Sharpe's Fortress (33 page)

“So what are our orders today?” Sharpe asked.

Morris could not accustom himself to this confident Sharpe who treated him as an
equal and he was tempted not to answer, but the question was reasonable and Sharpe was
undoubtedly an officer, if merely an ensign.

“Once we're through the first wall,” Morris answered unhappily, “Kenny's going to
attack the left-hand upper breach and he wants us to seal off the right upper breach.”

“Sounds like a decent morning's work,” Sharpe said happily, then raised a hand to
Garrard.

“How are you, Tom?”

“Pleased you're here, sir.”

“Couldn't let you babies go into a breach without some help,” Sharpe said, then held out
his hand to Sergeant Green.

“Good to see you, Sergeant.”

“Grand to see you too, sir,” Green said, shaking Sharpe's hand.

"I heard you'd been commissioned and I hardly dared believe it!"

“You know what they say about scum, Sergeant,” Sharpe said.

“Always floats to the top, eh?” Some of the men laughed, especially when Sharpe glanced
at Morris who had, indeed, expressed that very opinion not long before. Others scowled,
for there were plenty in the company who resented Sharpe's good fortune.

One of them, a dark-faced man called Growley, spat.

“You always were a lucky bastard, Sharpie.”

Sharpe seemed to ignore the remark as he stepped through the seated company and
greeted more of his old friends, but when he was behind Crowley he turned abruptly and
pushed out the butt of his slung musket so that the heavy stock thumped into the private's
head. Crowley let out a yelp and turned to see Sharpe standing above him.

“The word, Crowley,” Sharpe said menacingly, 'is “sir”."

Crowley met Sharpe's gaze, but could not hold it.

“Yes, sir,” he said meekly.

“I'm sorry I was careless with the musket, Crowley,” Sharpe said.

There was another burst of laughter, making Morris scowl, but he was quite uncertain
of how to deal with Sharpe and so he said nothing.

Watson, a Welsh private who had joined the regiment rather than face an assize court,
jerked a thumb towards the fort.

“They say the breaches are too steep, Mister Sharpe.”

“Nothing to what you Welsh boys climb every day in the mountains,” Sharpe said. He had
borrowed Major Stokes's telescope shortly after dawn and stared at the breaches, and he
had not much liked what he had seen, but this was no time to tell the truth.

“We're going to give the buggers a right bloody thrashing, lads,” he said instead.

“I've fought these Mahrattas twice now and they don't stand. They look good, but press home
on the bastards and they turn and run like jack rabbits. Just keep going, boys, keep
fighting, and the buggers'll give up.”

It was the speech Morris should have made to them, and Sharpe had not even known he was
going to make any kind of speech when he opened his mouth, but somehow the words had come.
And he was glad, for the men looked relieved at his confidence, then some of them looked
nervous again as they watched a sepoy coming up the track with a British flag in his hands.
Colonel Kenny and his aides walked behind the man, all with drawn swords. Captain Morris
drank deep from his canteen, and the smell of rum wafted to Sharpe.

The guns fired on, crumbling the breaches' shoulders and filling the air with smoke and
dust as they tried to make the rough way smooth.

Soldiers, sensing that the order to advance was about to be given, stood and hefted
their weapons. Some touched rabbits' feet hidden in pockets, or whatever other small
token gave them a finger hold on life.

One man vomited, another trembled. Sweat poured down their faces.

“Four ranks,” Morris said.

“Into ranks! Quick now!” Sergeant Green snapped. An howitzer shell arced overhead then
plummeted towards the fort trailing its wisp of fuse smoke. Sharpe heard the shell
explode, then watched another shell follow. A man dashed out of the ranks into the rocks,
lowered his trousers and emptied his bowels. Everyone pretended not to notice until
the smell struck them, then they jeered as the embarrassed man went back to his place.

“That's enough!” Green said.

A sepoy drummer with an old-fashioned mitred shako on his head gave his drum a couple
of taps, while a piper from the Scotch Brigade filled his bag then settled the instrument
under his elbow. Colonel Kenny was looking at his watch. The guns fired on, their smoke
drifting down to the waiting men. The sepoy with the flag was at the front of the forming
column, and Sharpe guessed the enemy must be able to see the bright tip of the colour above
the rocky crest.

Sharpe took the bayonet from his belt and slotted it onto the musket.

He was not wearing the sabre that Ahmed had stolen from Morris, for he knew the weapon
would be identifiable, and so he had a tulwar that he had borrowed from Syud Sevajee. He
did not trust the weapon. He had seen too many Indian blades break in combat. Besides he
was used to a musket and bayonet.

“Fix bayonets!” Morris ordered, prompted by the sight of Sharpe's blade.

“And save your fire till you're hard in the breach,” Sharpe added.

“You've got one shot, lads, so don't waste it. You won't have time to reload till you're
through both walls.”

Morris scowled at this unasked-for advice, but the men seemed grateful for it, just as
they were grateful that they were not in the front ranks of Kenny's force. That honour had
gone to the Grenadier Company of the 94th who thus formed the Forlorn Hope. Usually the
Hope, that group of men who went first into a breach to spring the enemy traps and fight down
the immediate defenders, was composed of volunteers, but Kenny had decided to do
without a proper Forlorn Hope. He wanted to fill the breaches quickly and so overwhelm
the de fences by numbers, and thus hard behind the Scotch Brigade's grenadiers were two more
companies of Scots, then came the sepoys and Morris's men. Hard and fast, Kenny had told
them, hard and fast.

Leave the wounded behind you, he had ordered, and just get up the damned breaches and
start killing.

The Colonel looked at his watch a last time, then snapped its lid shut and put it into a
pocket. He took a breath, hefted his sword, then shouted one word.

“Now!”

And the flag went forward across the crest and behind it came a wave of men who hurried
towards the walls.

For a few seconds the fortress was silent, then the first rocket was fired. It seared
towards the advancing troops, trailing its plume of thick smoke, then abruptly twisted
and climbed into the clear sky.

Then the guns began.

Colonel William Dodd saw the errant rocket twist into the sky, falter amidst a growing
tumult of its own smoke, then fall. Manu Bappoo's guns began to fire and Dodd knew, though
he could not see over the loom of the Outer Fort, that the British attack was coming.

“Gopal!” he called to his second in command.

“Sahib?”

“Close the gates.”

“Sahib?” Gopal frowned at the Colonel. It had been agreed with Manu Bappoo that the four
gates that barred the entranceway to the Inner Fort would be left open so that the
defenders of the Outer Fort could retreat swiftly if it was necessary. Dodd had even
posted a company to guard the outermost gate to make sure that no British pursuers could
get in behind Manu Bappoo's men, yet now he was suggesting that the gates should be
shut?

“You want me to close them, sahib?” Gopal asked, wondering if he had misheard.

“Close them, bar them and forget them,” Dodd said happily, 'and pull the platoon back
inside the fort. I have another job for them."

“But, sahib, if-' ”You heard me, Jemadar! Move!"

Gopal ran to do Dodd's bidding, while the Colonel himself walked along the fire step that
edged the entranceway to make certain that his orders were being obeyed. He watched,
satisfied, as the troops guarding the outer gate were brought back into the fortress and
then as, one by one, the four vast gates were pushed shut. The great locking bars, each as
thick as a man's thigh, were dropped into their metal brackets. The Outer Fort was now
isolated. If Manu Bappoo repelled the British then it would be a simple matter to open
the gates again, but if he lost, and if he fled, then he would find himself trapped between
Dodd's Cobras and the advancing British.

Dodd walked to the centre of the fire step and there climbed onto an embrasure so that
he could talk to as many of his men as possible.

“You will see that I have shut the gates,” he shouted, 'and they will stay shut!

They will not be opened except by my express permission. Not if all the maharajahs of
India stand out there and demand entrance! The gates stay shut. Do you understand?"

The white-coated soldiers, or at least those few who spoke some English, nodded while
the rest had Dodd's orders translated. None showed much interest in the decision. They
trusted their Colonel, and if he wanted the gates kept closed, then so be it.

Dodd watched the smoke thicken on the far side of the Outer Fort. A grim struggle was
being waged there, but it was nothing to do with him.

He would only begin to fight when the British attacked across the ravine, but their
attacks would achieve nothing. The only way into the Inner Fort was through the gates, and
that was impossible. The British might batter down the first gate with cannon fire, but
once through the arch they would discover that the entranceway turned sharply to the left,
so their gun could not fire through the passage to batter down the three other doors. They
would have to fight their way up the narrow passage, try to destroy the successive gates
with axes, and all the while his men would be pouring slaughter on them from the flanking
walls.

“Sahib?” Gopal called, and Dodd turned to see that the Jemadar was pointing up the path
that led to the palace. Beny Singh had appeared on the path, flanked by a servant carrying
a parasol to protect the Killadar from the hot sun.

“Send him up here, Jemadar!” Dodd shouted back.

Dodd felt a quiet exaltation at the neatness of his tactics. Manu Bappoo was already
cut off from safety, and only Beny Singh was now left as a rival to Dodd's supremacy. Dodd
was tempted to cut the Killadar down here and now, but the murder would have been witnessed
by members of the garrison who were still loyal to Beny Singh, and so instead Dodd
greeted the Killadar with a respectful bow.

“What's happening?” Beny Singh demanded. He was breathing hard from the effort of
climbing to the fire step then he cried out in dismay because the guns on the southern wall
of the Outer Fort, those guns that overlooked the ravine, had suddenly opened fire to pump
gouts of grey white smoke.

“I fear, sahib,” Dodd said, 'that the enemy are overwhelming the fort."

“They're doing what?” The Killadar, who was dressed for battle in a clean white robe
girdled by a red cummerbund and hung with a jewelled scabbard, looked horrified. He
watched the smoke spread across the ravine. He was puzzled because it was not at all clear
what the nearer guns were firing at.

“But the enemy can't get in here!”

“There are other British soldiers approaching, sahib,” Dodd said, and he pointed to the
smoke cloud above the ravine. The guns on the near side of the Outer Fort, most of them small
three- and five-pounder cannon, were aiming their pieces westwards, which meant that
British troops must be approaching up the steep road which led from the plain.

Those troops were still out of Dodd's sight, but the gunnery from the Outer Fort was
eloquent proof of their presence.

“There must be redcoats coming towards the ravine,” Dodd explained, 'and we never
foresaw that the British might assault in more than one place.“ Dodd told the lie smoothly.
”I have no doubt they have men coming up the southern road too."

“They do,” the Killadar confirmed.

Dodd shuddered, as though the news overwhelmed him with despair.

“We shall do our best,” he promised, 'but I cannot defend everything at once. I fear the
British will gain the victory this day." He bowed to the Killadar again.

“I am so very sorry, sahib. But you can gain an immortal reputation by joining the
fight. We might lose today's battle, but in years to come men will sing songs about the
defiance of Beny Singh. And how better for a soldier to die, sahib, than with a sword in
his hand and his enemies dead about his feet?”

Beny Singh blanched at the thought.

“My daughters!” he croaked.

“Alas,” Dodd said gravely, 'they will become soldiers' toys. But you should not worry,
sahib. In my experience the prettiest girls usually find a soldier to defend them. He
is usually a big man, crude and forceful, but he stops the other men from raping his
woman, except his friends, of course, who will be allowed some liberties. I am sure your
wives and daughters will find men eager to protect them."

Beny Singh fled from Dodd's reassurances. Dodd smiled as the

Killadar ran, then turned and walked towards Hakeswill who was posted in the bastion
above the innermost gate. The Sergeant had been issued with a sword to accompany his
black sash. He slammed to attention as Dodd approached him.

“Stand easy, Mister Hakeswill,” Dodd said. Hakeswill relaxed slightly. He liked being
called "Mister', it somehow seemed appropriate. If that little bastard Sharpe could be a
mister and wear a sword, then so could he.

“I shall have a job for you in a few minutes, Mister Hakeswill,” Dodd said.

“I shall be honoured, sir,” Hakeswill replied.

Dodd watched the Killadar hurry up the path towards the palace.

“Our honoured commander,” he said sarcastically, 'is taking some bad news to the
palace. We must give the news time to take root there."

“Bad news, sir?”

“He thinks we're going to lose,” Dodd explained.

“I pray not, sir.”

“As do I, Mister Hakeswill, as do I. Fervently!” Dodd turned to watch the gunners in the
Outer Fort and he saw how puny their small cannon were and he reckoned that such fire would
not hold up the redcoats for long. The British would be in the ravine in half an hour, maybe
less.