All that was a day and a half behind them. As, too, were sixty weary miles of marching, part by day and part by night, until they were come from Jhansikote to the plains of the lower Godavari, the plains where Hervey had first become acquainted with Chintal through the distress of the rajah’s favourite hunting elephant. Now it was so much hotter than then, and more parched, for the monsoon was a month at least in the coming — if, indeed, it came at all. Green was no longer a colour of any prominence on the plains, except in the jungle itself. It was but an hour after sunrise, and already the heat was distorting any image beyond a few hundred yards.
The rajah’s men were breaking camp after hazree — eggs, ghi, pulses, dakshini rice, dried fish, mutton, poori. It was a breakfast, said Alter Fritz — a quartermaster of very singular ability — that would send them into battle with not a doubt as to the rajah’s generosity (and, therefore, their loyalty). Mention of the rajah set Hervey brooding once more: if only he had insisted on his coming here, for sepoys and sowars alike would need more than a good meal to inspire them for what was to come. But they had at least slept well. He had estimated that the enemy would not risk an attack during the night. Why, indeed, should they? Their greatest strength (and, certainly, their superiority) lay in the guns which stood immobile in the redoubts half a league across the kadir. There was little point in attacking at night when that advantage would be at nought. Selden had said they would not attack at all. Pindarees never attacked: they awaited attack and, if it looked to be overwhelming, they simply fled. So Hervey had stood down all but a company of sepoys, and these in turn had been able to pass a restful night in surveillance of the approaches to the camp abetted by the fullest of moons.
But not all of the rajah’s men had passed the silent hours in sleep or on watch. Hervey himself had spent the early part of the night writing letters. He was not without hope for the outcome. Assaye had, after all, been a battle which by rights should not have gone to the duke. But he had much to explain — to Paris (he scarcely dare think of the duke as he wrote), to his family, and to Henrietta. Sleep, he knew, would not in any case come easily. And then when the moon rose, at a quarter to midnight, he had accompanied a little party of sepoy officers and NCOs to dig and set fougasses with the dafadars in charge of the galloper guns. There had been no shortage of powder in Jhansikote, but after the affair with the nizam’s guns at the river there was now an abundance, for several barrels had floated to the bank, their contents as dry as dust with the tar sealing, and one of the two powder barges had fallen into their hands intact. When first he had explained his intention the dafadars seemed incredulous. Indeed, Hervey himself had never actually seen a fougasse, nor even heard of its making — except that years before he had read some dusty tome in the library at Longleat about the ancient fougasse chambers along the Maltese coast. How strange, he thought as they dug, that a childhood foray among the marquess’s bookshelves should come to such a fruition. Templer had asked him why he made this effort, to which he had replied that since he could not increase his cannonading, explosive pits packed with stones and musket balls must suffice — ‘poor man’s artillery’ he said they were called. And, he declared, their value might be even greater than cannon in the complete surprise of the sudden eruptions.
The work took until after two, and by then a portion of the kadir forward of their right flank, which Hervey already intended to picket, and extending to two furlongs, was peppered with his medieval devices. He had resolved not to make his final appreciation, however, until first light. Then the kadir would be revealed by the sun’s searching power, rather than by the moon’s deceptive glow. And, perhaps even more important, he would have the results of the night’s reconnaissance, for since shortly after dusk his spies had moved freely about the Pindarees’ camp, and even among the nizam’s gunners in their bivouacs beside the cannon. Never could he recall hearing of so free a play of spies. But then the hijdas were no ordinary agents. Before they had left Jhansikote Rani had been joined by a half-dozen others from the Chintalpore hijron, and several more later from that at Polarvaram, and all night they had capered and debauched their way among the enemy’s campfires until the cockerel booty had warned them to leave. An hour before dawn they had slipped back into Hervey’s lines, waking a good number of sepoys by their squeals and laughter, and assembled outside his tent. Torches cast an unflattering light on their gaudy sarees, but, all revulsion at their ambiguity overcome (holding them in some affection, even), he had listened carefully to what they had discovered, only occasionally finding his Urdu insufficient. But their night’s work, though valiant, yielded nothing that provided the key to unlocking the great task before him. True, they had been able to confirm that there were eight guns, whose barrel length was that of the tallest of the hijdas (Hervey had tried not to squirm as that individual related in lewd detail how he had come to be able to judge the length so exactly), also that there were many horses, tethered properly, and arms piled in soldierly fashion in parts of the camp. Behind these disciplined lines, however, lay a host of camp followers, whose fires stretched so far that it was impossible to estimate their number or extent. The only opportunity which the hijdas’ intelligence brought was in this mass of camp followers — no doubt laden with the spoils of their past weeks’ depredations, as tight-packed and immobile as their reputation for intoxicated indolence promised. They might well impede the retreat of the fighting men, for there was the river on one side, and the forest on the other.
But how was Hervey to compel any retreat? The kadir between his lines and the Pindarees’ would be swept by the fire of those eight guns (by the hijdas’ description, the fearsome thirty-six-pounders, with a range of one mile). Equally, the forest and the river limited his chance of manoeuvre. Late in the afternoon of the day before, as they were about to set up camp, he had contemplated doing what he had done the night they had galloped to Jhansikote and found the tree and the picket barring their way on the forest track. But that night they had traversed — what? — half a furlong of jungle? Not more than one and a half, certainly. And their progress had been slow, tiring and unsure. Here, at night, they would have to steal into the forest half a mile at least from the Pindaree lines. They could not reach the lines before dawn, and once the sun was up they would surely be detected if the enemy had taken the slightest precaution of posting sentinels. By day they would have to cover three times that distance, for there was no closer concealed entry to the jungle. They could, perhaps, make the best part of the distance before dark, leaving the last furlong or so to the night, but it would still be risky, and they would lose a whole day in which the Pindarees might even go onto the offensive. It was a doubtful option.
And so, with the sun’s growing heat threatening the most uncomfortable of fighting — but also beginning to put life back into the weariest of the sepoys — and with the cooking fires and spices already sweetening the habitually fetid air of a military camp, Hervey surveyed the kadir through his telescope. He made one resolution at least. He would not make the mistake of fighting when or whom there was no need. The guns were his objective: counter those and the day would be his. But although this helped concentrate his attention on that to which he must direct the principal effort of his force, it did not provide him with an answer to how he might achieve his object. How might he subdue the guns? How might he even reach them without challenging — head-on — the Pindaree cavalry? They greatly outnumbered his and would not be inclined to run, as usually they were expected to, while the guns covered them. What was his little force capable of? He could not consider what the promised augmentation from Guntoor might allow, for there was no knowing when they might arrive. He could dispose six companies of infantry which had been trained, during the past few days, to work as light troops capable of skirmishing and responding to the bugle rather than to fight as dense-packed bearers of volleyed musketry. Without the nizam’s guns to play upon them he was sure they could reach the Pindaree lines. If only there were not the guns! Every
time it returned to that question. But just as bewilderment was turning to desperation a thought occurred to him. He reined about and trotted back towards his tent, jumping from the raj kumari’s handy second Kehilan — which she had insisted he take when finally they had parted at the palace — and shaking the sleeping hijda on the ground outside.
‘Yes, Captain sahib?’ he said, blinking.
Hervey did not even have to think of the Urdu. It came at once. ‘Rani, did you visit each of the guns last night?’
‘Yes, sahib, all of them.’
‘How strongly built were the redoubts — the little forts that the guns were in?’
‘Very strong, sahib.’
‘Not easily knocked away?’
‘No, sahib.’
To the hijda’s puzzlement, Hervey looked pleased. ‘And how narrow were the embrasures — the spaces through which the guns fired?’
‘Not more than a woman with voluptuous hips could pass, sahib,’ replied Rani, pouting and describing the shape with his hands.
The Urdu escaped him, but the hijda’s hands said enough. He smiled to himself. Could it be that the nizam’s men had made the mistake of doing what many an embattled gunner had done before, and sacrificed traversing for protection? Yes: this was their Achilles’ heel! This was where he would direct his lance!
He was already back in the saddle when he heard it. First a murmuring, then a buzzing, and then — if not cheering — sounds of distinct approbation. He turned to seek its cause, and there was a sight as glittering as that before Waterloo, when the Duke of Wellington and his staff had made their progress through the ranks. But, he smiled, what a contrast with the duke’s sombre, civilian attire that day was the court dress of the Rajah of Chintalpore!
‘Good morning, Your Highness,’ said Hervey, saluting. He could scarce believe the felicity of the timing. Five minutes before and the rajah would have found him with no plan, and each would have fuelled the other’s despair. Now, though, the rajah was inspired by Hervey’s sanguine air, and he likewise by the rajah’s substance and dignity.
‘Captain Hervey,’ he replied with a smile, ‘you see before you a very indifferent soldier but, I hope, one that may have some utility.’
‘Sir, your coming here now is most welcome to me, and I have no doubt it is everything to your sepoys,’ he replied, bowing.
‘Is there time for you to explain to me what is your design for battle?’
Hervey returned his smile willingly. ‘Indeed there is, sir. It is, in any case, a simple plan. First let me point out to you the ground — the sun is not too bright for you to make out the Pindaree lines in the distance?’
The rajah shaded his eyes and peered across the kadir. ‘Oh yes, Captain Hervey, I see them very well. And the guns like the walls of Jericho. How shall you tumble them?’
Hervey smiled again. ‘If I may first explain the ground, sir. See how on our right the Godavari constrains our manoeuvre — and that of the Pindarees too. It is too deep to cross in force: it cannot therefore be the means of outflanking the line of the guns.’
The rajah nodded in agreement.
‘On the left is the jungle. It constrains our manoeuvre as surely as the river, except that, for a short distance at least, it might afford cover. But progress on foot would be too slow, and with horses impossible.’
The rajah nodded again.
‘The distance to the guns is about one half-league, and the distance from the forest to the river, at its widest part, the same, though it narrows to no more than a mile where the guns are — as you may see.’
The rajah saw it all with perfect clarity.
‘There are eight guns, sir, and they command the approaches across both the kadir and the river—’
‘But how can we possibly advance in the face of such a cannonade?’ said the rajah, unable to contain himself.
Hervey nodded respectfully. ‘Ordinarily, Your Highness, we could not. But the embrasures in each redoubt are extremely narrow, which means that the guns are not able to traverse to their extreme left or right. Neither will they be able to depress far enough to sweep the final approaches. They are also strongly built—’
‘Then that is more ill news, is it not, Captain Hervey?’ the rajah protested.
‘Not really, sir. If they are strongly built then the gunners will not be able to break them down quickly when they discover their mistake. If we could capture just one of the redoubts and use powder to blow up a wall, we could enfilade each of the others, reducing them one by one.’
The rajah looked at him in dismay. ‘That is not possible, surely?’
‘It is an option of difficulties, certainly, sir — but what other do we have? Awaiting the collector’s reinforcements risks being overwhelmed in an attack once the Pindarees discover our strength — or rather the want of it.’
‘I see your reasoning well enough, Captain Hervey, but how do you intend capturing a redoubt?’
‘Quite simply, sir, I intend getting sepoys along the cover of the forest edge to a point where they may enfilade the Pindarees — and perhaps even the redoubt nearest the forest, for the flanks are not wholly walled.’
The rajah pondered the notion before nodding his head slowly. ‘But one more question, Captain Hervey: how have you discovered this critical information about the guns? Your telescope alone would not reveal it.’
‘No, indeed, sir. I sent spies into the Pindaree lines last night.’
The rajah eyed him sternly before nodding again, but this time with a smile. ‘As did Joshua?’
‘As did Joshua, Your Highness,’ said Hervey, smiling.
‘And is there a Rahab in the Pindaree lines?’
‘No, sir; merely some brave hijdas, now returned.’
‘Hijdas. Always hijdas,’ he tutted. ‘But now you have to be about your business?’
‘Yes, sir. I have my orders to give.’
His officers assembled in the lone shade of a flame tree in full bloom. Locke’s absence he now felt all the more as he looked into the faces of those on whom his plan depended. Templer, for all his youthful enthusiasm, was no substitute, and Alter Fritz was… old. The faces of the native officers revealed a mixture of eagerness and apprehension. Hervey explained his design to tolerable effect in a mixture of Urdu and German (which Alter Fritz then rendered in Telugu — and not once was the rajah’s facility called on). The sepoy officers, hearing the plan, now looked keen. The rissalah officers looked disappointed, however.
‘You want us only to make a demonstration, sahib?’ they said disconsolately.
‘Yes, to begin with. We must tempt their attention away from the companies as they advance along the forest edge on our left flank. We must therefore convince them that we intend moving along the river’s edge in strength. We might tempt their cavalry to a charge and lead them onto the fougasses.’
The cavalrymen looked a little happier.
Hervey turned back to the infantry. ‘When you sepoys reach your enfilade position I shall gallop our guns to join you, and bring them to bear at close range on the embrasures, or even on the flanks of the redoubts if we have got far enough round.’ He now turned to Alter Fritz: ‘Have you the taste for the sabre still, Captain Bauer? Shall you take command of the cavalry?’
Alter Fritz’s face lit up. ‘Hervey, with sword in hand I die here!’
Hervey smiled and clapped the old Württemberger on the shoulder. ‘Then let us begin, before the sun makes our work even hotter than will the nizam’s daughters! But first,’ he said, turning to the rajah, ‘Your Highness, do you wish to say anything?’
The rajah looked around benignly at the dozen or so officers crouching in the flame tree’s welcome shade. ‘Only this,’ he began in Telegu: ‘today I believe is a day when honour shall return to us all in full measure. May your god be with you.’
All stood. Alter Fritz saluted, his face still aglow, and the rajah walked with his officers towards where their bearers waited.
Turning to Temp
ler, Hervey said simply, ‘Now you know what is my design. If I should fall then it is you who shall have to see it through. I want you to leave your horse and go with the sepoy companies.’
‘But—’
‘There can be no “but”. Alter Fritz is well able to see to the demonstration. The point of decision will be with the sepoys on the left. That is where I shall be as soon as the Pindaree cavalry is drawn across to the right and you have reached a position of enfilade on the left.’
And then they shook hands.
The sepoys’ blue coats stood a better chance of going unnoticed than the scarlet of the British infantry would have, but a diversion nevertheless seemed prudent. Hervey therefore ordered one rissalah to advance along the river bank with the galloper guns to draw fire — which he was confident would be opened prematurely by the nizam’s gunners in their eagerness to begin work. ‘Double your charges,’ he told the gunner jemadar. ‘Do not concern yourself with any effect but that on the enemy’s attention.’
Though he knew where he wanted to be, Hervey knew where necessity demanded he should be, and he now took post in the centre of his depleted brigade, drawn up with four companies in line and a halfrissalah on either flank. From here he would watch his design for battle unfold, and judge the moment when and how to make the dash to join the sepoys’ enfilade. And as he sat, keenly observing the flattest, emptiest arena on which he had ever faced battle, his thoughts turned not to home, as they had done before Waterloo, but to that very battle, with its many, many times greater numbers — horses, guns and men. Yet though the numbers were vastly greater at Waterloo, he fancied his situation now not entirely unlike the duke’s that day: at least, in the closing stages of the battle. He sat astride a horse not much bigger than a pony, in front of a body of men who, though stout-hearted enough, faced what must be overwhelming odds.
And yet there was one test they would not face — the test that had been Major Edmonds’s and then Captain Lankester’s as they had had to judge the effect of the enemy’s cannonading on their line. For this morning Hervey’s brigade was outside the guns’ range, and he intended that it remain so. Nevertheless, he knew that the smallest misjudgement would see them all perish.
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