Sharpe's Fortress (2 page)

“What is this stuff?” he asked Sharpe.

“Maize?”

“Colquhoun says it's millet,” Sharpe said, 'pearl millet."

Urquhart grunted, then kicked his horse on towards the front of the company. Sharpe
cuffed sweat from his eyes. He wore an officer's red tail coat with the white facings of the
74th. The coat had belonged to a Lieutenant Blaine who had died at Assaye and Sharpe had
purchased the coat for a shilling in the auction of dead officers' effects, then he had
clumsily sewn up the bullet hole in the left breast, but no amount of scrubbing had rid the
coat of Blaine's blood which stained the faded red weave black. He wore his old trousers, the
ones issued to him when he was a sergeant, red leather riding boots that he had taken from
an Arab corpse in Ahmednuggur, and a tasselled red officer's sash that he had pulled off a
corpse at Assaye. For a sword he wore a light cavalry sabre, the same weapon he had used to
save Wellesley's life at the battle of Assaye. He did not like the sabre much. It was
clumsy, and the curved blade was never where you thought it was. You struck with the sword,
and just when you thought it would bite home, you found that the blade still had six inches to
travel. The other officers carried claymores, big, straight-bladed, heavy and lethal,
and Sharpe should have equipped himself with one, but he had baulked at the auction
prices.

He could have bought every claymore in the auction if he had wished, but he had not
wanted to give the impression of being wealthy. Which he was. But a man like Sharpe was not
supposed to have money. He was up from the ranks, a common soldier, gutter-born and
gutter-bred, but he had hacked down a half-dozen men to save Wellesley's life and the
General had rewarded Sergeant Sharpe by making him into an officer, and Ensign Sharpe
was too canny to let his new battalion know that he possessed a king's fortune. A dead
king's fortune: the jewels he had taken from the Tippoo Sultan in the blood and
smoke-stinking Water Gate at Seringapatam.

Would he be more popular if it was known he was rich? He doubted it.

Wealth did not give respectability, not unless it was inherited. Besides, it was not
poverty that excluded Sharpe from both the officers' mess and the ranks alike, but rather
that he was a stranger. The 74th had taken a beating at Assaye. Not an officer had been
left unwounded, and companies that had paraded seventy or eighty strong before the
battle now had only forty to fifty men. The battalion had been ripped through hell and
back, and its survivors now clung to each other. Sharpe might have been at Assaye, he might
even have distinguished himself on the battlefield, but he had not been through the
murderous ordeal of the 74th and so he was an outsider.

“Line to the right!” Sergeant Colquhoun shouted, and the company wheeled right and shook
itself into a line of two ranks. The ditch had emerged from the millet to join a wide, dry
riverbed, and Sharpe looked northwards to see a rill of dirty white gunsmoke on the horizon.
Mahratta guns. But a long way away. Now that the battalion was free of the tall crops Sharpe
could just detect a small wind. It was not strong enough to cool the heat, but it would waft
the gunsmoke slowly away.

“Halt!” Urquhart called.

“Face front!”

The enemy cannon might be far off, but it seemed that the battalion would march straight
up the riverbed into the mouths of those guns. But at least the 74th was not alone. The 78th,
another Highland battalion, was on their right, and on either side of those two Scottish
battalions were long lines of Madrassi sepoys.

Urquhart rode back to Sharpe.

“Stevenson's joined.” The Captain spoke loud enough for the rest of the company to hear.
Urquhart was encouraging them by letting them know that the two small British armies had
combined. General Wellesley commanded both, but for most of the time he split his forces
into two parts, the smaller under Colonel Stevenson, but today the two small parts had
combined so that twelve thousand infantry could attack together. But against how
many?

Sharpe could not see the Mahratta army beyond their guns, but doubtless the bastards
were there in force.

“Which means the 94th's off to our left somewhere,” Urquhart added loudly, and some of the
men muttered their approval of the news. The 94th was another Scottish regiment, so
today there were three Scottish battalions attacking the Mahrattas. Three Scottish and
ten sepoy battalions, and most of the Scots reckoned that they could have done the job by
themselves. Sharpe reckoned they could too. They may not have liked him much, but he knew
they were good soldiers. Tough bastards. He sometimes tried to imagine what it must be like
for the Mahrattas to fight against the Scots. Hell, he guessed. Absolute hell.

“The thing is,” Colonel McCandless had once told Sharpe, 'it takes twice as much to kill a
Scot as it does to finish off an Englishman."

Poor McCandless. He had been finished off, shot in the dying moments of Assaye. Any of
the enemy might have killed the Colonel, but Sharpe had convinced himself that the
traitorous Englishman, William Dodd, had fired the fatal shot. And Dodd was still free,
still fighting for the Mahrattas, and Sharpe had sworn over McCandless's grave that he
would take vengeance on the Scotsman's behalf. He had made the oath as he had dug the
Colonel's grave, getting blisters as he had hacked into the dry soil. McCandless had been
a good friend to Sharpe and now, with the Colonel deep buried so that no bird or beast could
feast on his corpse, Sharpe felt friendless in this army.

“Guns!” A shout sounded behind the 74th.

“Make way!”

Two batteries of six-pounder galloper guns were being hauled up the dry riverbed to
form an artillery line ahead of the infantry. The guns were called gallopers because they
were light and were usually hauled by horses, but now they were all harnessed to teams of
ten oxen so they plodded rather than galloped. The oxen had painted horns and some had
bells about their necks. The heavy guns were all back on the road somewhere, so far back that
they would probably be too late to join this day's party.

The land was more open now. There were a few patches of tall millet ahead, but off to the
east there were arable fields and Sharpe watched as the guns headed for that dry grassland.
The enemy was watching too, and the first round shots bounced on the grass and ricocheted
over the British guns.

“A few minutes before the gunners bother themselves with us, I fancy,” Urquhart said,
then kicked his right foot out of its stirrup and slid down beside Sharpe.

“Jock!” He called a soldier.

“Hold onto my horse, will you?” The soldier led the horse off to a patch of grass, and
Urquhart jerked his head, inviting Sharpe to follow him out of the company's earshot. The
Captain seemed embarrassed, as was Sharpe, who was not accustomed to such intimacy with
Urquhart.

“D'you use a cigar, Sharpe?”

the Captain asked.

“Sometimes, sir.”

“Here.” Urquhart offered Sharpe a roughly rolled cigar, then struck a light in his
tinderbox. He lit his own cigar first, then held the box with its flickering flame to
Sharpe.

“The Major tells me a new draft has arrived in Madras.”

“That's good, sir.”

“It won't restore our strength, of course, but it'll help,” Urquhart said.

He was not looking at Sharpe, but staring at the British guns that steadily advanced
across the grassland. There were only a dozen of the cannon, far fewer than the Mahratta
guns. A shell exploded by one of the ox teams, blasting the beasts with smoke and scraps of
turf, and Sharpe expected to see the gun stop as the dying beasts tangled the traces, but
the oxen trudged on, miraculously unhurt by the shell's violence.

“If they advance too far,” Urquhart murmured, 'they'll become so much scrap metal. Are
you happy here, Sharpe?"

“Happy, sir?” Sharpe was taken aback by the sudden question.

Urquhart frowned as if he found Sharpe's response unhelpful.

“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 Assaye, 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
hoard 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 damn 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. Bugger 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 shells 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 pass through the line, but
instead, quite suddenly, the men themselves turned and ran.