“Tigers!”
The cry came from a sobbing woman who, by her dress and her strong Cockney accent, Wellesley assumed to be the wife of one of the English soldiers. Although convincing displays of sympathy were nothing close to the vampire’s strongest suit, Harris made a game effort, placing an awkward hand lightly upon her shoulder. “What happened, madam?”
The woman (who went by the name of Esme Clarke) was inconsolable, but willing to talk; in fact, once she had begun to unburden herself, the whole sorry tale spilled out in a gush. Between half-choked sobs, she told the general of how those officers who had remained behind to guard the camp had instructed the camp followers to cease breaking down their tents; the civilians had been assured that, with the bulk of the army marching upon Mallavelly in order to engage the army of the Tipu Sultan, they would almost certainly not be going anywhere further this night. With the camp populace content to await the outcome of the battle and feeling secure in the presence of the doubled perimeter guard, all had been uneventful until just before first light. The tigers had fallen upon the camp out of nowhere, she sobbed; inhumanly large beasts, they had appeared to target any man who was armed with a musket or pistol first, and even a few plucky females who had attempted to fight back. Her man Robert had been one of the first to die, his throat torn out by one of the creatures as he attempted to draw a bead on it with his Brown Bess.
Ignoring the painful burning sensation which the rising sun was causing upon his skin, General Harris inquired gently as to how many of the beasts there had been, to which Mrs. Clarke replied that she did not rightly know, but that the great cats had seemed to be everywhere; no matter where she turned, slashing claws were wreaking havoc upon her camp-mates. She had taken the initiative of hiding underneath a covered wagon, and it was there she had remained until the tigers had suddenly fled the camp at great speed, just moments before the officers had returned.
“These are no natural beasts,” the general remarked as he and his officers made their way to the shelter of the officers’ mess. It was almost blissfully cool and shaded inside. All of them had felt their skin beginning to burn. They had cut their obligatory return to the grave a little too finely, but none had been seriously harmed. Contrary to popular myth, only direct sunlight could actually end a vampire.
“Indeed not,” Wellesley agreed, carefully climbing his coffin and gingerly sitting down. “We are all familiar with the tales of lycanthropes,” he added, settling down into the velvet-lined interior and taking hold of the lid. “Could we perhaps be dealing with something similar…an unholy union between man and tiger?” He unbuckled his sword belt and removed it from around his waist, laying it alongside him down the long axis of the coffin.
All the way down the line, the vampire officers were making their way into their own graves, reaching up and pulling the lids firmly down on top of them. Although the exposed holes felt quite unnatural, each knew that Wellesley’s Shadow Company was so well-drilled that their first action upon returning to the camp would be to shovel the piles of cooling, protective dirt on top of each officer’s coffin; just so long as the undead were in the ground before the rising of the sun – that was the critical thing. All else was simply ritual.
It was just moments after the lid had slotted firmly into place above him that Arthur Wellesley fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Still smarting from the pummeling inflicted upon his army by the forces of General Harris, Tipu was good to his word and wasted no time in retreating directly back to Seringapatam. He half-expected the British to pursue him, but it appeared that the vampire general, Harris, had no further stomach for fighting. Although their cavalrymen followed at a distance, they seemed content to merely observe the Sultan’s withdrawal, and the remnants of his own cavalry checked them every time they made any move that looked even remotely threatening.
Their almost superhuman frames immune to the ravages of either heat or fatigue, four of his most trusted Tiger Guard carried the Sultan in a covered palanquin. He was more than capable of walking the entire distance himself – could have run all the way back, some twenty-five miles, in just an hour or so if he had wanted to – but it was important for the men to see that their leader had not abandoned them. And so it was that Tipu sat, allowing his muscular conveyance to carry him for mile after blister-inducing mile, and all the while, he brooded.
It was not yet noon when Jamelia and her pack of guardsmen caught up with their master. Desperate for even the smallest piece of good news, he pulled back the side-flap of dyed green canvas which kept out much of the sun’s glare and looked at her expectantly, the question already written upon his face.
She did not disappoint him.
“How many?” he asked incredulously.
“Several hundred, Your Highness,” she confirmed, looking for all the world like the cat that got the cream. “Their camp was completely vulnerable. We targeted the bullocks and oxen for slaughter, which should at least slow the British advance down a little – and that is to say nothing of the terror that we have sowed among their followers. We killed no small number of those, too,” she added.
This was good, Tipu thought. This was very good. The weak point of these impudent British invaders was their baggage train, he knew, their over-reliance upon pack animals to transport their means of making war. Strike at that, and you struck at the very heart of their ability to conduct any sort of successful siege upon Seringapatam.
“The monsoons are coming.” He was thinking out loud now, gazing absently upwards into a corner of the palanquin’s roof. “If we can just hold them until the River Cauvery swells, until it rises beyond the ability of their soldiers to ford it…then we shall have beaten them.”
Jamelia kept pace comfortably with the palanquin-bearers. “What would you have me do, Your Highness – set another ambush for them?”
Tipu shook his head. “No. It would not succeed a second time. They will be alert to any such maneuver now. Even after the regrettable events of last night, we still have almost 20,000 men under arms. They, coupled with the stout walls of Seringapatam, shall be our salvation.”
Arthur’s dreams were filled with blood and fire.
Visions of Baird, the crusty old general, filled his mind, being both unlooked-for and unavoidable. Baird taking the fatal shots on his behalf. Baird wading into the enemy ranks, carrying a claymore that dripped with their blood. Baird meeting with Harris in the latter’s tent, spewing bile and poison concerning Wellesley’s appointment to his staff.
“He’s just a boy, George - nothing but a bloody boy. If it weren’t for Mornington’s patronage…his own bloody brother, for God’s sake-” Standing and facing his commanding officer across a crude wooden table, the Scot was practically bellowing, rapping an index finger repeatedly against the tabletop for emphasis.
The dream was taking him back to a real incident, one that had taken place back in February, at the beginning of the campaign to unseat the Tipu. Neither man had known that Arthur could overhear their exchange from some fifty yards away. “Put him with those black men, if you really must give him his own brigade,” Baird continued, referring to the sepoy troops sent to aid the British cause by the Nizam of Hydrabad. “It’ll get him out of the way of the rest of the army – the proper army – and he can go and play the sepoy general to his heart’s content…”
“That’s quite enough of that, David.” Harris raised a hand in an act of explicit warning, his tone as cold as ice: go no further. “Wellesley’s family connections are neither here nor there, and certainly no business of yours.”
“Oh, is that right-”
“Yes it is!” The outburst was as sudden as it was unexpected, and highly uncharacteristic of one such as George Harris, who was accustomed to being the voice of reason where most disputes were concerned. “Without young Wellesley’s expertise” - Arthur’s lip curled in anger at Harris’s use of the term ‘young’ - “this expedition would already be a bloody failure. The man
’s practically a genius when it comes to logistics and preparation, and that, General, is what will eventually win us this war. So I would be most obliged to you if you would not belittle the man who has done so much to stack the deck in our favor.”
“Stacking blankets and counting bullocks is hardly what I would call proper soldiering, sir,” the incensed Baird shot back angrily. “We shall see how the young prodigy performs when the muskets sing at Seringapatam. May I have your leave, sir?”
Not trusting himself to speak further, Harris simply nodded stiffly. Baird stalked from the tent.
It was then that Arthur had realized just how deeply Baird’s dislike of him had run.
“Wellesley!”
That same voice, which had once been raised in anger at Arthur’s appointment, but now could be heard crying out a warning even as Baird’s body slammed into his own, taking the full brunt of the Indian gunner’s attack, and so voluntarily.
Throughout that long, hot day on the plains of Mallevelly, Arthur dreamed fitfully within the confines of his earthen grave. In one dream, Harris’s army was drawn up before the walls of Seringapatam, having marched out from a camp at sunset. Siege guns had blasted a breach in the western walls. It was all so very vivid, and yet he knew that it must be a dream because there was Baird, alive and whole once more, standing at the forefront of his Scots battalions. No sooner had the bluff General requested and been immediately granted the honor of leading the attack, but Arthur looked more closely and saw that Baird was truly alive here, was no longer a vampire. The general now appeared older than he had the evening before, a few years older, and his lined face showed the ruddy complexion of the mortal man rather than the cold, waxy pallor of the undead.
As Arthur watched, fascinated by this fable which had been constructed by own imagination (for what else could it possibly be?) Baird followed on the heels of the Forlorn Hope and led his kilted Highlanders across the shallow river and up the rubble-strewn slope in front of the high, forbidding walls of Seringapatam. Hundreds of tiger-striped soldiers of Mysore contested the breach, firing their muskets down into the packed mass of the attacking British, until it seemed to Arthur that the assault must surely fail, that the sheer weight of enemy fire alone would crush it utterly. Yet somehow, the British attack not only survived, but pressed on in the face of such savage opposition.
Time passed. Arthur floated aimlessly, his mind’s eye wandering without purpose.
The British flag flew above Seringapatam.
Harris had won, against all odds. The redcoats were in, the city had fallen, and it was all thanks to Baird…Baird, who had already been ended, screaming and burning, his life snatched away by a handful of silver shot.
The dreams of Private Thomas Gilman were also filled with blood and fire. When at last he opened his eyes, Tom couldn’t remember any time in his past life in which he had ever felt this good.
He had awoken on the floor of his cell, completely naked and yet somehow not the slightest bit ashamed of the fact. The cramped confines of the blacked-out cell were warm and close, suggesting that the sun had come up outside. His fever must have broken during the night, because in stark contrast to the pain and sickness that had laid him low, he now felt like a king.
Thomas could feel every single muscle, every tendon and ligament, all of them now under his own voluntary control for the very first time. Experimentally, he flexed his hands, both at the same time, could feel the joints working beneath his flesh with pinpoint precision; and he was strong, that he could tell simply by tautening the muscles of his trunk and abdomen. It was almost as though he could lift a bullock and cart with his bare hands; in fact, Thomas thought he would rather like to give that a try…if he ever got out of here.
There was an odd smell in the room, standing out against the musty stink of long-dried piss and shit. The odor was coppery and metallic, and for a moment he thought that it must be blood, but that was a ridiculous notion. Thomas wasn’t hurting any more. He reached a hand up to his neck, felt the location of the bite mark inflicted upon him by the Sultan. The skin was smooth and soft to the touch, almost pristinely so. He frowned, wondering at how it had healed so quickly, but then thought: why look a gift horse in the mouth? The Sultan must have the very best physicians available on hand.
“Private Gilman?”
Speak of the Devil. It was the Sultan’s voice, muffled but most definitely his; it was coming through the heavy wooden door. Thomas could see the dim outline of daylight around the door’s edge, the shape of two feet beneath it.
“I’m here, sir.” His voice sounded almost cheerful to his own ears, a far cry from the rasping croak that had been the best he could muster yesterday.
“I am delighted to hear it. How are you feeling, Private?”
“Bloody marvelous, sir,” Thomas responded without hesitation. “I feel like a new man. Whatever it was that your doctors have done, sir, it’s fixed me up a treat.”
“Hmmm.” The voice seemed to consider that for a moment. “That being the case, I would imagine that you are feeling quite grateful to me, Private. Is that not so?”
Of all things, Thomas Gilman was a born survivor, and he was only too aware that sitting here in the squalid dungeons of a half-mad despot who had a penchant for biting his prisoners left him with precious few options. “Yes, sir,” he replied without hesitation. “Extremely grateful, sir.”
“That is excellent news.” And indeed, the voice did sound quite genuinely pleased. “May I take it, then, that you are interested in entering my service? My Tiger Guard could make good use of a man with your talents. It will be an excellent opportunity to teach your ‘flogging colonel’ a lesson…”
If the British capture the city, they’ll hang you…or worse, Thomas thought, weighing his extremely limited number of choices. So it’s either whipping post and firing squad, whipping post and hangman’s noose, or if you’re really unlucky, whipping post and become the officers’ dinner. No, thanks. You’ve got to throw your lot in with somebody, and it looks like the Sultan’s the only game in town.
“Delighted to, sir.”
“Good, good.” There came the rattle of heavy bolts being snapped back, and then the door creaked open slowly on its hinges. Bright sunlight flooded into the dungeon, banishing the darkness into the corners and causing Thomas to blink for a moment while his eyes adjusted. The silhouette of the Sultan stood confidently in the doorway, ushering Thomas to freedom and a new life within his service. “Please come with me, Private. I believe that we need to get you a new uniform, one that more properly suits your new station, no?”
Thomas got to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion. He was delighted to find that his muscles now obeyed his commands instantly and without the slightest complaint. The Tipu beckoned him over, and Thomas took a step towards him, and then almost recoiled as his foot squished into something warm and sticky. He looked down, gaped; looked around the cell, then wondered seriously if there had been some mistake, and the Tiger Guards had thrown him into an abattoir.
The walls, the ceiling, the floor, indeed every visible surface was streaked and splattered with blood. Scattered around the cell in irregular lumps were a host of human body parts; here an arm, there a leg, still partially attached to the hip and torso of what had once been a man. Some appeared to have been torn or gnawed away from their place of attachment, with strips of ragged flesh and ligaments still gleaming wetly where they had once attached. The old Tom Gilman would have retched and gagged at such a sight, but he was now a new man, felt like one going all the way from his top down to his toes. He was simply puzzled as to how these anatomical offcuts had somehow gotten into his cell.
“Congratulations, Private,” Tipu said approvingly. He opened his hands to encapsulate not only Thomas but also the entire meat-filled cell. “You have passed our test of admission. You are one of us now.”
From the far corner of the cell, flies buzzed eagerly around the slack-jawed, decapitated head of what had until rec
ent been a captured British redcoat.
Excerpt from the private correspondence of Arthur Wellesley:
To the Earl of Mornington.
Camp, 2 miles west of Seringapatam, 5th April 1799
My dear Mornington,
In the action of the 27th of March, at Mallavelly, his troops behaved better than they have ever been known to behave. His infantry advanced, and almost stood the charge of bayonets of the 33rd and his cavalry rode at General Baird’s European Brigade. He did not support them as he ought, having drawn off his guns at the moment we made our attack, and even pushed forward these troops to cover the retreat of his guns. This is the cause of the total destruction of the troops he left behind him, without loss to us, and of the panic with which we have reason to believe his troops are now affected. His light cavalry, looties, and others are the best of the kind in the world. They have hung upon us night and day from the moment we have entered his country to this. Some of them have always had sight of us, and have been prepared to cut off any persons venturing out of the reach of our camp-guards. We came by a road so unfrequented that it was not possible to destroy all the forage, which would have distressed us much; but they did as much, even in that way, as could be expected from them. If Tippoo had had sense and spirit sufficient to use his cavalry and infantry as he might have done, I have no hesitation in saying that we should not now be here, and probably should not be out of the jungles near Bangalore.
Believe me,
ARTHUR WELLESLEY
CHAPTER TWENTY
It took the best part of four days for General Harris’s Grand Army to reach Seringapatam. Traveling steadily westward by night, the gargantuan column made good time despite the death and destruction that had been inflicted upon it by Jamelia and her band of were-tigers.
The Beast of Mysore (Wellington Undead Book 1) Page 17
