Sharpe's Triumph (38 page)

Slash and hack, scream and spur, then push on through panicking men whose only thought
was flight. The sabres made dreadful injuries, the weight of the blade gave the weapons a
deep bite and the curve of the steel dragged the newly sharpened edges back through flesh and
muscle and bone to lengthen the wound.

Some Mahratta cavalry bravely tried to stem the charge, but their light tulwars were no
match for Sheffield steel. The 74th were standing and cheering as they watched the English
horsemen carve into the enemy who had come so terribly close, and behind the Englishmen
rode Company cavalry, Indians on smaller horses, some carrying lances, who spread the
attack wider to drive the broken Mahratta horsemen northwards.

Dodd did not panic. He knew he had lost this skirmish, but the helpless mass of Dupont's
battalion was protecting his right flank and those doomed men gave Dodd the few seconds he
needed.

“Back,” he shouted, 'back!" and he needed no interpreter now. The Cobras hurried back
towards the cactus-thorn hedge. They did not run, they did not break ranks, but stepped
swiftly backwards to leave the enemy's horse room to sweep across their front, and, as the
horsemen passed, those of Dodd's men who still had loaded muskets fired. Horses stumbled
and fell, riders sprawled, and still the Cobras went backwards.

But the regiment was still in line and Dupont's panicked infantry were now pushing their
way into Dodd's right-hand companies, and the second rank of dragoons rode in among that
chaos to slash their sabres down onto the white-coated men. Dodd shouted at his men to form
square, and they obeyed, but the two right-hand companies had been reduced to ragged ruin
and their survivors never joined the square which was so hastily made that it was more of a
huddle than an ordered formation. Some of the fugitives from the two doomed companies
tried to join their comrades in the square, but the horsemen were among them and Dodd
shouted at the square to fire. The volley cut down his own men with the enemy, but it served
to drive the horsemen away and so gave Dodd time to send his men back through the hedge and
still further back to where they had first waited for the British attack. The Rajah of
Berar's infantry, who had been on Dodd's left, had escaped more lightly, but none had
stayed to fight. Instead they ran back to Assaye's mud walls. The gunners by the village
saw the cavalry coming and fired canister, killing more of their own fugitives than
enemy cavalry, but the brief cannonade at least signalled to the dragoons that the
village was defended and dangerous.

The storm of cavalry passed northwards, leaving misery in its wake.

The two four-pounder cannon that Joubert had taken forward were abandoned now, their
teams killed by the horsemen, and where the 74th had been there was now nothing but an empty
enclosure of dead men and horses that had formed the barricade. The survivors of the
beleaguered square had withdrawn eastwards, carrying their wounded with them, and it
seemed to Dodd that a sudden silence had wrapped about the Cobras. It was not a true
silence, for the guns had started firing again on the southern half of the battlefield,
the distant sound of hooves was nevereriding and the moaning of the nearby wounded was
loud, but it did seem quiet.

Dodd spurred his horse southwards in an attempt to make some sense of the battle.
Dupont's compoo next to him had lost one regiment to the sabres, but the next three
regiments were intact and the Dutchman was now turning those units to face southwards.
Dodd could see Pohlmann riding along the back of those wheeling regiments and he suspected
that the Hanoverian would now turn his whole line to face south. The British had broken the
far end of the line, but they had still not broken the army.

Yet the possibility of annihilation existed. Dodd fidgeted with the elephant
hilt of his sword and contemplated what less than an hour before had seemed an
impossibility: defeat. God damn Wellesley, he thought, but this was no time for anger,
just for calculation. Dodd could not afford to be captured and he had no mind to die for
Scindia and so he must secure his line of retreat. He would fight to the end, he decided,
then run like the wind.

“Captain Joubert?”

The long-suffering Joubert trotted his horse to Dodd's side.

“Monsieur?”

Dodd did not speak at once, for he was watching Pohlmann come nearer. It was clear now
that the Hanoverian was making a new battle line, and one, moreover, that would lie to the
west of Assaye with its back against the river. The regiments to Dodd's right, which had yet
to be attacked, were now pulling back and the guns were going with them.

The whole line was being redeployed, and Dodd guessed the Cobras would move from the
east side of the mud walls to the west, but that was no matter. The best ford across the Juah
ran out of the village itself, and it was that ford Dodd wanted.

“Take two companies, Joubert,” he ordered, 'and march them into the village to guard
this side of the ford."

Joubert frowned.

"The Rajah's troops, surely .. he began to protest.

“The Rajah of Berar's troops are useless!” Dodd snapped.

“If we need to use the ford, then I want it secured by our men. You secure it.” He jabbed
at the Frenchman with a finger.

“Is your wife in the village?”

“Out, Monsieur.”

“Then now's your chance to impress her, Monsewer Go and protect her. And make sure the
damn ford isn't captured or clogged up with fugitives.”

Joubert was not unhappy to be sent away from the fighting, but he was dismayed by
Dodd's evident defeatism. Nevertheless he took two companies, marched into the
village, and posted his men to guard the ford so that if all was lost, there would still be a
way out.

Wellesley had ridden north to investigate the furious fighting that had erupted
close to the village of Assaye. He rode with a half-dozen aides and with Sharpe trailing
behind on the last of the General's horses, the roan mare. It was a furious ride, for the
area east of the infantry was infested with Mahratta horsemen, but the General had faith
in the size and speed of his big English and Irish horses and the enemy was easily out
galloped Wellesley came within sight of the beleaguered 74th just as the dragoons crashed
in on their besiegers from the south.

“Well done, Maxwell!” Wellesley shouted aloud, though he was far out of earshot of the
cavalry's leader, and then he curbed his horse to watch the dragoons at work.

The mass of the Mahratta horsemen who had been waiting for the 74th's square to
collapse, now fled northwards and the British cavalry, having hacked the best part of an
enemy infantry regiment into ruin, pursued them. The cavalry's good order was gone
now, for the blue coated troopers were spurring their horses to chase their broken enemy
across country. Men whooped like fox hunters, closed on their quarry, slashed with sabre,
then spurred on to the next victim. The Mahratta horsemen were not even checked by the
River Juah, but just plunged in and spurred their horses through the water and up the
northern bank. The British and Indian cavalry followed so that the pursuit vanished in
the north. The 74th, who had fought so hard to stay alive, now marched out of range of the
cannon by the village and Wellesley, who had smelt disaster just a few minutes before,
breathed a great sigh of relief.

“I told them to stay clear of the village, did I not?” he demanded of his aides, but
before anyone could answer, new cannon fire sounded from the south.

“What the devil?” Wellesley said, turning to see what the gunfire meant.

The remaining infantry of the Mahratta line were pulling back, taking their guns with
them, but the artillery which had stood in front of the enemy's defeated right wing, the
same guns that had been overrun by the red-coated infantry, were now coming alive again.
The weapons had been turned and were crashing back on their trails and jetting smoke from
their muzzles, and behind the guns was a mass of enemy cavalry ready to protect the
gunners who were flaying the five battalions that had defeated the enemy infantry.

“Barclay?” Wellesley called.

“Sir?” The aide spurred forward.

“Can you reach Colonel Harness?”

The aide looked at the southern part of the battlefield. A moment before it had been
thick with Mahratta horsemen, but those men had now withdrawn behind the revived guns and
there was a space in front of those guns, a horribly narrow space, but the only area of the
battlefield that was now free of enemy cavalry. If Barclay was to reach Harness then he
would have to risk that narrow passage and, if he was very lucky, he might even survive the
canister. And dead or alive, Barclay thought, he would win the lottery of bullet holes in
his coat. The aide took a deep breath.

“Yes, sir.”

“My compliments to Colonel Harness, and ask him to retake the guns with his
Highlanders. The rest of his brigade will stay where they are to keep the cavalry at bay.”
The General was referring to the mass of cavalry that still threatened from the west,
none of which had yet entered the battle.

“And my compliments to Colonel Wallace,” the General went on, 'and his sepoy
battalions are to move northwards, but are not to engage the enemy until I reach them.
Go!" He waved Barclay away, then twisted in his saddle.

“Campbell?”

“Sir?”

“Who's that?” The General pointed eastwards to where one single cavalry unit had been
left out of the charge that had rescued the 74th, presumably in case the dragoons had
galloped into disaster and needed a rescue.

Campbell peered at the distant unit, 'yth Native Cavalry, sir."

“Fetch them. Quick now!” The General drew his sword as Campbell galloped away.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said to his remaining aides, 'time to earn our keep, I think.
Harness can drive the wretches away from the southernmost guns, but we shall have to take
care of the nearer ones."

For a moment Sharpe thought the General planned to charge the guns with just the handful
of men who remained with him, then he realized Wellesley was waiting for the yth Native
Cavalry to arrive. For a few seconds Wellesley had considered summoning the survivors
of the 74th, but those men, who had retreated back across the gully, were still
recovering from their ordeal. They were collecting their wounded, taking the roll call
and reorganizing ten broken companies into six. The Native Cavalry would have to
beat down the guns and Campbell brought them across the battlefield, then led their
commanding officer, a red-faced major with a bristling moustache, to Wellesley's side.
'I need to reach our infantry, Major,“ the General explained, 'and you're going to
escort me to them, and the quickest way is through their gun line.”

The Major gaped at the guns with their crowd of attendant cavalry.

“Yes, sir,” he said nervously.

“Two lines, if you please,” the General ordered brusquely.

“You will command the first line and drive off the cavalry. I shall ride in the second
and kill the gunners.”

“You'll kill the gunners, sir?” the Major asked, as though he found that idea novel, then
he realized his question was dangerously close to insubordination.

“Yes, sir,” he said hurriedly, 'of course, sir." The Major stared at the gun line again.
He would be charging the line's flank, so at least no gun would be pointing at his men. The
greater danger was the mass of Mahratta cavalry that had gathered behind the guns and
which far outnumbered his troopers, but then, sensing Wellesley's impatience, he spurred
his horse back to his men and shouted at his troopers.

“Two lines by the right!” The Major commanded a hundred and eighty men and Sharpe saw
them grin as they drew their sabres and spurred their horses into formation.

“Ever been in a cavalry charge, Sergeant?” Campbell asked Sharpe.

“No, sir. Never wanted to be, sir.”

“Nor me. Should be interesting.” Campbell had his claymore drawn and he gave the huge
sword a cut in the air which almost took his horse's ears off.

“You might find it more enjoyable, Sergeant,” he said helpfully, 'if you drew your
sabre."

“Of course, sir,” Sharpe said, feeling foolish. He had somehow imagined that his first
battle would be spent in an infantry battalion, firing and reloading as he had been
trained to do, but instead it seemed that he was to fight as a cavalry trooper. He drew the
heavy weapon which felt unnatural in his hand, but then this whole battle seemed
unnatural.

It swung from moments of bowel-loosening terror to sudden calm, then back to terror
again. It also ebbed and flowed, flaring in one part of the field, then dying down as the
tide of killing passed to another patch of dun-coloured farmland.

“And our job is to kill the gunners,” Campbell explained, 'to make sure they don't fire
at us again. We'll let the experts look after their cavalry and we just slaughter
whatever they leave us. Simple."

Simple? All Sharpe could see was a mass of enemy horsemen behind the huge guns that were
bucking and rearing as they crashed out smoke, flame and death, and Campbell thought it was
easy? Then he realized that the young Scots officer was just trying to reassure him, and
he felt grateful. Campbell was watching Captain Barclay ride through the artillery
barrage. It seemed the Captain must be killed, for he went so close to the Mahratta guns
that at one point his horse vanished in a cloud of powder smoke, but a moment later he
reappeared, low in his saddle, his horse galloping, and Campbell cheered when he saw
Barclay swerve away towards Harness's brigade.

“A canteen, Sergeant, if you please?” Wellesley demanded, and Sharpe, who had been
watching Barclay, fumbled to loosen one of the canteen straps. He gave the water to the
General, then opened his own canteen and drank from it. Sweat was pouring down his face and
soaking his shirt. Wellesley drank half the water, stoppered it and gave the canteen back,
then trotted his horse into a gap in the right-hand side of the second line of the
cavalry. The General drew his slim sword. The other aides also found places in the line,
but there seemed no space for Sharpe and so he positioned himself a few yards behind the
General.