He had just one problem left and to solve it he asked Dodd to accompany him eastwards along the river bank.
"If you were Wellesley," he asked Dodd, "how would you attack?"
Dodd considered the question, then shrugged as if to suggest that the answer was obvious.
"Concentrate all my best troops at one end of the line and hammer my way through."
"Which end?"
Dodd thought for a few seconds. He had been tempted to say that Wellesley would attack in the west, at the fords by Kodully, for that would keep him closest to Stevenson's army, but Stevenson was a long way away and Pohlmann was deliberately riding eastwards.
"The eastern end?" Dodd suggested diffidently.
Pohlmann nodded.
"Because if he drives our left flank back he can place his army between us and Assaye. He divides us."
"And we surround him," Dodd observed.
"I'd rather we weren't divided," Pohlmann said, for if Wellesley did succeed in driving back the left flank he might well succeed in capturing Assaye, and while that would still leave Pohlmann's compoos on the field, it would mean that the Colonel would lose his gold. So the Colonel needed a good hard anchor at the eastern end of his line to prevent his left flank being turned, and of all the regiments under his command he reckoned Dodd's Cobras were the best. The left flank was now being held by one of Dupont's regiments, a good one, but not as good as Dodd's.
Pohlmann gestured at the Dutchman's brown-coated troops who looked across the river towards the small village of Taunklee.
"Good men," he said, "but not as good as yours."
"Few of them are."
"But we'd best pray those fellows hold," Pohlmann said, "because if I was Wellesley that's where I'd put my sharpest attack. Straight up, turn our flank, cut us off from Assaye. It worries me, it does."
Dodd could not see that it was overmuch cause for worry, for he doubted that the best troops in the world could survive the river crossing under the massed fire of Pohlmann's batteries, but he did see the left flank's importance.
"So reinforce Dupont," he suggested carelessly.
Pohlmann looked surprised, as though the idea had not already occurred to him.
"Reinforce him? Why not? Would you care to hold the left, Major?"
"The left?" Dodd said suspiciously. Traditionally the right of the line was the station of honour on a battlefield and, while most of Pohlmann's troops neither cared nor knew about such courtesies, William Dodd certainly knew, which was why Pohlmann had let the Major suggest that the left should be reinforced rather than simply order the touchy Dodd to move his precious Cobras.
"You would not be under Dupont's orders, of course not," Pohlmann reassured Dodd. "You'll be your own master, Major, answerable to me, only to me."
Pohlmann paused.
"Of course, if you'd rather not take post on the left I'd entirely understand, and some other fellows can have the honour of defeating the British right."
"My fellows can do it!" Dodd said belligerently.
"It is a very responsible post," Pohlmann said diffidently.
"We can do it, sir!" Dodd insisted.
Pohlmann smiled his gratitude.
"I was hoping you'd say so. Every other regiment is commanded by a Frog or a Dutchman, Major, and I need an Englishman to fight the hardest battle."
"And you've found one, sir," Dodd said.
I've found an idiot, Pohlmann thought as he rode back to the line's centre, but Dodd was a reliable idiot and a hard-fighting man. He watched as Dodd's men left the line, and as the line closed up to fill the gap, and then as the Cobras took their place on the left flank. The line was complete now, it was deadly, it was anchored firmly, and it was ready. All it needed was the enemy to compound their blunder by trying to attack, and then Pohlmann would crown his career by filling the Kaitna with British blood. Let them attack, he prayed, just let them attack, and the day, with all its glory, would be his.
* * *
The British camp spread around Naulniah. Lines of tents sheltered infantry, quartermasters sought out the village headman and arranged that the women of the village would bake bread in return for rupees, while the cavalry led their horses down to drink from the River Purna which flowed just to the north of the village. One squadron of the 78th Dragoons was ordered to cross the river and ride a couple of miles north in search of enemy patrols and those troopers dropped their bags of forage in the village, watered their horses, washed the dust from their faces, then remounted and rode on out of sight.
Colonel McCandless picked a broad tree as his tent. He had no servant, nor wanted one, so he brushed down Aeolus with handfuls of straw while Sharpe fetched a pail of water from the river. The Colonel, in his shirtsleeves, straightened as Sharpe came back.
"You do realize, Sergeant, that I am guilty of some dishonesty in the matter of that warrant?"
"I wanted to thank you, sir."
"I doubt I deserve any thanks, except that my deception might have staved off a greater evil." The Colonel crossed to his saddlebags and brought out his Bible which he gave to Sharpe. "Put your right hand on the scriptures, Sergeant, and swear to me you are innocent of the charge."
Sharpe placed his right palm on the Bible's worn cover. He felt foolish, but McCandless's face was stern and Sharpe made his own face solemn.
"I do swear it, sir. I never touched the man that night, didn't even see him." His voice proclaimed both his indignation and his innocence, but that was small consolation. The warrant might be defeated for the moment, but Sharpe knew such things did not go away. "What will happen now, sir?"
"We'll just have to make certain the truth prevails," McCandless said vaguely. He was still trying to decide what had been wrong with the warrant, but he could not identify what had troubled him. He took the Bible, stowed it away, then put his hands in the small of his back and arched his spine. "How far have we come today? Fourteen miles? Fifteen?"
"Thereabouts, sir."
"I'm feeling my age, Sharpe, feeling my age. The leg's mending well enough, but now my back aches. Not good. But just a short march tomorrow, God be thanked, no more than ten miles, then battle." He pulled a watch from his fob pocket and snapped open the lid. "We have fifteen minutes, Sergeant, so it might be wise to prepare our weapons."
"Fifteen minutes, sir?"
"It's Sunday, Sharpe! The Lord's day. Colonel Wallace's chaplain will be holding divine service on the hour, and I expect you to come with me. He preaches a fine sermon. But there's still time for you to clean your musket first."
The musket was cleaned with boiling water which Sharpe poured down the barrel, then sloshed about so that the very last remnants of powder residue were washed free. He doubted the musket needed cleaning, but he dutifully did it, then oiled the lock and put a new flint into the dog head. He borrowed a sharpening stone from one of Sevajee's men and honed the bayonet's point so that the tip shone white and deadly, then he dabbed some oil on the blade before sliding it home into its scabbard. There was nothing else to do now except listen to the sermon, sleep and do the mundane tasks. There would be a meal to cook and the horses to water again, but those commonplace jobs were overshadowed by the knowledge that the enemy was just a short march away at Borkardan. Sharpe felt a shudder of nerves. What would battle be like? Would he stand? Or would he turn out like that corporal at Boxtel who had started to rave about angels and then had run like a spring hare through the Flanders rain?
* * *
A half-mile behind Sharpe the baggage train began to trudge into a wide field where the oxen were hobbled, the camels picketed and the elephants tethered to trees. Grass-cutters spread out into the countryside to find forage for the animals which were watered from a muddy irrigation channel. The elephants were fed piles of palm leaves and buckets of rice soaked in butter, while Captain Mackay scurried through the chaos on his small bay horse, making sure that the ammunition was being properly stowed and the animals suitably fed.
He sud
denly caught sight of a disconsolate Sergeant Hakeswill and his six men.
"Sergeant! You're still here? I thought you'd have your rogue safely pinioned by now?"
"Problems, sir," Hakeswill said, standing rigidly to attention.
"Easy, Sergeant, stand easy. No rogue?"
"Not yet, sir."
"So you're back in my command, are you? That's splendid, just splendid." Mackay was an eager young officer who did his best to see the good in everybody, and though he found the Sergeant from the 33rd somewhat daunting, he did his best to communicate his own enthusiasm.
"Puckalees, Sergeant," he said brightly, "puckalees."
Hakeswill's face wrenched in a series of spasms.
"Puckalees, sir?"
"Water carriers, Sergeant."
"I knows what a pucka lee is, sir, on account of having lived in this heathen land more years than I can count, but begging your pardon, sir, what has a pucka lee to do with me?"
"We have to establish a collecting point for them," Mackay said.
The puckalees were all on the strengths of the individual regiments and in battle their job was to keep the fighting men supplied with water.
"I need a man to watch over them," Mackay said. "They're good fellows, all of them, but oddly frightened of bullets! They need chivvying along. I'll be busy enough with the ammunition wagons tomorrow, so can I rely on you to make sure the puckalees do their job like the stout fellows they are?"
The 'stout fellows' were boys, grandfathers, cripples, the half-blind and the half witted.
"Excellent! Excellent!" the young Captain said. "A problem solved! Make sure you get some rest, Sergeant. We'll all need to be sprightly tomorrow. And if you feel the need for some spiritual refreshment you'll find the 74th are holding divine service any moment now." Mackay smiled at Hakeswill, then set off in pursuit of an errant group of bullock carts. "You! You! You with the tents! Not there! Come here!"
"Puckalees," Hakeswill said, spitting, "puckalees."
None of his men responded for they knew well enough to leave Sergeant Hakeswill alone when he was in a more than usually foul mood.
"Could be worse, though," he said.
"Worse?" Private Flaherty ventured.
Hakeswill's face twitched.
"We has a problem, boys," he said dourly, "and the problem is one Scottish Colonel who is attempting to bugger up the good order of our regiment. I won't abide it, I won't. Regimental honour is at stake, it is. He's been wool-pulling, ain't he? And he thinks he's pulled it clean over our eyes, but he ain't, because I've seen through him, I have, I've seen through his Scotch soul and it's as rotten as rotten eggs. Sharpie's paying him off, ain't he? Stands to reason! Corruption, boys, nothing but corruption." Hakeswill blinked, his mind racing. "If we're flogging puckalees halfway across bleeding India tomorrow, lads, then we will have our moment and the regiment would want us to seize it."
"Seize it?" Lowry asked.
"Kill the bugger, you block headed toad."
"Kill Sharpie?"
"God help me for leading half wits," Hakeswill said. "Not Sharpie! We wants him private like, where we can fillet him fair and square. You kills the Scotchman! Once Mister bleeding McCandless is gone, Sharpie's ours."
"You can't kill a colonel!" Kendrick said aghast.
"You points your firelock, Private Kendrick," Hakeswill said, ramming his own musket's muzzle hard into Kendrick's midriff. "You cocks your musket, Private Kendrick..." Hakeswill pulled back the dog head and the heavy lock clicked into place, "...and then you shoots the bugger clear through." Hakeswill pulled his trigger. The powder in the pan exploded with a small crackle and fizz, and Kendrick leaped back as the smoke drifted away from the lock, but the musket had not been charged.
Hakeswill laughed.
"Got you, didn't I? You thought I was putting a goalie in your belly! But that's what you do to McCandless. A goalie in his belly or in his brain or in any other part what kills him. And you do it tomorrow."
The six men looked dubious, and Hakeswill grinned.
"Extra shares for you all if it happens, boys, extra shares. You'll be paying the officers' whores when you get home, and all it will take is one goalie." He smiled wolfishly. "Tomorrow, boys, tomorrow."
* * *
But across the river, where the blue-coated patrol of the 78th Dragoons was exploring the countryside south of the Kaitna, everything was changing.
Wellesley had dismounted, stripped off his jacket and was washing his face from a basin of water held on a tripod. Lieutenant Colonel Orrock, the Company officer who commanded the picquets that day, was complaining about the two galloper guns that were supposedly attached to his small command.
"They wouldn't keep up, sir. Laggards, sir. I found myself four hundred yards ahead of them! Four hundred yards!"
"I asked you to set a brisk pace, Orrock," the General said, wishing the fool would go away. He reached for a towel and vigorously scrubbed his face dry.
"But if we'd been challenged!" Orrock protested.
"Gallopers can move briskly when they must," the General said, then sighed as he realized the prickly Orrock needed placating. "Who commanded the guns?"
"Barlow, sir."
"I'll speak to him," the General promised, then turned as the patrol of 78th Dragoons that had crossed the River Purna to reconnoitre the ground on the far bank came threading through the rising tents towards him. Wellesley had not expected the patrol back this soon and their return puzzled him, then he saw they were escorting a group of bhinjarries, the black-cloaked merchants who traversed India buying and selling food. "You'll excuse me, Orrock," the General said, plucking his coat from a stool.
"You will talk with Barlow, sir?" Orrock asked.
"I said so, didn't I?" Wellesley called as he walked towards the horsemen.
The patrol leader, a captain, slid off his horse and gestured at the bhinjarries' leader.
"We found these fellows a half-mile north of the river, sir. They've got eighteen pack oxen loaded with grain and they reckon the enemy ain't in Borkardan at all. They were planning to sell the grain in Assaye."
"Assaye?" The General frowned at the unfamiliar name.
"It's a village four or five miles north of here, sir. He says it's thick with the enemy."
"Four or five miles?" Wellesley asked in astonishment. "Four or five?"
The cavalry captain shrugged.
"That's what they say, sir." He gestured at the grain merchants who stood impassively among the mounted troopers.
Dear God, Wellesley thought, four or five miles? He had been humbugged! The enemy had stolen a march on him, and at any moment that enemy might appear to the north and launch an attack on the British encampment and there was no chance for Stevenson to come to his help.
The 74th were singing hymns and the enemy was five miles away, maybe less? The General spun round.
"Barclay! Campbell! Horses! Quick now!"
* * *
The flurry of activity at the General's tent sent a rumour whipping through the camp, and the rumour was fanned into alarm when the whole of the 78th Dragoons and the 4th Native Cavalry trotted through the river on the heels of the General and his two aides. Colonel McCandless had been walking with Sharpe towards the 74th's lines, but seeing the sudden excitement, he turned and hurried back towards his horse.
"Come on, Sharpe!"
"Where to, sir?"
"We'll find out. Sevajee?"
"We're ready."
McCandless's party left the camp five minutes after the General.
They could see the dust left by the cavalry ahead and McCandless hurried to catch up. They rode through a landscape of small fields cut by deep dry gulches and cactus-thorn hedges. Wellesley had been following the earth road northwards, but after a while the General swerved westwards onto a field of stubble and McCandless did not follow, but kept straight on up the road.
"No point in tiring the horses unnecessarily," he explained, though Sharpe suspected t
he Colonel was merely impatient to go north and see whatever had caused the excitement. The two British cavalry regiments were in sight to the east, but there was no enemy visible.
Sevajee and his men had ridden ahead, but when they reached a crest some two hundred yards in front of McCandless they suddenly wrenched on their reins and swerved back. Sharpe expected to see a horde of Mahratta cavalry come boiling over the crest, but the skyline stayed empty as Sevajee and his men halted a few yards short of the ridge and there dismounted.
"You'll not want them to see you, Colonel," Sevajee said drily when McCandless caught up.
"Them?"
Sevajee gestured at the crest.
"Take a look. You'll want to dismount."
McCandless and Sharpe both slid from their saddles, then walked to the skyline where a cactus hedge offered concealment and from where they could stare at the country to the north and Sharpe, who had never seen such a sight before, simply gazed in amazement.
It was not an army. It was a horde, a whole people, a nation.
Thousands upon thousands of the enemy, all in line, mile after mile of them. Men and women and children and guns and camels and bullocks and rocket batteries and horses and tents and still more men until there seemed to be no end to them.
"Jesus!" Sharpe said, the imprecation torn from him.
"Sharpe!"
"Sorry, sir." But no wonder he had sworn, for Sharpe had never imagined that an army could look so vast. The nearest men were no more than half a mile away, beyond a discoloured river that flowed between steep mud banks. A village lay on the nearer bank, but on the northern side, just beyond the mud bluff, there was a line of guns.
Big guns, the same painted and sculpted cannon that Sharpe had seen in Pohlmann's camp. Beyond the guns was the infantry and behind the infantry, and spreading far out of sight to the east, was a mass of cavalry and beyond them the myriad of camp followers. More infantry were posted about a distant village where Sharpe could just see a cluster of bright flags.
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