Sharpe's Triumph

Chapter 5

Sharpe was curiously relieved when Colonel McCandless found him next morning, for the mood in the small upper rooms was awkward.

Simone seemed ashamed by what had happened in the night and, when Sharpe tried to speak to her, she shook her head abruptly and would not meet his eye. She did try to explain to him, mumbling about the arrack and the jewels, and about her disappointment in marriage, but she could not frame her words in adequate English, though no language was needed to show that she regretted what had happened, which was why Sharpe was glad to hear McCandless's voice in the alley beyond the staircase.

"I thought I told you to let me know where you were!" McCandless complained when Sharpe appeared at the top of the steps.

"I did, sir," Sharpe lied. "I told an ensign of the 78th to find you, sir."

"He never arrived!" McCandless said as he climbed the outside stairs. "Are you telling me you spent the night alone with this woman, Sergeant?"

"You told me to protect her, sir."

"I didn't tell you to risk her honour! You should have sought me out."

"Didn't want to bother you, sir."

"Duty is never a bother, Sharpe," McCandless said when he reached the small balcony at the stair head. "The General expressed a wish to dine with Madame Joubert and I had to explain she was indisposed. I lied, Sharpe!" The Colonel thrust an indignant finger at Sharpe's chest. "But what else could I do? I could hardly admit I'd left her alone with a sergeant!"

"I'm sorry, sir."

"There's no harm done, I suppose," McCandless said grudgingly, then took off his hat as he followed Sharpe into the living room where Simone sat at the table. "Good morning, Madame," the Colonel boomed cheerfully. "I trust you slept well?"

"Indeed, Colonel," Simone said, blushing, but McCandless was far too obtuse to see or to interpret the blush.

"I have good news, Madame," the Scotsman went on. "General Wellesley is agreeable that you should rejoin your husband. There is, however, a difficulty." It was McCandless's turn to blush. "I can provide no chaperone, Madame, and you do not possess a maid. I assure you that you may rely utterly upon my honour, but your husband might object if you lack a female companion on the journey."

"Pierre will have no objection, Colonel," Simone said meekly.

"And I warrant Sergeant Sharpe will behave like a gentleman," McCandless said with a fierce look at Sharpe.

"He does, Colonel, he does," Simone said, offering Sharpe a very shy glance.

"Good!" McCandless said, relieved to be done with such a delicate topic. He slapped his cocked hat against his leg. "No rain again," he declared, "and I dare say it'll be a hot day. You can be ready to ride in an hour, Madame?"

"In less, Colonel."

"One hour will suffice, Madame. You will do me the honour, perhaps, of meeting me by the north gate? I'll have your horse ready, Sharpe."

They left promptly, riding northwards past the battery that had been dug to hammer the fort's big walls. The battery's four guns were mere twelve-pounders, scarce big enough to dent the fort's wall, let alone break it down, but General Wellesley reckoned the garrison would be so disheartened by the city's swift defeat that even a few twelve-pound shots might persuade them into surrender. The four guns had opened fire at dawn, but their firing was sporadic until McCandless led his party out of the city when they suddenly all fired at once and Simone's horse, startled by the unexpected noise, skittered sideways. Simone rode side-saddle just behind the Colonel, while Sevajee and his men brought up the rear. Sharpe was wearing boots at last; the tall red leather boots with steel spurs that he had dragged from the body of an Arab.

He glanced back as they rode away. He saw the huge jet of smoke burst from a twelve-pounder's muzzle and a second later heard the percussive thump of the exploding charge and, just as that sound faded, a crack as the ball struck the wall of the fort. Then the other three guns fired and he imagined the steam hissing into the air as the gunners poured water on the overheated barrels. The fort's red walls blossomed with smoke as the defenders' cannon replied, but the pioneers had dug the gunners a deep battery and protected it with a thick wall of red earth, and the enemy's fire wasted itself in those defences. Then Sharpe rode past a grove of trees and the distant fight was hidden and the sound of the guns grew fainter and fainter as they rode farther north until, at last, the sound of the cannonade was a mere grumbling on the horizon.

Then they dropped down the escarpment and the noise of the guns faded away altogether.

It was a disconsolate expedition. Colonel McCandless had nothing to say to Simone who was still withdrawn. Sharpe tried to cheer her up, but his clumsy attempts only made her more miserable and after a time he too fell silent. Women were a mystery, he thought. During the night Simone had clung to him as though she were drowning, but since the dawn it had seemed as if she would prefer to be drowned.

"Horsemen on our right, Sergeant!" McCandless said, his tone a reproof that Sharpe had not spotted the cavalry first. "Probably ours, but they could be enemy."

Sharpe stared eastwards.

"They're ours, sir," he called, kicking his horse to catch up with McCandless. One of the distant horsemen carried the new Union flag and Sharpe's good eyes had spotted the banner. The flag was easier to recognize at a distance these days, for since the incorporation of Ireland into the United Kingdom a new red diagonal cross had been added to the flag, and though the new-faingled design looked odd and unfamiliar, it did make the banner stand out.

The cavalry left a plume of dust as they rode to intercept McCandless's party. Sevajee and his men cantered to meet them and Sharpe saw the two groups of horsemen greet each other warmly. The strangers turned out to be boundaries from the Mahratta states who, like Sevajee, had sided with the British against Scindia. These mercenaries were under the command of a British officer and, like Sevajee's men, they carried lances, tulwars, matchlock guns, flintlocks, pistols and bows and arrows.

They wore no uniform, but a handful of the sixty men possessed breastplates and most had metal helmets that were crested with feathers or horsehair plumes. Their officer, a dragoon captain, fell in alongside McCandless and reported seeing a white-coated battalion on the far side of the River Godavery.

"I didn't try and cross, sir," the Captain said, "for they weren't exactly friendly."

"But you're sure they had white coats?"

"No doubts at all, sir," the Captain said, thus confirming that Dodd must have crossed the river already.

He added that he had questioned some grain merchants who had travelled south across the Godavery and those men had told him that Pohlmann's compoo was camped close to Aurungabad. That city belonged to Hyderabad, but the merchants had seen no evidence that the Mahrattas were preparing to besiege the city walls. The Captain tugged his reins, turning his horse southwards so he could carry his news to Wellesley.

"Bid you good day, Colonel. Your servant, Ma'am." The dragoon officer touched his hat to Simone, then led his brigands away.

McCandless decreed that they would camp that night on the south bank of the River Godavery where Sharpe rigged two horse blankets as a tent for Simone. Sevajee and his men made their beds on the bluff above the river, a score of yards from the tent, and McCandless and Sharpe spread their blankets alongside. The river was high, but it had still not filled the steep-sided ravine that successive monsoons had scarred into the flat earth and Sharpe guessed that the river was only at half flood. If the belated monsoon did arrive the Godavery would swell into a swirling torrent a full quarter-mile wide, but even half full the river looked a formidable obstacle as it surged westwards with its burden of flotsam.

"Too deep to wade," McCandless said as the sun fell.

"Current looks strong, sir."

"It'll sweep you to your death, man."

"So how's the army to cross it, sir?"

"With difficulty, Sharpe, with difficulty, but discipline always overcomes difficulty. Dodd got across, so we surely can."

McCandless had been reading his Bible, but the falling dark now obscured the pages and so he closed the book. Simone had eaten with them, but she had been uncommunicative and McCandless was glad when she withdrew behind her blankets.

"Women upset matters," the Scotsman said unhappily.

"They do, sir?"

"Perturbations," McCandless said mysteriously, "perturbations." The small flames of the campfire made his already gaunt face seem skeletal.

He shook his head.

"It's the heat, Sharpe, I'm convinced of it. The further south you travel, the more sin is provoked among womankind. It makes sense, of course. Hell is a hot place, and hell is sin's destination."

"So you think that heaven's cold, sir?"

"I like to think it's bracing," the Colonel answered seriously. "Something like Scotland, I imagine. Certainly not as hot as India, and the heat here has a very bad effect on some women. It releases things in them." He paused, evidently deciding he risked saying too much. "I'm not at all convinced India is a place for European women," the Colonel went on, "and I shall be very glad when we're rid of Madame Joubert. Still, I can't deny that her predicament is propitious. It enables us to take a look at Lieutenant Dodd."

Sharpe poked a half-burned scrap of driftwood into the hottest part of the fire, provoking an up draught of sparks.

"Are you hoping to capture Lieutenant Dodd, sir? Is that why we're taking Madame back to her husband?"

McCandless shook his head.

"I doubt we'll get the chance, Sharpe. No, we're using a heaven-sent opportunity to take a look at our enemy. Our armies are marching into dangerous territory, for no place in India can raise armies the size of the Mahratta forces, and we are precious few in number. We need intelligence, Sharpe, so when we reach them, watch and pray! Keep your eyes skinned. How many battalions? How many guns? What's the state of the guns? How many limbers? Look hard at the infantry. Matchlocks or fire locks. In a month or so we'll be fighting these rogues, so the more we know of them the better." The Colonel scuffed earth onto the fire, dousing the last small flames that Sharpe had just provoked. "Now sleep, man. You'll be needing all your strength and wits in the morning."

Next morning they rode downstream until they found a village next to a vast empty Hindu temple, and in the village were small basket boats that resembled Welsh coracles and McCandless hired a half-dozen of these as ferries. The unsaddled horses were made to swim behind the boats. It was a perilous crossing, for the brown current snatched at the light vessels and whirled them downstream. The horses, white-eyed, swam desperately behind the reed boats that Sharpe noted had no caulking of any kind, but depended on skilful close weaving to keep the water out, and the tug of the horses' leading reins strained the light wooden frames and stretched the weave so that the boats let in water alarmingly. Sharpe used his shako to bail out his coracle, but the boatmen just grinned at his futile efforts and dug their paddles in harder. Once a half-submerged tree almost speared Sharpe's boat, and if the trunk had struck them the boat must surely have been tipped over, but the two boatmen skilfully spun the coracle away, let the tree pass, then paddled on.

It took half an hour to land and saddle the horses. Simone had shared a coracle with McCandless and the brief voyage had soaked the bottom half of her thin linen dress so that the damp weave clung to her legs.

McCandless was embarrassed, and offered her a horse blanket for modesty's sake, but Simone shook her head.

"Where do we go now, Colonel?" she asked.

"Towards Aurungabad, Ma'am," McCandless said gruffly, keeping his eyes averted from her beguiling figure, "but doubtless we shall be intercepted long before we reach that city. You'll be with your husband by tomorrow night, I don't doubt."

Sevajee's men rode far ahead now, spread into a picquet line to give warning of any enemy. This land all belonged to the Rajah of Hyderabad, an ally of the British, but it was frontier land and the only friendly troops now north of the Godavery were the garrisons of Hyderabad's isolated fortresses. The rest were all Mahrattas, though Sharpe saw no enemies that day. The only people he saw were peasants cleaning out the irrigation channels in their stubble fields or tending the huge brick kilns that smoked in the sunlight. The brick-workers were all women and children, greasy and sweaty, who gave the travellers scarcely a glance.

"It's a hard life," Simone said to Sharpe as they passed one half-built kiln where an overseer lazed under a woven canopy and shouted at the children to work faster.

"All life's hard unless you've got money," Sharpe said, grateful that Simone had at last broken her silence. They were riding a few paces behind the Colonel and kept their voices low so he could not hear them.

"Money and rank," Simone said.

"Rank?" Sharpe asked.

"They're usually the same thing," Simone said. "Colonels are richer than captains, are they not?"

And captains are generally richer than sergeants, Sharpe thought, but he said nothing.

Simone touched the pouch at her waist.

"I should give you back your diamonds."

"Why?"

"Because..." she said, but then fell silent for a while. "I do not want you to think..." she tried again, but the words would not come.

Sharpe smiled at her.

"Nothing happened, love," he told her. "That's what you say to your husband. Nothing happened, and you found the diamonds on a dead body."

"He will want me to give them to him. For his family."

"Then don't tell him."

"He is saving money," Simone explained, "so his family can live without work."

"We all want that. Dream of life without work, we do. That's why we all want to be officers."

"And I think to myself," she went on as if Sharpe had not spoken, "what shall I do? I cannot stay here in India. I must go to France. We are like ships, Sergeant, who look for a safe harbour."

"And Pierre is safe?"

"He is safe," Simone said bleakly, and Sharpe understood what she had been thinking for the last two days. He could offer her no security, while her husband could, and although she found Pierre's world stultifying, she was terrified by the alternative. She had dared taste that alternative for one night, but now shied away from it. "You do not think badly of me?" she asked Sharpe anxiously.

"I'm probably half in love with you," Sharpe told her, "so how can I think badly of you?"

She seemed relieved, and for the rest of that day she chattered happily enough. McCandless questioned her closely about Dodd's regiment, how it had been trained and how it was equipped, and though she had taken scant interest in such things, her replies satisfied the Colonel who pencilled notes in a small black book.

They slept that night in a village, and next day rode even more warily.

"When we meet the enemy, Sharpe," McCandless advised him, "keep your hands away from your weapon."

"Yes, sir."

"Give a Mahratta one excuse to think you're hostile," the Colonel said cheerfully, "and he'll use you as an archery butt. They don't make decent heavy horsemen, but as raiders they're unsurpassed. They attack in swarms, Sharpe. A horde of horsemen. Like watching a storm approach. Nothing but dust and the shine of swords. Magnificent!"

"You like them, sir?" Sharpe asked.

"I like the wild, Sharpe," McCandless said fiercely. "We've tamed ourselves at home, but out here a man still lives by his weapon and his wits. I shall miss that when we've imposed order."

"So why tame it, sir?"

"Because it is our duty, Sharpe. God's duty. Trade, order, law, and Christian decency, that's our business." McCandless was gazing ahead to where a patch of misty white hung just above the northern horizon.

It was dust kicked into the air, and maybe it was nothing more than a herd of cattle or a flock of sheep, but the dust smear grew and suddenly Sevajee's men veered sharply away to the west and galloped out of sight.

"Are they running out on us, sir?" Sharpe asked.

"The enemy will likely enough treat you and me with respect, Sharpe," McCandless said, 'but Sevajee cannot expect courtesy from them. They'd regard him as a traitor and execute him on the spot. We'll meet up with him when we've delivered Madame Joubert to her husband. He and I have arranged a rendezvous."

The dust cloud drew nearer and Sharpe saw a sliver of reflected sunlight glint in the whiteness and he knew he was seeing the first sign of McCandless's magnificent wild horsemen. The storm was coming.

The Mahratta cavalrymen had spread into a long line as they approached McCandless's small party. There were, Sharpe guessed, two hundred or more of the horsemen and, as they drew nearer, the flanks of their line quickened to form a pair of horns that would encircle their prey.

McCandless feigned not to notice the threat, but kept riding gently ahead while the wild horns streamed past in a flurry of dust and noise.

They were, Sharpe noticed, small men on small horses. British cavalry were bigger and their horses were heavier, but these nimble horsemen still looked effective enough. The curved blades of their drawn tulwars glittered like their plumed helmets which rose to a sharp point decorated with a crest. Some of the crests were horse-tails, some vultures' feathers and some just brightly coloured ribbons. More ribbons were woven into their horses' plaited manes or were tied to the horn tips of the archers' bows. The horsemen pounded past McCandless, then turned with a swerve, a slew of choking dust, a skid of hooves, a jangle of curb chains and the thump of scabbarded weapons.

The Mahratta leader confronted McCandless who pretended to be surprised to find his path blocked, but nevertheless greeted the enemy with an elaborate and confident courtesy. The cavalry commander was a wildly bearded man with a scarred cheek, a wall eye and lank hair that hung far below his helmet's cloth-rimmed edge. He held his tulwar menacingly, but McCandless ignored the blade's threat, indeed he ignored most of what the enemy commander said, and instead boomed his own demands in a voice that showed not the least nervousness. The Scotsman towered over the smaller horsemen and, because he seemed to regard his presence among them as entirely natural, they meekly accepted his version of what was happening.

"I have demanded that they escort us to Pohlmann," the Scotsman informed Sharpe.

"They probably planned on doing that anyway, sir."

"Of course they did, but it's far better that I should demand it than that they should impose it," McCandless said and then, with a lordly gesture, he gave permission for the Mahratta chief to lead the way and the enemy dutifully formed themselves into an escort either side of the three Europeans. "Fine-looking beggars, are they not?" McCandless asked.

"Wicked, sir."

"But sadly out of date."

"They could fool me, sir," Sharpe said, for though many of the Mahratta horsemen carried weapons that might have been more usefully employed at Agincourt or Crecy than in modern India, all had fire locks in their saddle holsters and all had savagely curved tulwars.

McCandless shook his head.

"They may be the finest light horsemen in the world, but they won't press a charge home and they can't stand volley fire. There's rarely any need to form square against men like these, Sharpe. They're fine for picquet work, unrivalled at pursuit, but chary of dying in front of the guns."

"Can you blame them?" Simone asked.

"I don't blame them, Madame," McCandless said, "but if a horse can't stand fire, then it's of scant use in battle. You don't gain victories by rattling across country like a pack of hunters, but by enduring the enemy's fire and overcoming it. That's where a soldier earns his pay, hard under the enemy muzzles."

And that, Sharpe thought, was something he had never really done.

He had faced the French in Flanders years before, but those battles had been fleeting and rain-obscured, and the lines had never closed on each other. He had not stared at the whites of the enemy's eyes, heard his volleys and returned them. He had fought at Malavelly, but that battle had been one volley and a charge, and the enemy had not contested the day, but fled, while at Seringapatam Sharpe had been spared the horror of going through the breach. One day, he realized, he would have to stand in a battle line and endure the volleys, and he wondered whether he would stand or instead break in terror. Or whether he would even live to see a battle, for, despite McCandless's blithe confidence, there was no assurance that he would survive this visit to the enemy's encampment.

They reached Pohlmann's army that evening. The camp was a short march south of Aurungabad and it was visible from miles away because of the great smear of smoke that hung in the sky. Most of the campfires were burning dried cakes of bullock dung and the acrid smoke caught in Sharpe's throat as he trotted through the lines of infantry shelters.

It all looked much like a British camp, except that most of the tents were made from reed matting rather than canvas, but the lines were still neatly arrayed, muskets were carefully stacked in threes and a disciplined ring of picquets guarded the camp's perimeter. They passed some European officers exercising their horses, and one of those men spurred to intercept the newcomers. He ignored McCandless and Sharpe, raising his plumed hat to Simone instead.

"Bonsoir, Madame."

Simone did not look at the man, but just tapped her horse's rump with her riding crop.

"That fellow's French, sir," Sharpe said to McCandless.

"I do speak the language, Sergeant," the Colonel said.

"So what's a Frog doing here, sir?"

"The same as Lieutenant Dodd, Sharpe. Teaching Scindia's infantry how to fight."

"Don't they know how to fight, sir? Thought it came natural."

"They don't fight as we do," McCandless said, watching the rebuffed Frenchman canter away.

"How's that, sir?"

"The European, Sergeant, has learned to close the gap fast. The closer you are to a man, the more likely you are to kill him; however, the closer you get, the more likely you are to be killed, but it's no use entertaining that fear in battle. Get up close, hold your ranks and start killing, that's the trick of it. But given a chance an Indian will hold back and try to kill at long range, and fellows like Dodd are teaching them how to close the gap hard and fast. You need discipline for that, discipline and tight ranks and good sergeants. And no doubt he's teaching them how to use cannon as well."

The Colonel spoke sourly, for they were trotting beside an artillery park that was crammed with heavy cannon. The guns looked odd to Sharpe, for many of them had been cast with ornate patterns on their barrels, and some were even painted in gaudy colours, but they were neatly parked and all had limbers and full sets of equipment; rammers and worm screws and handspikes and buckets. The axles gleamed with grease and there was not a spot of rust to be seen on the long barrels. Someone knew how to maintain guns, and that suggested they also knew how to use them.

"Counting them, Sharpe?" McCandless asked abruptly.

"No, sir."

"Seventeen in that park, mostly nine-pounders, but there are some much heavier brutes at the back. Keep your eyes open, man. That's why we're here."

"Yes, sir, of course, sir."

They passed a line of tethered camels, then a compound where a dozen elephants were being brought their supper of palm leaves and butter-soaked rice. Children followed the men carrying the rice to scavenge what slopped from the pails. Some of the Mahratta escort had spurred ahead to spread news of the visitors and curious crowds gathered to watch as McCandless and his two companions rode still deeper into the huge encampment. Those crowds became thicker as they drew close to the camp's centre which was marked by a spread of large tents. One of the tents was made of blue-and-yellow-striped canvas, and in front of it were twin flagpoles, though the wind was slack and the brightly coloured banners just hung from their tall poles.

"Leave the talking to me," McCandless ordered Sharpe.

"Of course, sir."

Simone suddenly gasped. Sharpe turned and saw she was staring across the heads of the curious crowd towards a group of European officers.

She looked at Sharpe suddenly and he saw the sadness in her eyes. She gave him a half-smile.

"Pierre," she offered in brief explanation, then she shrugged and tapped her horse with her crop so that it hurried away from Sharpe. Her husband, a small man in a white coat, gazed in disbelief, then ran to meet her with a look of pleasure on his face. Sharpe felt oddly jealous of him.

"That's our main duty discharged," McCandless said happily. "A disobliging woman, I thought."

"Unhappy, sir."

"Doesn't have enough to keep her busy, that's why. The devil likes idle hands, Sharpe."

"Then he must hate me, sir, most of the time." He stared after Simone, watching as she slid down from the saddle and was embraced by her shorter husband. Then the crowds hid the couple from him.

Someone shouted an insult at the two British horsemen and the other spectators jeered or laughed, but Sharpe, despite their hostility, took some consolation from McCandless's confidence. The Scotsman, indeed, was in a happier mood than he had shown for days, for he revelled being in his enemy's lines.

A group of men emerged from the big striped tent. They were almost all Europeans, and in their forefront was a tall muscled man in shirtsleeves who was attended by a bodyguard of Indian soldiers wearing purple coats.

"That's Colonel Pohlmann," McCandless said, nodding towards the big red-faced man.

"The fellow who used to be a sergeant, sir?"

"That's him."

"You've met him, sir?"

"Once, a couple of years back. He's an affable sort of man, Sharpe, but I doubt he's trustworthy."

If Pohlmann was surprised to see a British officer in his camp, he did not show it. Instead he spread his arms in an expansive gesture of welcome.

"Are you new recruits?" he shouted in greeting.

McCandless did not bother to answer the mocking question, but just slid from his horse.

"You don't remember me, Colonel?"

"Of course I remember you," Pohlmann said with a smile. "Colonel Hector McCandless, once of His Majesty's Scotch Brigade, and now in the service of the East India Company. How could I forget you, Colonel? You tried to make me read the Bible." Pohlmann grinned, displaying tobacco-stained teeth. "But you haven't answered my question, Colonel. Have you come to join our army?"

"I am the merest emissary, Colonel," McCandless said, beating dust from the kilt that he had insisted on wearing in honour of meeting the enemy. The garment was causing some amusement to Pohlmann's companions, though they took care not to let their smiles show if McCandless glanced their way.

"I brought you a woman," McCandless added in explanation.

"How do you say in England, Colonel," Pohlmann asked with a puzzled frown, "coals to Newcastle?"

"I offered safe conduct to Madame Joubert," the Scotsman said stiffly.

"So that was Simone I saw riding past," Pohlmann said. "I did wonder. And she'll be welcome, I dare say. We have enough of everything in this army; cannon, muskets, horses, ammunition, men, but there can never really be enough women in any army, can there?" He laughed, then summoned two of his purple-coated bodyguards to take charge of the horses. "You've ridden a long way, Colonel," Pohlmann said to McCandless, "so let me offer you refreshment. You too, Sergeant," he included Sharpe in his invitation. "You must be tired."

"I'm sore after that ride, sir," Sharpe said, dropping clumsily and gratefully from the saddle.

"You're not used to horses, eh?" Pohlmann crossed to Sharpe and draped a genial arm about his shoulders. "You're an infantryman, which means you've got hard feet and a soft bum. Me, I never like being on a horse. You know how I go to battle? On an elephant. That's the way to do it, Sergeant. What's your name?"

"Sharpe, sir."

"Then welcome to my headquarters, Sergeant Sharpe. You're just in time for supper."

He steered Sharpe into the tent, then stopped to let his guests stare at the lavish interior which was carpeted with soft rugs, hung with silk drapes, lit with ornate brass chandeliers and furnished with intricately carved tables and couches. McCandless scowled at such luxury, but Sharpe was impressed.

"Not bad, eh?" Pohlmann squeezed Sharpe's shoulders. "For a former sergeant."

"You, sir?" Sharpe asked, pretending not to know Pohlmann's history.

"I was a sergeant in the East India Company's Hanoverian Regiment," Pohlmann boasted, "quartered in a rat hole in Madras. Now I command a king's army and have all these powdered fops to serve me." He gestured at his attendant officers who, accustomed to Pohlmann's insults, smiled tolerantly. "Need a piss, Sergeant?" Pohlmann asked, taking his arm from Sharpe's shoulders. "A wash?"

"Wouldn't mind both, sir."

"Out the back." He pointed the way. "Then come back and drink with me."

McCandless had watched this bonhomie with suspicion. He had also smelt the reek of strong liquor on Pohlmann's breath and suspected he was doomed to an evening of hard drinking in which, even though

McCandless himself would refuse all alcohol, he would have to endure the drunken badinage of others. It was a grim prospect, and one he did not intend to endure alone.

"Not you, Sharpe," he hissed when Sharpe returned to the tent.

"Not me what, sir?"

"You're to stay sober, you hear me? I'm not mollycoddling your sore head all the way back to the army."

"Of course not, sir," Sharpe said, and for a time he tried to obey McCandless, but Pohlmann insisted Sharpe join him in a toast before supper.

"You're not an abstainer, are you?" Pohlmann demanded of Sharpe in feigned horror when the Sergeant tried to refuse a beaker of brandy. "You're not a Bible-reading abstainer, are you? Don't tell me the British army is becoming moral!"

"No, sir, not me, sir."

"Then drink with me to King George of Hanover and of England!"

Sharpe obediently drank to the health of their joint sovereign, then to Queen Charlotte, and those twin courtesies emptied his beaker of brandy and a serving girl was summoned to fill it so that he could toast His Royal Highness George, Prince of Wales.

"You like the girl?" Pohlmann asked, gesturing at the serving girl who swerved lithely away from a French major who was trying to seize her said.

"She's pretty, sir," Sharpe said.

"They're all pretty, Sergeant. I keep a dozen of them as wives, another dozen as servants, and God knows how many others who merely aspire to those positions. You look shocked, Colonel McCandless."

"A man who dwells among the tents of the ungodly," McCandless said, "will soon pick up ungodly ways."

"And thank God for it," Pohlmann retorted, then clapped his hands to summon the supper dishes.

A score of officers ate in the tent. Half a dozen were Mahrattas, the rest Europeans, and just after the bowls and platters had been placed on the tables, Major Dodd arrived. Night was falling and candles illuminated the tent's shadowed interior, but Sharpe recognized Dodd's face instantly. The sight of the long jaw, sallow skin and bitter eyes brought back sharp memories of Chasalgaon, of flies crawling on Sharpe's eyes and in his gullet, and of the staccato bangs as men stepped over the dead to shoot the wounded. Dodd, oblivious of Sharpe's glare, nodded to Pohlmann.

"I apologize, Colonel Pohlmann, for being late," he announced with stiff formality.

"I expected Captain Joubert to be late," Pohlmann said, "for a man newly reunited with his wife has better things to do than hurry to his supper, if indeed he takes his supper at all. Were you also welcoming Simone, Major?"

"I was not, sir. I was attending to the picquets."

"Major Dodd's attention to his duty puts us all to shame," Pohlmann said. "Do you have the pleasure of knowing Major Dodd, Colonel?" he asked McCandless.

"I know the Company will pay five hundred guineas for Lieutenant Dodd's capture," McCandless growled, "and more now, I dare say, after his bestiality at Chasalgaon."

Dodd showed no reaction to the Colonel's hostility, but Pohlmann smiled.

"You've come for the reward money, Colonel, is that it?"

"I wouldn't touch the money," McCandless said, "for it's tainted by association. Tainted by murder, Colonel, and by disloyalty and dishonour."

The words were spoken to Pohlmann, but addressed to Dodd whose face seemed to tighten as he listened. He had taken a place at the end of the table and was helping himself to the food. The other guests were silent, intrigued by the tension between McCandless and Dodd.

Pohlmann was enjoying the confrontation.

"You say Major Dodd is a murderer, Colonel?"

"A murderer and a traitor."

Pohlmann looked down the table.

"Major Dodd? You have nothing to say?"

Dodd reached for a loaf of flat bread that he tore in half.

"When I had the misfortune to serve in the Company, Colonel," he said to Pohlmann, "Colonel McCandless was well known as the head of intelligence. He did the dishonourable job of spying on the Company's enemies, and I've no doubt that is his purpose here. He can spit all he likes, but he's here to spy, Colonel."

Pohlmann smiled.

"Is that true, McCandless?"

"I returned Madame Joubert to her husband, Pohlmann, nothing more," McCandless insisted.

"Of course it's more," Pohlmann said. "Major Dodd is right! You're head of the Company's intelligence service, are you not? Which means that you saw in dear Simone's predicament a chance to inspect our army."

"You infer too much," McCandless said.

"Nonsense, Colonel. Do try the lamb. It's seethed in milk curds. So what do you wish to see?"

"My bed," McCandless said curtly, waving away the lamb dish. He never touched meat. "Just my bed," he added.

"And see it you shall," Pohlmann said genially. The Hanoverian paused, wondering whether to re-ignite the hostility between McCandless and Dodd, but he must have decided that each had insulted the other sufficiently. "But tomorrow, Colonel, I will provide a tour of inspection for you. You may see whatever you like, McCandless. You can watch our gunners at work, you may inspect our infantry, you may go wherever you wish and talk to whoever you desire. We have nothing to hide." He smiled at the astonished McCandless. "You are my guest, Colonel, so I must show you a proper hospitality."

He was as good as his word, and next morning McCandless was invited to inspect all of Pohlmann's compoo.

"I wish there were more troops here," Pohlmann said, "but Scindia is a few miles northwards with Saleur's and Dupont's compoos. I like to think they're not as able as mine, but in truth they're both very good units. Both have European officers, of course, and both are properly trained. I can't say as much for the Rajah of Berar's infantry, but his gunners are the equal of ours."

McCandless said very little all morning, and Sharpe, who had learned to read the Scotsman's moods, saw that he was severely discomfited. And no wonder, for Pohlmann's troops looked as fine as any in the Company's service. The Hanoverian commanded six and half thousand infantry, five hundred cavalry and as many pioneers who served as engineers, and possessed thirty-eight guns. This compoo alone outnumbered the infantry of Wellesley's army, and was much stronger in guns, and there were two similar compoos in Scindia's service let alone his horde of cavalry. It was no surprise, Sharpe thought, that McCandless's spirits were falling, and they fell even further when Pohlmann arranged for a demonstration of his artillery and the Scotsman, feigning gratitude to his host, was forced to watch as teams of gunners served a battery of big eighteen-pounder guns with all the alacrity and efficiency of the British army.

"Well-made pieces, too," Pohlmann boasted, leading McCandless up to the hot guns that stood behind the swathes of burnt grass caused by their muzzle fire. "A little gaudy, perhaps, for European tastes, but none the worse for that."

The guns were all painted in bright colours and some had names written in a curly script on their breeches.

"Mega-wati," Pohlmann read aloud, "the goddess of clouds. Inspect them, Colonel! They're well made. Our axletrees don't break, I can assure you."

Pohlmann was willing to show McCandless even more, but after dinner the Scotsman elected to spend the afternoon in his borrowed tent. He claimed he wished to rest, but Sharpe suspected the Scotsman had endured enough humiliation and wanted some quiet in which to make notes on all he had seen.

"We'll leave tonight, Sharpe," the Colonel said. "You can occupy yourself till then?"

"Colonel Pohlmann wants me to ride with him on his elephant, sir."

The Colonel scowled.

"He likes to show off." For a moment he seemed about to order Sharpe to refuse the invitation, then he shrugged. "Don't get seasick."

The motion of the elephant's howdah was indeed something like a ship, for it swayed from side to side as the beast plodded northwards and at first Sharpe had to grip onto the edge of the basket, but once he had accustomed himself to the motion he relaxed and leaned back on the cushioned seat. The howdah had two seats, one in front of the other, and Sharpe had the rearmost, but after a while Pohlmann twisted in his seat and showed how he could raise his own backrest and lay it flat so that the whole howdah became one cushioned bed that could be concealed by the curtains that hung from the wicker-framed canopy.

"It's a fine place to bring a woman, Sergeant," Pohlmann said as he restored the backrest to its upright position, "but the girth straps broke once and the whole thing fell off! It fell slowly, luckily, and I still had my breeches on so not too much dignity was lost."

"You don't look like a man who worries much about dignity, sir."

"I worry about reputation," Pohlmann said, "which isn't the same thing. I keep my reputation by winning victories and giving away gold. Those men' he gestured at his purple-coated bodyguards who marched on either flank of the elephant, "are each paid as much as a lieutenant in British service. And as for my European officers!" He laughed. "They're all making more money than they dreamed possible. Look at 'em!"

He jerked his head at the score of European officers who followed the elephant. Dodd was among them, but riding apart from the others and with a morose expression on his long face as though he resented having to pay court to his commanding officer. His horse was a sway-backed, hard-mouthed mare, a poor beast as ungainly and sullen as her master.

"Greed, Sharpe, greed, that's the best motive for a soldier," Pohlmann said. "Greed will make them fight like demons, if our lord and master ever allows us to fight."

"You think he won't, sir?"

Pohlmann grinned.

"Scindia listens to his astrologers rather more than he listens to his Europeans, but I'll slip the bastards some gold when the time comes, and they'll tell him the stars are propitious and he'll give me the whole army and let me loose."

"How big is the whole army, sir?"

Pohlmann smiled, recognizing that Sharpe was asking questions on behalf of Colonel McCandless.

"By the time you face us, Sergeant, we should have over a hundred thousand men. And of those? Fifteen thousand infantry are first class, thirty thousand infantry are reliable, and the rest are horsemen who are only good for plundering the wounded. We'll also have a hundred guns, all of them as good as any in Europe. And how big will your army be?"

"Don't know, sir," Sharpe said woodenly.

Pohlmann smiled.

"Wellesley has, maybe, seven and a half thousand men, infantry and cavalry, while Colonel Stevenson has perhaps another seven thousand so together you'll number, what? Fourteen and a half thousand? With forty guns? You think fourteen thousand men can beat a hundred thousand? And what happens, Sergeant Sharpe, if I manage to catch one of your little armies before the other can support it?" Sharpe said nothing, and Pohlmann smiled. "You should think about selling me your skills, Sharpe."

"Me, sir?" Sharpe answered lightly.

"You, Sergeant Sharpe," Pohlmann said forcibly, and the Hanoverian twisted in his seat to stare at Sharpe. "That's why I invited you this afternoon. I need European officers, Sharpe, and any man as young as you who becomes a sergeant must have a rare ability. I am offering you rank and riches, Sharpe. Look at me! Ten years ago I was a sergeant like you, now I ride to war on an elephant, need two more to carry my gold and have three dozen women competing to sharpen my sword. Have you ever heard of George Thomas?"

"No, sir."

"An Irishman, Sergeant, and not even a soldier! George was an illiterate seaman out of the gutters of Dublin, and before he drank himself to death, poor man, he'd become the Begum Somroo's general. I think he was her lover too, but that ain't any distinction with that particular lady, but before he died George needed a whole herd of elephants to haul his gold about. And why? Because the Indian princes, Sergeant, need our skills. Equip yourself with a good European and you win your wars. I captured seventy-two guns at the battle of Malpura and I demanded the weight of one of those guns in pure gold as my reward. I got it, too. In ten years you could be as rich as you want, rich as Benoit de Boigne. You must have heard of him?"

"No, sir."

"He was a Savoyard, Sergeant, and in just four years he made a hundred thousand pounds and then he went off home and married a seventeen-year-old girl fresh from her father's castle. In only four years! From being a captain in Savoy's army to being governor of half Scindia's territory. There's a fortune to be made here and rank and birth don't come into it. Only ability counts. Nothing but ability."

Pohlmann paused, his eyes on Sharpe.

"I'll make you a lieutenant tomorrow, Sergeant, and you can fight in my compoo, and if you're any damn good then you'll be a captain by month's end." Sharpe looked at the Hanoverian, but said nothing. Pohlmann smiled. "What are your chances of getting a commission in the British army?"

Sharpe grinned.

"No chance, sir."

"So? I offer you rank, wealth and as many bibb is as you can handle."

"Is that why Mister Dodd deserted, sir?"

Pohlmann smiled.

"Major Dodd deserted, Sharpe, because he faces execution for murder, and because he's sensible, and because he wants my job. Not that he'll admit to that." The Hanoverian twisted in the howdah. "Major Dodd!" he shouted.

The Major urged his awkward horse to the elephant's side and looked up into the howdah.

"Sir?"

"Sergeant Sharpe wants to know why you joined us."

Dodd gave Sharpe a suspicious look, but then shrugged. "I ran because there's no future in the Company," he said. "I was a lieutenant for twenty-two years, Sergeant, twenty-two years! It don't matter to the Company how good a soldier you are, you have to wait your turn, and all the while I watched wealthy young fools buying themselves majorities in the King's ranks and I had to bow and scrape to the useless bastards. Yes, sir, no, sir, three bloody bags full, sir, and can I carry your bags, sir, and wipe your arse, sir." Dodd had been getting angrier and angrier as he spoke, but now made an effort to control himself. "I couldn't join the King's army, Sergeant, because my father runs a grist mill in Suffolk and there ain't no money to buy a King's commission. That meant I was only fit for the Company, and King's officers treat Company men like dirt. I can outfight twenty of the bastards, but ability don't count in the Company. Keep your nose clean, wait your turn, then die for the shareholders when the Court of Directors tells you." He was becoming angry again. "That's why," he finished curtly.

"And you, Sergeant?" Pohlmann asked. "What opportunities will the army offer you?"

"Don't know, sir."

"You do know," Pohlmann said, "you do know."

The elephant had stopped and the Hanoverian now pointed ahead and Sharpe saw that they had come to the edge of a wood, and a half-mile away was a great city with walls like those the Scots had climbed at Ahmednuggur.

The city walls were bright with flags, while its embrasures glinted with the reflection of sunlight from gun barrels.

"That's Aurungabad," Pohlmann said, "and everyone inside those walls is pissing themselves in fear that I'm about to start a siege."

"But you're not?"

"I'm looking for Wellesley," Pohlmann said, "and you know why? Because I've never lost a battle, Sharpe, and I'm going to add a British major-general's sword to my trophies. Then I'll build myself a palace, a bloody great marble palace, and I'll line the halls with British guns and hang British colours to shield my bedroom from the sun and I'll bounce my bibb is on a mattress stuffed with the hair of British horses."

Pohlmann luxuriated in that dream for a while and then, with a last glance at the city, ordered the mahout to turn the elephant about.

"When is McCandless leaving?" he asked Sharpe.

"Tonight, sir."

"After dark?"

"Around midnight, sir, I think."

"That gives you plenty of time to think, Sergeant. To think of your future. To contemplate what the red coat offers you, and what I offer you. And when you have thought about those things, come to me."

"I'm thinking on it, sir," Sharpe said, "I'm thinking on it." And he was.