Sharpe’s Fortress: The Siege of Gawilghur, December 1803. Bernard Cornwell
a broken enemy with nowhere to hide. Some Mahrattas sought shelter in the village, but most ran past it, throwing down their weapons as the terrible horsemen streamed into the fleeing horde with sabres and lances slicing and thrusting.
‘Puckalees!’ Urquhart shouted, standing in his stirrups to look for the men and boys who brought water to the troops. There was none in sight and the 74th was parched, the men’s thirst made acute by the saltpetre in the gunpowder which had fouled their mouths. ‘Where the …?’ Urquhart swore, then frowned at Sharpe. ‘Mister Sharpe? I’ll trouble you to find our puckalees.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe said, not bothering to hide his disappointment at the order. He had hoped to find some loot when the 74th searched the village, but instead he was to be a fetcher of water. He threw down the musket and walked back through the groaning, slow-moving litter of dead and dying men. Dogs were scavenging among the bodies.
‘Forward now!’ Wellesley called behind Sharpe, and the whole long line of British infantrymen advanced under their flags towards the village. The cavalry was already far beyond the houses, killing with abandon and driving the fugitives ever farther northwards.
Sharpe walked on southwards. He suspected the puckalees were still back with the baggage, which would mean a three-mile walk and, by the time he had found them, the battalion would have slaked its thirst from the wells in the village. Bugger it, he thought. Even when they gave him a job it was a useless errand.
A shout made him look to his right where a score of native cavalrymen were slicing apart the robes of the dead Arabs in search of coins and trinkets. The scavengers were Mahrattas who had sold their services to the British and Sharpe guessed that the horsemen had not joined the pursuit for fear of being mistaken for the defeated enemy. One of the Arabs had only been feigning death and now, despite being hugely outnumbered, defied his enemies with a pistol that he dragged from beneath his robe. The taunting cavalrymen had made a ring and the Arab kept twisting around to find that his tormentor had skipped away before he could aim the small gun.
The Arab was a short man, then he turned again and Sharpe saw the bruised, bloody face and recognized the child who had charged the 74th so bravely. The boy was doomed, for the ring of cavalrymen was slowly closing for the kill. One of the Mahrattas would probably die, or at least be horribly injured by the pistol ball, but that was part of the game. The boy had one shot, they had twenty. A man prodded the boy in the back with a lance point, making him whip round, but the man with the lance had stepped fast back and another man slapped the boy’s headdress with a tulwar. The other cavalrymen laughed.
Sharpe reckoned the boy deserved better. He was a kid, nothing more, but brave as a tiger, and so he crossed to the cavalrymen. ‘Let him be!’ he called.
The boy turned towards Sharpe. If he recognized that the British officer was trying to save his life he showed no sign of gratitude; instead he lifted the pistol so that its barrel pointed at Sharpe’s face. The cavalrymen, reckoning this was even better sport, urged him to shoot and one of them approached the boy with a raised tulwar, but did not strike. He would let the boy shoot Sharpe, then kill him. ‘Let him be,’ Sharpe said. ‘Stand back!’ The Mahrattas grinned, but did not move. Sharpe could take the single bullet, then they would tear the boy into sabre-shredded scraps of meat.
The boy took a step towards Sharpe. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, lad,’ Sharpe said. The boy obviously did not speak English, but Sharpe’s tone was soothing. It made no difference. The lad’s hand was shaking and he looked frightened, but defiance had been bred into his bone. He knew he would die, but he would take an enemy soul with him and so he nerved himself to die well. ‘Put the gun down,’ Sharpe said softly. He was wishing he had not intervened now. The kid was just distraught enough and mad enough to fire, and Sharpe knew he could do nothing about it except run away and thus expose himself to the jeers of the Mahrattas. He was close enough now to see the scratches on the pistol’s blackened muzzle where the rammer had scraped the metal. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, boy,’ he said again. Still the boy pointed the pistol. Sharpe knew he should turn and run, but instead he took another pace forward. Just one more and he reckoned he would be close enough to swat the gun aside.
Then the boy shouted something in Arabic, something about Allah, and pulled the trigger.
The hammer did not move. The boy looked startled, then pulled the trigger again.
Sharpe began laughing. The expression of woe on the child’s face was so sudden, and so unfeigned, that Sharpe could only laugh. The boy looked as if he was about to cry.
The Mahratta behind the boy swung his tulwar. He reckoned he could slice clean through the boy’s grubby headdress and decapitate him, but Sharpe had taken the extra step and now seized the boy’s hand and tugged him into his belly. The sword hissed an inch behind the boy’s neck. ‘I said to leave him alone!’ Sharpe said. ‘Or do you want to fight me instead?’
‘None of us,’ a calm voice said behind Sharpe, ‘wants to fight Ensign Sharpe.’
Sharpe turned. One of the horsemen was still mounted, and it was this man who had spoken. He was dressed in a tattered European uniform jacket of green cloth hung with small silver chains, and he had a lean scarred face with a nose as hooked as Sir Arthur Wellesley’s. He now grinned down at Sharpe.
‘Syud Sevajee,’ Sharpe said.
‘I never did congratulate you on your promotion,’ Sevajee said, and leaned down to offer Sharpe his hand.
Sharpe shook it. ‘It was McCandless’s doing,’ he said.
‘No,’ Sevajee disagreed, ‘it was yours.’ Sevajee, who led this band of horsemen, waved his men away from Sharpe, then looked down at the boy who struggled in Sharpe’s grip. ‘You really want to save that little wretch’s life?’
‘Why not?’
‘A tiger cub plays like a kitten,’ Sevajee said, ‘but it still grows into a tiger and one day it eats you.’
‘This one’s no kitten,’ Sharpe said, thumping the boy on the ear to stop his struggles.
Sevajee spoke in quick Arabic and the boy went quiet. ‘I told him you saved his life,’ Sevajee explained to Sharpe, ‘and that he is now beholden to you.’ Sevajee spoke to the boy again who, after a shy look at Sharpe, answered. ‘His name’s Ahmed,’ Sevajee said, ‘and I told him you were a great English lord who commands the lives and deaths of a thousand men.’
‘You told him what?’
‘I told him you’d beat him bloody if he disobeys you,’ Sevajee said, looking at his men who, denied their entertainment, had gone back to looting the dead. ‘You like being an officer?’ he asked Sharpe.
‘I hate it.’
Sevajee smiled, revealing red-stained teeth. ‘McCandless thought you would, but didn’t know how to curb your ambition.’ Sevajee slid down from his saddle. ‘I am sorry McCandless died,’ the Indian said.
‘Me too.’
‘You know who killed him?’
‘I reckon it was Dodd.’
Sevajee nodded. ‘Me too.’ Syud Sevajee was a high-born Mahratta, the eldest son of one of the Rajah of Berar’s warlords, but a rival in the Rajah’s service had murdered his father, and Sevajee had been seeking revenge ever since. If that revenge meant marching with the enemy British, then that was a small price to pay for family pride. Sevajee had ridden with Colonel McCandless when the Scotsman had pursued Dodd, and thus he had met Sharpe. ‘Beny Singh was not with the enemy today,’ he told Sharpe.
Sharpe had to think for a few seconds before remembering that Beny Singh was the man who had poisoned Sevajee’s father. ‘How do you know?’
‘His banner wasn’t among the Mahratta flags. Today we faced Manu Bappoo, the Rajah’s brother. He’s a better man than the Rajah, but he refuses to take the throne for himself. He’s also a better soldier than the rest, but not good enough, it seems.