Sharpe’s Triumph: The Battle of Assaye, September 1803. Bernard Cornwell
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tangle of alleys and courtyards, and once the city had fallen the redcoats would hunt for supplies that would help feed the British army. Only then, with the city in his possession, would Wellesley turn his guns against the fort, and it was possible that the fort would hold the British advance for two or three weeks and thus give Scindia more time to assemble his army, and the longer the fort held the better, for the overdue rains might come and hamper the British advance. But of one thing Dodd was quite certain: as Pohlmann had said, the war would not be won here, and to William Dodd the most important thing was to extricate his men so that they could share that victory. ‘You will take the regiment’s guns and three hundred men and garrison the north gate,’ Dodd ordered Joubert.
The Frenchman frowned. ‘You think the British will attack in the north?’
‘I think, Monsewer, that the British will attack here, in the south. Our orders are to kill as many as we can, then escape to join Colonel Pohlmann. We shall make that escape through the north gate, but even an idiot can see that half the city’s inhabitants will also try to escape through the north gate and your job, Joubert, is to keep the bastards from blocking our way. I intend to save the regiment, not lose it with the city. That means you open fire on any civilian who tries to leave the city, do you understand?’ Joubert wanted to argue, but one look at Dodd’s face persuaded him into hasty agreement. ‘I shall be at the north gate in one hour,’ Dodd said, ‘and God help you, Monsewer, if your three hundred men are not in position.’
Joubert ran off. Dodd watched him go, then turned to Sillière. ‘When were the men last paid?’
‘Four months ago, sir.’
‘Where did you learn English, Lieutenant?’
‘Colonel Mathers insisted we speak it, sir.’
‘And where did Madame Joubert learn it?’
Sillière gave Dodd a suspicious glance. ‘I would not know, sir.’
Dodd sniffed. ‘Are you wearing perfume, Monsewer?’
‘No!’ Sillière blushed.
‘Make sure you never do, Lieutenant. And in the meantime take your company, find the Killadar, and tell him to break open the city treasury. If you have any trouble, break the damn thing open yourself with one of our guns. Give every man three months’ pay and load the rest of the money on pack animals. We’ll take it with us.’
Sillière looked astonished at the order. ‘But the Killadar, Monsieur…’ he began.
‘The Killadar, Monsewer, is a wretched little man with the balls of a mouse! You are a soldier. If we don’t take the money, the British will get it. Now go!’ Dodd shook his head in exasperation as the Lieutenant went. Four months without pay! There was nothing unusual in such a lapse, but Dodd disapproved of it. A soldier risked his life for his country, and the least his country could do in return was pay him promptly.
He walked eastwards along the firestep, trying to anticipate where the British would site their batteries and where they would make a breach. There was always a chance that Wellesley would pass by Ahmednuggur and simply march north towards Scindia’s army, but Dodd doubted the enemy would choose that course, for then the city and fort would lie athwart the British supply lines and the garrison could play havoc with the convoys carrying ammunition, shot and food to the redcoats.
A small crowd was gathered on the southernmost ramparts to gaze towards the distant cloud that betrayed the presence of the enemy army. Simone Joubert was among them, sheltering her face from the westering sun with a frayed parasol. Dodd took off his cocked hat. He always felt oddly awkward with women, at least white women, but his new rank gave him an unaccustomed confidence. ‘I see you have come to observe the enemy, Ma’am,’ he said.
‘I like to walk about the walls, Major,’ Simone answered, ‘but today, as you see, the way is blocked with people.’
‘I can clear a path for you, Ma’am,’ Dodd offered, touching the gold hilt of his new sword.
‘It is not necessary, Major,’ Simone said.
‘You speak good English, Ma’am.’
‘I was taught it as a child. We had a Welsh governess.’
‘In France, Ma’am?’
‘In the Île de France, Monsieur,’ Simone said. She was not looking at Dodd as she spoke, but staring into the heat-hazed south.
‘Mauritius,’ Dodd said, giving the island the name used by the British.
‘The Île de France, Monsieur, as I said.’
‘A remote place, Ma’am.’
Simone shrugged. In truth she agreed with Dodd. Mauritius was remote, an island four hundred miles east of Africa and the only decent French naval base in the Indian Ocean. There she had been raised as the daughter of the port’s captain, and it was there, at sixteen, that she had been wooed by Captain Joubert who was on passage to India where he had been posted as an adviser to Scindia. Joubert had dazzled Simone with tales of the riches that a man could make for himself in India, and Simone, bored with the small petty society of her island, had allowed herself to be swept away, only to discover that Captain Joubert was a timid man at heart, and that his impoverished family in Lyons had first claim on his earnings, and whatever was left was assiduously saved so that the Captain could retire to France in comfort. Simone had expected a life of parties and jewels, of dancing and silks, and instead she scrimped, she sewed and she suffered. Colonel Pohlmann had offered her a way out of poverty, and now she sensed that the lanky Englishman was clumsily attempting to make the same offer, but Simone was not minded to become a man’s mistress just because she was bored. She might for love, and in the absence of any love in her life she was fighting an attraction for Lieutenant Sillière, although she knew that the Lieutenant was almost as worthless as her husband and the dilemma was making her think that she was going mad. She wept about it, and the tears only added to her self-diagnosis of insanity. ‘When will the British come, Major?’ she asked Dodd.
‘Tomorrow, Ma’am. They’ll establish batteries the next day, knock at the wall for two or three days, make their hole and then come in.’
She looked at Dodd beneath the hem of her parasol. Although he was a tall man, Simone could still look him in the eye. ‘They’ll take the city that quickly?’ she asked, showing a hint of worry.
‘Nothing to hold them, Ma’am. Not enough men, too much wall, not enough guns.’
‘So how will we escape?’
‘By trusting me, Ma’am,’ Dodd said, offering Simone a leering smile. ‘What you must do, my dear, is pack your luggage, as much as can be carried on whatever packhorses your husband might possess, and be ready to leave. I shall send you warning before the attack, and at that time you go to the north gate where you’ll find your husband. It would help, of course, Ma’am, if I knew where you were lodged?’
‘My husband knows, Monsieur,’ Simone said coldly. ‘So once the rosbifs arrive I need do nothing for three days except pack?’
Dodd noted her use of the French term of contempt for the English, but chose to make nothing of it. ‘Exactly, Ma’am.’
‘Thank you, Major,’ Simone said, and made a gesture so that two servants, whom Dodd had not noticed in the press of people, came to escort her back to her house.
‘Cold bitch,’ Dodd said to himself when she was gone, ‘but she’ll thaw, she’ll thaw.’
The dark fell swiftly. Torches flared on the city ramparts, lighting the ghostly robes of the Arab mercenaries who patrolled the bastions. Small offerings of food and flowers were piled in front of the garish gods and goddesses in their candlelit temples. The inhabitants of the city were praying to be spared, while to the south a faint glow in the sky betrayed where a red-coated army had come to bring Ahmednuggur death.
Lieutenant-Colonel Albert Gore had taken command of the King’s 33rd in succession to Sir Arthur Wellesley