Sharpe's Triumph (28 page)

“I hear the British are making camp in Naulniah,” Pohlmann said, 'so what we should do is
march south and hammer him. It's one thing to have Wellesley so close, but it's quite
another to bring him to battle."

“So why don't we march?” Dodd asked.

“Because Scindia won't have it, that's why. Scindia insists we fight on the defensive.
He's nervous.” Dodd spat, but made no other comment on his employer's timidity.

“So there's a nasty danger,” Pohlmann went on, 'that Wellesley won't attack us at all,
but will retreat towards Stevenson."

“So we beat them both at once,” Dodd said confidently.

“As we shall, if we must,” Pohlmann agreed drily, 'but I'd rather fight them separately."
He was confident of victory, no soldier could ;

be more confident, but he was no fool and given the chance to defeat ( two small armies
instead of one medium-sized force, he would prefer } the former.

“If you have a god, Major,” he said, 'pray that Wellesley ; } is over-confident. Pray
that he attacks us." I It was a fervent prayer, for if Wellesley did attack he would be
forced to send his men across the Kaitna which was some sixty or seventy paces broad and
flowing brown between high banks that were over a hundred paces apart. If the monsoon had
come the river would have filled its bed and been twelve or fifteen feet deep, while now it
was only six or seven, though that was quite deep enough to stop an army crossing, but right
in front of Pohlmann's position there was a series of fords, and Pohlmann's prayer was that
the British would try to cross the fords and attack straight up the road to Assaye.
Wellesley would have no other choice, not if he wanted a battle, for Pohlmann had summoned
farmers from every village in the vicinity, from Assaye and Waroor, from Kodully,
Taunklee and Peepulgaon, and asked them where a man could drive a herd of cattle through the
river. He had used the example of a herd of oxen because where such a herd could go so
could oxen drawing guns, and every man had agreed that in this season the only crossing
places were the fords between Kodully and Taunklee. A man could drive his herds upriver to
Borkardan, they told Pohlmann's interpreter, and cross there, but that was a half-day's
walk away and why would be a man be that foolish when the river provided eight safe fords
between the two villages?

“Are there any crossing places downstream?” Pohlmann asked.

A score of dark faces shook in unison.

“No, sahib, not in the wet season.”

“This season isn't wet.”

“There are still no fords, sahib.” They were sure, as sure as only local men who had lived
all their lives bounded by the same water and trees and soil could be sure.

Pohlmann had still been unconvinced.

“And if a man does not want to drive a herd, but just wants to cross himself, where would
he cross?”

The villagers provided the same answer.

“Between Kodully and Taunklee, sahib.”

“Nowhere else?”

Nowhere else, they assured him, and that meant Wellesley would be forced to cross the
river in the face of Pohlmann's waiting army. The British infantry and guns would have to
slither down the steep southern bank of the Kaitna, cross a wide expanse of mud, wade
through the river, then climb the steep northern bank, and all the while they would be under
fire from the Mahratta guns until, when they reached the green fields on the northern shore,
they would re-form their ranks and march forward into a double storm of musketry and
artillery. Wherever the British crossed the Kaitna, anywhere between Kodully and
Taunklee, they would find the same murderous reception waiting, for Pohlmann's three prime
compoos were arrayed in one long line that fronted that whole stretch of the river. There
were eighty guns in that line, and though some threw nothing but a five- or six-pound ball,
at least half were heavy artillery and all were manned by Goanese gunners who knew their
business. The cannon were grouped in eight batteries, one for each ford, and there was not
an inch of ground between the batteries that could not be flailed by canister or beaten
by round shot or scorched by shells.

Pohlmann's well-trained infantry waited to pour a devastating weight of volley fire
into red-coated regiments already deafened and demoralized by the cannon fire that
would have torn their ranks into shreds as they struggled across the bloody fords. The
numberless Mahratta cavalry were off to the west, strung along the bank towards
Borkardan, and there it would wait until the British were defeated and Pohlmann released
the horsemen to the joys of pursuit and slaughter.

The Hanoverian reckoned that his battle line waiting at the fords would decimate the
enemy and the horsemen would turn the British defeat into a bloody rout, but there was
always a small chance that the enemy might survive the river crossing and succeed in
gaining the Kaitna's northern bank in good order. He doubted the British could force his
three compoos back, but in case they did Pohlmann planned to retreat two miles to the
village of Assaye and invite the British to waste more men in an assault on what was now a
miniature fortress. Assaye, like every other village on the plain, lived in fear of
bandit raids and so the outermost houses had high, windowless walls made of thick mud,
and the houses were joined so that their walls formed a continous rampart as high as the
wall at Ahmednuggur. Pohlmann had blocked the village's streets with ox carts, he had
ordered loopholes hacked in the outer wall, he had placed all his smaller guns, a score of
two- and three-pounder cannon, at the foot of the wall and then he had garrisoned the
houses with the Rajah of Berar's twenty thousand infantrymen. Pohlmann doubted that any
of those twenty thousand men would need to fight, but he had the luxury of knowing they
were in reserve should anything go wrong at the Kaitna.

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, '95

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 igth 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.