Bernard Cornwell - Sharpe’s Triumph - The Battle of Assaye, September 1803

‘So we’re going to war, sir?’

‘Of course.’ McCandless frowned. ‘Does that worry you?’

‘No, sir,’ Sharpe said, nor did it. He had a good life in Seringapatam, maybe as good a life as any soldier had ever had anywhere, but in the four years between the fall of Seringapatam and the massacre at Chasalgaon Sharpe had not heard a shot fired in anger, and a part of him was envious of his old colleagues in the 33rd who fought brisk skirmishes against the bandits and rogues who plagued western Mysore.

‘We’re going to fight the Mahrattas,’ McCandless said. ‘You know who they are?’

‘I hear they’re bastards, sir.’

McCandless frowned at Sharpe’s foul language. ‘They are a confederation of independent states, Sharpe,’ he said primly, ‘that dominate much of western India. They are also warlike, piratical and untrustworthy, except, of course, for those which are our allies, who are romantic, gallant and heroic.’

‘Some are on our side, sir?’

‘A few. The Peshwa, for one, and he’s their titular leader, but small notice they take of him. Others are staying aloof from this war, but two of the biggest princes have decided to make a fight of it. One’s called Scindia, and he’s the Maharajah of Gwalior, and the other’s called Bhonsla, and he’s the Rajah of Berar.’

Sharpe tried standing in the stirrups to ease the pain in his seat, but it only made the chafing of his calves worse. ‘And what’s our quarrel with those two, sir?’

‘They’ve been much given to raiding into Hyderabad and Mysore lately, so now it’s time to settle them once and for all.’

‘And Lieutenant Dodd’s joined their army, sir?’

‘From what we hear, he’s joined Scindia’s army. But I haven’t heard much.’ The Colonel had already explained to Sharpe how he had been keeping his ears open for news of Dodd ever since the Lieutenant had persuaded his sepoys to defect, but then had come the terrible news of Chasalgaon, and McCandless, who had been travelling north to join Wellesley’s army, had seen Sharpe’s name in the report and so had turned around and hurried south to Seringapatam. At the same time he had sent some of his own Mahratta agents north to discover Dodd’s whereabouts. ‘We should meet those fellows today,’ the Colonel said, ‘or tomorrow at the latest.’

The rain had not stopped, but nor was it heavy. Mud spattered up the horses’ flanks and onto Sharpe’s boots and white trousers. He tried sitting half sideways, he tried leaning forward or tipping himself back, but the pain did not stop. He had never much liked horses, but now decided he hated them. ‘I’d like to meet Lieutenant Dodd again, sir,’ he told McCandless as the two men rode under dripping trees.

‘Be careful of him, Sharpe,’ McCandless warned. ‘He has a reputation.’

‘For what, sir?’

‘A fighter, of course. He’s no mean soldier. I’ve not met him, of course, but I’ve heard tales. He’s been up north, in Calcutta mostly, and made a name for himself there. He was first over the pettah wall at Panhapur. Not much of a wall, Sharpe, just a thicket of cactus thorn really, but it took his sepoys five minutes to follow him, and by the time they reached him he’d killed a dozen of the enemy. He’s a tall man who can use a sword and is a fine pistol shot too. He is, in brief, a killer.’

‘If he’s so good, sir, why is he still a lieutenant?’

The Colonel sighed. ‘I fear that is the way of the Company’s army, Sharpe. A man can’t buy his way up the ladder as he can in the King’s army, and there’s no promotion for good service. It all goes by seniority. Dead men’s shoes, Sharpe. A fellow must wait his turn in the Company, and there’s no way round it.’

‘So Dodd has been waiting, sir?’

‘A long time. He’s forty now, and I doubt he’d have got his captaincy much before he was fifty.’

‘Is that why he ran, sir?’

‘He ran because of the murder. He claimed a goldsmith cheated him of money and had his men beat the poor fellow so badly that he died. He was court-martialled, of course, but the only sentence he got was six months without pay. Six months without pay! That’s sanctioning murder, Sharpe! But Wellesley insisted the Company discharge him, and he planned to have Dodd tried before a civilian court and condemned to death, so Dodd ran.’ The Colonel paused. ‘I wish I could say we’re pursuing him because of the murder, Sharpe,’ he went on, ‘but that isn’t so. We’re pursuing him because he persuaded his men to defect. Once that rot starts, it might never stop, and we have to show the other sepoys that desertion will always be punished.’

Just before nightfall, when the rain had stopped and Sharpe thought his sore muscles and bleeding calves would make him moan aloud in agony, a group of horsemen came cantering towards them. To Sharpe they looked like silladars, the mercenary horsemen who hired themselves, their weapons and their horses to the British army, and he pulled his mare over to the left side of the road to give the heavily armed men room to pass, but their leader slowed as he approached, then raised a hand in greeting. ‘Colonel!’ he shouted.

‘Sevajee!’ McCandless cried and spurred his horse towards the oncoming Indian. He held out his hand and Sevajee clasped it.

‘You have news?’ McCandless asked.

Sevajee nodded. ‘Your fellow is inside Ahmednuggur, Colonel. He’s been given Mathers’s regiment.’ He was pleased with his news, grinning broadly to reveal red-stained teeth. He was a young man dressed in the remnants of a green uniform Sharpe did not recognize. The jacket had European epaulettes hung with silver chains, and over it was strapped a sword sling and a sash, both of white silk and both stained brown with dried blood.

‘Sergeant Sharpe,’ McCandless made the introductions, ‘this is Syud Sevajee.’

Sharpe nodded a wary greeting. ‘Sahib,’ he said, for there was something about Syud Sevajee that suggested he was a man of rank.

‘The Sergeant has seen Lieutenant Dodd,’ McCandless explained. ‘He’ll make sure we capture the right man.’

‘Kill all the Europeans,’ Sevajee suggested, ‘and you’ll be sure.’ The suggestion, it seemed to Sharpe, was not entirely flippant.

‘I want him captured alive,’ McCandless said irritably. ‘Justice must be seen to be done. Or would you rather that your people believe a British officer can beat a man to death without any punishment?’

‘They believe that anyway,’ Sevajee said carelessly, ‘but if you wish to be scrupulous, McCandless, then we shall capture Mister Dodd.’ Sevajee’s men, a dozen wild-looking warriors armed with everything from bows and arrows to lances, had fallen in behind McCandless.

‘Syud Sevajee is a Mahratta, Sharpe,’ McCandless explained.

‘One of the romantic ones, sir?’

‘Romantic?’ Sevajee repeated the word in surprise.

‘He’s on our side, if that’s what you mean,’ McCandless said.

‘No,’ Sevajee hurried to correct the Colonel. ‘I am opposed to Beny Singh, and so long as he lives I help the enemies of my enemy.’

‘Why’s this fellow your enemy, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Sharpe asked.

Sevajee touched the hilt of his tulwar as if it was a fetish. ‘Because he killed my father, Sergeant.’

‘Then I hope you get the bastard, sir.’

‘Sharpe!’ McCandless said in reprimand.

Sevajee laughed. ‘My father,’ he explained to Sharpe, ‘led one of the Rajah of Berar’s compoos. He was a great warrior, Sergeant, and Beny Singh was his rival. He invited my father to a feast and served him poison. That was three years ago. My mother killed herself, but my younger brother serves Beny Singh and my sister is one of his concubines. They too will die.’