Sword of Fortune

by Christopher Nicole

  While they were doing this, the assaulting regiments, totalling four thousand three hundred and seventy-six men, of whom more than half were British, were appointed and armed. They were divided into two columns, commanded respectively by Colonels Sherbrooke and Dunlop under the overall command of General Baird.

  ‘Are you still with me, Mr Bryant?’ Baird inquired.

  ‘Oh, indeed, sir.’

  ‘Well, then, I have only one thing to say to you, sir: I lead from the front, and I will expect you at my shoulder.’

  Just like George Thomas, Richard thought.

  ‘I will be there, sir,’ he promised.

  *

  The troops assembled before dawn in the deep shelter trenches which had been dug on the banks of the river for their concealment, but then they waited, after the sun had risen, for the signal. The entire morning slowly drifted by, becoming hotter and hotter. Towards noon a kind of miasma settled, as it always did, over the river, and over both the city-and the besiegers, augmented by the clouds of smoke from the burning buildings within the walls. The guns fell silent, and the sepoys began their mid-day meal.

  It was for this moment Baird had been waiting. He waited for another hour, until the city was sunk into somnolence, then leapt onto the parapet, sword in hand, uttering in a stentorian bellow: ‘Come, my brave fellows, follow me, and prove yourselves worthy of the name of British soldiers.’

  The attackers rose as one man. The forlorn hope, a sergeant and a dozen volunteers, rushed past the general into the water, following the white stakes. But they were only barely in front of Baird himself, Richard at his side, and the four thousand bayonets behind them.

  Baird’s shout had aroused the defenders as well as the attackers. Heads appeared on the wall around the breach. Shots were fired, but these were mostly wild, and in a matter of seconds the forlorn hope was at the breach, shooting and bayoneting the men gathered there.

  Richard reached the foot of the breach, and paused to assist Baird to climb up; they were overtaken by a sergeant carrying the colours, who bawled, ‘Success to Lieutenant Graham!’

  It turned out later that this was the fellow’s own name; he was anticipating the promotion which he was sure would follow the feat he had in mind. Boldly he scrambled up the breach brandishing the flag, then climbed even higher, onto the wall itself. He prodded at the masonry with his bayonet to make a hole, and a moment later the Union Jack was planted and waving in the light breeze.

  The entire army gave a great cheer, and Sergeant Graham turned to salute them. At that moment a bullet struck him in the head and he died instantly.

  *

  The two columns were under orders to separate once inside the city, and to sweep round the sides to drive all the defenders from the walls. Colonel Sherbrooke’s column therefore swung to the right, crashing into the Marathas and sending them flying.

  Resistance was more prolonged on the left, where a strong enemy force had gathered. Colonel Dunlop fell immediately he gained the breach, and as the Marathas advanced, firing by volleys, almost every other officer went down as well.

  Only Lieutenant Farquhar, who had reconnoitred the river, was left, and he ran to the front, waving his sword, to fall immediately, shot through the heart.

  ‘Lead those men,’ Baird snapped to one of his aides-de-camp, Captain Lambton; the general had paused above the breach to oversee the battle.

  Richard ran at Lambton’s shoulder, sword in hand, to rally the shaken troops.

  The Marathas were re-loading, and were overwhelmed by the impetuosity of the charge. They broke, and the British and sepoys pushed them; only a few minutes later they made contact with Sherbrooke’s column; the city had fallen.

  ‘Tippoo,’ Lambton said to Richard. ‘We must secure Tippoo.’

  But Richard was more interested in Peyraud. He had seen several French officers in the Maratha ranks; most had gone down fighting. But he had not recognised Peyraud.

  Now he followed Lambton into the centre of the city, from whence rose flames and thick smoke. A confused mêlée was going on, houses being ransacked even as their owners put up a desperate resistance, women and girls screaming in terror of rape, and dogs barking, muskets cracking, wounded men moaning in agony. Presumably Caty and Michael were somewhere in that smoking hell.

  ‘There!’ the captain shouted, pointing at a figure on horseback, wearing a green turban and waving a sword.

  They tried to force their way into the midst of the shouting, cutting, thrusting mob, but as they did so, Tippoo threw up his arms and fell, disappearing from sight. Lambton and Richard drove their way towards him and found his horse, but the rajah had been carried off by his people.

  Now the fighting was slackening, as the Marathas, observing the fall of their leader, sought to save themselves. Many ran back to the now-deserted walls and attempted to lower themselves by tying their turbans together, but very few succeeded.

  Richard left Lambton and charged at a French officer, who had thrown down his sword and held his hands high.

  ‘General Peyraud,’ he snapped. ‘Where is General Peyraud?’

  The man goggled at him. ‘General Peyraud?’ he repeated stupidly.

  ‘Peyraud, you rascal!’ Richard shouted.

  ‘General Peyraud…left Seringapatam several days ago, monsieur,’ the man stammered. ‘He quarrelled with Tippoo Sahib after the defeat at the lake, and rode out. With all his family.’

  Diary of Mrs Richard Bryant, 6 April 1799

  Have I any right to call myself Mrs Bryant any more? I know not. I know so few things.

  This is the first time I have written my diary for four days! After never having missed more than an occasional day before! Even on the journey from Bombay to Hansi!

  But what days they have been! And how remarkable that I even retain my diary!

  What can I recall? What dare I recall, of these four days? I, who have experienced so much, and have now learned that until four days ago I had experienced nothing?

  With my escort I had reached the banks of the Narmada River. They were such charming men, such charming Indians, even if their officer, an English boy named Clarke—only a lieutenant—appeared to regard me with a mixture of awe and suspicion.

  But he was politeness itself. Poor boy! That is the only word that can now describe him.

  We pitched our tents on the banks, intending to make the crossing the next day. Lieutenant Clarke became almost merry at the thought of the wetting we should have, and was not at all abashed when I told him of the dreadful death of poor Bootil.

  So we retired, to awake to horrible catastrophe! We had been overrun by Marathas, and not merely Marathas, but men who had fought for Tippoo Sahib! But even that was not the worse of it. These men are commanded by a certain Jacques Peyraud, and Monsieur Peyraud, who calls himself a general, is accompanied by his wife and children!!! His wife!! A certain Scots lady named Catriona, whose eldest son is a lieutenant named Michael.

  Alas, that I did not know this before I spoke. I stood there, in my shift, surrounded by these slavering rascals, poor Lieutenant Clarke—having endeavoured to defend my virtue!—already a corpse at my feet, and thought I would put the fear of God into them by declaring myself to be the wife of the famous General Bryant, daring them to do their worst.

  For a moment I thought my plan had succeeded. This dreadful Peyraud—he must have been quite a handsome fellow once, but his visage has become hideously tarnished, no doubt through a life of vice—seemed struck dumb as did his lady.

  Then she gave a gasp, just as her husband recovered himself, to look about him anxiously. ‘And where is the great General Bryant now?’ he demanded.

  ‘Why, sir,’ I replied. ‘He is superintending the destruction of Seringapatam, and the downfall of Tippoo Sahib, and the end of the life of the infamous Jacques Peyraud.’

  At which Madame Peyraud gave a great shriek and all but fainted at my feet.

  Her husband merely uttered a great shout of laughter. ‘T
ruly,’ he bellowed, ‘is it said that all things turn out for the best.’

  Over the next couple of hours, it were best to draw a veil. I do not wish to record them.

  Suffice it to say that there I was, a woman still possessed of the better part of her beauty, in the total power of a villain who hates my Richard more than anyone else in the world. Needless to say, he is a coward! Indeed, it very rapidly transpired that upon finding himself incapable of resisting the advance of Richard and the Company army, and knowing full well that to shut himself up in Seringapatam was to die, he abandoned his employer and incontinently fled, taking with him his wife and family and this handful of apparently faithful retainers.

  Upon me he resolved to expiate all the bitterness of his failure. My pen shudders at the thought.

  Having sated his lust, he encouraged his followers to do the same. To the eternal credit of the boy Michael, he refused so to debase himself. The others were not so honourable.

  How can I sit here and write of such horror? Should I not be a gibbering wreck?

  Once, I would have been so reduced. But I am no longer a silly girl. I have lived life to the full, and if more than once while they had at me I thought I was certain to die of shame and outrage, I can now regard the incident calmly. If my body still aches, inside and out, I can remind myself that I am the wife of Richard Bryant, and that I shall be avenged.

  I made the mistake of reminding Peyraud of this also, and he flogged my naked flesh. But still I laughed at him, and told him that Richard would yet do him down.

  Perhaps my defiance saved my life. No doubt Peyraud considers that to possess two of Richard’s wives puts him in a strong bargaining position when the day of reckoning comes.

  And I have a friend! Will I ever forget the amazement with which I discovered that the woman, who had been forced to witness my ravishment—a fate she has certainly undergone herself at the hands of Peyraud on untold occasions—is in fact the Caty for whom Richard has been searching all these years, and that the young lieutenant who would not defile my body is Richard’s own son!

  Caty could not confide this to me until Peyraud had sated himself and was asleep. Since then she has confided a great deal more, of her love for Richard, of the years of torment she has endured while forcibly separated from him, and her undying certainty that he will one day reclaim her and love her as much as she loves him!

  She is, of course, a simple Scots lass. If she can read and write that is the sum of her accomplishments. She knows nothing of music or manners. Nor is she, to my mind, especially handsome. She is a full head shorter than I, her hair is pale, her figure good but inclined to plumpness, and her constancy is unwavering. She has no doubt that Richard still loves her.

  Neither, apparently, has he.

  I cannot take offence. I am in no position to do so. Besides, she is a sweet person. She adores her four children, and they adore her. It goes without saying that they hate and fear their father, and revere the idea of Richard she has instilled in them.

  And now that we are captives together, we must needs stand shoulder to shoulder.

  The strange girl appears to feel no jealousy of me.

  What is going to become of us? I gather that Peyraud is now seeking service with Monsieur Perron, of whom I have heard Richard speak. He apparently commands the armies of the Scindhia, and if I remember Richard’s comments correctly, is every bit as much a villain as Peyraud.

  But he is a powerful man. Perhaps the most powerful in India! What then? Am I doomed to spend my life as the mistress of this tyrant?

  Richard will never permit that. He will find us. And then what will happen?

  I must wait and see, and be patient.

  Was I a fool to leave Bombay for this adventure, when I could have been on an Indiaman sailing for England? I cannot tell. As my money is safely lodged with my diaries in Bombay, I am at least still wealthy.

  And I have done so many apparently foolish things…things I would not now have foregone for the world.

  I must be brave.

  I must be optimistic.

  I must live for tomorrow.

  15: The Legend

  The body of Tippoo Sahib was found in the breach itself. Wounded, he had attempted to make his escape, and had been bayoneted by a British soldier, who had had no idea who he was but had been trying to steal the dying man’s richly-embossed swordbelt.

  He was buried with full honours, as a brave adversary who had fought to the last.

  The French officers who were taken prisoner were loud in their denunciation of their erstwhile commander, who had apparently fled the moment the situation became irretrievable.

  ‘Fled where?’ Richard demanded, fighting to keep surging despair from overwhelming him.

  ‘He will almost certainly seek service with the Scindhia,’ one of the officers told him. ‘I heard him say that Perron was the last worthwhile commander in India.’

  ‘The Scindhia,’ Richard breathed. Closer at hand, at any rate. And for how long had Perron and George wanted to be at each other’s throats?

  Surely George would humour him at last.

  *

  Harris was confounded by Richard’s decision.

  ‘Return to Hariana? To that madman Thomas? My dear sir, a most glittering future awaits you with the Company. I personally will recommend you for a command in our forces.’

  His lifelong ambition at last, Richard thought, offered without strings just when he could not accept it.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Harris,’ he said. ‘I have a duty to perform.’

  ‘I understand your natural wish to recover your wife, sir, but you cannot be sure of ever finding her. I will tell you this, however: if the Governor-General persists in his determination to rid India of every last French soldier, then the Scindhia must be the next object of our attentions.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ Richard said. ‘But you will understand that I cannot wait that long.’

  He gave Wellesley a letter to deliver to Barbara in Bombay.

  ‘You are turning your back on a good and true woman,’ the colonel remarked.

  ‘No, sir. I am suggesting that she turn her back on me, and seek someone who can give her a less flawed happiness.’

  ‘I doubt she will see it that way,’ Wellesley said, and put the letter in his wallet. ‘There is still much to be done in India, Richard. Much which my brother has in mind, and much which I will have to carry out on his behalf. I should like to think that you and I will fight shoulder to shoulder again one day.’

  ‘One day,’ Richard promised him.

  *

  He and Soliman rode out of the still-burning ruin of Seringapatam the next morning, and headed north. There were bands of fleeing Marathas all around them, but none were interested in any further fighting.

  Besides, Richard’s sole object was to reach Hariana. He knew he could not invade Gwalior single-handed. He needed the support of Thomas’s ten battalions, of Thomas himself.

  Thus on, always on, he drove Soliman and himself. They reached Hariana in a month, and Hansi a few days later. By then, however, Richard had gleaned some very interesting knowledge. On the journey through Scindhia he noticed a great many troop movements, and while there were strong forces posted along the Narmada, most of the concentration seemed to be taking place towards the north and north-east, towards Hariana and Delhi itself.

  Richard prudently showed little obvious interest in what was happening about him, and no hostility was shown to him. He avoided Scindhia encampments wherever possible. In view of the troop dispositions, indicating some kind of a move to the north, he suspected that were Perron or any of his senior commanders to be aware of his presence he might well be detained. He did not even inquire whether Peyraud had passed that way; he had no doubt he had. But he also knew that he must find out what Perron was about.

  Soliman offered to go into one of the encampments, as an itinerant native, and bring back what information he could. Richard was reluctant to allow hi
m to take the risk, but he could not do it himself. He gave permission, and waited for three days, close to the Hariana border, before his servant returned.

  ‘There is much to do, Richard Sahib,’ Soliman told him. ‘Firstly, it is said that Ship Sahib has crossed the Sutlej and invaded the Punjab.’

  Richard snapped his fingers in anger and dismay. Thomas had lied to him.

  ‘Secondly,’ Soliman went on, ‘The Scindhia has received a demand from the Company to send away his Frenchmen.’

  So Mornington had not even waited for the victory at Seringapatam to issue his next ultimatum, Richard thought.

  ‘Although he has returned a soft reply, the Scindhia has resolved to resist this, sahib,’ Soliman went on. ‘His people are amused by his subterfuge.’

  More likely the boy has been told to behave thus, by Perron, Richard thought.

  ‘But Monsieur Perron has determined that it would be unwise to fight both the Company and Ship Sahib at the same time, and learning that Ship Sahib and his army are committed in the Punjab, Monsieur Perron has decided to prevaricate with Lord Mornington and strike a blow to the north first, to leave himself free to dispose of the threat from the south when it arises.’

  And in doing so has played into my hands, Richard thought. George would have to fight Scindhia now.

  It was the fight all India had been waiting for, for nearly twenty years.

  *

  They crossed the border. The Hariana patrols were aware of the presence of large troop movements on the Scindhia side, but had received no orders as to what to do. They were overjoyed to discover General Bryant in their midst.

  He ordered them concentrated on the road to Hansi. Benoit de Boigne’s pride and joy, and the cause of his reputation as an invincible commander, had been his artillery: he had possessed the best in all India, after the Company. Perron had inherited those guns, and he would intend to use them in any campaign against Hansi.

  Thus he would have to use the road. Harris might have been able to have his men drag his guns over the comparatively open hill country south of Seringapatam; there was no possibility of Perron sending his guns through the jungle of Hariana.