She seemed relieved, and for the rest of that day she chattered happily enough. McCandless questioned her closely about Dodd's regiment, how it had been trained and how it was equipped, and though she had taken scant interest in such things, her replies satisfied the Colonel who pencilled notes in a small black book.
They slept that night in a village, and next day rode even more warily.
"When we meet the enemy, Sharpe," McCandless advised him, 'keep your hands away from your weapon."
"Yes, sir."
"Give a Mahratta one excuse to think you're hostile," the Colonel said cheerfully, 'and he'll use you as an archery butt. They don't make decent heavy horsemen, but as raiders they're unsurpassed. They attack in swarms, Sharpe. A horde of horsemen. Like watching a storm approach. Nothing but dust and the shine of swords. Magnificent!"
"You like them, sir?" Sharpe asked.
"I like the wild, Sharpe," McCandless said fiercely.
"We've tamed ourselves at home, but out here a man still lives by his weapon and his wits. I shall miss that when we've imposed order."
"So why tame it, sir?"
"Because it is our duty, Sharpe. God's duty. Trade, order, law, and Christian decency, that's our business." McCandless was gazing ahead to where a patch of misty white hung just above the northern horizon.
It was dust kicked into the air, and maybe it was nothing more than a herd of cattle or a flock of sheep, but the dust smear grew and suddenly Sevajee's men veered sharply away to the west and galloped out of sight.
"Are they running out on us, sir?" Sharpe asked.
"The enemy will likely enough treat you and me with respect, Sharpe,"
McCandless said, 'but Sevajee cannot expect courtesy from them. They'd regard him as a traitor and execute him on the spot. We'll meet up with him when we've delivered Madame Joubert to her husband. He and I have arranged a rendezvous."
The dust cloud drew nearer and Sharpe saw a sliver of reflected sunlight glint in the whiteness and he knew he was seeing the first sign of McCandless's magnificent wild horsemen. The storm was coming.
The Mahratta cavalrymen had spread into a long line as they approached McCandless's small party. There were, Sharpe guessed, two hundred or more of the horsemen and, as they drew nearer, the flanks of their line quickened to form a pair of horns that would encircle their prey.
McCandless feigned not to notice the threat, but kept riding gently ahead while the wild horns streamed past in a flurry of dust and noise.
They were, Sharpe noticed, small men on small horses. British cavalry were bigger and their horses were heavier, but these nimble horsemen still looked effective enough. The curved blades of their drawn tulwars glittered like their plumed helmets which rose to a sharp point decorated with a crest. Some of the crests were horse-tails, some vultures' feathers and some just brightly coloured ribbons. More ribbons were woven into their horses' plaited manes or were tied to the horn tips of the archers' bows. The horsemen pounded past McCandless, then turned with a swerve, a slew of choking dust, a skid of hooves, a jangle of curb chains and the thump of scabbarded weapons.
The Mahratta leader confronted McCandless who pretended to be surprised to find his path blocked, but nevertheless greeted the enemy with an elaborate and confident courtesy. The cavalry commander was a wildly bearded man with a scarred cheek, a wall eye and lank hair that hung far below his helmet's cloth-rimmed edge. He held his tulwar menacingly, but McCandless ignored the blade's threat, indeed he ignored most of what the enemy commander said, and instead boomed his own demands in a voice that showed not the least nervousness. The Scotsman towered over the smaller horsemen and, because he seemed to regard his presence among them as entirely natural, they meekly accepted his version of what was happening.
"I have demanded that they escort us to Pohlmann," the Scotsman informed Sharpe.
"They probably planned on doing that anyway, sir."
"Of course they did, but it's far better that I should demand it than that they should impose it," McCandless said and then, with a lordly gesture, he gave permission for the Mahratta chief to lead the way and the enemy dutifully formed themselves into an escort either side of the three Europeans.
"Fine-looking beggars, are they not?" McCandless asked.
"Wicked, sir."
"But sadly out of date."
"They could fool me, sir," Sharpe said, for though many of the Mahratta horsemen carried weapons that might have been more usefully employed at Agincourt or Crecy than in modern India, all had fire locks in their saddle holsters and all had savagely curved tulwars.
McCandless shook his head.
"They may be the finest light horsemen in the world, but they won't press a charge home and they can't stand volley fire. There's rarely any need to form square against men like these, Sharpe. They're fine for picquet work, unrivalled at pursuit, but chary of dying in front of the guns."
"Can you blame them?" Simone asked.
"I don't blame them, Madame," McCandless said, 'but if a horse can't stand fire, then it's of scant use in battle. You don't gain victories by rattling across country like a pack of hunters, but by enduring the enemy's fire and overcoming it. That's where a soldier earns his pay, hard under the enemy muzzles."
And that, Sharpe thought, was something he had never really done.
He had faced the French in Flanders years before, but those battles had been fleeting and rain-obscured, and the lines had never closed on each other. He had not stared at the whites of the enemy's eyes, heard his volleys and returned them. He had fought at Malavelly, but that battle had been one volley and a charge, and the enemy had not contested the day, but fled, while at Seringapatam Sharpe had been spared the horror of going through the breach. One day, he realized, he would have to stand in a battle line and endure the volleys, and he wondered whether he would stand or instead break in terror. Or whether he would even live to see a battle, for, despite McCandless's blithe confidence, there was no assurance that he would survive this visit to the enemy's encampment.
They reached Pohlmann's army that evening. The camp was a short march south of Aurungabad and it was visible from miles away because of the great smear of smoke that hung in the sky. Most of the campfires were burning dried cakes of bullock dung and the acrid smoke caught in Sharpe's throat as he trotted through the lines of infantry shelters.
It all looked much like a British camp, except that most of the tents were made from reed matting rather than canvas, but the lines were still neatly arrayed, muskets were carefully stacked in threes and a disciplined ring of picquets guarded the camp's perimeter. They passed some European officers exercising their horses, and one of those men spurred to intercept the newcomers. He ignored McCandless and Sharpe, raising his plumed hat to Simone instead.
"Bonsoir, Madame."
Simone did not look at the man, but just tapped her horse's rump with her riding crop.
"That fellow's French, sir," Sharpe said to McCandless.
"I do speak the language, Sergeant," the Colonel said.
"So what's a Frog doing here, sir?"
"The same as Lieutenant Dodd, Sharpe. Teaching Scindia's infantry how to fight."
"Don't they know how to fight, sir? Thought it came natural."
"They don't fight as we do," McCandless said, watching the rebuffed Frenchman canter away.
"How's that, sir?"
"The European, Sergeant, has learned to close the gap fast. The closer you are to a man, the more likely you are to kill him; however, the closer you get, the more likely you are to be killed, but it's no use entertaining that fear in battle. Get up close, hold your ranks and start killing, that's the trick of it. But given a chance an Indian will hold back and try to kill at long range, and fellows like Dodd are teaching them how to close the gap hard and fast. You need discipline for that, discipline and tight ranks and good sergeants. And no doubt he's teaching them how to use cannon as well." The Colonel spoke sourly, for they were trotting beside an ar
tillery park that was crammed with heavy cannon. The guns looked odd to Sharpe, for many of them had been cast with ornate patterns on their barrels, and some were even painted in gaudy colours, but they were neatly parked and all had limbers and full sets of equipment; rammers and worm screws and handspikes and buckets. The axles gleamed with grease and there was not a spot of rust to be seen on the long barrels. Someone knew how to maintain guns, and that suggested they also knew how to use them.
"Counting them, Sharpe?" McCandless asked abruptly.
"No, sir."
"Seventeen in that park, mostly nine-pounders, but there are some much heavier brutes at the back. Keep your eyes open, man. That's why we're here."
"Yes, sir, of course, sir."
They passed a line of tethered camels, then a compound where a dozen elephants were being brought their supper of palm leaves and butter-soaked rice. Children followed the men carrying the rice to scavenge what slopped from the pails. Some of the Mahratta escort had spurred ahead to spread news of the visitors and curious crowds gathered to watch as McCandless and his two companions rode still deeper into the huge encampment. Those crowds became thicker as they drew close to the camp's centre which was marked by a spread of large tents. One of the tents was made of blue-and-yellow-striped canvas, and in front of it were twin flagpoles, though the wind was slack and the brightly coloured banners just hung from their tall poles.
"Leave the talking to me," McCandless ordered Sharpe.
"Of course, sir."
Simone suddenly gasped. Sharpe turned and saw she was staring across the heads of the curious crowd towards a group of European officers.
She looked at Sharpe suddenly and he saw the sadness in her eyes. She gave him a half-smile.
"Pierre," she offered in brief explanation, then she shrugged and tapped her horse with her crop so that it hurried away from Sharpe. Her husband, a small man in a white coat, gazed in disbelief, then ran to meet her with a look of pleasure on his face. Sharpe felt oddly jealous of him.
"That's our main duty discharged," McCandless said happily.
"A disobliging woman, I thought."
"Unhappy, sir."
"Doesn't have enough to keep her busy, that's why. The devil likes idle hands, Sharpe."
"Then he must hate me, sir, most of the time." He stared after Simone, watching as she slid down from the saddle and was embraced by her shorter husband. Then the crowds hid the couple from him.
Someone shouted an insult at the two British horsemen and the other spectators jeered or laughed, but Sharpe, despite their hostility, took some consolation from McCandless's confidence. The Scotsman, indeed, was in a happier mood than he had shown for days, for he revelled being in his enemy's lines.
A group of men emerged from the big striped tent. They were almost all Europeans, and in their forefront was a tall muscled man in shirtsleeves who was attended by a bodyguard of Indian soldiers wearing purple coats.
"That's Colonel Pohlmann," McCandless said, nodding towards the big red-faced man.
"The fellow who used to be a sergeant, sir?"
"That's him."
"You've met him, sir?"
"Once, a couple of years back. He's an affable sort of man, Sharpe, but I doubt he's trustworthy."
If Pohlmann was surprised to see a British officer in his camp, he did not show it. Instead he spread his arms in an expansive gesture of welcome.
"Are you new recruits?" he shouted in greeting.
McCandless did not bother to answer the mocking question, but just slid from his horse.
"You don't remember me, Colonel?"
"Of course I remember you," Pohlmann said with a smile.
"Colonel Hector McCandless, once of His Majesty's Scotch Brigade, and now in the service of the East India Company. How could I forget you, Colonel? You tried to make me read the Bible." Pohlmann grinned, displaying tobacco-stained teeth.
"But you haven't answered my question, Colonel. Have you come to join our army?"
"I am the merest emissary, Colonel," McCandless said, beating dust from the kilt that he had insisted on wearing in honour of meeting the enemy. The garment was causing some amusement to Pohlmann's companions, though they took care not to let their smiles show if McCandless glanced their way.
"I brought you a woman," McCandless added in explanation.
"How do you say in England, Colonel," Pohlmann asked with a puzzled frown, 'coals to Newcastle?"
"I offered safe conduct to Madame Joubert," the Scotsman said stiffly.
"So that was Simone I saw riding past," Pohlmann said.
"I did wonder.
And she'll be welcome, I dare say. We have enough of everything in this army; cannon, muskets, horses, ammunition, men, but there can never really be enough women in any army, can there?" He laughed, then summoned two of his purple-coated bodyguards to take charge of the horses.
"You've ridden a long way, Colonel," Pohlmann said to McCandless, 'so let me offer you refreshment. You too, Sergeant," he included Sharpe in his invitation.
"You must be tired."
"I'm sore after that ride, sir," Sharpe said, dropping clumsily and gratefully from the saddle.
"You're not used to horses, eh?" Pohlmann crossed to Sharpe and draped a genial arm about his shoulders.
"You're an infantryman, which means you've got hard feet and a soft bum. Me, I never like being on a horse. You know how I go to battle?
On an elephant.
That's the way to do it, Sergeant. What's your name?"
"Sharpe, sir."
"Then welcome to my headquarters, Sergeant Sharpe. You're just in time for supper." He steered Sharpe into the tent, then stopped to let his guests stare at the lavish interior which was carpeted with soft rugs, hung with silk drapes, lit with ornate brass chandeliers and furnished with intricately carved tables and couches. McCandless scowled at such luxury, but Sharpe was impressed.
"Not bad, eh?" Pohlmann squeezed Sharpe's shoulders.
"For a former sergeant."
"You, sir?" Sharpe asked, pretending not to know Pohlmann's history.
"I was a sergeant in the East India Company's Hanoverian Regiment,"
Pohlmann boasted, 'quartered in a rat hole in Madras. Now I command a king's army and have all these powdered fops to serve me." He gestured at his attendant officers who, accustomed to Pohlmann's insults, smiled tolerantly.
"Need a piss, Sergeant?" Pohlmann asked, taking his arm from Sharpe's shoulders.
"A wash?"
"Wouldn't mind both, sir."
"Out the back." He pointed the way.
"Then come back and drink with me."
McCandless had watched this bonhomie with suspicion. He had also smelt the reek of strong liquor on Pohlmann's breath and suspected he was doomed to an evening of hard drinking in which, even though
McCandless himself would refuse all alcohol, he would have to endure the drunken badinage of others. It was a grim prospect, and one he did not intend to endure alone.
"Not you, Sharpe," he hissed when Sharpe returned to the tent.
"Not me what, sir?"
"You're to stay sober, you hear me? I'm not mollycoddling your sore head all the way back to the army."
"Of course not, sir," Sharpe said, and for a time he tried to obey McCandless, but Pohlmann insisted Sharpe join him in a toast before supper.
"You're not an abstainer, are you?" Pohlmann demanded of Sharpe in feigned horror when the Sergeant tried to refuse a beaker of brandy.
"You're not a Bible-reading abstainer, are you? Don't tell me the British army is becoming moral!"
"No, sir, not me, sir."
"Then drink with me to King George of Hanover and of England!"
Sharpe obediently drank to the health of their joint sovereign, then to Queen Charlotte, and those twin courtesies emptied his beaker of brandy and a serving girl was summoned to fill it so that he could toast His Royal Highness George, Prince of Wales.
"You like the girl?" P
ohlmann asked, gesturing at the serving girl who swerved lithely away from a French major who was trying to seize her said.
"She's pretty, sir," Sharpe said.
"They're all pretty, Sergeant. I keep a dozen of them as wives, another dozen as servants, and God knows how many others who merely aspire to those positions. You look shocked, Colonel McCandless."
"A man who dwells among the tents of the ungodly," McCandless said, 'will soon pick up ungodly ways."
"And thank God for it," Pohlmann retorted, then clapped his hands to summon the supper dishes.
A score of officers ate in the tent. Half a dozen were Mahrattas, the rest Europeans, and just after the bowls and platters had been placed on the tables, Major Dodd arrived. Night was falling and candles illuminated the tent's shadowed interior, but Sharpe recognized Dodd's face instantly. The sight of the long jaw, sallow skin and bitter eyes brought back sharp memories of Chasalgaon, of flies crawling on Sharpe's eyes and in his gullet, and of the staccato bangs as men stepped over the dead to shoot the wounded. Dodd, oblivious of Sharpe's glare, nodded to Pohlmann.
"I apologize, Colonel Pohlmann, for being late," he announced with stiff formality.
"I expected Captain Joubert to be late," Pohlmann said, 'for a man newly reunited with his wife has better things to do than hurry to his supper, if indeed he takes his supper at all. Were you also welcoming Simone, Major?"
"I was not, sir. I was attending to the picquets."
"Major Dodd's attention to his duty puts us all to shame," Pohlmann said.
"Do you have the pleasure of knowing Major Dodd, Colonel?" he asked McCandless.
"I know the Company will pay five hundred guineas for Lieutenant Dodd's capture," McCandless growled, 'and more now, I dare say, after his bestiality at Chasalgaon."
Dodd showed no reaction to the Colonel's hostility, but Pohlmann smiled.
"You've come for the reward money, Colonel, is that it?"
"I wouldn't touch the money," McCandless said, 'for it's tainted by association. Tainted by murder, Colonel, and by disloyalty and dishonour."
The words were spoken to Pohlmann, but addressed to Dodd whose face seemed to tighten as he listened. He had taken a place at the end of the table and was helping himself to the food. The other guests were silent, intrigued by the tension between McCandless and Dodd.
Sharpe's Triumph Page 15
