Some defenders, knowing Gawilghur’s geography, slipped to those parts of the perimeter where no wall 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 nickered 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 w
ho was making the noise. The smoke cloud that had hung so thick and constant beyond the fortress faded.
He 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.
The redcoat on the wall slashed at the flag’s halyard and Wellesley watched as the green and gold banner fluttered down. Then the redcoat turned and shouted to someone inside the fortress.
Wellesley spurred his horse. Just as he and his ‘aides came into the shadow of the gatehouse, the great gates began to open, hauled back by dirty-looking redcoats with stained faces and broad grins. An officer stood just beyond the arch and, as the General rode into sight, the officer brought his sword up in salute.
Wellesley returned the salute. The officer was drenched in blood, and the General hoped that was not a reflection of the army’s casualties. Then he recognized the man. “Mr. Sharpe?” He sounded puzzled.
“Welcome to Gawilghur, sir,” Sharpe said.
“I thought you’d been captured?”
“I escaped, sir. Managed to join the attack.”
“So I see.” Wellesley glanced ahead. The fort seethed with jubilant redcoats and he knew it would take till nightfall to restore order. “You should see a surgeon, Mr. Sharpe. I fear you’re going to carry a scar on your face.” He remembered the telescope, but decided he would give it to Sharpe later and so, with a curt nod, he rode on.
Sharpe stood and watched the 74th march in. They had not wanted him, because he was not a gentleman. But, by God, he was a soldier, and he had opened the fort for them. He caught Urquhart’s eye, and Urquhart looked at the blood on Sharpe’s face and at the crusting scabs on Sharpe’s sword, then looked away. “Good afternoon, Urquhart,” Sharpe said loudly.
Urquhart spurred his horse.
“Good afternoon, Sergeant Colquhoun,” Sharpe said.
Colquhoun marched doggedly on.
Sharpe smiled. He had proved whatever he had set out to prove, and what was that? That he was a soldier, but he had always known that. He was a soldier, and he would stay a soldier, and if that meant wearing a green jacket instead of a red, then so be it. But he was a soldier, and he had proved it in the heat and blood of Gawilghur. It was the fastness in the sky, the stronghold that could not fall, and now it was Sharpe’s fortress.
Historical Note
I have done the 94th, sometimes known as the Scotch Brigade, and their Light Company which was led by Captain Campbell, a great disservice, for it was they, and not Sharpe, who found the route up the side of the ravine and then across the Inner Fort’s wall at Gawilghur, and who then assailed the gatehouse from the inside and, by opening the succession of gates, allowed the rest of the attacking force into the fortress. Fictional heroes steal other men’s thunder, and I trust the Scots will forgive Sharpe. The Captain Campbell whose initiative broke Gawilghur’s defense was not the same Campbell who was one of Wellesley’s aides (and who had been the hero at Ahmednuggur).
The 33rd’s Light Company was not at Gawilghur; indeed the only British infantry there were Scottish regiments, the same Scotsmen who shocked Scindia’s army into rout at Assaye and took the brunt of the Arab attack at Argaum. Wellesley’s war against the Mahrattas, which ended in complete victory at Gawilghur, was thus won by Madrassi sepoys and Scottish Highlanders, and it was an extraordinary victory.
The battle of Assaye, described in Sharpe’s Triumph, was the engagement which destroyed the cohesion of the Mahratta Confederation. Scindia, the most powerful of the princes, was so shocked by the defeat that he sued for peace, while the Rajah of Berar’s troops, deserted by their allies, fought on. Undoubtedly their best strategy would have been an immediate retreat to Gawilghur, but Manu Bappoo must have decided that he could stop the British and so decided to make his stand at Argaum. The battle happened much as described in this novel; it began with an apparent Mahratta advantage when the sepoys on the right of Wellesley’s line panicked, but the General calmed them, brought them back, then launched his line to victory. The Scots, just as they had been at Assaye, were his shock troops, and they destroyed the Arab regiment that was the best of Bappoo’s infantry. There were no Cobras in Bappoo’s army, and though William Dodd existed, and was a renegade fugitive from the East India Company army, there is no record of his having served Berar. The survivors of Argaum retreated north to Gawilghur.
Gawilghur is still a mightily impressive fortress, sprawling over its vast headland high above the Deccan Plain. It is deserted now, and was never again to be used as a stronghold after the storming on 15 December 1803. The fort was returned to the Mahrattas after they made peace with the British, and they never repaired the breaches which are still there, and, though much overgrown, capable of being climbed. No such breaches remain in Europe, and it was instructive to discover just how steep they are, and how difficult to negotiate, even unencumbered by a musket or sword. The great iron gun which killed five of the attackers with a single shot still lies on its emplacement in the Inner Fort, though its carriage has long decayed and the barrel is disfigured with graffiti. Most of the buildings in the Inner Fort have vanished, or else are so overgrown as to be invisible. There is, alas, no snake pit there. The major gatehouses are still intact, without their gates, and a visitor can only marvel at the suicidal bravery of the men who climbed from the ravine to enter the twisting deathtrap of the Inner Fort’s northern gate. Defeat would surely have been their reward, had not Campbell and his Light Company found a way up the side of the ravine and, with the help of a ladder, scaled the wall and so attacked the gates from the inside. By then Beny Singh, the Killadar, had already poisoned his wives, lovers and daughters. He died, like Manu Bappoo, with his sword in his hand. Manu Bappoo almost certainly died in the breaches and not, as the novel says, in the ravine, though that was where most of his men died, trapped between the attackers who had captured the Outer Fort and the 78th who were climbing the road from the plain. They should have found refuge within the Inner Fort, and bolstered its defenses, but for reasons that have never been explained, the Inner Fort’s g
ates were fast shut against the survivors of the Outer Fort’s garrison.
Elizabeth Longford, in Wellington, The Tears of the Sword, quotes the late Jac Weller as saying of Gawilghur, “three reasonably effective troops of Boy Scouts armed with rocks could have kept out several times their number of professional soldiers.” It is difficult to disagree.
Manu Bappoo and Beny Singh made no effort to protect the Outer Fort’s walls with a glacis, which was their primary mistake, but their real stronghold was the Inner Fort, and it fell far too swiftly. The supposition is that the defenders were thoroughly demoralized, and the few British casualties (about 150), most of them killed or wounded in the assault on the gatehouse, testify to the swiftness of the victory. A hundred and fifty sounds like a small “butcher’s bill,” and so it is, but that should not hide the horror of the fight for the Inner Fort’s gatehouse where Kenny died. That fight occurred in a very small space and, for a brief while, must have been as ghastly as, say, the struggle for Badajoz’s breaches nine years later. Campbell’s escalade up the precipice saved an enormous number of lives and cut a nasty fight blessedly short. Indeed, the victory was so quick, and so cheaply gained, that a recent biography of the Duke of Wellington (in 1803 he was still Sir Arthur Wellesley) accords the siege less than three lines, yet to the redcoat who was sweating up the hill to the plateau and who was expected to carry his firelock and bayonet across the rocky isthmus to the breaches in the double walls it was a significant place and his victory remarkable.
The real significance of Gawilghur lay in the future. Sir Arthur Wellesley had now witnessed the assault of the breach at Seringapatam, had escaladed the walls of Ahmednuggur and swept over the great defenses of Gawilghur. In Portugal and Spain, confronted by even greater defenses manned by determined French soldiers, it is claimed that he underestimated the difficulties of siege work, having been lulled into complacency by the ease of his Indian victories. There may be truth in that, and at Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Burgos and San Sebastian he took dreadful casualties. My own suspicion is that he did not so much underestimate the ability of defenses to withstand him, as overestimate the capacity of British troops to get through those defenses and, astonishingly, they usually lived up to his expectations. And it was Scotsmen who gave him those high expectations: the Scots who used four ladders to capture a city at Ahmednuggur and one ladder to bring down the great fortress of Gawilghur. Their bravery helped disguise the fact that sieges were terrible work, so terrible that the troops, regardless of their commander’s wishes, regarded a captured stronghold as their own property, to destroy and violate as they wished. This was their revenge for the horrors that the defenders had inflicted on them, and there was undoubtedly a vast slaughter inside Gawilghur once the victory was gained. Many of the defenders must have escaped down the steep cliffs, but perhaps half of the seven or eight thousand died in an orgy of revenge.
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