“Throw them over the bloody side!” Lockhart shouted, and the tall cavalryman slashed
his sabre, just missing Sharpe, but the hissing blade drove the enemy frantically back
and two of them, caught on the edge of the fire step screamed and fell to where they were
beaten to death by the musket butts of Campbell's Highlanders. Campbell himself was
running to the next gate. Two more gates to unbar and the way would be open, but the Cobras
were thick on the walls and Dodd was screaming at them to shoot into the press of men,
attackers and defenders alike, and so throw back the impudent handful of redcoats who
had turned his rear.
Then the attackers outside the fort, who had despaired of making another charge into
the smoke- and blood-stinking alley where so many had died, heard the fight on the ramparts
and so they came back, flooding into the shadow of the arch and there aiming up at the fire
steps The muskets hammered, more men came, and the Cobras were assailed from in front and
from below.
“Rockets!” Dodd shouted, and some of his men lit the missiles and tossed them down into
the passageway, but they were nervous of the attackers coming along the top of the
rampart. Those attackers were big men, crazed with battle, slashing with swords and
bayonets as they snarled their way along the wall. Sergeant Green's men fired from below,
picking off defenders and forcing others to duck.
“Fire across! Fire across!” Captain Campbell, down in the passageway, had seen the
defenders thickening in front of the men attacking along the tops of the walls and now he
cupped his hands and shouted at the men behind the front ranks of the attackers.
“Fire across!” He pointed, showing them that they should angle their fire over the
passageway to strike the defenders on the opposite wall and the men,
understanding him, loaded their muskets. It took a few seconds, but at last the
crossfire began and the pressure in front of Sharpe gave way.
He swung the huge sword backhanded, half severing a man's head, twisted the blade,
thrust it into a belly, twisted it again, and suddenly the Cobras were backing away,
terrified of the bloody blades.
The second gate was opened. Campbell was the first man through and now there was only one
gate left. His sergeant had brought a score of men into the passageway and those Scotsmen
began to fire up at the walls, and the Cobras were crumbling now because there were
redcoats below them on both sides, and more were hacking their way along the rampart, and
the defenders were pinned in a small place with nowhere to go. The only steps to the
gateway's fire step were in redcoat hands, and Dodd's men could either jump or surrender.
A piper had started playing, and the mad skirl of the music drove the attackers to a new
fury as they closed on the remnants of Dodd's Cobras. The redcoats were screaming a
terrible war cry that was a compound of rage, madness and sheer terror. Sharpe's tattered
white facings were now so soaked in blood that it looked as if he wore the red-trimmed coat
of the 33rd again. His arm was tired, his hip was a great aching sore, and the wall was still
not clear. A musket ball snatched at his sleeve, another fanned his bare head, and then he
snarled at an enemy, cut again, and Campbell had the last bar out of its brackets and his
men were heaving on the gate, and the attackers who had come from outside the fort were
pulling on it, while beyond the outermost arch, on the slope above the ravine, an officer
beckoned to all the troops waiting to the north.
A cheer sounded, and a flood of redcoats ran down into the ravine and up the track
towards the Inner Fort. They smelt loot and women.
The gates were open. The fortress in the sky had fallen.
Dodd was the last man on Sharpe's wall. He knew he was beaten, but he was no coward, and
he came forward, sword in hand, then recognized the bloody man opposing him.
“Sergeant Sharpe,” he said, and raised his gold-hilted sword in an ironic salute. He had
once tried to persuade Sharpe to join him in the Cobras, and Sharpe had been tempted, but
fate had kept him in his red coat and brought him to this last meeting on Gawilghur's
ramparts.
“I'm Mister Sharpe now, you bastard,” Sharpe said, and he waved Lockhart and Garrard
back, then jumped forward, cutting with the claymore, but Dodd parried it easily and
lunged at Sharpe, piercing his coat and glancing the sword point off a rib. Dodd stepped
back, nicked the claymore aside, and lunged again, and this time the blade cut into Sharpe's
right cheek, opening it clean up to the bone beside his eye.
“Marked for life,” Dodd said, 'though I fear it won't be a long life, Mister Sharpe." Dodd
thrust again and Sharpe parried desperately, deflecting the blade more by luck than
skill, and he knew he was a dead man because Dodd was too good a swordsman. McCandless had
warned him of this. Dodd might be a traitor, but he was a soldier, and a good one.
Dodd saw Sharpe's sudden caution, and smiled.
“They made an officer out of you, did they? I never knew the British army had that much
sense.” He advanced again, sword low, inviting an attack from Sharpe, but then a redcoat
ran past Sharpe, sabre swinging, and Dodd stepped fast back, surprised by the sudden charge,
although he parried it with an instinctive skill. The force of the parry knocked the
redcoat off balance and Dodd, still with a smile, lunged effortlessly to skewer the
redcoat's throat. It was Ahmed, and Sharpe, recognizing the boy, roared with rage and ran
at Dodd who flicked the sword back, blood streaming from its tip, and deflected the
claymore's savage cut, turned his blade beneath it and was about to thrust the slim blade
into Sharpe's belly when a pistol banged and Dodd was thrown hard back, blood showing on
his right shoulder. His sword arm, numbed by the pistol bullet, hung low.
Sharpe walked up to him and saw the fear in Dodd's eyes.
“This is for McCandless,” he said, and kicked the renegade in the crotch. Dodd gasped and
bent double.
“And this is for Ahmed,” Sharpe said, and swept the claymore up so that its heavy blade
ripped into Dodd's throat, and Sharpe, still holding the sword double-handed, pulled it
hard back and the steel sawed through sinew and muscle and gullet so that the fire step was
suddenly awash with blood as the tall Dodd collapsed. Eli Lockhart, the long horse pistol
still smoking in his hand, edged Sharpe aside to make certain Dodd was dead. Sharpe was
stooped by Ahmed, but the boy was dying. Blood bubbled at his throat as he tried to breathe.
His eyes looked up into Sharpe's face, but there was no recognition there.
His small body heaved frantically, then was still. He had gone to his paradise.
“You stupid bastard,” Sharpe said,
tears trickling to dilute the blood pouring from his cheek.
“You stupid little bastard.”
Lockhart used his sabre to cut the ropes holding the flag above the gatehouse and a roar
of triumph sounded from the ravine as the flag came down. Then Lockhart helped Sharpe strip
Ahmed of his red jacket and, lacking a British flag to hoist, they pulled the faded, blood
reddened coat up to the top of the pole. Gawilghur had yielded.
Sharpe cuffed tears and blood from his face. Lockhart was grinning at him, and Sharpe
forced a smile in return.
“We did it, Eli.”
“We bloody did.” Lockhart held out a hand and Sharpe gripped it.
“Thank you,” Sharpe said fervently, then he let go of the cavalryman's hand and kicked
Dodd's corpse.
“Look after that body, Eli. It's worth a fortune.”
“That's Dodd?”
“That's the bastard. That corpse is worth seven hundred guineas to you and Clare.”
“You and me, sir,” Lockhart said. The Sergeant looked as ragged and bloody as Sharpe. His
blue jacket was torn and bloodstained.
“We'll share the reward,” he said, 'you and me, sir."
“No,” Sharpe said, 'he's all yours. I just wanted to see the bastard dead. That's reward
enough for me." Blood was pouring from his cheek to add to the gore on his coat. He turned to
Garrard who was leaning against the parapet, gasping for air.
“Look after the boy for me, Tom.”
Garrard, seeing that Ahmed was dead, frowned in puzzlement.
“I'm going to give him a proper burial,” Sharpe explained, then he turned and walked
down the wall where exhausted redcoats rested among the dead and dying Cobras, while
beneath them, in the passage that Campbell had opened, a stream of soldiers poured
unopposed into the fort.
“Where are you going?” Garrard shouted after Sharpe.
Sharpe did not answer. He just walked on. He had another enemy to hunt, and an even
richer reward to win.
The defenders were hunted down and killed. Even when they tried to surrender, they were
killed, for their fortress had resisted and that was the fate of garrisons that showed
defiance. Blood-maddened redcoats, fed on arrack and rum, roamed the vast stronghold with
bayonets and greed both sharpened. There was little enough loot, but plenty of women, and
so the screaming began.
Some defenders, knowing Gawilghur's geography, slipped to those parts of the
perimeter where no wall faced outwards and dangerously narrow paths led down the cliffs.
They streamed like ants down the rock, going to oblivion. Some hid, knowing that the rage of
the attackers would soon enough be exhausted. Those who could not escape or find a hiding
place died.
Flies buzzed in the palace where the dead were already stinking in the heat. Officers
wandered the rooms, marvelling at their poverty. They had expected to find another
mansion like the Tippoo Sultan's palace, a glittering trove of gems, gold, ivory and silk,
but the Rajah of Berar had never been rich. Some discovered the cellars and they noted
the great armoury, but were more interested in the barrels of cash, though when they saw
the coins were all of copper they spat in disgust. A company of sepoys found some silver
plate that they cut apart with their bayonets.
Syud Sevajee had found his enemy, his father's murderer, but Beny Singh was already
dead and Sevajee could do little more than spit on his corpse.
Beneath the palace, redcoats splashed in the lake, slaking their thirst.
Some had discarded their red jackets, hanging them from the trees, and a ragged man, who
had slipped unseen from the palace, stole one of the coats and pulled it on before limping
towards the captured gatehouse.
He was a white man, and wore a pair of dirty trousers and a ragged shirt, while a white coat
and a black sash were bundled under one arm. His hair was lank, his skin filthy, and his face
twitched as he shuffled along the path. No one took any notice of him, for he looked like any
other redcoat who had found his small scrap of loot, and so Obadiah Hakeswill slunk
northwards with a fortune in jewels concealed in his shabby clothes.
He reckoned he had only to get through the gate, and across the Outer Fort, and then he
would run. Where? He did not know. Just run. He was rich now, but he would still need to steal
a horse. There would be plenty of officers' horses in the camp, and maybe he would be lucky
and find a dead man's horse so that the loss would not be noticed for days. Then he would ride
southwards. South to Madras, and in Madras he could sell the jewels, buy proper clothes and
become a gentleman. Obadiah Hakeswill, Gent. Then he would go home. Home to England. Be a
rich gentleman there.
He ignored the redcoats. The buggers had won, and it was not fair.
He could have been a rajah, but at least he was as rich as any rajah, and so he sidled
down the dusty path and the gatehouse was not very far away now. An officer was ahead,
standing with a drawn claymore beside the snake pit and staring down into its horror, and
then he turned and walked towards Hakeswill. The officer was hatless, bloody-faced, and
Obadiah limped off the track, praying that he would not be noticed. The officer went
safely past and Hakeswill breathed a silent prayer of thanks and swerved back to the track.
Only a trickle of men came through the gate now, and most of them were too intent on
joining the plundering to care about a single man limping the other way. Hakeswill
grinned, knowing he would get away. He would be a gentleman.
Then a sword point pricked his spine and Hakeswill froze.
“I've been looking for you for days, Obadiah,” a hated voice said, and Hakeswill turned
to look up into Sharpe's face, but the face was half hidden by blood, which was why he had
not recognized the officer standing beside the snake pit.
“I was a prisoner,” Hakeswill whined, 'a prisoner."
“You're a bloody liar.”
“For the love of God, help me.” Obadiah pretended not to recognize Sharpe, pretended
to be mad. He twitched and moaned, let spittle dribble from his mouth and twisted his hands
in submission.
“Locked me up,” he said, 'the heathen bastards locked me up. Ain't seen daylight in
days."
Sharpe leaned forward and snatched the coat that was bundled under Hakeswill's arm.
Hakeswill stiffened, and Sharpe smiled as he saw the flash of anger in the Sergeant's
eyes.
“Want the coat back, Obadiah? So fight me for it.”
“I was a prisoner,” Hakeswill insisted, no longer moaning like a mad thing.
Sharpe shook the coat open.
"So why's the jacket white, Obadiah?
You're a bleeding liar." He felt the coat's pockets, felt the hard lumps and knew his
jewels were safe again. Hakeswill's eyes glinted with a terrible and frustrated rage.
“Go on, Obadiah,” Sharpe said, 'fight me."
“I was a prisoner,” Hakeswill said, and he glanced to his right, hoping he could make a
run for it, for though he might have lost the jewels in the coat, he had others in his
trousers. And Sharpe, he now saw,
had a wound in the hip. Perhaps Sharpe could not run. So run now, he told himself, and
then the flat of the claymore's blade struck him hard across the scalp. He yelped, then went
still as the sword point pricked at his throat.