Still spitted upon the Frenchman’s blade, the writhing torch that had once been Major Matthew Williams slammed into the River Kailna with enough force to dump gallons of water onto the north bank, spraying some of the spectating infantrymen who were standing there and watching events unfold. As it plunged beneath the surface of those dark waters, they began to hiss and bubble, as though rejecting the Englishman’s body and wanting to spit him back out.
Finally the turmoil subsided. The river returned to its usual state of semi-turbulent flow, leaving no sign of the secret which had just been enveloped into its cold embrace.
Watching from several hundred feet above, Le Foche knew that he must cut his assigned mission short and report this turn of events to Pohlmann.
Just as he began a controlled descent towards the colonel—no, the general’s tent, he corrected himself, he was suddenly struck with a thought that seemed to come out of nowhere.
His sword. His beautiful, exquisitely-crafted, perfectly-balanced sword.
There was no way on earth he was ever going to get that back.
Humbugged
There were yet more attacks as the long hours dragged by; the bodies of dead redcoats and now more than a few of the camp followers suddenly rising from where they lay and hurling themselves at the nearest living being, desperate to gorge themselves on warm and bloody flesh.
The more frequent such attacks became, the better prepared the British NCOs found themselves, increasingly stabbing and battering the skulls of their fallen so that they would not be resurrected and return to plague the rear of the column.
As the night wore on, Arthur found himself on tenterhooks, constantly expecting the sound of carbine fire to shatter the silence; it would mean that the British cavalry screen had collided with that of the Marathas and that both sides were exchanging shots.
Yet no such disruption ever came, and as the long miles melted slowly away beneath the boots of the men and the hooves of their horses, taking the army ever closer to its planned camp site at Naulniah, the Major General actually found himself getting increasingly tense.
The army reached Naulniah some two hours before sunrise the following day, and Arthur reined Diomed in at the top of a low rise. It was now the morning of the Twenty-Third, and Arthur knew that if all had gone well, Stevenson and his men would now be making camp on the western side of the hills which separated them both, fortifying the defenses of the little village named Hussainabad.
Where were the damned Marathas? Had they packed up and fled once more? Or was the silence simply a ruse de guerre, a ploy designed to lure the advancing British into an ambush?
One question stood out above all others in Wellesley’s restless mind: just what on earth had happened to Major Williams?
The exploring officer has been destroyed. In his sinking heart of hearts, Wellesley already knew it to be true. That was the only explanation that made any kind of sense.
Destroyed…or captured. The latter would be far worse, in terms of it being a threat to the army at least. A destroyed officer could tell the enemy nothing, but one that was being held captive would be interrogated mercilessly by the most deviant minds in Scindia’s army. There would be at least one semi-professional torturer among their ranks, Arthur knew; most armies had them, even his own.
Which meant vampires.
Although it was conceivable that mortal soldiers had brought Williams down, Arthur considered it to be extremely unlikely. Like all of his kind, the Major had been preternaturally strong and agile, more than capable of defeating many times his number in human adversaries. The only thing that could have overwhelmed him would be other vampires, most likely the European officers in Scindia’s employ.
Taking that thought to its next logical conclusion, the general suddenly stiffened. Scindia and the Raja of Berar must now know that he had been spying upon them…which meant that they were every bit as likely to want to spy back. He had a cavalry screen out to the north, it was true, but they were under explicit orders to maintain a low profile and not to allow themselves to be drawn into any kind of engagement with the enemy under any circumstances.
As it stood, the cavalry – most of whom came from Goklah’s native horse irregulars – hadn’t laid eyes on a soul since assuming their watch earlier that day.
“Mister Campbell!”
“Sir?” Colin was at his side in an instant, a scrap of paper and pencil at the ready.
This one has all the makings of a fine adjutant, Wellesley thought, his mind already racing ahead through the many orders that would have to be given over the next few minutes. A different part of his mind was already composing them as he spoke to his designated aide
“Major Williams has not returned, and therefore this army is effectively blind. That is unacceptable to me. I shall therefore be riding forward myself to scout out a suitable crossing point on the River Kailna. Is something wrong?”
That last remark came in answer to the young Captain’s face, which had drained of all its color by his commander’s words.
“Frankly, yes sir – something is wrong.” Colin knew that what he was about to say might be deemed impertinent, but he felt that it was too important to simply shut up and say nothing. “You are the commanding general of our army, sir. With the greatest of respect, your place is not in the front line where the enemy skirmishers may pick you off just as they please.”
“Most enemy skirmishers – assuming he even has them deployed – aren’t issued with silver ammunition,” Wellesley quite reasonably pointed out. “And I must see Borkardan for myself; must ensure that the enemy are where we believe them to be.”
“But General, could not a more junior officer obtain that information on your behalf?”
“It is not only the enemy that I must see for myself, Captain – it is the very ground itself. How might we use it to advantage? How will the enemy attempt to funnel our attack towards his strongest points? As skilled as my officers are, there is no substitute for first-hand knowledge, I am afraid.”
“But—”
“Enough.” Wellesley cut him off with a firm wave of the hand. “Your objections have been noted, Mister Campbell.” His voice softened a little. “And your concerns for my well-being are appreciated, although perhaps a little misplaced.”
“Yes, sir.” The defeat rang through loud and clear in the aide-de-camp’s tone.
A cough came from just a short way behind them. Both men turned to find Company Sergeant Major Nichols standing at a respectful distance.
“Yes, CSM?”
“Pardon me, General. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with the Captain.”
“And what of it?” You are becoming testy, Arthur cautioned himself quietly. Be calm. Time is of the essence, yes, but it would not do to alienate those upon whom so much depends…on whom all depends.
“You’ll be needing an escort, sir. I can have a bodyguard detailed and ready to march inside of ten minutes, sir. Maybe seven or eight at a pinch.”
“I have no doubt that you could, Nichols, and I thank you for it,” Arthur demurred. “However, I am afraid that there is no time. On any other day I would feel far more secure with an escort of Shadow Company men at my back, but in this instance I must ride rather than walk, and I fear that they could not keep up with Diomed.”
“Can’t say as I like it sir,” Nichols said neutrally.
“Nor I, to tell the truth, but needs must.”
“Then you’ll take a squadron of dragoons instead, sir,” said Campbell. It was phrased as a fact, not as a suggestion, and Wellesley had enough sense not to object.
“Very well. I’ll not argue with either of you. Detail a squadron, Captain, but be sure to make this one point extremely clear: they shall not ride with me, but rather trail behind me at a safe distance. Shall we say half a mile?”
“Sir?” Nichols blinked, evidently confused.
“Even at night, a squadron of cavalry is hardly an unobtrusive thing,” the General e
xplained patiently. “If the Marathas rumble our game, then we shall assuredly have lost the element of surprise.” Wellesley shook his head decisively. “No, I shall ride forward alone, with the dragoons trailing along behind and using the terrain to mask their presence.”
“Very good sir,” Campbell said quietly. “With your permission, I shall arrange for the escort?”
“Granted, Captain. Thank you.”
No more than a quarter of an hour had passed before Arthur was in Diomed’s saddle and riding in a northwesterly direction from Naulniah. The detachment of dragoons trailed him at the agreed-upon distance of half a mile, and he was gratified to note that the officer commanding them made good use of low hills and defiles wherever he possibly could.
He could hear it long before anything became visible; the sounds of thousands of people located in very close proximity to one another. The sheer quantity of animal noises betrayed the presence of vast herds. Thousands of fires crackled.
Then came the smells, a pungent mixture of smoke and unwashed humanity, animal dung and cooking food, the vast plethora of odors that were generated by an encamped army.
Something was very wrong about all this, Wellesley realized. He had come upon them much too soon. Assuming that the maps of the region were correct – and he had every reason to trust in the cartographical skills of his exploring officers – then the Marathas were much, much closer to Naulniah than Borkardan.
“Dear God,” Wellesley exclaimed under his breath. “I’ve been bloody well humbugged.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Consequences Be Damned
Arthur Wellesley was not a man who was ordinarily prone to doubt. Yet there was nothing ordinary about the circumstances in which he and his army now found themselves, having inadvertently gotten far closer to the much-larger enemy than anticipated, and now found themselves left with just one of two possible alternatives. The first was to retreat, fighting a constant running battle when the Maratha horde descended upon their flanks. Arthur could already picture that unpalatable option in his mind’s eye. Depending on how aggressive Scindia’s officers were willing to be, the British would either find themselves hastily engaged in a desperate rearguard action to salvage some last remnant of their army, or dying the death of a thousand cuts as the Marathas whittled them down a little at a time.
No, that will never serve.
Which left him with the second course: attack.
There was was really no choice at all. The last few weeks had been spent trying to bring the Marathas to battle, and now that moment was at hand. Never mind that he had expected more preparation time, and hoped to coordinate his assault with Stevenson’s half of the army.
No time for that, Arthur…no time. Attack now, with everything that you have. Break their regular infantry and the rest will shatter like so much glass under the hammer.
At his side, Lieutenant-Colonel Maxwell and Captain Campbell kept their silence. Both were used to seeing their general’s more introspective side, and were loathe to break his concentration. While Campbell scanned the far bank of the Kailna with no small degree of nervousness, the cavalry officer continued to watch the skies, his keen senses on the lookout for any sign that the enemy’s vampire officers might be hunting them.
Spurring Diomed onward, he paralleled the track of the Kailna. Using dead ground and foliage as a screen, Arthur kept the river to his left side, and across it kept a watchful eye on the massed cannon and infantry compoos of the Maratha’s army. Scindia’s men, if his suspicions were correct, for Scindia’s men were reputed to be the steadiest fighters. Those were the men who had to be beaten if the battle was to be decisively won. His dragoon escort trailed along behind him, ever alert in case their counterparts should put in an appearance to threaten their general.
He rode further and further eastward, passing the village of Taunklee, which seemed to mark the far left end of the Maratha line. Scindia had chosen that particular point to anchor his flank for a very good reason, for according to the best intelligence that Arthur’s exploring officers had been able to gather, this was the last of the easternmost crossing points.
Finally he reined his mount to a halt, catching sight of a cluster of low buildings off to his eleven o’clock position. Arthur removed his telescope from Diomed’s pannier and began to scrutinize the village in finer detail. Peepalgaon was a small affair, home to little more than a handful of people. Scanning further across to the opposite bank of the Kailna, his eye alighted on a second village, offset a little further to the east on the outside of a bend.
That would be Waroor, if memory serves. The village was of a comparable size to its neighbor on the southern bank. Something struck him as a little odd, and at first he could not quite put his finger on what.
“A ford,” he said at last, not realizing that he had spoken aloud.
“Sir?” said Campbell.
“See how close the two villages are? How do the villagers talk to one another, socialize with their neighbors on the opposite bank?”
“Who is to say that they do?” asked Maxwell, head still tilted back and watching the moonlit night sky.
“Oh, please.” Wellesley’s tone was full of scorn. “People are always people, Colonel, no matter where in the world you should find them. Can you conceive of two British villages similarly placed, whose inhabitants did not drink in one another’s public houses and share common festivals?”
“You have a point, General,” Maxwell conceded.
“There is more than one point to be made here, but I suspect that this is the most salient: a ford must exist between the two villages. Must.”
“If you’re right, then Scindia has left a crossing point unguarded…and it’s on his flank, at that.” The cavalry officer was growing interested. “He could very easily come to regret that.”
“Yes,” Arthur said quietly. “Yes, I do believe he might.” He turned Diomed about and without another word spurred her into a trot, cutting a straight line directly back towards Naulniah. His two companions, momentarily caught off guard, had to run their mounts a lot harder just to catch up, let alone actually keep pace. Arthur allowed Diomed to run up a full head of steam, breaking into a gallop. The big Arabian mount, relishing this unexpected opportunity to show off his full potential, was practically flying over the sparse ground, occasionally leaping over a small bush or fallen tree in his path. For his part, Diomed’s rider was content to let his horse navigate their way home, because his own mind was already filling with the details and nuances of a new offensive strategy, one that involved a hitherto unsuspected ford and a chance to turn his enemy’s left flank.
He would bring up the army and attack tonight.
Consequences be damned.
A Hidden Ford
“Come on, you shower of motherless bastards! Move! Move!”
Somehow the shouted harangue of a sergeant became even more fearsome when delivered with a Scottish accent, Arthur thought wryly as the first battalion of the 78th marched by. With bayonets fixed and their bearskins making them appear considerably taller than the average fighting man, the kilted Scotsmen truly were a sight to behold. The moonlight glinted on the tips of each blade, already honed to a fine sharpness in anticipation of tonight’s action. Colonel Harness rode at their head, and now that the decision to seek battle had been taken, the vampire officer seemed full of anticipation for the coming fight.
With Campbell and an orderly riding in his wake, Arthur spurred his horse forwards to ride alongside the Scots Colonel. He had decided to give Diomed a rest, leaving him to be drawn along by the orderly that now held his reins knotted about one fist, instead choosing to ride his spare, a dappled grey gelding named Achilles.
“The best of the evening to you, General,” Harness smiled, showing the tips of his fangs. “My Highlanders are more than ready to give the enemy a thrashing they’ll not soon forget.”
Wellesley returned the smile, utterly confident that the man could be taken at his word.
<
br /> “Scindia is going to find it quite the shock when your lads drop in on him for breakfast, Colonel.”
It had been twenty-four minutes past nine when Arthur had ridden back into the British lines, Diomed’s glossy coat now bathed in sweat. Maxwell and Campbell hadn’t been far behind, and the detail from the 19th had brought up the rear.
“Have the men drop packs, blankets, and anything that isn’t a personal weapon, ammunition, or a canteen of water,” he had ordered the commanders of each battalion when they had hurriedly assembled inside his tent. “We march in ten minutes. Dismissed.”
In truth, it had taken slightly longer than that, but the army was on the march and following a dusty track northward within less than twenty minutes. The 78th were the last unit in the order of march, for he had left a battalion of the Second Madras Native Infantry posted in Naulniah to act as a garrison and more importantly to secure the army’s baggage train. Not that it really matters, because if we lose this night, who cares what happens to the baggage? But it would also not do to win the engagement, as he fully intended to do, only to find that the enemy cavalry had ransacked the army’s supply cache and butchered the camp followers. After satisfying himself that the very last company of Highlanders had joined the formation, leaving no fighting men other than the guard battalion to keep an eye on the army’s rear, Arthur broke into a canter and made his way to the head of the column. William Wallace’s 74th were the first regular King’s unit behind the picquets, and much like his counterpart in the 74th, was also in fine fighting spirit. His claymore hung heavily at his side, and Arthur knew that it would most likely see its share of blood this night.
In addition to the men of his own regiment, both Wallace and Harness were commanding a pair of Madras Native Infantry battalions, giving them a brigade of three battalions apiece. Wellesley knew that the fight would be won largely by the skill and bravery of these six battalions, little more than five thousand men in all, and the squadrons of cavalry under Lieutenant Colonel Maxwell that were currently screening their left flank. In addition to the almost four hundred men of the 19th Light Dragoons, Maxwell could count upon a total of nine squadrons from the 4th, 5th, and 7th Native Cavalry.
Goddess of the Dead (Wellington Undead Book 2) Page 22
