Sharpe's Triumph: Richard Sharpe and the Battle of Assaye, September 1803 Read online

  Gore watched a spider crawl across the table. The house belonged to a leather dealer who had rented it to the 33rd while they were based in Arrakerry and the place seethed with insects that crawled, flew, slunk and stung, and Gore, who was a fastidious and elegant man, rather wished he had used his tents. “Tell me what happened,” Gore said to Morris, “again. If you would be so kind.”

  Morris, slouching in a chair in front of Gore’s table with a thick bandage on his head, seemed surprised to be asked, but he straightened himself and offered the Colonel a feeble shrug. “I don’t really recall, sir. It was two nights ago, in Seringapatam, and I was hit, sir.”

  Gore brushed the spider aside and made a note. “Hit,” he said as he wrote the word in his fine copperplate hand. “Where exactly?”

  “On the head, sir,” Morris answered.

  Gore sighed. “I see that, Captain. I meant where in Seringapatam?”

  “By the armory, sir.”

  “And this was at night?”

  Morris nodded.

  “Black night, sir,” Hakeswill put in helpfully, “black as a blackamoor’s backside, sir.”

  The Colonel frowned at the Sergeant’s indelicacy. Gore was resisting the urge to push a hand inside his coat and scratch his belly. He feared he had caught the Malabar Itch, a foul complaint that would condemn him to weeks of living with a salve of lard on his skin, and if the lard failed he would be reduced to taking baths in a solution of nitric acid. “If it was dark,” he said patiently, “then surely you had no chance to see your assailant?”

  “I didn’t, sir,” Morris replied truthfully.

  “But I did, sir,” Hakeswill said, “and it was Sharpie. Saw him clear as daylight, sir.”

  “At night?” Gore asked skeptically.

  “He was working late, sir,” Hakeswill said, “on account of him not having done his proper work in the daylight like a Christian should, sir, and he opened the door, sir, and the lantern was lit, sir, and he came out and hit the Captain, sir.”

  “And you saw that?”

  “Clear as I can see you now, sir,” Hakeswill said, his face racked with a series of violent twitches.

  Gore’s hand strayed to his coat buttons, but he resisted the urge. “If you saw it, Sergeant, why didn’t you have Sharpe arrested? There were sentries present, surely?”

  “More important to save the Captain’s life, sir. That’s what I deemed, sir. Get him back here, sir, into Mister Micklewhite’s care. Don’t trust other surgeons, sir. And I had to clean up Mister Morris, sir, I did.”

  “The blood, you mean?”

  Hakeswill shook his head. “The substances, sir.” He stared woodenly over Colonel Gore’s head as he spoke.

  “Substances?”

  Hakeswill’s face twitched. “Begging your pardon, sir, as you being a gentleman as won’t want to hear it, sir, but Sergeant Sharpe hit Captain Morris with a jakes pot, sir. A full jakes pot, sir, liquid and solids.”

  “Oh, God,” Gore said, laying down his pen and trying to ignore the fiery itch across his belly. “I still don’t understand why you did nothing in Seringapatam,” the Colonel said. “The Town Major should have been told, surely?”

  “That’s just it, sir,” Hakeswill said enthusiastically, “on account of there not being a Town Major, not proper, seeing as Major Stokes does the duties, sir, and the rest is up to the Rajah’s killadar and I don’t like seeing a redcoat being arrested by a darkie, sir, not even Sharpe. It ain’t right, that. And Major Stokes, he won’t help, sir. He likes Sharpe, see? He lets him live comfortable, sir. Off the fat of the land, sir, like it says in the scriptures. Got himself a set of rooms and a bibbi, he has, and a servant, too. Ain’t right, sir. Too comfortable, sir, whiles the rest of us sweats like the soldiers we swore to be.”

  The explanation made some sort of sense, or at least Gore appreciated that it might convince Sergeant Hakeswill, yet there was still something odd about the whole tale. “What were you doing at the armory after dark, Captain?”

  “Making certain the full complement of wagons was there, sir,” Morris answered. “Sergeant Hakeswill informed me that one was missing.”

  “And was it?”

  “No, sir,” Morris said.

  “Miscounted, sir,” Hakeswill said, “on account of it being dark, sir.” Hakeswill had indeed summoned Morris to the armory after dark, and there he had hit the Captain with a balk of timber and, for good measure, had added the contents of a chamber pot that Major Stokes had left outside his office. The sentries had been sheltering from the rain in the guardhouse and none had questioned the sight of Hakeswill dragging the recumbent Morris back to his quarters, for the sight of drunken officers being taken home by sergeants or privates was too common to be remarkable. The important thing was that Morris had not seen who assaulted him and was quite prepared to believe Hakeswill’s version, for Morris relied utterly on Hakeswill in everything. “I blames myself, sir,” Hakeswill went on, “on account of not chasing Sharpie, but I thought my duty was to look after my Captain, sir, on account of him being drenched by a slop pot.”

  “Enough, Sergeant!” Gore said.

  “It ain’t a Christian act, sir,” Hakeswill muttered resentfully. “Not with a jakes pot, sir. Says so in the scriptures.”

  Gore rubbed his face. The rain had taken the edge off the damp heat, but not by much, and he found the atmosphere horribly oppressive. Maybe the itch was just a reaction to the heat. He rubbed his hand across his belly, but it did not help. “Why would Sergeant Sharpe assault you without warning, Captain?” he asked.

  Morris shrugged. “He’s a disagreeable sort, sir,” he offered weakly.

  “He never liked the Captain, sir, Sharpie didn’t,” Hakeswill said, “and it’s my belief, sir, that he thought the Captain had come to summon him back to the battalion, where he ought to be soldiering instead of living off the fat of the land, but he don’t want to come back, sir, on account of being comfortable, sir, like he’s got no right to be. He never did know his place, sir, not Sharpe, sir. Got above himself, sir, he has, and he’s got cash in his breeches. On the fiddle, I dare say.”

  Gore ignored the last accusation. “How badly are you hurt?” he asked Morris.

  “Only cuts and bruises, sir.” Morris straightened in the chair. “But it’s still a court-martial offense, sir.”

  “A capital offense, sir,” Hakeswill said. “Up against the wall, sir, and God have mercy on his black soul, which I very much doubts God will, God having better things to worry about than a sorry piece of scum like Sharpie.”

  Gore sighed. He suspected there was a great deal more to the story than he was hearing, but whatever the real facts Captain Morris was still right. All that mattered was that Sergeant Sharpe was alleged to have struck an officer, and no excuse in the world could explain away such an offense. Which meant Sergeant Sharpe would have to be tried and very probably shot, and Gore would regret that for he had heard some very good things of the young Sergeant Sharpe. “I had great hopes of Sergeant Sharpe,” the Colonel said sadly.

  “Got above himself, sir,” Hakeswill snapped. “Just ‘cos he blew the mine at Seringapatam, sir, he thinks he’s got wings and can fly. Needs to have his feathers clipped, sir, says so in the scriptures.”

  Gore looked scornfully at the twitching Sergeant. “And what did you do at the assault of the city, Sergeant?” he asked.

  “My duty, sir, my duty,” Hakeswill answered. “What is all I ever expects any other man to do, sir.”

  Gore shook his head regretfully. There really was no way out of this dilemma. If Sharpe had struck an officer, then Sharpe must be punished. “I suppose he’ll have to be fetched back here,” Gore admitted.

  “Of course,” Morris agreed.

  Gore frowned in irritation. This was all such a damned nuisance! Gore had desperately hoped that the 33rd would be attached to Wellesley’s army which was about to plunge into Mahratta territory, but instead the battalion had been ordered to stay behind and guard
Mysore against the bandits who still plagued the roads and hills. Now, it seemed, overstretched as the battalion was, Gore would have to detach a party to arrest Sergeant Sharpe. “Captain Lawford could go for him,” he suggested.

  “Hardly a job for an officer, sir,” Morris said. “A sergeant could do the thing just as well.”

  Gore considered the matter. Sending a sergeant would certainly be less disruptive to the battalion than losing an officer, and a sergeant could surely do the job as well as anyone. “How many men would he need?” Gore asked.

  “Six men, sir,” Hakeswill snapped. “I could do the job with six men.”

  “And Sergeant Hakeswill’s the best man for the job,” Morris urged. He had no particular wish to lose Hakeswill’s services for the few days that it would take to fetch Sharpe, but Hakeswill had hinted that there was money in this business. Morris was not sure how much money, but he was in debt and Hakeswill had been persuasive. “By far the best man,” he added.

  “On account of me knowing the little bugger’s cunning ways, sir,” Hakeswill explained, “if you’ll excuse my Hindi.”

  Gore nodded. He would like nothing more than to rid himself of Hakeswill for a while, for the man was a baleful influence on the battalion. Hakeswill was hated, that much Gore had learned, but he was also feared, for the Sergeant declared that he could not be killed. He had survived a hanging once, indeed the scar of the rope was still concealed beneath the stiff leather stock, and the men believed that Hakeswill was somehow under the protection of an evil angel. The Colonel knew that was nonsense, but even so the very presence of the Sergeant made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. “I’ll have my clerk write the orders for you, Sergeant,” the Colonel said.

  “Thank you, sir!” Hakeswill said. “You won’t regret it, sir. Obadiah Hakeswill has never shirked his duty, sir, not like some as I could name.”

  Gore dismissed Hakeswill who waited for Captain Morris under the building’s porch and watched the rain pelt onto the street. The Sergeant’s face twitched and his eyes held a peculiar malevolence that made the single sentry edge away. But in truth Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill was a happy man. God had put Richard Sharpe into his grasp and he would pay Sharpe back for all the insults of the last few years and especially for the ghastly moment when Sharpe had hurled Hakeswill among the Tippoo Sultan’s tigers. Hakeswill had thought the beasts would savage him, but his luck had held and the tigers had ignored him. It seemed they had been fed not an hour before and thus the guardian angel who preserved Hakeswill had once again come to his rescue.

  So now Obadiah Hakeswill would have his revenge. He would choose six men, six bitter men who could be trusted, and they would take Sergeant Sharpe, and afterwards, somewhere on the road home from Seringapatam where there were no witnesses, they would find Sharpe’s money and then finish him. Shot while attempting to escape, that would be the explanation, and good riddance too. Hakeswill was happy and Sharpe was condemned.

  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 traveling 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 around 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-martialed, 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 cond
emned 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.”