Sharpe's Triumph (43 page)
“How they found time to have a conversation in battle, I don't know!” This was
evidently a jest, for the General smiled, though Sharpe stayed straight-faced,
and his lack of reaction disconcerted Wellesley.
“I have to reward you, Sharpe,” Wellesley said curtly.
“For what, sir?”
“For my life,” the General said in a tone of irritation.
“I'm just glad I was there, sir,” Sharpe said, feeling as awkward as Wellesley himself
evidently felt.
“I'm rather glad you were there too,” the General said, then took a step forward and held
out his hand.
“Thank you, Mister Sharpe.”
Sharpe hesitated, astonished at the gesture, then made himself shake the General's
hand. It was only then that he noticed what Wellesley had said.
“Mister, sir?” he asked.
“It is customary in this army, Mister Sharpe, to reward uncommon bravery with
uncommon promotion. Wallace tells me you desire a commission, and he has vacancies in
the 74th. God knows he has too many vacancies, so if you're agreeable, Sharpe, you can join
the Colonel's regiment as an ensign.”
For a second Sharpe did not really comprehend what was being said, then he suddenly
did and he smiled. There were tears in his eyes, but he reckoned that must be because of the
powder smoke that lingered in the village.
“Thank you, sir,” he said warmly, 'thank you."
“There, that's done,” Wellesley said with relief.
“My congratulations, Sharpe, and my sincere thanks.” His aides were all smiling at
Sharpe, not Sergeant Sharpe any longer, but Ensign Sharpe of the King's 74th.
Captain Campbell even climbed down from his saddle and offered his hand to Sharpe who
was still smiling as he shook it.
“It'll turn out badly, of course,” Wellesley said to Campbell as he turned away.
“It always does. We promote them beyond their station and they inevitably take to
drink.”
“He's a good man, sir,” Campbell said loyally.
“I doubt that too. But he's a good soldier, I'll say that. He's all yours now, Wallace,
all yours!” The General pulled himself into his saddle, then turned to Simone.
“Madame? I can offer you very little but if you care to join me for supper I would be
honoured. Captain Campbell will escort you.”
Campbell held his hand out to Simone. She looked at Sharpe, who nodded at her, and she
shyly accepted Campbell's arm and followed the General back up the street. Colonel
Wallace paused to lean down from his horse and shake Sharpe's hand.
"I'll give you a few minutes to clean yourself up, Sharpe, and to get those stripes off
your arm.
You might like to chop off some of that hair, while you're about it.
And I hate to suggest it, but if you walk a few paces east of the village you'll find
plenty of red sashes on corpses. Pick one, help yourself to a sword, then come and meet your
fellow officers. They're few enough now, I fear, so you'll surely be welcome. Even the men
might be glad of you, despite your being English." Wallace smiled.
I'm very grateful to you, sir," Sharpe said. He was still scarcely able to believe what
had happened. He was Mister Sharpe! Mister!
“And what do you want?” Wallace suddenly asked in an icy tone, and Sharpe saw that his
new Colonel was staring at Obadiah Hakeswill.
“Him, sir,” Hakeswill said, pointing at Sharpe.
“Sergeant Sharpe, sir, what is under arrest.”
Wallace smiled.
“You may arrest Sergeant Sharpe, Sergeant, but you will certainly not arrest Ensign
Sharpe.”
“Ensign?” Hakeswill said, going pale.
“Mister Sharpe is a commissioned officer, Sergeant,” Wallace said crisply, 'and you
will treat him as such. Good day." Wallace touched his hat to Sharpe, then turned his horse
and rode away.
Hakeswill gaped at Sharpe.
“You, Sharpie,” he said, 'an officer?"
Sharpe walked closer to the Sergeant.
“That's not how you address a King's officer, Obadiah, and you know it.”
“You?” HakeswilPs face twitched.
“You?” he asked again in horror and amazement.
Sharpe thumped him in the belly, doubling him over.
“You call me ”sir“, Obadiah,” he said.
“I won't call you ”sir“,” Hakeswill said between gasps for breath.
“Not till hell freezes, Sharpie, and not even then.”
Sharpe hit him again. Hakeswill's three men watched, but did nothing.
“You call me ”sir“,” Sharpe said.
“You ain't an officer, Sharpie,” Hakeswill said, then yelped because Sharpe had seized
his hair and was dragging him up the street. The three men started to follow, but Sharpe
snarled at them to stay where they were, and all three obeyed.
“You'll call me ”sir“, Sergeant,” Sharpe said, 'just you watch." And he pulled Hakeswill up
the street, going back to the house from where he had seen the elephant. He dragged Hakeswill
through the door and up the stairs. The Sergeant screamed at him, beat at him, but Hakeswill
had never been a match for Sharpe who now snatched the musket from Hakeswill's hand, threw it
away, then took him to the window that opened just one floor above the courtyard.
“See that elephant, Obadiah?” he asked, holding the Sergeant's face in the open
window.
"I watched it trample a man to death not long ago."
“You won't dare, Sharpie,” Hakeswill squealed, then yelped as Sharpe took hold of the seat
of his pants.
“Call me ”sir“,” Sharpe said.
“Never! You ain't an officer!”
“But I am, Obadiah, I am. I'm Mister Sharpe. I'll wear a sword and a sash and you'll have
to salute me.”
“Never!”
Sharpe heaved Hakeswill onto the window ledge.
“If you ask me to put you down,” he said, 'and if you call me “sir”, I'll let you go."
“You ain't an officer,” Hakeswill protested.
“You can't be!”
“But I am, Obadiah,” Sharpe said, and he heaved the Sergeant over the ledge. The Sergeant
screamed as he fell into the straw below, and the elephant, made curious by this strange
irruption into this already strange day, plodded over to inspect him. Hakeswill beat
feebly at the animal which had him cornered.
“Goodbye, Obadiah,” Sharpe called, then he used the words he remembered Pohlmann
shouting when Dodd's sepoy had been trampled to death.
"Haddahl' Sharpe snapped.
Had daW “Get the bastard off me!” Hakeswill screamed as the elephant moved still closer
and raised a forefoot.
“That won't do, Obadiah,” Sharpe said.
“Sir!” Hakeswill called.
“Please, sir! Get it off me!”
“What did you say?” Sharpe asked, cupping a hand to his ear.
“Sir! Sir! Please, sir! Mister Sharpe, sir!”
“Rot in hell, Obadiah,” Sharpe called down, and walked away. The sun was gone, the
village was stinking with powder smoke, and two armies lay in ragged ruin on the bloody
fields outside Assaye, but that great victory was not Sharpe's. It was the voice calling
from the courtyard, calling frantically as Sharpe ran down the wooden stairs and walked
down the alleyway.
“Sir! Sir!” Hakeswill shouted, and Sharpe listened and smiled, for that, he reckoned, was
his real victory. It was Mister Sharpe's triumph.
The background events to Sharpe's Triumph, the siege of
Ahmednuggur and the battle of Assaye, both happened much as described in the novel, just
as many of the characters in the story existed. Not just the obvious characters, like
Wellesley, but men like Colin Campbell, who was the first man over the wall at Ahmednuggur,
and Anthony Pohlmann who truly was once a sergeant in the East India Company, but who
commanded the Mahratta forces at Assaye. What happened to Pohlmann after the battle is
something of a mystery, but there is some evidence that he rejoined the East India Company
army again, only this time as an officer. Colonel Gore, Colonel Wallace and Colonel Harness
all existed, and poor Harness was losing his wits and would need to retire soon after the
battle. The massacre at Chasalgaon is a complete invention, though there was a Lieutenant
William Dodd who did defect to the Mahrattas just before the campaign rather than face a
civilian trial for the death of the goldsmith he had ordered beaten. Dodd had been
sentenced to six months' loss of pay and Wellesley, enraged by the leniency of the court
martial, persuaded the East India Company to impose a new sentence, that of dismissal
from their army, and planned to have Dodd tried for murder in a civilian court. Dodd, hearing
of the decision, fled, though I doubt that he took any sepoys with him. Nevertheless
desertion was a problem for the Company at that time, for many sepoys knew that the
Indian states would pay well for British-trained troops. They would pay even more for
competent European (or American) officers, and many such made their fortunes in those
years.
The city of Ahmednuggur has grown so much that most traces of its wall have now been
swallowed by new building, but the adjacent fortress remains and is still a formidable
stronghold. Today the fort is a depot of the Indian Army, and something of a shrine to
Indians for it was within the vast circuit of its red stone ramparts that the leaders of
Indian independence were imprisoned by the British during the Second World War.
Visitors are welcome to explore the ramparts with their impressive bastions and concealed
galleries. The height of the fort's wall was slightly greater than the city's de fences and the
fort, unlike the city, had a protective ditch, but the ramparts still offer an idea of the
obstacle Wellesley's men faced when they launched their surprise escalade on the morning of
8 August 1803. It was a brave decision, and a calculated one, for Wellesley knew he would
be heavily outnumbered in the Mahratta War and must have decided that a display of
arrogant confidence would abrade his enemy's morale. The success of the attack certainly
impressed some Indians. Goklah, a Mahratta leader who allied himself with the British,
said of the capture of Ahmednuggur, “These English are a strange people, and their General
a wonderful man. They came here in the morning, looked at the pettah wall, walked over it,
killed all the garrison, and returned to breakfast! What can withstand them?” Goklah's
tribute was apt, except that it was Scotsmen who 'walked over the wall' and not Englishmen,
and the celerity of their victory helped establish Wellesley's reputation for
invincibility. Lieutenant Colin Campbell of the y78th was rewarded for his bravery with
a promotion and a place on Wellesley's staff. He eventually became Sir Golin Campbell,
governor of Ceylon.
The story of Wellesley deducing the presence of the ford at Peepulgaon by
observation and common sense is well attested. To use the ford was an enormously brave
decision, for no one knew if it truly existed until Wellesley himself spurred into the
river. His orderly, from the igth Dragoons, was killed as he approached the River Kaitna
and nowhere is it recorded who took his place, but some soldier must have picked up the
dragoon's duties for Wellesley did have two horses killed beneath him that day and someone
was close at hand on both occasions with a remount. Both horses died as described in the
novel, the first during the 778th's magnificent assault on Pohlmann's right, and Diomed,
Welesley's favourite charger, during the scrappy fighting to retake the Mahratta gun
line. It was during that fight that Wellesley was unhorsed and surrounded momentarily by
enemies. He never told the tale in detail, though it is believed he was forced to use his
sword to defend himself, and it was probably the closest he ever came to death in his long
military career. Was his life saved by some unnamed soldier? Probably not, for Wellesley
would surely have given credit for such an act that could well have resulted in a
battlefield commission.
Wellesley was notorious for disliking such promotions from the ranks ('they always
take to drink'), though he did promote two men for conspicuous bravery on the evening of
Assaye.
Assaye is not the most famous of Arthur Wellesley's battles, but it was the one of which
he was most proud. Years later, long after he had swept the French out of Portugal and Spain,
and after he had defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, the Duke of Wellington (as Arthur
Wellesley became) was asked what had been his finest battle. He did not hesitate.
“Assaye,” he answered, and so it surely was, for he out manoeuvred and outfought a much
larger enemy, and did it swiftly, brutally and brilliantly.
He did it, too, without Colonel Stevenson's help. Stevenson tried to reinforce
Wellesley, but his local guide misled him as he hurried towards the sound of the guns, and
Stevenson was so upset by the guide's error that he hanged the man.
Assaye was one of the costliest of Wellesley's battles: 'the bloodiest for the numbers
that I ever saw," the Duke recalled in later life.
Pohlmann's forces had 1200 killed and about 5000 wounded, while Wellesley
suffered 456 dead (200 of them Scottish) and around 1200 wounded. All the enemy guns, 102 of
them, were captured and many were discovered to be of such high quality that they were taken
into British service, though others, mostly because their calibres did not match the
British standard artillery weights, were double-shot ted and blown up on the battlefield
where some of their remnants still lie.
The battlefield remains virtually unchanged. No roads have been metal led the fords
look as they did, and Assaye itself is scarcely larger now than it was in 1803. The outer
walls of the houses are still ramparts of mud bricks, while bones and bullets are constantly
ploughed out of the soil ('they were very big men', one farmer told me, indicating the ground
where the 74th suffered so much). There is no memorial at Assaye, except for a painted map
of the armies' dispositions on one village wall and the grave of a British officer which
has had its bronze plate stolen, but the inhabitants know that history was made in their
fields, are proud of it and proved remarkably welcoming when we visited. There ought to be
some marker on the field, for the Scottish and Indian troops who fought at Assaye gained an
astonishing victory. They were all extraordinarily brave men, and their campaign was
not yet over, for some of the enemy have escaped and the war will go on as Wellesley and his
small army pursue the remaining Mahrattas towards their great hill fastness at Gawilghur.
Which means that Mister Sharpe must march again.