Sharpe's Triumph (24 page)

Borkardan was a mere village with no building fit for a prince, and so the great durbar
of the Mahratta chiefs was held in an enormous tent that was hastily made by sewing a score
of smaller tents together, then lining the canvas with swathes of brightly coloured silk,
and it would have made a marvellously impressive structure had the heavens not opened
when the durbar began so that the sound of men's voices was half drowned by the beat of rain
on stretched canvas and if the hastily made seams had not opened to let the water pour
through in streams.

“It's all a waste of time,” Pohlmann grumbled to Dodd, 'but we have to attend." The
Colonel was fixing his newly tied stock with a diamond studded pin.

“And it isn't a time for any European opinion except mine, understand?”

“Yours?” Dodd, who had rather hoped to make a case for boldness, asked dourly.

“Mine,” Pohlmann said forcibly.

“I want to twist their tails, and I need every European officer nodding like a
demented monkey in agreement with me.”

A hundred men had gathered under the dripping silk. Scindia, the Maharajah of Gwalior,
and Bhonsla, the Rajah of Berar, sat on musnuds, elegant raised platform-thrones that
were draped in brocade and sheltered from the intrusive rain by silk parasols. Their
Highnesses were cooled by men waving long-handled fans while the rest of the durbar
sweltered in the close, damp heat. The high-class brahmins, all in baggy trousers cut from
gold brocade, white tunics and tall white turbans, sat closest to the two thrones, while
behind them stood the military officers, Indian and European, who were perspiring in
their finest uniforms. Servants moved unobtrusively through the crowd offering silver
dishes of almonds, sweetmeats or raisins soaked in arrack. The three senior European
officers stood together. Pohlmann, in a purple coat hung with golden braid and loops of
chain, towered over Colonel Dupont, a wiry Dutchman who commanded Scindia's second
compoo, and over Colonel Saleur, a Frenchman, who led the infantry of the Begum Somroo.
Dodd lingered just behind the trio and listened to their private durbar. The three men
agreed that their troops would have to take the brunt of the British attack, and that one of
them must exercise overall command. It could not be Saleur, for the Begum Somroo was a
client ruler of Scindia's, so her commander could hardly take precedence over her feudal
overlord's officers, which meant that it had to be either Dupont or Pohlmann, but the
Dutchman generously ceded the honour to the Hanoverian.

“Scindia would have chosen you anyway,” Dupont said.

“Wisely,” Pohlmann said cheerfully, 'very wisely. You're content, Saleur?"

“Indeed,” the Frenchman said. He was a tall, dour man with a badly scarred face and a
formidable reputation as a disciplinarian. He was also reputed to be the Begum
Somroo's lover, a post that evidently accompanied the command of that lady's
infantry.

“What are the bastards talking about now?” he asked in English.

Pohlmann listened for a few seconds.

“Discussing whether to retreat to Gawilghur,” he said. Gawilghur was a hill fort that
lay north and east of Borkardan and a group of brahmins were urging the army to retire
there and let the British break their skulls against its cliffs and high walls.

“Goddamn brahmins,” Pohlmann said in disgust.

“Don't know a damn thing about soldiering. Know how to talk, but not how to fight.”

But then an older brahmin, his white beard reaching to his waist, stood up and declared
that the omens were more suitable for battle.

“You have assembled a great army, dread Lord,” he addressed Scindia, 'and you would lock
it away in a citadel?"

“Where did they find him?” Pohlmann muttered.

“He's actually talking sense!”

Scindia said little, preferring to let Surjee Rao, his chief minister, do the
talking, while he himself sat plump and inscrutable on his throne.

He was wearing a rich gown of yellow silk that had emeralds and pearls sewn into
patterns of flowers, while a great yellow diamond gleamed from his pale-blue turban.

Another brahmin pleaded for the army to march south on Seringapatam, but he was
ignored. The Rajah of Berar, darker-skinned than the pale Scindia, frowned at the durbar
in an attempt to look warlike, but said very little.

“He'll run away,” Colonel Saleur growled, 'as soon as the first gun is fired. He always
does."

Beny Singh, the Rajah's warlord, argued for battle.

“I have five hundred camels laden with rockets, I have guns fresh from Agra, I have
infantry hungry for enemy blood. Let them loose!”

“God help us if we do,” Dupont growled.

“Bastards don't have any discipline.”

“Is it always like this?,” Dodd asked Pohlmann.

“Good God, no!” the Hanoverian said.

"This durbar is positively decisive!

Usually it's three days of talk and a final decision to delay any decision until
the next time."

“You think they'll come to a decision today?” Saleur asked cynically.

“They'll have to,” Pohlmann said.

“They can't keep this army together for much longer. We're running out of forage! We're
stripping the country bare.” The soldiers were still receiving just enough to eat, and the
cavalrymen made certain their horses were fed, but the camp followers were near
starvation and in a few days the suffering of the women and children would cause the
army's morale to plummet. Only that morning Pohlmann had seen a woman sawing at what he
had assumed was brown bread, then realized that no Indian would bake a European loaf and
that the great lump was actually a piece of elephant dung and that the woman was
crumbling it apart in search of undigested grains. They must fight now.

“So if we fight,” Saleur asked, 'how will you win?"

Pohlmann smiled.

“I think we can give young Wellesley a problem or two,” he said cheerfully.

“We'll put the Rajah's men behind some strong walls where they can't do any damage, and
we three will line our guns wheel to wheel, hammer them hard for their whole approach, then
finish them off with some smart volleys. After that we'll let the cavalry loose on their
remnants.”

“But when?” Dupont asked.

“Soon,” Pohlmann said, 'soon. Has to be soon. Buggers are eating dung for breakfast these
days." There was a sudden silence in the tent and Pohlmann realized a question had been
addressed to him. Surjee Rao, a sinister man whose reputation for cruelty was as
widespread as it was deserved, raised an eyebrow to the Hanoverian.

“The rain, Your Serene Excellency,” Pohlmann explained, 'the rain deafened me so I
could not hear your question."

“What my Lord wishes to know,” the minister said, 'is whether we can destroy the
British?"

“Oh, utterly,” Pohlmann said as though it was risible to even ask the question.

“They fight hard,” Beny Singh pointed out.

“And they die like other men when fought hard in return,” Pohlmann said
dismissively.

Scindia leaned forward and whispered in Surjee Rao's ear.

“What the Lord of our land and the conqueror of our enemy's lands wishes to know,” the
minister said, 'is how you will beat the British?"

“In the way that His Royal Highness suggested, Excellency, when he gave me his wise
advice yesterday,” Pohlmann said, and it was true that he had enjoyed a private talk with
Scindia the day before, though the advice had all been given by Pohlmann, but if he was to
sway this durbar then he knew he must let them think that he was simply repeating Scindia's
suggestions.

“Tell us, please,” Surjee Rao, who knew full well that his master had no ideas except how
to increase the tax yields, asked suavely.

“As we all know,” Pohlmann said, 'the British have divided their forces into two parts.
By now both those small armies will know that we are here at Borkardan and, because they are
fools eager for death, they will both be marching towards us. Both armies lie to our south,
but they are separated by some miles. They nevertheless hope to join together, then
attack us, but yesterday, in his unparalleled wisdom, His Royal Highness suggested
that if we move eastwards we shall draw the enemy's eastern most column towards us and so
make them march away from their allies. We can then fight the two armies in turn, defeat them
in turn, and then let our dogs chew the flesh from their carcasses. And when the last enemy
is dead, Excellency, I shall bring their General to our ruler's tents in chains and send
their women to be his slaves." More to the point, Pohlmann thought, he would capture
Wellesley's food supplies, but he dared not say that in case Scindia took the words as a
criticism. But Pohlmann's bravado was rewarded by a scatter of applause that was
unfortunately spoiled as a whole section of the tent roof collapsed to let in a deluge
of rain.

If the British are doomed,“ Surjee Rao asked when the commotion had subsided, 'why do
they advance on us?”

It was a good question, and one that had worried Pohlmann slightly, though he believed
he had found an answer.

“Because, Excellency,” he said, 'they have the confidence of fools. Because they
believe that their combined armies will prove sufficient. Because they do not truly
understand that our army has been trained to the same level as their own, and because their
General is young and inexperienced and too eager for a reputation."

“And you believe, Colonel, that we can keep their two armies apart?”

If we march tomorrow, yes."

“How big is the British General's army?”

Pohlmann smiled.

“Wellesley has five thousand infantrymen, Excellency, and six thousand cavalry. We
could lose as many men as that and not even notice they were gone! He has eleven thousand
men, but the only ones he relies on are his five thousand infantry. Five thousand men!
Five thousand!” He paused, making sure that everyone in the tent had heard the figure.

“And we have eighty thousand men. Five against eighty!”

“He has guns,” the minister observed sourly.

“We have five guns for every one of his. Five against one. And our guns are bigger and
they are served just as well as his.”

Scindia whispered to Surjee Rao who then demanded that the other European officers
give their advice, but all had been forewarned by Pohlmann to sing his tune. March east, they
said, draw one British army into battle, then turn on the other. The minister thanked the
foreign officers for their advice, then pointedly turned back to the brahmins for their
comments. Some advised that emissaries should be sent to Holkar, begging his help, but
Pohlmann's confidence had worked its magic and another man indignantly demanded to
know why Holkar should be offered a share in the glory of victory. The tide of the durbar
was turning in Pohlmann's favour, and he said nothing more, but nor did he need to.

The durbar talked all day and no course of action was formally agreed, but at dusk
Scindia and the Rajah of Berar conferred briefly, then Scindia took his leave between rows
of brahmins who bowed as their ruler passed. He paused in the huge tent's doorway while his
servants brought the palanquin that would preserve him from the rain.

Only when the palanquin was ready did he turn and speak loudly enough for all the durbar
to hear.

“We march east tomorrow,” he said, 'then we shall ponder another decision. Colonel
Pohlmann will make the arrangements." He stood for a second, looking up at the rain, then
ducked under the palanquin's canopy.

“Praise God,” Pohlmann said, for he reckoned that the decision to march eastwards was
sufficient to bring on battle. The enemy was closing all the time, and so long as the
Mahrattas did not run northwards, the two sides must eventually meet. And if Scindia's men
went eastwards then they would meet on Pohlmann's terms. He rammed on his cocked hat and
stalked from the tent, followed by all the European officers.

“We'll march east along the Kaitna!” he said excitedly.

“That's where we'll march tomorrow, and the river bank will be our killing ground.” He
whooped like an excited child.

“One short march, gentlemen, and we shall be close to Wellesley's men, and in two or
three days we'll fight whether our lords and masters want it or not.”

The army marched early next morning. It covered the earth like a dark swarm that flowed
beneath the clearing clouds alongside the muddy River Kaitna which slowly deepened and
widened as the army followed it eastwards. Pohlmann gave them a very short march, a mere six
miles, so that the leading horsemen had reached Pohlmann's chosen campsite long before
dawn and by nightfall the slowest of the Mahratta infantry had reached a small, mud-walled
village that lay just two miles north of the Kaitna. Scindia and the Rajah of Berar pitched
their lavish tents just outside the village, while the Rajah's infantry was ordered to
barricade the streets and make loopholes in the thick mud walls of the outermost
houses.

The village lay on the southern bank of the River Juah, a tributary of the Kaitna, and
south of the village stretched two miles of open farmland that ended at the steep bank of
the River Kaitna. Pohlmann placed his best infantry, his three compoos of superbly trained
killers, south of the village on the high bluff of the Kaitna's northern bank, and in front
of them he ranged his eighty best guns. Wellesley, if he wished to reach Borkardan, must come
to the Kaitna and he would find his path blocked by a river, by a fearsome line of heavy
guns, by an array of infantry and, behind them, like a fortress, a village crammed with the
Rajah of Berar's troops. The trap was laid.

In the fields of a village called Assaye.

The two British armies were close to each other now, close enough for General Wellesley
to ride across country to see Colonel Stevenson, the commander of the second army. The
General rode with his aides and an escort of Indian cavalry, but they saw no enemy on
their way westwards across a long flat plain greened by the previous day's rain. Colonel
Stevenson, old enough to be Wellesley's father, was alarmed by his General's high
spirits. He had seen such elation in young officers before, and seen "it crushed by
humiliating defeats brought on by overconfidence.