Sharpe's Triumph (17 page)

“Nothing happened, love,” he told her.

“That's what you say to your husband. Nothing happened, and you found the diamonds on a
dead body.”

“He will want me to give them to him. For his family.”

“Then don't tell him.”

“He is saving money,” Simone explained, 'so his family can live without work."

“We all want that. Dream of life without work, we do. That's why we all want to be
officers.”

“And I think to myself,” she went on as if Sharpe had not spoken, 'what shall I do? I
cannot stay here in India. I must go to France. We are like ships, Sergeant, who look for a
safe harbour."

“And Pierre is safe?”

“He is safe,” Simone said bleakly, and Sharpe understood what she had been thinking for
the last two days. He could offer her no security, while her husband could, and although
she found Pierre's world stultifying, she was terrified by the alternative. She had
dared taste that alternative for one night, but now shied away from it.

“You do not think badly of me?” she asked Sharpe anxiously.

I'm probably half in love with you,“ Sharpe told her, 'so how can I think badly of
you?”

She seemed relieved, and for the rest of that day she chattered happily enough.
McCandless questioned her closely about Dodd's regiment, how it had been trained and how
it was equipped, and though she had taken scant interest in such things, her replies
satisfied the Colonel who pencilled notes in a small black book.

They slept that night in a village, and next day rode even more warily.

“When we meet the enemy, Sharpe,” McCandless advised him, 'keep your hands away from
your weapon."

“Yes, sir.”

“Give a Mahratta one excuse to think you're hostile,” the Colonel said cheerfully, 'and
he'll use you as an archery butt. They don't make decent heavy horsemen, but as raiders
they're unsurpassed. They attack in swarms, Sharpe. A horde of horsemen. Like watching a
storm approach. Nothing but dust and the shine of swords. Magnificent!"

“You like them, sir?” Sharpe asked.

“I like the wild, Sharpe,” McCandless said fiercely.

“We've tamed ourselves at home, but out here a man still lives by his weapon and his wits.
I shall miss that when we've imposed order.”

“So why tame it, sir?”

“Because it is our duty, Sharpe. God's duty. Trade, order, law, and Christian
decency, that's our business.” McCandless was gazing ahead to where a patch of misty
white hung just above the northern horizon. It was dust kicked into the air, and maybe it
was nothing more than a herd of cattle or a flock of sheep, but the dust smear grew and
suddenly Sevajee's men veered sharply away to the west and galloped out of sight.

“Are they running out on us, sir?” Sharpe asked.

“The enemy will likely enough treat you and me with respect, Sharpe,” McCandless said,
'but Sevajee cannot expect courtesy from them. They'd regard him as a traitor and
execute him on the spot. We'll meet up with him when we've delivered Madame Joubert to her
husband. He and I have arranged a rendezvous."

The dust cloud drew nearer and Sharpe saw a sliver of reflected sunlight glint in the
whiteness and he knew he was seeing the first sign of McCandless's magnificent wild
horsemen. The storm was coming.

The Mahratta cavalrymen had spread into a long line as they approached McCandless's
small party. There were, Sharpe guessed, two hundred or more of the horsemen and, as they
drew nearer, the flanks of their line quickened to form a pair of horns that would encircle
their prey.

McCandless feigned not to notice the threat, but kept riding gently ahead while the
wild horns streamed past in a flurry of dust and noise.

They were, Sharpe noticed, small men on small horses. British cavalry were bigger and
their horses were heavier, but these nimble horsemen still looked effective enough. The
curved blades of their drawn tulwars glittered like their plumed helmets which rose to a
sharp point decorated with a crest. Some of the crests were horse-tails, some vultures'
feathers and some just brightly coloured ribbons. More ribbons were woven into their
horses' plaited manes or were tied to the horn tips of the archers' bows. The horsemen
pounded past McCandless, then turned with a swerve, a slew of choking dust, a skid of
hooves, a jangle of curb chains and the thump of scabbarded weapons.

The Mahratta leader confronted McCandless who pretended to be surprised to find his
path blocked, but nevertheless greeted the enemy with an elaborate and confident
courtesy. The cavalry commander was a wildly bearded man with a scarred cheek, a wall
eye and lank hair that hung far below his helmet's cloth-rimmed edge. He held his tulwar
menacingly, but McCandless ignored the blade's threat, indeed he ignored most of what
the enemy commander said, and instead boomed his own demands in a voice that showed not
the least nervousness. The Scotsman towered over the smaller horsemen and, because he
seemed to regard his presence among them as entirely natural, they meekly accepted his
version of what was happening.

“I have demanded that they escort us to Pohlmann,” the Scotsman informed Sharpe.

“They probably planned on doing that anyway, sir.”

“Of course they did, but it's far better that I should demand it than that they should
impose it,” McCandless said and then, with a lordly gesture, he gave permission for the
Mahratta chief to lead the way and the enemy dutifully formed themselves into an escort
either side of the three Europeans.

“Fine-looking beggars, are they not?” McCandless asked.

“Wicked, sir.”

“But sadly out of date.”

“They could fool me, sir,” Sharpe said, for though many of the Mahratta horsemen carried
weapons that might have been more usefully employed at Agincourt or Crecy than in modern
India, all had fire locks in their saddle holsters and all had savagely curved
tulwars.

McCandless shook his head.

“They may be the finest light horsemen in the world, but they won't press a charge home and
they can't stand volley fire. There's rarely any need to form square against men like these,
Sharpe. They're fine for picquet work, unrivalled at pursuit, but chary of dying in front
of the guns.”

“Can you blame them?” Simone asked.

“I don't blame them, Madame,” McCandless said, 'but if a horse can't stand fire, then it's
of scant use in battle. You don't gain victories by rattling across country like a pack of
hunters, but by enduring the enemy's fire and overcoming it. That's where a soldier earns
his pay, hard under the enemy muzzles."

And that, Sharpe thought, was something he had never really done.

He had faced the French in Flanders years before, but those battles had been fleeting
and rain-obscured, and the lines had never closed on each other. He had not stared at the
whites of the enemy's eyes, heard his volleys and returned them. He had fought at
Malavelly, but that battle had been one volley and a charge, and the enemy had not
contested the day, but fled, while at Seringapatam Sharpe had been spared the horror of
going through the breach. One day, he realized, he would have to stand in a battle line and
endure the volleys, and he wondered whether he would stand or instead break in terror. Or
whether he would even live to see a battle, for, despite McCandless's blithe confidence,
there was no assurance that he would survive this visit to the enemy's encampment.

They reached Pohlmann's army that evening. The camp was a short march south of Aurungabad
and it was visible from miles away because of the great smear of smoke that hung in the sky.
Most of the campfires were burning dried cakes of bullock dung and the acrid smoke caught in
Sharpe's throat as he trotted through the lines of infantry shelters. It all looked much
like a British camp, except that most of the tents were made from reed matting rather than
canvas, but the lines were still neatly arrayed, muskets were carefully stacked in threes
and a disciplined ring of picquets guarded the camp's perimeter. They passed some
European officers exercising their horses, and one of those men spurred to intercept
the newcomers. He ignored McCandless and Sharpe, raising his plumed hat to Simone
instead.

“Bonsoir, Madame.”

Simone did not look at the man, but just tapped her horse's rump with her riding crop.

“That fellow's French, sir,” Sharpe said to McCandless.

“I do speak the language, Sergeant,” the Colonel said.

“So what's a Frog doing here, sir?”

“The same as Lieutenant Dodd, Sharpe. Teaching Scindia's infantry how to fight.”

“Don't they know how to fight, sir? Thought it came natural.”

“They don't fight as we do,” McCandless said, watching the rebuffed Frenchman canter
away.

“How's that, sir?”

“The European, Sergeant, has learned to close the gap fast. The closer you are to a man,
the more likely you are to kill him; however, the closer you get, the more likely you are
to be killed, but it's no use entertaining that fear in battle. Get up close, hold your
ranks and start killing, that's the trick of it. But given a chance an Indian will hold back
and try to kill at long range, and fellows like Dodd are teaching them how to close the gap
hard and fast. You need discipline for that, discipline and tight ranks and good sergeants.
And no doubt he's teaching them how to use cannon as well.” The Colonel spoke sourly, for
they were trotting beside an artillery park that was crammed with heavy cannon. The guns
looked odd to Sharpe, for many of them had been cast with ornate patterns on their barrels,
and some were even painted in gaudy colours, but they were neatly parked and all had limbers
and full sets of equipment; rammers and worm screws and handspikes and buckets. The axles
gleamed with grease and there was not a spot of rust to be seen on the long barrels. Someone
knew how to maintain guns, and that suggested they also knew how to use them.

“Counting them, Sharpe?” McCandless asked abruptly.

“No, sir.”

“Seventeen in that park, mostly nine-pounders, but there are some much heavier brutes
at the back. Keep your eyes open, man. That's why we're here.”

“Yes, sir, of course, sir.”

They passed a line of tethered camels, then a compound where a dozen elephants were
being brought their supper of palm leaves and butter-soaked rice. Children followed the
men carrying the rice to scavenge what slopped from the pails. Some of the Mahratta escort
had spurred ahead to spread news of the visitors and curious crowds gathered to watch as
McCandless and his two companions rode still deeper into the huge encampment. Those
crowds became thicker as they drew close to the camp's centre which was marked by a spread
of large tents. One of the tents was made of blue-and-yellow-striped canvas, and in front
of it were twin flagpoles, though the wind was slack and the brightly coloured banners just
hung from their tall poles.

“Leave the talking to me,” McCandless ordered Sharpe.

“Of course, sir.”

Simone suddenly gasped. Sharpe turned and saw she was staring across the heads of the
curious crowd towards a group of European officers. She looked at Sharpe suddenly and
he saw the sadness in her eyes. She gave him a half-smile.

“Pierre,” she offered in brief explanation, then she shrugged and tapped her horse with
her crop so that it hurried away from Sharpe. Her husband, a small man in a white coat, gazed
in disbelief, then ran to meet her with a look of pleasure on his face. Sharpe felt oddly
jealous of him.

“That's our main duty discharged,” McCandless said happily.

"A

disobliging woman, I thought."

“Unhappy, sir.”

“Doesn't have enough to keep her busy, that's why. The devil likes idle hands, Sharpe.”

“Then he must hate me, sir, most of the time.” He stared after Simone, watching as she
slid down from the saddle and was embraced by her shorter husband. Then the crowds hid the
couple from him.

Someone shouted an insult at the two British horsemen and the other spectators jeered
or laughed, but Sharpe, despite their hostility, took some consolation from
McCandless's confidence. The Scotsman, indeed, was in a happier mood than he had shown
for days, for he revelled being in his enemy's lines.

A group of men emerged from the big striped tent. They were almost all Europeans, and in
their forefront was a tall muscled man in shirtsleeves who was attended by a bodyguard of
Indian soldiers wearing purple coats.

“That's Colonel Pohlmann,” McCandless said, nodding towards the big red-faced man.

“The fellow who used to be a sergeant, sir?”

“That's him.”

“You've met him, sir?”

“Once, a couple of years back. He's an affable sort of man, Sharpe, but I doubt he's
trustworthy.”

If Pohlmann was surprised to see a British officer in his camp, he did not show it.
Instead he spread his arms in an expansive gesture of welcome.

“Are you new recruits?” he shouted in greeting.

McCandless did not bother to answer the mocking question, but just slid from his
horse.

“You don't remember me, Colonel?”

“Of course I remember you,” Pohlmann said with a smile.

“Colonel Hector McCandless, once of His Majesty's Scotch Brigade, and now in the service
of the East India Company. How could I forget you, Colonel? You tried to make me read the
Bible.” Pohlmann grinned, displaying tobacco-stained teeth.

“But you haven't answered my question, Colonel. Have you come to join our army?”

“I am the merest emissary, Colonel,” McCandless said, beating dust from the kilt that
he had insisted on wearing in honour of meeting the enemy. The garment was causing some
amusement to Pohlmann's companions, though they took care not to let their smiles show if
McCandless glanced their way.

“I brought you a woman,” McCandless added in explanation.

“How do you say in England, Colonel,” Pohlmann asked with a puzzled frown, 'coals to
Newcastle?"