Sharpe's Triumph

by Bernard Cornwell

  Sharpe turned to watch Dodd's regiment march into the shadow of some trees.

  "The bastard," Sharpe spat. He could see Dodd on his horse just ahead of the two rear guard companies, and he was tempted to raise his musket and try one last shot, but the range was much too great and then Dodd vanished among the shadows. His rear guard followed him.

  Sharpe could see Sevajee off to the west, but the Indian was helpless.

  Dodd had five hundred men in ranks and files, and Sevajee had but ten horsemen.

  "He bloody got away again," Sharpe said, and spat towards the river.

  "With my gold," the East India Company sergeant said miserably, and Sharpe looked again at the man.

  "Bloody hell," Sharpe said in astonishment, for he was looking at Anthony Pohlmann who had donned his old sergeant's uniform.

  Pohlmann's 'prisoners' were a small group of his bodyguard.

  "A pity," Pohlmann said, spitting a scrap of tobacco from between his teeth.

  "Ten minutes ago I was one of the richest men in India. Now I suppose I'm your prisoner?"

  "I couldn't care less about you, sir," Sharpe said, slinging the musket on his shoulder.

  "You don't want to march me to Wellesley?" the Hanoverian asked.

  "It would be a great feather in your cap."

  "That bastard doesn't give feathers," Sharpe said.

  "He's a stuck-up, cold-hearted bastard, he is, and I'd rather fillet him than you."

  Pohlmann grinned.

  "So I can go, Sergeant Sharpe?"

  "Do what you bloody like," Sharpe said.

  "How many men have you got in there?"

  "Five. That's all he left me. He slaughtered the rest."

  "Dodd did?"

  "He tried to kill me, but I hid under some straw. A shameful end to my career as a warlord, wouldn't you say?" Pohlmann smiled.

  "I think you did well, Sergeant Sharpe, to turn down my commission."

  Sharpe laughed bitterly.

  "I know my place, sir. Down in the gutter.

  Officers don't want men like me joining them. I might scratch my arse on parade or piss in their soup." He walked to the small house and peered through the open door.

  "Better tell your fellows to take their coats off, sir. They'll be shot otherwise." Then he went very still for, crouching at the back of the small room, was a woman in a shabby linen dress and a straw hat. It was Simone. Sharpe pulled off his shako.

  "Madame?"

  She stared at him, seeing only his silhouette against the dazzle of the day's last sun.

  "Simone?" Sharpe said.

  "Richard?"

  "It's me, love." He grinned.

  "Don't tell me you got left behind again!"

  "He killed Pierre!" Simone cried. "I watched him. He shot him!"

  "Dodd?"

  "Who else?" Pohlmann asked behind Sharpe.

  Sharpe stepped into the room and held his hand towards Simone.

  "You want to stay here," he asked her, 'or come with me?"

  She hesitated a second, then stood and took his hand. Pohlmann sighed.

  "I was hoping to console the widow, Sharpe."

  "You lost, sir," Sharpe said, 'you lost." And he walked away with Simone, going to find McCandless to give him the bad news. Dodd had escaped.

  Colonel McCandless limped up the breach and into Assaye. He sensed that Dodd was gone, for there was no more fighting in the village, though some shots still sounded from the river bank, but even those shots ended as the Scotsman edged past the dead man in the house doorway and through the courtyard into the street.

  And perhaps, he thought, it did not really matter any longer, for this day's victory would echo throughout all India. The redcoats had broken two armies, they had ruined the power of two mighty princes, and from this day on Dodd would be hunted from refuge to refuge as the British power spread northwards. And it would spread, McCandless knew. Each new advance was declared to be the last, but each brought new frontiers and new enemies and so the redcoats marched again, and maybe they would never stop marching until they reached the great mountains in the very north. And maybe it was there,

  McCandless thought, that Dodd would at last be trapped and shot down like a dog.

  And suddenly McCandless did not care very much. He felt old. The pain in his leg was terrible. He was still weak from his fever. It was time, he thought, to go home. Back to Scotland. He should sell Aeolus, repay Sharpe, take his pension, and board a ship. Go home, he thought, to Lochaber and to the green slopes of Glen Scaddle. There was work to be done in Britain, useful work, for he was corresponding with men in London and Edinburgh who wished to establish a society to spread Bibles throughout the heathen world and McCandless decided he could find a small house in Lochaber, hire a servant, and spend his days translating God's word into the Indian languages. That, he thought, would be a job worth doing, and he wondered why he had waited so long. A small house, a large fire, a library, a table, a supply of ink and paper and, with God's help, he could do more for India from that one small house than he could ever achieve by hunting down one traitor.

  The thought of the great task cheered him, then he turned a corner and saw Pohlmann's great elephant wandering free in an alleyway.

  "You're lost, boy," he said to the elephant and took hold of one of its ears.

  "Someone left the gate open, didn't they?"

  He turned the elephant which followed him happily enough. They walked past a dead horse, and then McCandless saw a dead European in a white jacket, and for an instant he thought it must be Dodd, then he recognized Captain Joubert lying on his back with a bullet hole in his breast.

  "Poor man," he said, and he guided the elephant through the gate into the courtyard.

  "I'll make sure you're brought some food," he told the beast, then he turned and barred the gate.

  He left the courtyard through the house, picking his way across the welter of bodies in the kitchen. He pushed open the outer door and found himself staring into Sergeant Hakeswill's blue eyes.

  "I've been looking for you, sir," Hakeswill said.

  "You and I have no business, Sergeant," McCandless said.

  "Oh, but we does, sir," Hakeswill said, and his three men blocked the alley behind him.

  "I wanted to talk to you, sir," Hakeswill said, 'about that letter you ain't going to write to my Colonel Gore."

  McCandless shook his head.

  "I have nothing to say to you, Sergeant."

  "I hates the bleeding Scotch," Hakeswill said, his face twitching.

  "All prayers and morals, ain't you, Colonel? But I ain't cumbered with morals. It's an advantage I have." He grinned, then drew his bayonet and slotted it onto the muzzle of his musket.

  "They hanged me once, Colonel, but I lived 'cos God loves me, He does, and I ain't going to be punished again, not ever. Not by you, Colonel, not by any man. Says so in the scriptures." He advanced on McCandless with the bayonet. His three men hung back and McCandless reckoned they were nervous, but Hakeswill showed no fear of this confrontation.

  "Put up your weapon, Sergeant," McCandless snapped.

  "Oh, I will, sir, I'll put it up inside you unless you promises me on the holy word of God that you won't write no letter."

  "I shall write the letter tonight," McCandless said, then drew his claymore.

  "Now put up your weapon, Sergeant."

  Hakeswills face twitched. He stopped three paces from McCandless.

  "You'd like to strike me down, wouldn't you, sir?

  "Cos you don't like me, sir, do you? But God loves me, sir, he does.

  He looks after me."

  "You're under arrest, Sergeant," McCandless said, 'for threatening an officer."

  "Let's see who God loves most, sir. Me or you."

  "Put up your weapon!" McCandless roared.

  "Bloody Scotch bastard," Hakeswill said, and pulled his trigger. The bullet caught McCandless in the gullet and blew out through the back of his spine, and the Colonel was
dead before his body touched the floor.

  The elephant in the nearby courtyard, startled by the shot, trumpeted, but Hakeswill ignored the beast.

  "Scotch bastard," he said, then stepped through the doorway and knelt to the body which he searched for gold.

  "And if any one of you three says a bleeding word," he threatened his men, 'you'll join him in heaven. If he's gone there, which I doubt, on account of God not wanting to clutter paradise with Scotchmen. Says so in the scriptures." He found gold in McCandless's sporran and turned to show the coins to his men.

  "You want it?" he asked.

  "Then you keeps silent about it."

  They nodded. They wanted gold. Hakeswill tossed them the coins, then led them deeper into the house to see if there was anything worth plundering in its rooms.

  "And once we're done," he said, 'we'll find the General, we will, and have him give us Sharpie. We're almost there, lads. It's been a long road, it has, and hard in places, but we're almost there."

  Sharpe searched the village for Colonel McCandless, but could not find him in any of the alleys. He took Simone with him as he searched some of the larger houses and, from one high window, he found himself staring down into the courtyard where Pohlmann's great elephant was penned, but there was no sign of McCandless and Sharpe decided he was wasting his time.

  "I reckon we'll give up, love," he told Simone.

  "He'll look for me, like enough, probably down by the river." They walked back to the ford. Pohlmann had vanished and Dodd's men had long disappeared. The sun was at the horizon now and the farmlands north of the Juah were stained black by long shadows. The men who had captured the village were filling their canteens from the river, and the first few campfires glittered in the dusk as men boiled water to make themselves tea. Simone clung to him and kept talking of her husband.

  She felt guilty because she had not loved him, yet he had died because he had gone back into the village to find her, and Sharpe did not know how to console her.

  "He was a soldier, love," he told her, 'and he died in battle."

  "But I killed him!"

  "No, you didn't," Sharpe said, and he heard hooves behind him and he turned, hoping to see Colonel McCandless, but instead it was General Wellesley and Colonel Wallace and a score of aides riding up to the ford. He straightened to attention.

  "Sergeant Sharpe," Wellesley said, sounding embarrassed.

  "Sir," Sharpe said woodenly.

  The General slid from his saddle. His face was red, and Sharpe supposed that was the effect of the sun.

  "I have been remiss, Sergeant," the General said awkwardly, 'for I believe I owe you my life."

  Sharpe felt himself blushing and was glad that the sun was low and the roadway where he stood was in deep shadow.

  "Just did my best, sir," he muttered.

  "This is Madame Joubert, sir. Her husband was killed, sir, fighting for Colonel Pohlmann."

  The General took off his hat and bowed to Simone.

  "My commiserations, Madam"," he said, then looked back to Sharpe whose long black hair still spilled over his collar.

  "Do you know where Colonel McCandless is?" he asked.

  "No, sir. I've been looking for him, sir."

  Wellesley fidgeted with his hat, paused to take a deep breath, then nodded.

  "Colonel McCandless managed to have a long talk with Colonel Wallace this afternoon," the General said.

  "How they found time to have a conversation in battle, I don't know!"

  This was evidently a jest, for the General smiled, though Sharpe stayed straight-faced, and his lack of reaction disconcerted Wellesley.

  "I have to reward you, Sharpe," Wellesley said curtly.

  "For what, sir?"

  "For my life," the General said in a tone of irritation.

  "I'm just glad I was there, sir," Sharpe said, feeling as awkward as Wellesley himself evidently felt.

  "I'm rather glad you were there too," the General said, then took a step forward and held out his hand.

  "Thank you, Mister Sharpe."

  Sharpe hesitated, astonished at the gesture, then made himself shake the General's hand. It was only then that he noticed what Wellesley had said.

  "Mister, sir?" he asked.

  "It is customary in this army, Mister Sharpe, to reward uncommon bravery with uncommon promotion. Wallace tells me you desire a commission, and he has vacancies in the 74th. God knows he has too many vacancies, so if you're agreeable, Sharpe, you can join the Colonel's regiment as an ensign."

  For a second Sharpe did not really comprehend what was being said, then he suddenly did and he smiled. There were tears in his eyes, but he reckoned that must be because of the powder smoke that lingered in the village.

  "Thank you, sir," he said warmly, 'thank you."

  "There, that's done," Wellesley said with relief.

  "My congratulations, Sharpe, and my sincere thanks." His aides were all smiling at Sharpe, not Sergeant Sharpe any longer, but Ensign Sharpe of the King's 74th.

  Captain Campbell even climbed down from his saddle and offered his hand to Sharpe who was still smiling as he shook it.

  "It'll turn out badly, of course," Wellesley said to Campbell as he turned away.

  "It always does. We promote them beyond their station and they inevitably take to drink."

  "He's a good man, sir," Campbell said loyally.

  "I doubt that too. But he's a good soldier, I'll say that. He's all yours now, Wallace, all yours!" The General pulled himself into his saddle, then turned to Simone.

  "Madame? I can offer you very little but if you care to join me for supper I would be honoured. Captain Campbell will escort you."

  Campbell held his hand out to Simone. She looked at Sharpe, who nodded at her, and she shyly accepted Campbell's arm and followed the General back up the street. Colonel Wallace paused to lean down from his horse and shake Sharpe's hand.

  "I'll give you a few minutes to clean yourself up, Sharpe, and to get those stripes off your arm.

  You might like to chop off some of that hair, while you're about it.

  And I hate to suggest it, but if you walk a few paces east of the village you'll find plenty of red sashes on corpses. Pick one, help yourself to a sword, then come and meet your fellow officers. They're few enough now, I fear, so you'll surely be welcome. Even the men might be glad of you, despite your being English." Wallace smiled.

  I'm very grateful to you, sir," Sharpe said. He was still scarcely able to believe what had happened. He was Mister Sharpe! Mister!

  "And what do you want?" Wallace suddenly asked in an icy tone, and Sharpe saw that his new Colonel was staring at Obadiah Hakeswill.

  "Him, sir," Hakeswill said, pointing at Sharpe.

  "Sergeant Sharpe, sir, what is under arrest."

  Wallace smiled.

  "You may arrest Sergeant Sharpe, Sergeant, but you will certainly not arrest Ensign Sharpe."

  "Ensign?" Hakeswill said, going pale.

  "Mister Sharpe is a commissioned officer, Sergeant," Wallace said crisply, 'and you will treat him as such. Good day." Wallace touched his hat to Sharpe, then turned his horse and rode away.

  Hakeswill gaped at Sharpe.

  "You, Sharpie," he said, 'an officer?"

  Sharpe walked closer to the Sergeant.

  "That's not how you address a King's officer, Obadiah, and you know it."

  "You?" HakeswilPs face twitched.

  "You?" he asked again in horror and amazement.

  Sharpe thumped him in the belly, doubling him over.

  "You call me "sir", Obadiah," he said.

  "I won't call you "sir"," Hakeswill said between gasps for breath.

  "Not till hell freezes, Sharpie, and not even then."

  Sharpe hit him again. Hakeswill's three men watched, but did nothing.

  "You call me "sir"," Sharpe said.

  "You ain't an officer, Sharpie," Hakeswill said, then yelped because Sharpe had seized his hair and was dragging him
up the street. The three men started to follow, but Sharpe snarled at them to stay where they were, and all three obeyed.

  "You'll call me "sir", Sergeant," Sharpe said, 'just you watch." And he pulled Hakeswill up the street, going back to the house from where he had seen the elephant. He dragged Hakeswill through the door and up the stairs. The Sergeant screamed at him, beat at him, but Hakeswill had never been a match for Sharpe who now snatched the musket from Hakeswill's hand, threw it away, then took him to the window that opened just one floor above the courtyard.

  "See that elephant, Obadiah?" he asked, holding the Sergeant's face in the open window.

  "I watched it trample a man to death not long ago."

  "You won't dare, Sharpie," Hakeswill squealed, then yelped as Sharpe took hold of the seat of his pants.

  "Call me "sir"," Sharpe said.

  "Never! You ain't an officer!"

  "But I am, Obadiah, I am. I'm Mister Sharpe. I'll wear a sword and a sash and you'll have to salute me."

  "Never!"

  Sharpe heaved Hakeswill onto the window ledge.

  "If you ask me to put you down," he said, 'and if you call me "sir", I'll let you go."

  "You ain't an officer," Hakeswill protested.

  "You can't be!"

  "But I am, Obadiah," Sharpe said, and he heaved the Sergeant over the ledge. The Sergeant screamed as he fell into the straw below, and the elephant, made curious by this strange irruption into this already strange day, plodded over to inspect him. Hakeswill beat feebly at the animal which had him cornered.

  "Goodbye, Obadiah," Sharpe called, then he used the words he remembered Pohlmann shouting when Dodd's sepoy had been trampled to death.

  "Haddahl' Sharpe snapped.

  "Get the bastard off me!" Hakeswill screamed as the elephant moved still closer and raised a forefoot.

  "That won't do, Obadiah," Sharpe said.

  "Sir!" Hakeswill called.

  "Please, sir! Get it off me!"

  "What did you say?" Sharpe asked, cupping a hand to his ear.

  "Sir! Sir! Please, sir! Mister Sharpe, sir!"

  "Rot in hell, Obadiah," Sharpe called down, and walked away. The sun was gone, the village was stinking with powder smoke, and two armies lay in ragged ruin on the bloody fields outside Assaye, but that great victory was not Sharpe's. It was the voice calling from the courtyard, calling frantically as Sharpe ran down the wooden stairs and walked down the alleyway.