Sharpe’s Triumph: The Battle of Assaye, September 1803. Bernard Cornwell
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real facts Captain Morris was still right. All that mattered was that Sergeant Sharpe was alleged to have struck an officer, and no excuse in the world could explain away such an offence. Which meant Sergeant Sharpe would have to be tried and very probably shot, and Gore would regret that for he had heard some very good things of the young Sergeant Sharpe. ‘I had great hopes of Sergeant Sharpe,’ the Colonel said sadly.
‘Got above himself, sir,’ Hakeswill snapped. ‘Just ’cos he blew the mine at Seringapatam, sir, he thinks he’s got wings and can fly. Needs to have his feathers clipped, sir, says so in the scriptures.’
Gore looked scornfully at the twitching Sergeant. ‘And what did you do at the assault of the city, Sergeant?’ he asked.
‘My duty, sir, my duty,’ Hakeswill answered. ‘What is all I ever expects any other man to do, sir.’
Gore shook his head regretfully. There really was no way out of this dilemma. If Sharpe had struck an officer, then Sharpe must be punished. ‘I suppose he’ll have to be fetched back here,’ Gore admitted.
‘Of course,’ Morris agreed.
Gore frowned in irritation. This was all such a damned nuisance! Gore had desperately hoped that the 33rd would be attached to Wellesley’s army, which was about to plunge into Mahratta territory, but instead the battalion had been ordered to stay behind and guard Mysore against the bandits who still plagued the roads and hills. Now, it seemed, over-stretched as the battalion was, Gore would have to detach a party to arrest Sergeant Sharpe. ‘Captain Lawford could go for him,’ he suggested.
‘Hardly a job for an officer, sir,’ Morris said. ‘A sergeant could do the thing just as well.’
Gore considered the matter. Sending a sergeant would certainly be less disruptive to the battalion than losing an officer, and a sergeant could surely do the job as well as anyone. ‘How many men would he need?’ Gore asked.
‘Six men, sir,’ Hakeswill snapped. ‘I could do the job with six men.’
‘And Sergeant Hakeswill’s the best man for the job,’ Morris urged. He had no particular wish to lose Hakeswill’s services for the few days that it would take to fetch Sharpe, but Hakeswill had hinted that there was money in this business. Morris was not sure how much money, but he was in debt and Hakeswill had been persuasive. ‘By far the best man,’ he added.
‘On account of me knowing the little bugger’s cunning ways, sir,’ Hakeswill explained, ‘if you’ll excuse my Hindi.’
Gore nodded. He would like nothing more than to rid himself of Hakeswill for a while, for the man was a baleful influence on the battalion. Hakeswill was hated, that much Gore had learned, but he was also feared, for the Sergeant declared that he could not be killed. He had survived a hanging once, indeed the scar of the rope was still concealed beneath the stiff leather stock, and the men believed that Hakeswill was somehow under the protection of an evil angel. The Colonel knew that was a nonsense, but even so the very presence of the Sergeant made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I’ll have my clerk write the orders for you, Sergeant,’ the Colonel said.
‘Thank you, sir!’ Hakeswill said. ‘You won’t regret it, sir. Obadiah Hakeswill has never shirked his duty, sir, not like some as I could name.’
Gore dismissed Hakeswill who waited for Captain Morris under the building’s porch and watched the rain pelt onto the street. The Sergeant’s face twitched and his eyes held a peculiar malevolence that made the single sentry edge away. But in truth Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill was a happy man. God had put Richard Sharpe into his grasp and he would pay Sharpe back for all the insults of the last few years and especially for the ghastly moment when Sharpe had hurled Hakeswill among the Tippoo Sultan’s tigers. Hakeswill had thought the beasts would savage him, but his luck had held and the tigers had ignored him. It seemed they had been fed not an hour before and thus the guardian angel who preserved Hakeswill had once again come to his rescue.
So now Obadiah Hakeswill would have his revenge. He would choose six men, six bitter men who could be trusted, and they would take Sergeant Sharpe, and afterwards, somewhere on the road home from Seringapatam where there were no witnesses, they would find Sharpe’s money and then finish him. Shot while attempting to escape, that would be the explanation, and good riddance too. Hakeswill was happy and Sharpe was condemned.
Colonel McCandless led Sharpe north towards the wild country where the frontiers of Hyderabad, Mysore and the Mahratta states met. ‘Till I hear otherwise,’ McCandless told Sharpe, ‘I’m assuming our traitor is in Ahmednuggur.’
‘What’s that, sir? A city?’
‘A city and a fort next to each other,’ the Colonel said. McCandless’s big gelding seemed to eat up the miles, but Sharpe’s smaller mare offered a lumpy ride. Within an hour of leaving Seringapatam Sharpe’s muscles were sore, within two he felt as though the backs of his thighs were burning, and by late afternoon the stirrup leathers had abraded through his cotton trousers to grind his calves into bloody patches. ‘It’s one of Scindia’s frontier strongholds,’ the Colonel went on, ‘but I doubt it can hold out long. Wellesley plans to capture it, then strike on north.’
‘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