Sharpe's Fortress (32 page)

the Rifles did not yet know him, so Sharpe must take a reputation back to England if he
was to stand any chance of success.

So tomorrow he must fight. Or else he must sell his commission and leave the army. He
had thought about that, but he wanted to stay in uniform. He enjoyed the army, he even
suspected he was good at the army's business of fighting the King's enemies. So tomorrow
he would do it again, and thus demonstrate that he deserved the red sash and the sword.

So in the morning, when the drums beat and the enemy guns beat even harder, Sharpe would
go into Gawilghur.

At dawn there was a mist in Deogaum, a mist that sifted through the rain trees and pooled
in the valleys and beaded on the tents.

“A touch of winter, don't you think?” Sir Arthur Wellesley commented to his aide,
Campbell.

“The thermometer's showing seventy-eight degrees, sir,” the young Scotsman answered
drily.

“Only a touch of winter, Campbell, only a touch,” the General said.

He was standing outside his tent, a cup and saucer in one hand, staring up through the
wisps of mist to where the rising sun threw a brilliant light on Gawilghur's soaring
cliffs. A servant stood behind with Wellesley's coat, hat and sword, a second servant held
his horse, while a third waited to take the cup and saucer.

“How's Harness?” the General asked Campbell.

“I believe he now sleeps most of the time, sir,” Campbell replied.

Colonel Harness had been relieved of the command of his brigade.

He had been found ranting in the camp, demanding that his Highlanders form fours and
follow him southwards to fight against dragons, papists and Whigs.

“Sleeps?” the General asked.

“What are the doctors doing? Pouring rum down his gullet?”

“I believe it is tincture of opium, sir, but most likely flavoured with rum.”

“Poor Harness,” Wellesley grunted, then sipped his tea. From high above him there came
the sound of a pair of twelve-pounder guns that had been hauled to the summit of the conical
hill that reared just south of the fortress. Wellesley knew those guns were doing no good,
but he had stubbornly insisted that they fire at the fortress gate that looked out across
the vast plain. The gunners had warned the General that the weapons would be ineffective,
that they would be firing too far and too high above them, but Wellesley had wanted the
fortress to know that an assault might come from the south as well as across the rocky
isthmus to the north, and so he had ordered the sappers to drag the two weapons up through
the entangling jungle and to make a battery on the hill top. The guns, firing at their
maximum elevation, were just able to throw their missiles to Gawilghur's southern
entrance, but by the time the round shot reached the gate it was spent of all force and
simply bounced back down the steep slope. But that was not the point. The point was to keep
some of the garrison looking southwards, so that not every man could be thrown against the
assault on the breaches.

That assault would not start for five hours yet, for before Lieutenant Colonel Kenny led
his men against the breaches, Wellesley wanted his other attackers to be in place. Those
were two columns of redcoats that were even now climbing the two steep roads that twisted up
the great cliffs. Colonel Wallace, with his own 74th and a battalion of sepoys, would
approach the Southern Gate, while the 78th and another native battalion would climb the
road which led to the ravine between the forts. Both columns could expect to come under
heavy artillery fire, and neither could hope to break into the fortress, but their job was
only to distract the defenders while Kenny's men made for the breaches.

Wellesley drained the tea, made a wry face at its bitter taste and held out the cup and
saucer for the servant.

“Time to go, Campbell.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wellesley had thought about riding to the plateau and entering the fortress behind
Kenny, but he guessed his presence would merely distract men who had enough problems to
face without worrying about their commander's approval. Instead he would ride the steep
southern road and join Wallace and the 74th. All those men could hope for was that the other
attackers got inside the Inner Fort and opened the Southern Gate, or else they would have
to march ignominiously back down the hill to their encampment. It was all or nothing,
Wellesley thought. Victory or disgrace.

He mounted, waited for his aides to assemble, then touched his horse's flank with his
spurs. God help us now, he prayed, God help us now.

Lieutenant Colonel Kenny examined the breaches through a telescope that he had propped
on a rock close to one of the breaching batteries.

The guns were firing, but he ignored the vast noise as he gazed at the stone ramps which
his men must climb.

“They're steep, man,” he grumbled, 'damned steep."

“The walls are built on a slope,” Major Stokes pointed out, 'so the breaches are steep of
necessity."

“Damned hard to climb though,” Kenny said.

“They're practical,” Stokes declared. He knew the breaches were steep, and that was why
the guns were still firing. There was no hope of making the breaches less steep, the slope
of the hill saw to that, but at least the continued bombardment gave the attacking
infantry the impression that the gunners were attempting to alleviate the
difficulties.

“You've made holes in the walls,” Kenny said, "I'll grant you that.

You've made holes, but that don't make them practical holes, Stokes.

They're damned steep."

“Of necessity,” Stokes repeated patiently.

“We ain't monkeys, you know,” Kenny complained.

“I think you'll find them practical, sir,” Stokes said emolliently. He knew, and Kenny
knew, that the breaches could not be improved and must therefore be attempted. Kenny's
grumbling, Stokes suspected, was a disguise for nerves, and Stokes could not blame the man.
He would not have wanted to carry a sword or musket up those rugged stone slopes to
whatever horrors the enemy had prepared on the other side.

Kenny grunted.

“I suppose they'll have to suffice,” he said grudgingly, snapping his telescope shut.
He flinched as one of the eighteen pounders roared and billowed smoke all about the battery,
then he strode into the acrid cloud, shouting for Major Plummer, the gunner officer.

Plummer, powder-stained and sweating, loomed out of the smoke.

“Sir?”

“You'll keep your pieces firing till we're well on the breaches?”

“I will, sir.”

“That should keep their damned heads down,” Kenny said, then fished a watch from his
fob.

“I make it ten minutes after nine.”

“Eight minutes after,” Plummer said.

“Exactly nine o'clock,” Stokes said, tapping his watch to see if the hands were
stuck.

“We'll use my timepiece,” Kenny decreed, 'and we'll move forward on the strike of ten
o'clock. And remember, Plummer, keep firing till we're there! Don't be chary, man, don't
stop just because we're close to the summit. Batter the bastards! Batter the bastards!"
He frowned at Ahmed who was staying close to Stokes. The boy was wearing his red coat which
was far too big for him, and Kenny seemed on the point of demanding an explanation for
the boy's odd garb, then abruptly shrugged and walked away.

He went to where his men crouched on the track that led to the fortress gate. They were
sheltered from the defenders by the lie of the land, but the moment they advanced over a
small rocky rise they would become targets. They then had three hundred yards of open ground
to cross, and as they neared the broken walls they would be squeezed into the narrow space
between the tank and the precipice where they could expect the fire of the defenders to be
at its fiercest. After that it was a climb to the breaches and to whatever horrors waited
out of sight.

The men sat, trying to find what small shade was offered by bushes or rocks. Many were
half drunk, for their officers had issued extra rations of arrack and rum. None carried
a pack, they had only their muskets, their ammunition and bayonets. A few, not many,
prayed. An officer of the Scotch Brigade knelt bare-headed amongst a group of his men, and
Kenny, intrigued by the sight, swerved towards the kneeling soldiers to hear them softly
repeating the twenty-third psalm. Most men just sat, heads low, consumed by their
thoughts. The officers forced conversation.

Behind Kenny's thousand men was a second assault force, also composed of sepoys and
Scotsmen, which would follow Kenny into the breach. If Kenny failed then the second
storming party would try to go farther, but if Kenny succeeded they would secure the
Outer Fort while Kenny's troops went on to assault the Inner. Small groups of gunners were
included in both assault groups. Their orders were to find whatever serviceable cannon
still existed in the Outer Fort and turn them against the defenders beyond the
ravine.

An officer wearing the white facings of the 74th picked his way up the track between
the waiting troops. The man had a cheap Indian sabre at his waist and, unusually for an
officer, was carrying a musket and cartridge box. Kenny hailed him.

“Who the devil are you?”

“Sharpe, sir.”

The name rang a bell in Kenny's mind.

“Wellesley's man?”

“Don't know about that, sir.”

Kenny scowled at the evasion.

“You were at Assaye, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” Sharpe admitted.

Kenny's expression softened. He knew of Sharpe and he admired a brave man.

“So what the devil are you doing here, Sharpe? Your regiment is miles away! They're
climbing the road from Deogaum.”

“I was stranded here, sir,” Sharpe said, deciding there was no point in trying to
deliver a longer explanation, 'and there wasn't time to join the 74th, sir, so I was
hoping to go with my old company. That's Captain Morris's men, sir." He nodded up the
track to where the 33rd's Light Company was gathered among some boulders.

“With your permission of course, sir.”

“No doubt Morris will be glad of your help, Sharpe,” Kenny said, 'as will I." He was
impressed by Sharpe's appearance, for the Ensign was tall, evidently strong and had a
roguish fierceness about his face. In the breach, the Colonel knew, victory or defeat as
often as not came down to a man's skill and strength, and Sharpe looked as if he knew how to
use his weapons.

“Good luck to you, Sharpe.”

“And the best to you, sir,” Sharpe said warmly.

He walked on, his borrowed musket heavy on his shoulder. Eli Lockhart and Syud Sevajee
were waiting with their men among the third group, the soldiers who would occupy the fort
after the assault troops had done their work, if, indeed, the leading two thousand men
managed to get through the walls. A rumour was spreading that the breaches were too steep
and that no one could carry a weapon and climb the ramps at the same time. The men believed
they would need to use their hands to scramble up the stony piles, and so they would be easy
targets for any defenders at the top of the breaches. The gunners, they grumbled, should
have brought down more of the wall, if not all of it, and the proof of that assertion was the
guns' continual firing. Why would the guns go on gnawing at the wall if the breaches were
already practical? They could hear the strike of round shot on stone, hear the occasional
tumble of rubble, but what they could not hear was any fire from the fortress. The bastards
were saving their fire for the assault.

Sharpe edged among sepoys who were carrying one of Major Stokes's bamboo ladders. The
dark faces grinned at him, and one man offered Sharpe a canteen which proved to contain a
strongly spiced arrack. Sharpe took a small sip, then amused the sepoys by pretending to
be astonished by the liquor's fierceness.

“That's rare stuff, lads,” Sharpe said, then walked on towards his old comrades. They
watched his approach with a mixture of surprise, welcome and apprehension. When the
33rd's Light Company had last seen Sharpe he had been a sergeant, and not long before that
he had been a private strapped to the punishment triangle; now he wore a sword and sash.
Although officers promoted from the ranks were not supposed to serve with their old
units, Sharpe had friends among these men and if he was to climb the steep rubble of
Gawilghur's breaches then he would rather do it among friends.

Captain Morris was no friend, and he watched Sharpe's approach with foreboding. Sharpe
headed straight for his old company commander.

“Good to see you, Charles,” he said, knowing that his use of the Christian name would
irritate Morris.

“Nice morning, eh?”

Morris looked left and right as though seeking someone who could help him confront this
upstart from his past. Morris had never liked Sharpe, indeed he had conspired with
Obadiah Hakeswill to have Sharpe flogged in the hope that the punishment would end in
death, but Sharpe had survived and had been commissioned. Now the bastard was being
familiar, and there was nothing Morris could do about it.

“Sharpe,” he managed to say.

“Thought I'd join you, Charles,” Sharpe said airily.

“I've been stranded up here, and Kenny reckoned I might be useful to you.”

“Of course,” Morris said, conscious of his men's gaze. Morris would have liked to tell
Sharpe to bugger a long way off, but he could not commit such impolite ness to a fellow
officer in front of his men.

"I never congratulated you," he forced himself to say.

“No time like the present,” Sharpe said.

Morris blushed.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Charles,” Sharpe said, then turned and looked at the company. Most grinned at
him, but a few men avoided his gaze.

“No Sergeant Hakeswill?” Sharpe asked guilelessly.

“He was captured by the enemy,” Morris said. The Captain was staring at Sharpe's coat
which was not quite big enough and looked, somehow, familiar.

Sharpe saw Morris frowning at the jacket.

“You like the coat?” he asked.

“What?” Morris asked, confused by his suspicions and by Sharpe's easy manner. Morris
himself was wearing an old coat that was disfigured by brown cloth patches.

“I bought the coat after Assaye,” Sharpe said.

“You weren't there, were you?”

“No.”

“Nor at Argaum?”

“No,” Morris said, stiffening slightly. He resented the fact that Sharpe had survived
those battles and was now suggesting, however delicately, that the experience gave
him an advantage. The truth was that it did, but Morris could not admit that any more than
he could admit his jealousy of Sharpe's reputation.