant?"

  The Colonel sighed.

  "I fear that is the way of the Company's army, Sharpe. A man can't buy his way up the ladder as he can in the King's army, and there's no promotion for good service. It all goes by seniority.

  Dead men's shoes, Sharpe. A fellow must wait his turn in the Company, and there's no way round it."

  "So Dodd has been waiting, sir?"

  "A long time. He's forty now, and I doubt he'd have got his captaincy much before he was fifty."

  "Is that why he ran, sir?"

  "He ran because of the murder. He claimed a goldsmith cheated him of money and had his men beat the poor fellow so badly that he died. He was court-martial led of course, but the only sentence he got was six months without pay. Six months without pay! That's sanctioning murder, Sharpe! But Wellesley insisted the Company discharge him, and he planned to have Dodd tried before a civilian court and condemned to death, so Dodd ran." The Colonel paused.

  "I wish I could say we're pursuing him because of the murder, Sharpe,"

  he went on, 'but that isn't so. We're pursuing him because he persuaded his men to defect. Once that rot starts, it might never stop, and we have to show the other sepoys that desertion will always be punished."

  Just before nightfall, when the rain had stopped and Sharpe thought his sore muscles and bleeding calves would make him moan aloud in agony, a group of horsemen came cantering towards them. To Sharpe they looked like silladars, the mercenary horsemen who hired themselves, their weapons and their horses to the British army, and he pulled his mare over to the left side of the road to give the heavily armed men room to pass, but their leader slowed as he approached, then raised a hand in greeting.

  "Colonel!" he shouted.

  "Sevajee!" McCandless cried and spurred his horse towards the oncoming Indian. He held out his hand and Sevajee clasped it.

  "You have news?" McCandless asked.

  Sevajee nodded.

  "Your fellow is inside Ahmednuggur, Colonel. He's been given Mathers's regiment." He was pleased with his news, grinning broadly to reveal red-stained teeth. He was a young man dressed in the remnants of a green uniform Sharpe did not recognize. The jacket had European epaulettes hung with silver chains, and over it was strapped a sword sling and a sash, both of white silk and both stained brown with dried blood.

  "Sergeant Sharpe," McCandless made the introductions, 'this is Syud Sevajee."

  Sharpe nodded a wary greeting.

  "Sahib," he said, for there was something about Syud Sevajee that suggested he was a man of rank.

  "The Sergeant has seen Lieutenant Dodd," McCandless explained.

  "He'll make sure we capture the right man."

  "Kill all the Europeans," Sevajee suggested, 'and you'll be sure." The suggestion, it seemed to Sharpe, was not entirely flippant.

  "I want him captured alive," McCandless said irritably.

  "Justice must be seen to be done. Or would you rather that your people believe a British officer can beat a man to death without any punishment?"

  "They believe that anyway," Sevajee said carelessly, 'but if you wish to be scrupulous, McCandless, then we shall capture Mister Dodd."

  Sevajee's men, a dozen wild-looking warriors armed with everything from bows and arrows to lances, had fallen in behind McCandless.

  "Syud Sevajee is a Mahratta, Sharpe," McCandless explained.

  "One of the romantic ones, sir?"

  "Romantic?" Sevajee repeated the word in surprise.

  "He's on our side, if that's what you mean," McCandless said.

  "No," Sevajee hurried to correct the Colonel.

  "I am opposed to Beny Singh, and so long as he lives I help the enemies of my enemy."

  "Why's this fellow your enemy, sir, if you don't mind me asking?"

  Sharpe asked.

  Sevajee touched the hilt of his tulwar as
if it was a fetish.

  "Because he killed my father, Sergeant."

  "Then I hope you get the bastard, sir."

  "Sharpe!" McCandless said in reprimand.

  Sevajee laughed.

  "My father," he explained to Sharpe, 'led one of the Rajah of Berar's compoos. He was a great warrior, Sergeant, and Beny Singh was his rival. He invited my father to a feast and served him poison. That was three years ago. My mother killed herself, but my younger brother serves Beny Singh and my sister is one of his concubines. They too will die."

  "And you escaped, sir?" Sharpe asked.

  "I was serving in the East India Company cavalry, Sergeant," Sevajee answered.

  "My father believed a man should know his enemy, so sent me to Madras."

  "Where we met," McCandless said brusquely, 'and now Sevajee serves me."

  "Because in return," Sevajee explained, 'your British bayonets will hand Beny Singh to my revenge. And with him, of course, the reward for Dodd. Four thousand, two hundred rupees, is it not?"

  "So long as he's taken alive," McCandless said dourly, 'and it might be increased once the Court of Directors hears what he did at Chasalgaon."

  "And to think I almost caught him," Sevajee said, and described how he and his few men had visited Ahmednuggur posing as brindanies who were loyal to Scindia.

  "Brindarrie?" Sharpe asked.

  "Like silladars," McCandless told him.

  "Freelance horsemen. And you saw Dodd?" he asked Sevajee.

  "I heard him, Colonel, though I never got close. He was lecturing his regiment, telling them how they would chase you British out of India."

  McCandless scoffed.

  "He'll be lucky to escape from Ahmednuggur!

  Why has he stayed there?"

  "To give Pohlmann a chance to attack?" Sevajee suggested.

  "His compoo was still close to Ahmednuggur a few days ago."

  "Just one compoo, sir?" Sharpe suggested.

  "One compoo won't beat Wellesley."

  Sevajee gave him a long, speculative look.

  "Pohlmann, Sergeant," he said, 'is the best infantry leader in Indian service. He has never lost a battle, and his compoo is probably the finest infantry army in India. It already outnumbers Wellesley's army, but if Scindia releases his other compoos, then together they will outnumber your Wellesley three to one. And if Scindia waits until Berar's troops are with him, he'll outnumber you ten to one."

  "So why are we attacking, sir?"

  "Because we're going to win," McCandless said firmly.

  "God's will."

  "Because, Sergeant," Sevajee said, 'you British think that you are invincible. You believe you cannot be defeated, but you have not fought the Mahrattas. Your little army marches north full of confidence, but you are like mice waking an elephant."

  "Some mice," McCandless snorted.

  "Some elephant," Sevajee said gently.

  "We are the Mahrattas, and if we did not fight amongst ourselves we would rule all India."

  "You've not faced Scottish infantry yet," McCandless said confidently, 'and Wellesley has two Scottish regiments with him.

  Besides, you forget that Stevenson has an army too, and he's not so very far away." Two armies, both small, were invading the Mahratta Confederation, though Wellesley, as the senior officer, had control of both.

  "I reckon the mice will startle you yet," McCandless said.

  They spent that night in a village. To the north, just beyond the horizon, the sky glowed red from the reflection of flames on the smoke of thousands of campfires, the sign that the British army was just a short march away. McCandless bargained with the headman for food and shelter, then frowned when Sevajee purchased a jar of fierce local arrack. Sevajee ignored the Scotsman's disapproval, then went to join his men who were gaming in the village's tavern. McCandless shook his head.

  "He fights for mercenary reasons, Sharpe, nothing else."

  "That and vengeance, sir."

  "Aye, he wants vengeance, I'll grant him that, but once he's got it he'll turn on us like a snake." The Colonel rubbed his eyes.

  "He's a useful man, all the same, but I wish I felt more confident about this whole business."

  "The war, sir?"

  McCandless shook his head.

  "We'll win that. It doesn't matter by how many they outnumber us, they won't outfight us. No, Sharpe, I'm worried about Dodd."

  "We'll get him, sir," Sharpe said.

  The Colonel said nothing for a while. An oil lamp flickered on the table, attracting huge winged moths, and in its dull light the Colonel's thin face looked more cadaverous than ever. McCandless finally grimaced.

  "I've never been one for believing in the supernatural, Sharpe, other than the providences of Almighty God. Some of my countrymen claim they see and hear signs. They tell of foxes howling about the house when a death is imminent, or seals coming ashore when a man's to be lost at sea, but I never credited such things. It's mere superstition, Sharpe, pagan superstition, but I can't chase away my dread about Dodd." He shook his head slowly.

  "Maybe it's age."

  "You're not old, sir."

  McCandless smiled.

  "I'm sixty-three, Sharpe, and I should have retired ten years ago, except that the good Lord has seen fit to make me useful, but the Company isn't so sure of my worth now. They'd like to give me a pension, and I can't blame them. A full colonel's salary is a heavy item on the Company's accounts." McCandless offered Sharpe a rueful look.

  "You fight for King and country, Sharpe, but I fight and die for the shareholders."

  "They'd never replace you, sir!" Sharpe said loyally.

  "They already have," McCandless admitted softly, 'or Wellesley has.

  He has his own head of intelligence now, and the Company knows it, so they tell me I am a "supernumerary upon the establishment"." He shrugged.

  "They want to put me out to pasture, Sharpe, but they did give me this one last errand, and that's the apprehension of Lieutenant William Dodd, though I rather think he's going to be the death of me."

  "He won't, sir, not while I'm here."

  "That's why you are here, Sharpe," McCandless said seriously.

  "He's younger than I am, he's fitter than I am and he's a better swordsman than I am, and that's why I thought of you. I saw you fight at Seringapa-tam and I doubt Dodd can stand up to you."

  "He won't, sir, he won't," Sharpe said grimly.

  "And I'll keep you alive, sir."

  "If God wills it."

  Sharpe smiled.

  "Don't they say God helps those who help themselves, sir? We'll do the job, sir."

  "I pray you're right, Sharpe," McCandless said, "I pray you're right."

  And they would start at Ahmednuggur, where Dodd waited and where Sharpe's new war would begin.

  Chapter 3

  Colonel McCandless led his small force into Sir Arthur Wellesley's encampment late the following afternoon. For most of the morning they had been shadowed by a band of enemy horsemen who sometimes galloped close as if inviting Sevajee's men to ride out and fight, but McCandless kept Sevajee on a tight leash and at midday a patrol of horsemen in blue coats with yellow facings had chased the enemy away.

  The blue-coated cavalry were from the igth Light Dragoons and the Captain leading the troop gave McCandless a cheerful wave as he cantered after the enemy who had been prowling the road in hope of finding a laggard supply wagon. Four hours later McCandless topped a gentle rise to see the army's lines spread across the countryside while, four miles farther north, the red walls of Ahmednuggur stood in the westering sun. From this angle the fort and the city appeared as one continuous building, a vast red rampart studded with bastions.

  Sharpe cuffed sweat from his face.

  "Looks like a brute, sir," he said, nodding at the walls.

  "The wall's big enough," the Colonel said, 'but there's no ditch, no glacis and no outworks. It'll take us no more than three days to punch a hole."

  "Then pity t
he poor souls who must go through the hole," Sevajee commented.

  "It's what they're paid to do," McCandless said brusquely.

  The area about the camp seethed with men and animals. Every cavalry horse in the army needed two lascars to gather forage, and those men were busy with sickles, while nearer to the camp's centre was a vast muddy expanse where the draught bullocks and pack oxen were picketed.

  Puckalees, the men who carried water for the troops and the animals, were filling their buckets from a tank scummed with green. A thorn hedge surrounded six elephants that belonged to the gunners, while next to the great beasts was the artillery park with its twenty-six cannon, and after that came the sepoys' lines where children shrieked, dogs yapped and women carried patties of bullock dung on their heads to build the evening fires. The last part of the journey took them through the lines of the 778th, a kilted Highland regiment, and the soldiers saluted McCandless and then looked at the red facings on Sharpe's coat and called out the inevitable insults.

  "Come to see how a real man fights, Sergeant?"

  "You ever done any proper fighting?" Sharpe retorted.

  "What's a Havercake doing here?"

  "Come to teach you boys a lesson."

  "What in? Cooking?"

  "Where I come from," Sharpe said, 'it's the ones in skirts what does the cooking."

  "Enough, Sharpe," McCandless snapped. The Colonel liked to wear a kilt himself, claiming it was a more suitable garment for India's heat than trousers.

  "We must pay our respects to the General," McCandless said, and turned towards the larger tents in the centre of the encampment.

  It had been two years since Sharpe had last seen his old Colonel and he doubted that Major-General Sir Arthur Wellesley would prove any friendlier now than he ever had. Sir Arthur had always been a cold fish, sparing with approval and frightening in his disapproval, and his most casual glance somehow managed to make Sharpe feel both insignificant and inadequate, and so, when McCandless dismounted outside the General's tent, Sharpe deliberately hung back. The General, still a young man, was standing beside a line of six picketed horses and was evidently in a blazing temper. An orderly, in the blue-and-yellow coat of the igth Dragoons, was holding a big grey stallion by its bridle and Wellesley was alternately patting the horse and snapping at the halfdozen aides who cowered nearby. A group of senior officers, majors and colonels, stood beside the General's tent, suggesting that a council of war had been interrupted by the horse's distress. The grey stallion was certainly suffering. It was shivering, its eyes were rolling white and sweat or spittle was dripping from its drooping head.