Sharpe’s Triumph: The Battle of Assaye, September 1803. Bernard Cornwell
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Joubert?’ Dodd stressed the ‘Madame’, half rising and bowing from his chair as he acknowledged her.
‘Major,’ she said in a low voice, then smiled nervously before looking down at the table that was spread with dishes of almonds.
Pohlmann snapped his fingers for a servant, then smiled at Major Dodd. ‘Simone is married to Captain Joubert, and that is Captain Joubert.’ He pointed into the sunlight where a short captain stood to attention in front of the paraded battalion that stood so stiff and still in the biting sun.
‘Joubert commands the battalion, sir?’ Dodd asked.
‘No one commands the battalion,’ Pohlmann answered. ‘But until three weeks ago it was led by Colonel Mathers. Back then it had five European officers; now it has Captain Joubert and Lieutenant Sillière.’ He pointed to a second European, a tall thin young man, and Dodd, who was observant, saw Simone Joubert blush at the mention of Sillière’s name. Dodd was amused. Joubert looked at least twenty years older than his wife, while Sillière was only a year or two her senior. ‘And we must have Europeans,’ Pohlmann went on, stretching back on the divan that creaked under his weight. ‘The Indians are fine soldiers, but we need Europeans who understand European tactics.’
‘How many European officers have you lost, sir?’ Dodd asked.
‘From this compoo? Eighteen,’ Pohlmann said. ‘Too many.’ The men who had gone were the British officers, and all had possessed contracts with Scindia that excused them from fighting against their own countrymen, and to make matters worse the East India Company had offered a bribe to any British officer who deserted the Mahrattas and, as a result, some of Pohlmann’s best men were gone. It was true that he still had some good officers left, most of them French, with a handful of Dutchmen, Swiss and Germans, but Pohlmann knew he could ill afford the loss of eighteen European officers. At least none of his artillerymen had deserted and Pohlmann put great faith in the battle-winning capacity of his guns. Those cannon were served by Portuguese, or by half-breed Indians from the Portuguese colonies in India, and those professionals had stayed loyal and were awesomely proficient.
Pohlmann drained a glass of rum and poured himself another. He had an extraordinary capacity for alcohol, a capacity Dodd did not share, and the Englishman, knowing his propensity for getting drunk, restrained himself to sips of watered wine. ‘I promised you a reward, Major, if you succeeded in rescuing the cartridges,’ Pohlmann said genially.
‘Knowing I’ve done my duty is reward enough,’ Dodd said. He felt shabby and ill-uniformed among Pohlmann’s gaudy aides and had decided that it was best to play the bluff soldier, a role he thought would appeal to a former sergeant. It was said that Pohlmann kept his old East India Company uniform as a reminder of just how far he had risen.
‘Men do not join Scindia’s army merely for the pleasures of doing their duty,’ Pohlmann said, ‘but for the rewards such service offers. We are here to become rich, are we not?’ He unhooked the elephant-hilted sword from his belt. The scabbard was made of soft red leather and was studded with small emeralds. ‘Here.’ Pohlmann offered the sword to Dodd.
‘I can’t take your sword!’ Dodd protested.
‘I have many, Major, and many finer. I insist.’
Dodd took the sword. He drew the blade from the scabbard and saw that it was finely made, much better than the drab sword he had worn as a lieutenant these last twenty years. Many Indian swords were made of soft steel and broke easily in combat, but Dodd guessed this blade had been forged in France or Britain, then given its beautiful elephant hilt in India. That hilt was of gold, the elephant’s head made the pommel, while the handguard was the beast’s curved trunk. The grip was of black leather bound with gold wire. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said feelingly.
‘It is the first of many rewards,’ Pohlmann said airily, ‘and those rewards will shower on us when we beat the British. Which we shall, though not here.’ He paused to drink rum. ‘The British will attack any day now,’ he went on, ‘and they doubtless hope I’ll stay and fight them here, but I don’t have a mind to oblige them. Better to make the bastards march after us, eh? The rains may come while they pursue us and the rivers will hold them up. Disease will weaken them. And once they are weak and tired, we shall be strong. All Scindia’s compoos will join together and the Rajah of Berar has promised his army, and once we are all gathered we shall crush the British. But that means I have to give up Ahmednuggur.’
‘Not an important city,’ Dodd commented. He noticed that Simone Joubert was sipping wine. She kept her eyes lowered, only occasionally glancing up at her husband or at Lieutenant Sillière. She took no notice of Dodd, but she would, he promised himself, she would. Her nose was too small, he decided, but even so she was a thing of pale and fragile wonder in this hot, dark-skinned land. Her blonde hair, which was hung with ringlets in a fashion that had prevailed ten years before in Europe, was held in place by small mother-of-pearl clips.
‘Ahmednuggur is not important,’ Pohlmann agreed, ‘but Scindia hates losing any of his cities and he stuffed Ahmednuggur full of supplies and insisted I post one regiment inside the city.’ He nodded towards the white-coated troops. ‘That regiment, Major. It’s probably my best regiment, but I am forced to quarter it in Ahmednuggur.’
Dodd understood Pohlmann’s predicament. ‘You can’t take them out of the city without upsetting Scindia,’ he said, ‘but you don’t want to lose the regiment when the city falls.’
‘I can’t lose it!’ Pohlmann said indignantly. ‘A good regiment like that? Mathers trained it well, very well. Now he’s gone to join our enemies, but I can’t lose his regiment as well, so whoever takes over from Mathers must know how to extricate his men from trouble.’
Dodd felt a surge of excitement. He liked to think that it was not just for the money that he had deserted the Company, nor because of his legal troubles, but for the long overdue chance of leading his own regiment. He could do it well, he knew that, and he knew what Pohlmann was leading up to.
Pohlmann smiled. ‘Suppose I give you Mathers’s regiment, Major? Can you pull it out of the fire for me?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Dodd said simply. Simone Joubert, for the first time since she had been introduced to Dodd, looked up at him, but without any friendliness.
‘All of it?’ Pohlmann asked. ‘With its cannon?’
‘All of it,’ Dodd said firmly, ‘and with every damned gun.’
‘Then from now it is Dodd’s regiment,’ Pohlmann said, ‘and if you lead it well, Major, I shall make you a colonel and give you a second regiment to command.’
Dodd celebrated by draining his cup of wine. He was so overcome with emotion that he hardly dared speak, though the look on his face said it all. His own regiment at last! He had waited so long for this moment and now, by God, he would show the Company how well their despised officers could fight.
Pohlmann snapped his fingers so that a servant girl brought him more rum. ‘How many men will Wellesley bring?’ he asked Dodd.
‘No more than fifteen thousand infantry,’ the new commander of Dodd’s regiment answered confidently. ‘Probably fewer, and they’ll be split into two armies. Boy Wellesley will command one, Colonel Stevenson the other.’
‘Stevenson’s old, yes?’
‘Ancient and cautious,’ Dodd said dismissively.
‘Cavalry?’
‘Five or six thousand? Mostly Indians.’
‘Guns?’
‘Twenty-six at most. Nothing bigger than a twelve-pounder.’
‘And Scindia can field eighty guns,’ Pohlmann said, ‘some of them twenty-eight-pounders. And once the Rajah of Berar’s forces join us, we’ll have forty thousand infantry and at least fifty more guns.’ The Hanoverian smiled. ‘But battles aren’t just numbers. They’re also won by generals. Tell me