Sharpe's Fortress Part 2

"Happy," he said again, 'content?"

"Not sure a soldier's meant to be happy, sir."

"Not true, not true," Urquhart said disapprovingly. He was as tall as Sharpe. Rumour said that Urquhart was a very rich man, but the only sign of it was his uniform which was cut very elegantly in contrast to Sharpe's shabby coat. Urquhart rarely smiled, which made it difficult to be easy in his company. Sharpe wondered why the Captain had sought this conversation, which seemed untypical of the unbending Urquhart.

Perhaps he was nervous about the imminent battle? It seemed unlikely to Sharpe after Urquhart had endured the cauldron of fire at a.s.saye, but he could think of no other explanation.

"A fellow should be content in his work," Urquhart said with a flourish of his cigar, 'and if he ain't, it's probably a sign that he's in the wrong line of business."

"Don't have much work to do, sir," Sharpe said, wishing he did not sound so surly.

"Don't suppose you do," Urquhart said slowly.

"I do see your meaning.

Indeed I do." He shuffled his feet in the dust.

"Company runs itself, I suppose. Colquhoun's a good fellow, and Sergeant Craig's showing well, don't you think?"

"Yes, sir." Sharpe knew he did not need to call Urquhart 'sir' all the time, but old habits died hard.

"They're both good Calvinists, you see," Urquhart said.

"Makes 'em trustworthy."

"Yes, sir," Sharpe said. He was not exactly sure what a Calvinist was, and he was not going to ask. Maybe it was the same as a freemason, and there were plenty of those in the 74th's mess, though Sharpe again did not really know what they were. He just knew he was not one of them.

"Thing is, Sharpe," Urquhart went on, though he did not look at Sharpe as he spoke, 'you're sitting on a fortune, if you follow me."

"A fortune, sir?" Sharpe asked with some alarm. Had Urquhart somehow smelt out Sharpe's h.o.a.rd of emeralds, rubies, diamonds and sapphires?

"You're an ensign," Urquhart explained, 'and if you ain't happy you can always sell your commission. Plenty of fine fellows in Scotland who'll pay you forA the rank. Even some fellows here. I gather the Scotch Brigade has some gentlemen rankers."

So Urquhart was not nervous about the coming fight, but rather about Sharpe's reaction to this conversation. The Captain wanted to be rid of Sharpe, and the realization made Sharpe even more awkward. He had wanted to be made an officer so badly, and already he wished he had never dreamed of the promotion. What had he expected? To be slapped on the back and welcomed like a long-lost brother? To be given a company of troops? Urquhart was watching him expectantly, waiting for a response, but Sharpe said nothing.

"Four hundred pounds, Sharpe," Urquhart said.

"That's the official rate for an ensign's commission, but between you and me you can squeeze at least another fifty. Maybe even a hundred! And in guineas.

But if you do sell to a ranker here, then make d.a.m.n sure his note is good."

Sharpe said nothing. Were there really gentlemen rankers in the 94th? Such men could afford to be officers, and had an officer's breeding, but until a commission was vacant they served in the ranks, yet ate in the mess. They were neither fish nor fowl. Like Sharpe himself. And any one of them would snap at the chance to buy a commission in the 74th. But Sharpe hardly needed the money. He possessed a fortune already, and if he wanted to leave the army then all he needed to do was resign his commission and walk away. Walk away a rich man.

"Of course," Urquhart went on, oblivious of Sharpe's thoughts, 'if the note's written on a decent army agent then you won't have any worries.

Most of our fellows use John Borrey in Edinburgh, so if you see one of his notes then you can place full trust in it. Borrey's an honest fellow.

Another Calvinist, you see."

"And a freemason, sir?" Sharpe asked. He was not really sure why he asked, but the question just got blurted out. He supposed he wanted to know if it was the same thing as a Calvinist.

"I really couldn't say." Urquhart frowned at Sharpe and his voice became colder.

"The point is, Sharpe, he's trustworthy."

Four hundred and fifty guineas, Sharpe thought. It was not to be spat on. It was another small fortune to add to his jewels, and he felt the temptation to accept Urquhart's advice. He was never going to be welome in the 74th, and with his plunder he could set himself up in England.

"Coins on the barrel-head," Urquhart said.

"Think on it, Sharpe, think on it. Jock, my horse!"

Sharpe threw away the cigar. His mouth was dry with dust and the smoke was harsh, but as Urquhart mounted his horse he saw the scarcely smoked cigar lying on the ground and gave Sharpe an unfriendly look. For a second it seemed as if the Captain might say something, then he pulled on the reins and spurred away. b.u.g.g.e.r it, Sharpe thought. Can't do a thing right these days.

The Mahratta cannon had got the range of the British galloper guns now and one of their round shot landed plumb on a carriage. One wheel splintered, tipping the six-pounder gun onto its side. The gunners leaped off the limber, but before they could detach the spare wheel, the ox team bolted. They dragged the broken gun back towards the sepoys, leaving a vast plume of dust where the axle boss dragged through the dry soil. The gunners ran to head the oxen off, but then a second team panicked. The beasts had their painted horns down and were galloping away from the bombardment. The Mahratta guns were firing fast now.

A round shot slashed into another gun team, spurting ox blood bright into the sky. The enemy guns were big brutes, and with a much longer range than the small British six-pounders. A pair of sh.e.l.ls exploded behind the panicked oxen, driving them even faster towards the sepoy battalions on the right of Wellesley's line. The limbers were bouncing frantically on the uneven ground and every lurch sent shot tumbling or powder spilling. Sharpe saw General Wellesley turn his horse towards the sepoys. He was doubtless shouting at them to open ranks and so allow the bolting oxen to pa.s.s through the line, but instead, quite suddenly, the men themselves turned and ran.

"Jesus!" Sharpe said aloud, earning himself a reproving look from Sergeant Colquhoun.

Two battalions of the sepoys were fleeing. Sharpe saw the General riding among the fugitives, and he imagined Wellesley shouting at the frightened men to stop and re-form, but instead they kept running towards the millet. They had been panicked by the oxen and by the weight of enemy shot that beat the dry gra.s.sland with dust and smoke.

The men vanished in the high stalks, leaving nothing behind but a scatter of embarra.s.sed officers and, astonishingly, the two panicked gun teams which had inexplicably stopped short of the millet and now waited patiently for the gunners to catch them.

"Sit yourselves down!" Urquhart called to his men, and the company squatted in the dry riverbed. One man took a stump of clay pipe from his pouch and lit it with a tinderbox. The tobacco smoke drifted slowly in the small wind. A few men drank from their canteens, but most were h.o.a.rding their water against the dryness that would come when they bit into their cartridges. Sharpe glanced behind, hoping to see the pucka lees who brought the battalion water, but there was no sign of them. When he turned back to the north he saw that some enemy cavalry had appeared on the crest, their tall lances making a spiky thicket against the sky. Doubtless the enemy hors.e.m.e.n were tempted to attack the broken British line and so stampede more of the nervous sepoys, but a squadron of British cavalry emerged from a wood with their sabres drawn to threaten the flank of the enemy hors.e.m.e.n. Neither side charged, but instead they just watched each other. The 74th's pipers had ceased their playing. The remaining British galloper guns were deploying now, facing up the long gentle slope to where the enemy cannon lined the horizon.

"Are all the muskets loaded?" Urquhart asked Colquhoun.

"They'd better be, sir, or I'll want to know why."

Urquhart dismounted. He had a dozen full canteens of water tied to his saddle and he unstrung six of them and gave them to the company.

"Share it out," he ordered, and Sharpe wished he had thought to bring some extra water himself. One man cupped some water in his hands and let his dog lap it up. The dog then sat and scratched its fleas while its master lay back and tipped his shako over his eyes.

What the enemy should do, Sharpe thought, is throw their infantry forward. All of it. Send a ma.s.sive attack across the skyline and down towards the millet. Flood the riverbed with a horde of screaming warriors who could add to the panic and so s.n.a.t.c.h victory.

But the skyline stayed empty except for the guns and the stalled enemy lancers.

And so the redcoats waited.

Colonel William Dodd, commanding officer of Dodd's Cobras, spurred his horse to the skyline from where he stared down the slope to see the British force in disarray. It looked to him as though two or more battalions had fled in panic, leaving a gaping hole on the right of the redcoat line. He turned his horse and kicked it to where the Mahratta warlord waited under his banners. Dodd forced his horse through the aides until he reached Prince Manu Bappoo.

"Throw everything forward, sahib," he advised Bappoo, 'now!"

Manu Bappoo showed no sign of having heard Dodd. The Mahratta commander was a tall and lean man with a long, scarred face and a short black beard. He wore yellow robes, had a silver helmet with a long horse-tail plume, and carried a drawn sword that he claimed to have taken in single combat from a British cavalry officer. Dodd doubted the claim, for the sword was of no pattern that he recognized, but he was not willing to challenge Bappoo directly on the matter.

Bappoo was not like most of the Mahratta leaders that Dodd knew.

Bappoo might be a prince and the younger brother of the cowardly Rajah of Berar, but he was also a fighter.