“A disciplinarian, I hear,” Pohlmann said.
“He sets a lovely parade ground,” Dodd agreed sarcastically.
“But he isn't a fool?”
“No,” Dodd admitted, 'not a fool, but not a general either. He's been promoted too
fast and too young, sir. He's beaten bandits, but he took a beating himself outside
Seringapatam."
“Ah, yes. The night attack.” Pohlmann had heard of that skirmish, how Arthur Wellesley
had attacked a wood outside Seringapatam and there been roundly thrashed by the Tippoo's
troops.
“Even so,” he said, 'it never serves to underestimate an enemy."
“Overestimate him as much as you like, sir,” Dodd said stoutly, 'but the fact remains
that Boy Wellesley has never fought a proper battle, not with more than a thousand men
under his command, and he's never faced a real army, not a trained field army with gunners
and disciplined infantry, and my guess is that he won't stand. He'll run back to his
brother and demand more men. He's a careful man."
Pohlmann smiled.
“So let us lure this careful man deep into our territory where he can't retreat, eh?
Then beat him.” He smiled, then hauled a watch from his fob and snapped open the lid.
“I have to be going soon,” he said, 'but some business first." He took an envelope from
his gaudy coat's pocket and handed the sealed paper to Dodd.
“That is your authority to command Mathers's regiment, Major,” he said, 'but
remember, I want you to bring it safely out of Ahmednuggur.
You can help the defence for a time, but don't be trapped there. Young Wellesley can't
invest the whole city, he doesn't have enough men, so you should be able to escape easily
enough. Bloody his nose, Dodd, but keep your regiment safe. Do you understand?"
Dodd understood well enough. Pohlmann was setting Dodd a difficult and ignoble task,
that of retreating from a fight with his command intact.
There was little glory in such a manoeuvre, but it would still be a difficult piece of
soldiering and Dodd knew he was being tested a second time. The first test had been
Chasalgaon, the second would be Ahmednuggur. 'I can manage it," he said dourly.
“Good!” Pohlmann said.
“I shall make things easier for you by taking your regiment's families northwards. You
might march soldiers safely from the city's fall, but I doubt you can manage a horde of
women and children too. And what about you, Madame?” He turned and laid a meaty hand on
Simone Joubert's knee.
“Will you come with me?” He talked to her as though she were a child.
“Or stay with Major Dodd?”
Simone seemed startled by the question. She blushed and looked up at Lieutenant
Silliere.
“I shall stay here, Colonel,” she answered in English.
“Make sure you bring her safe home, Major,” Pohlmann said to Dodd.
“I shall, sir.”
Pohlmann stood. His purple-coated bodyguards, who had been standing in front of the
tent, hurried to take their places on the elephant's flanks while the mako ut who had been
resting in the animal's capacious shade, now mounted the somnolent beast by gripping
its tail and clambering up its backside like a sailor swarming up a rope. He edged past the
gilded howdah, took his seat on the elephant's neck and turned the beast towards Pohlmann's
tent.
"Are you sure' -Pohlmann turned back to Simone Joubert - 'that you would not prefer to
travel with me?
The howdah is so comfortable, as long as you do not suffer from seasickness."
“I shall stay with my husband,” Simone said. She had stood and proved to be much taller
than Dodd had supposed. Tall and somewhat gawky, he thought, but she still possessed an odd
attraction.
“A good woman should stay with her husband,” Pohlmann said, 'or someone's husband,
anyway." He turned to Dodd.
“I shall see you in a few days, Major, with your new regiment. Don't let me down.”
“I won't, sir, I won't,” Dodd promised as, holding his new sword, he watched his new
commander climb the silver steps to the howdah. He had a regiment to save and a
reputation to make, and by God, Dodd thought, he would do both things well.
Sharpe sat in the open shed where the armoury stored its gun carriages. It had started to
rain, though it was not the sheeting downpour of the monsoon, just a miserable steady grey
drizzle that turned the mud in the yard into a slippery coating of red slime. Major
Stokes, beginning the afternoon in a clean red coat, white silk stock and polished boots,
paced obsessively about a newly made carriage.
“It really wasn't your fault, Sharpe,” he said.
“Feels like it, sir.”
“It would, it would!” Stokes said.
“Reflects well on you, Sharpe, 'pon my soul, it does. But it weren't your fault, not in any
manner.”
“Lost all six men, sir. And young Davi.”
“Poor Hedgehog,” Stokes said, squatting to peer along the trail of the carriage.
“You reckon that timber's straight, Sharpe? Bit hog-backed, maybe?”
“Looks straight to me, sir.”
“Ain't tight-grained, this oak, ain't tight-grained,” the Major said, and he began to
unbuckle his sword belt. Every morning and afternoon his servant sent him to the
armoury in carefully laundered and pressed clothes, and within an hour Major Stokes would
be stripped down to breeches and shirtsleeves and have his hands full of spoke-shaves or
saws or awls or adzes.
“Like to see a straight trail,” he said.
“There's a number four spokeshave on the wall, Sharpe, be a good fellow.”
“You want me to sharpen it, sir?”
“I did it last night, Sharpe. I put a lovely edge on her.” Stokes unpeeled his red jacket
and rolled up his sleeves.
“Timber don't season here properly, that's the trouble.” He stooped to the new
carriage and began running the spokeshave along the trail, leaving curls of new white wood
to fall away.
“I'm mending a clock,” he told Sharpe while he worked, 'a lovely-made piece, all but for
some crude local gearing.
Have a look at it. It's in my office."
“I will, sir.”
“And I've found some new timber for axletrees, Sharpe. It's really quite
exciting!”
“They'll still break, sir,” Sharpe said gloomily, then scooped up one of the many cats that
lived in the armoury. He put the tabby on his lap and stroked her into a contented
purr.
“Don't be so doom-laden, Sharpe! We'll solve the axletree problem yet. It's only a
question of timber, nothing but timber. There, that looks better.” The Major stepped back
from his work and gave it a critical look. There were plenty of Indian craftsmen employed
in the armoury, but Major Stokes liked to do things himself, and besides, most of the
Indians were busy preparing for the feast of Dusshera which involved manufacturing three
giant-sized figures that would be paraded to the Hindu temple and there burned. Those
Indians were busy in another open-sided shed where they had glue bubbling on a fire, and
some of the men were pasting lengths of pale cloth onto a wicker basket that would form one
of the giants' heads. Stokes was fascinated by their activity and Sharpe knew it would
not be long before the Major joined them.
“Did I tell you a sergeant was here looking for you this morning?”
Stokes asked.
“No, sir.”
“Came just before dinner,” Stokes said, 'a strange sort of fellow." The Major stooped to
the trail and attacked another section of wood.
“He twitched, he did.”
“Obadiah Hakeswill,” Sharpe said.
“I think that was his name. Didn't seem very important,” Stokes said.
“Said he was just visiting town and looking up old companions. D'you know what I was
thinking?”
“Tell me, sir,” Sharpe said, wondering why in holy hell Obadiah Hakeswill had been
looking for him. For nothing good, that was certain.
“Those teak beams in the Tippoo's old throne room,” Stokes said, 'they'll be seasoned well
enough. We could break out a half-dozen of the things and make a batch of axletrees from
them!"
“The gilded beams, sir?” Sharpe asked.
“Soon have the gilding off them, Sharpe. Plane them down in twof shakes!”
“The Rajah may not like it, sir,” Sharpe said.
Stokes's face fell.
"There is that, there is that. A fellow don't usually like his ceilings being pulled
down to make gun carriages. Still, the Rajah's usually most obliging if you can get past
his damned courtiers.
The clock is his. Strikes eight when it should ring nine, or perhaps it's the other way
round. You reckon that quoin's true?"
Sharpe glanced at the wedge which lowered and raised the cannon barrel.
“Looks good, sir.”
“I might just plane her down a shade. I wonder if our templates are out of true? We might
check that. Isn't this rain splendid? The flowers were wilting, wilting! But I'll have a
fine show this year with a spot of rain. You must come and see them.”
“You still want me to stay here, sir?” Sharpe asked.
“Stay here?” Stokes, who was placing the quoin in a vice, turned to look at Sharpe.
“Of course I want you to stay here, Sergeant. Best man I've got!”
“I lost six men, sir.”
“And it wasn't your fault, not your fault at all. I'll get you another six.”
Sharpe wished it was that easy, but he could not chase the guilt of Chasalgaon out of his
mind. When the massacre was finished he had wandered about the fort in a half-daze. Most of
the women and children still lived, but they had been frightened and had shrunk away from
him. Captain Roberts, the second in command of the fort, had returned from patrol that
afternoon and he had vomited when he saw the horror inside the cactus-thorn wall.
Sharpe had made his report to Roberts who had sent it by messenger to Hurryhur, the
army's headquarters, then dismissed Sharpe.
“There'll be an enquiry, I suppose,” Roberts had told Sharpe, 'so doubtless your
evidence will be needed, but you might as well wait in Seringapatam."
And so Sharpe, with no other orders, had walked home. He had returned the bag of rupees
to Major Stokes, and now, obscurely, he wanted some punishment from the Major, but
Stokes was far more concerned about the angle of the quoin.
“I've seen screws shatter because the angle was too steep, and it ain't no good having
broken screws in battle. I've seen Frog guns with metal led quoins, but they only rust.
Can't trust a Frog to keep them greased, you see. You're brooding, Sharpe.”
“Can't help it, sir.”
“Doesn't do to brood. Leave brooding to poets and priests, eh? Those sorts of fellows are
paid to brood. You have to get on with life. What could you have done?”
“Killed one of the bastards, sir.”
“And they'd have killed you, and you wouldn't have liked that and nor would I. Look at that
angle! Look at that! I do like a fine angle, I declare I do. We must check it against the
templates. How's your head?”
“Mending, sir.” Sharpe touched the bandage that wrapped his forehead.
“No pain now, sir.”
“Providence, Sharpe, that's what it is, providence. The good Lord in His ineffable
mercy wanted you to live.” Stokes released the vice and restored the quoin to the
carriage.
“A touch of paint on that trail and it'll be ready. You think the Rajah might give me one
roof beam?”
“No harm in asking him, sir.”
“I will, I will. Ah, a visitor.” Stokes straightened as a horseman, swathed against the
rain in an oilcloth cape and with an oilcloth cover on his cocked hat, rode into the
armoury courtyard leading a second horse by the reins. The visitor kicked his feet from
the stirrups, swung down from the saddle, tiien tied both horses' reins to one of the
shed's pillars.
Major Stokes, his clothes just in their beginning stage of becoming dirty and
dishevelled, smiled at the tall newcomer whose cocked hat and sword betrayed he was an
officer.
“Come to inspect us, have you?” the Major demanded cheerfully.
“You'll discover chaos! Nothing in the right place, records all muddled, woodworm in
the timber stacks, damp in the magazines and the paint completely addled.”
“Better that paint is addled than wits,” the newcomer said, then took off his cocked hat
to reveal a head of white hair.
Sharpe, who had been sitting on one of the finished gun carriages, shot to his feet,
tipping the surprised cat into the Major's wood shavings.
“Colonel McCandless, sir!”
“Sergeant Sharpe!” McCandless responded. The Colonel shook water from his cocked hat
and turned to Stokes.
“And you, sir?”
“Major Stokes, sir, at your service, sir. Horace Stokes, commander of the armoury and,
as you see, carpenter to His Majesty.”
“You will forgive me, Major Stokes, if I talk to Sergeant Sharpe?”
McCandless shed his oilskin cape to reveal his East India Company uniform.
“Sergeant Sharpe and I are old friends.”
“My pleasure, Colonel,” Stokes said.
"I have business in the foundry.
They're pouring too fast. I tell them all the time! Fast pouring just bubbles the metal,
and bubbled metal leads to disaster, but they won't listen. Ain't like making temple
bells, I tell them, but I might as well save my breath." He glanced wistfully towards the
happy men making the giant's head for the Dusshera festival.
“And I have other things to do,” he added.
“I'd rather you didn't leave, Major,” McCandless said very formally.
"I
suspect what I have to say concerns you. It is good to see you, Sharpe."
“You too, sir,” Sharpe said, and it was true. He had been locked in the Tippoo's dungeons
with Colonel Hector McCandless and if it was possible for a sergeant and a colonel to be
friends, then a friendship existed between the two men. McCandless, tall, vigorous and
in his sixties, was the East India Company's head of intelligence for all southern and
western India, and in the last four years he and Sharpe had talked a few times whenever the
Colonel passed through Seringapatam, but those had been social conversations and the
Colonel's grim face suggested that this meeting was anything but social.
“You were at Chasalgaon?” McCandless demanded.
“I was, sir, yes.”
“So you saw Lieutenant Dodd?”
Sharpe nodded.
“Won't ever forget the bastard. Sorry, sir.” He apologized because McCandless was a
fervent Christian who abhorred all foul language. The Scotsman was a stern man, honest as
a saint, and Sharpe sometimes wondered why he liked him so much. Maybe it was because
McCandless was always fair, always truthful and could talk to any man, rajah or sergeant,
with the same honest directness.
“I never met Lieutenant Dodd,” McCandless said, 'so describe him to me."
“Tall, sir, and thin like you or me.”
“Not like me,” Major Stokes put in.
“Sort of yellow-faced,” Sharpe went on, 'as if he'd had the fever once. Long face, like he
ate something bitter." He thought for a second.
He had only caught a few glimpses of Dodd, and those had been sideways.
"He's got lank hair, sir, when he took off his hat. Brown hair.
Long nose on him, like Sir Arthur's, and a bony chin. He's calling himself Major Dodd
now, sir, not Lieutenant. I heard one of his men call him Major."
“And he killed every man in the garrison?” McCandless asked.
“He did, sir. Except me. I was lucky.”
“Nonsense, Sharpe!” McCandless said.
“The hand of the Lord was upon you.”
“Amen,” Major Stokes intervened.
McCandless stared broodingly at Sharpe. The Colonel had a hard planed face with oddly
blue eyes. He was forever claiming that he wanted to retire to his native Scotland, but
he always found some reason to stay on in India. He had spent much of his life riding the
states that bordered the land administered by the Company, for his job was to explore
those lands and report their threats and weaknesses to his masters. Little happened in
India that escaped McCandless, but Dodd had escaped him, and Dodd was now McCandless's
concern.
“We have placed a price on his head,” the Colonel said, 'of five hundred guineas."
“Bless me!” Major Stokes said in astonishment.
“He's a murderer,” McCandless went on.
“He killed a goldsmith in Seedesegur, and he should be facing trial, but he ran instead
and I want you, Sharpe, to help me catch him. And I'm not pursuing the rogue because I want
the reward money; in fact I'll refuse it. But I do want him, and I want your help.”
Major Stokes began to protest, saying that Sharpe was his best man and that the armoury
would go to the dogs if the Sergeant was taken away, but McCandless shot the amiable Major
a harsh look that was sufficient to silence him.
“I want Lieutenant Dodd captured,” McCandless said implacably, 'and I want him tried,
and I want him executed, and I need someone who will know him by sight."
Major Stokes summoned the courage to continue his objections.
“But I need Sergeant Sharpe,” he protested.
“He organizes everything! The duty rosters, the stores, the pay chest,
everything!”
“I need him more,” McCandless snarled, turning on the hapless Major.
“Do you know how many Britons are in India, Major? Maybe twelve thousand, and less than
half of those are soldiers. Our power does not rest on the shoulders of white men, Major,
but on the muskets of our sepoys. Nine men out of every ten who invade the Mahratta states
will be sepoys, and Lieutenant Dodd persuaded over a hundred of those men to desert! To
desert! Can you imagine our fate if the other sepoys follow them? Scindia will shower
Dodd's men with gold, Major, with lucre and with spoil, in the hope that others will follow
them. I have to stop that, and I need Sharpe.”
" Major Stokes recognized the inevitable.
“You will bring him back, sir?”
“If it is the Lord's will, yes. Well, Sergeant? Will you come with me?”
Sharpe glanced at Major Stokes who shrugged, smiled, then nodded his permission.
“I'll come, sir,” Sharpe said to the Scotsman.
“How soon can you be ready?”
“Ready now, sir. ”Sharpe indicated the newly issued pack and musket that lay at his
feet.