Sharpe's Triumph (14 page)

“No!” she shouted. A small riding whip hung from a loop about her right wrist and she
tried letting go of the roof beam and slashing down with the leather thong, but the
defiance only made her predicament worse.

Sharpe used his musket butt to hammer his way through the sepoys.

He was a good six inches taller than any of them, and much stronger, and he used his anger
as a weapon to drive them aside. He kicked a man away from the slaughtered officer, stepped
over the body, and swung the musket butt into the skull of one of the men trying to pull the
woman from her horse. That man went down and Sharpe turned the musket and drove its muzzle
into the belly of the second sepoy. That man doubled over and staggered backwards, but
just then a third man seized the horse's bridle and yanked it out from the wall so fast that
the woman fell back onto the roadway. The sepoys, seeing her upended with her long legs
in the air, shouted in triumph and surged forward and Sharpe whirled the musket like a club
to drive them backwards. One of them aimed his musket at Sharpe who stared him in the
eyes.

“Go on, you bastard,” Sharpe said, “I dare you.”

The sepoys decided not to make a fight of it. There were other women in the city and so
they backed away. A few paused to plunder the dead European officer, while others
finished looting the woman's pack mule which had been stripped of its load and grinning
sepoys now tore apart her linen dresses, stockings and shawls. The woman was kneeling
behind Sharpe, shaking and sobbing, and so he turned and took her by the elbow.

“Come on, love,” he said, 'you're all right now. Safe now."

She stood. Her hat had come off when she fell from her horse and her dishevelled golden
hair hung about her pale face. Sharpe saw she was tall, had an impression that she was
pretty even though her blue eyes were wide with shock and she was still shaking. He stooped
for her hat.

“You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards, you do,” he said, then shook
the dust off her hat and held it out to her. Her horse was standing free in the street, so he
grabbed the beast's bridle then led woman and animal to a nearby gateway that opened into
a courtyard.

“Have to look after your horse,” he said, 'valuable things, horses. You know how a
trooper gets a replacement mount?" He was not entirely sure why he was talking so much
and he did not even know if the woman understood him, but he sensed that if he stopped
talking she would burst into tears again and so he kept up his chatter.

"If a trooper loses his horse he has to prove it's died, see?

To show he hasn't sold it. So he chops off a hoof. They carry little axes for that, some
of them do. Can't sell a three-footed horse, see? He shows the hoof to his officers and
they issue a new horse."

There was a rope bed in the courtyard and he led the woman to it.

She sat and cuffed at her face.

“They said you wouldn't come for three more days,” she said bitterly in a strong
accent.

“We were in a hurry, love,” Sharpe said. She had still not taken the hat so he crouched
and held it close to her.

“Are you French?”

She nodded. She had begun to cry again and tears were running down her cheeks.

“It's all right,” he said, 'you're safe now." Then he saw the wedding ring on her finger
and a terrible thought struck him. Had the white-coated officer been her husband? And
had she watched him hacked down in front of her?

“That officer,” he said, jerking his head towards the street where sepoys were kicking
at doors and forcing shuttered windows with their fire locks 'was he your husband,
love?"

She shook her head.

“Oh, no,” she said, 'no. He was a lieutenant. My husband is a captain.“ She at last took
the hat, then sniffed. I'm sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Sharpe said, 'except you had a nasty fright. It's all right
now."

She took a deep breath, then wiped her eyes.

“I seem to be crying always.” She looked into Sharpe's eyes.

“Life is always tears, isn't it?”

“Not for me, love, no. Haven't had a weep since I was a kid, not that I can remember.”

She shrugged.

“Thank you,” she said, gesturing towards the street where she had been assailed by the
sepoys.

“Thank you.”

Sharpe smiled.

“I didn't do anything, love, 'cept drive the buggers off. A dog could have done that as
well as me. Are you all right? You weren't hurt?”

“No.”

He patted her hand.

“Your husband went without you, did he?”

“He sent Lieutenant Silliere to fetch me. No, he didn't. Major Dodd sent Silliere.”

“Dodd?” Sharpe asked.

The woman heard the interest in Sharpe's voice.

“You know him?”

she asked.

“I know of him,” Sharpe said carefully.

“Ain't met him, not properly.”

She studied Sharpe's face.

“You don't like him?”

“I hate him, Ma'am.”

“I hate him too.” She shrugged.

“I am called Simone. Simone Joubert.”

“It's a pretty name, Ma'am. Simone? Very pretty.”

She smiled at his clumsy gallantry.

“You have a name?”

“Richard Sharpe, Ma'am, Sergeant Richard Sharpe, King's 33rd.”

“Richard,” she said, trying it out, 'it suits you. Richard the Lion Heart yes?"

“He was a great one for fighting, Ma'am.”

“For fighting the French, Sergeant,” she said reprovingly.

“Someone has to,” Sharpe said with a grin, and Simone Joubert laughed and at that moment
Sharpe thought she was the prettiest girl he had seen in years. Maybe not really pretty,
but vivacious and blue eyed and golden-haired and smiling. But an officer's woman,
Sharpe told himself, an officer's woman.

“You must not fight the French, Sergeant,” Simone said.

“I won't let you.”

“If it looks like it's going to happen, Ma'am, then I'll let you know and you'll have to
hold me down.”

She laughed again, then sighed. A fire had broken out not far away and scraps of burning
thatch were floating in the warm air.

One of the smuts landed on Simone's white dress and she brushed at it, smearing the black
ash into the weave.

“They have taken everything,” she said sadly.

“I had little enough, but it is gone. All my clothes! All!”

“Then you get more,” Sharpe said.

“What with? This?” She showed him a tiny purse hanging from her waist.

“What will happen to me, Sergeant?”

“You'll be all right, Ma'am. You'll be looked after. You're an officer's wife, aren't
you? So our officers will make sure you're all right. They'll probably send you back to your
husband.”

Simone gave him a dutiful smile and Sharpe wondered why she was not overjoyed at the
thought of being reunited with her captain, then he forgot the question as a ragged
volley of shots sounded in the street and he turned to see an Arab staggering in the
gateway, his robes bright with blood, and an instant later a half-dozen Highlanders leaped
onto the twitching body and began to tear its clothing apart. One of them slit the
victim's robes with his bayonet and Sharpe saw that the dying man had a fine pair of riding
boots.

“There's a woman!” one of the looters shouted, seeing Simone in the courtyard, but
then he saw Sharpe's levelled musket and he raised a placatory hand.

“All yours, eh? No trouble, Sergeant, no trouble.” Then the man twisted to look down the
street and shouted a warning to his comrades and the six men took to their heels. A moment
later a file of sepoys showed in the gateway under the command of a mounted officer.
They were the first disciplined troops Sharpe had seen in the city and they were restoring
order. The officer peered into the courtyard, saw nothing amiss, and so ordered his men
onwards. A half company of kilted redcoats followed the sepoys and Sharpe assumed that
Wellesley had ordered the picquets of the day into the city. The picquets, who provided
the sentries for the army, were made up of half companies from every battalion.

There was a well in the corner of the yard and Sharpe hauled up its leather bucket to give
himself and Simone a drink. He brought up more water for the Frenchwoman's horse, and just
then heard McCandless shouting his name through the streets.

“Here, sir!” he called back.

“Here!”

It took a moment or two for McCandless to find him, and when he did the Scotsman was
furious.

“Where were you, man?” the Colonel demanded querulously.

“He got away! Clean away! Marched away like a toy soldier!” He had remounted his gelding
and stared imperiously down on Sharpe from his saddle.

“Got clean away!”

“Couldn't find men, sir, sorry, sir,” Sharpe said.

“Just one company! That's all we needed!” McCandless said angrily, then he noticed
Simone Joubert and snatched off his hat.

“Ma'am,” he said, nodding his head.

“This is Colonel McCandless, Ma'am,” Sharpe made the introduction.

“And this is Simone, sir.” He could not recall her surname.

“Madame Joubert,” Simone introduced herself.

McCandless scowled at her. He had ever been awkward in the presence of women, and he
had nothing to say to this young woman so he just glowered at Sharpe instead.

“All I needed was one company, Sharpe. One company!”

“He was rescuing me, Colonel,” Simone said.

“So I surmised, Madame, so I surmised,” the Colonel said unhappily, implying that
Sharpe had been wasting his time. More smuts swirled in the smoke down to the yard, while in
the street beyond the gateway the picquets were hauling looters from the shops and
houses. McCandless stared irritably at Simone who gazed placidly back. The Scotsman
was a gentleman and knew the woman was now his responsibility, but he resented the
duty. He cleared his throat, then found he still had nothing to say.

“Madame Joubert's husband, sir,” Sharpe said, 'serves in Dodd's regiment."

“He does, does he?” McCandless asked, showing sudden interest.

“My husband hoped to take command of the regiment when Colonel Mathers left,” Simone
explained, 'but, alas, Major Dodd arrived." She shrugged.

The Colonel frowned.

“Why didn't you leave with your husband?”

he demanded sternly.

“That is what I was trying to do, Colonel.”

“And you were caught, eh?” The Colonel patted his horse which had been distracted by one
of the burning scraps of straw.

“Tell me, Ma'am, do you have quarters in the city?”

“I did, Colonel, I did. Though if anything is left now .. . ?” Simone shrugged again,
implying that she expected to find the quarters ransacked.

“You have servants?”

“The landlord had servants and we used them. My husband has a groom, of course.”

“But you have somewhere to stay, Ma'am,” McCandless demanded.

“I suppose so, yes.” Simone paused.

“But I am alone, Colonel.”

“Sergeant Sharpe will look after you, Ma'am,” McCandless said, then a thought struck him
forcibly.

“You don't mind doing that, do you, Sharpe?” he enquired anxiously.

“I'll manage, sir,” Sharpe said.

“And I am just to stay here?” Simone demanded fiercely.

“Nothing else? That is all you propose, Colonel?”

“I propose, Ma'am, to reunite you with your husband,” McCandless said, 'but it will
take time. A day or two. You must be patient."

“I am sorry, Colonel,” Simone said, regretting the tone of the questions she had shot
at McCandless.

“I'm sorry to give you so unfortunate a duty, Sharpe,” McCandless said, 'but keep the
lady safe till we can arrange things. Send word to me where you are, and I'll come and find
you when everything's arranged."

“Yes, sir.”

The Colonel turned and spurred out of the courtyard. His spirits, which had collapsed
when Dodd had marched out of the city's northern gate, were reviving again for he saw in
Simone Joubert a God-sent opportunity to ride into the heart of his enemy's army.
Restoring the woman to her husband might do nothing to visit the vengeance of the
Company on Dodd, but it would surely be an unparalleled opportunity to scout
Scindia's forces and so McCandless rode to fetch Wellesley's permission for such an
excursion, while Simone led Sharpe through the exhausted streets to find her house. On
their way they passed an ox cart that had been tipped backwards and weighted down with stones
so that its single shaft pointed skywards. A sepoy hung from the shaft's tip by his neck.
The man was not quite dead yet and so made small spasmodic motions, and officers, both
Scottish and Indian, were forcing sheepish and half-drunken men to stare at the dying
sepoy as a reminder of the fate that awaited plunderers. Simone shuddered and Sharpe
hurried her past, her horse's reins in his left hand.

“Here, Sergeant,” she said, leading him into an alley that was littered with discarded
plunder. Above them smoke drifted across a city where women wept and redcoats patrolled
the walls. Ahmednuggur had fallen.

Major Dodd had misjudged Wellesley, and that misjudgement shook him. An escalade
seemed too intrepid, too headstrong, for the man Dodd derided as Boy Wellesley. It was
neither what Dodd had expected nor what he had wanted from Wellesley. Dodd had wanted
caution, for a cautious enemy is more easily defeated, but instead Wellesley had shown
a scathing contempt for Ahmednuggur's defenders and launched an assault that should have
been easily beaten back. If Dodd's men had been on the ramparts directly in the path of
the assault then the attack would have been defeated, of that Dodd had no doubt, for there
had only been four ladders deployed and that small number made the ease and swiftness of
the British victory even more humiliating. It suggested that General Sir Arthur
Wellesley possessed a confidence that neither his age nor experience should have
provided, and it also suggested that Dodd might have underestimated Wellesley, and
that worried him. Dodd's decision to desert to Pohlmann's army had been forced on him by
circumstance, but he had not regretted the decision, for European officers who served
the Mahratta chiefs were notorious for the riches they made, and the Mahratta armies far
outnumbered their British opponents and were thus likely to be the winners of this war,
but if the British were suddenly to prove invincible there would be no riches and no
victory. There would only be defeat and ignominious flight.