Sharpe's Triumph: Richard Sharpe and the Battle of Assaye, September 1803

  “Frighten them away?” Sevajee asked with a smile, but Wellesley ignored the comment as he spurred on eastwards, parallel with the river. Some troops of Company cavalry were scouring the fields and at first Sharpe thought they were looking for concealed enemy pickets, then he saw they were hunting down local farmers and harrying them along in the General’s wake.

  Wellesley rode two miles eastwards, a string of horsemen behind him. The farmers were breathless by the time they reached the place where his horse was picketed just beneath a low hill. The General was kneeling on the crest, staring east through a glass. “Ask those fellows if there are any fords east of here!” he shouted down to his aides.

  A hurried consultation followed, but the farmers were quite sure there was no ford. The only crossing places, they insisted, were directly in front of Scindia’s army. “Find a clever one,” Wellesley ordered, “and bring him up here. Colonel? Maybe you’d translate?”

  McCandless picked one of the farmers and led him up the hill. Sharpe, without being asked, followed and Wellesley did not order him back, but just muttered that they should all keep their heads low. “There”—the General pointed eastwards to a village on the Kaitna’s southern bank—“that village, what’s it called?”

  “Peepulgaon,” the farmer said, and added that his mother and two sisters lived in the huddle of mud-walled houses with their thatched roofs.

  Peepulgaon lay only a half-mile from the low hill, but it was all of two miles east of Taunklee, the village that was opposite the eastern extremity of the Mahratta line. Both villages were on the river’s southern bank while the enemy waited on the Kaitna’s northern side, and Sharpe did not understand Wellesley’s interest. “Ask him if he has any relatives north of the river,” the General ordered McCandless.

  “He has a brother and several cousins, sir,” McCandless translated.

  “So how does his mother visit her son north of the river?” Wellesley asked.

  The farmer launched himself into a long explanation. In the dry season, he said, she walked across the river bed, but in the wet season, when the waters rose, she was forced to come upstream and cross at Taunklee. Wellesley listened, then grunted in apparent disbelief. He was staring intently through the glass. “Campbell?” he called, but his aide had gone to another low rise a hundred yards westwards that offered a better view of the enemy ranks. “Campbell?” Wellesley called again and, getting no answer, turned. “Sharpe, you’ll do. Come here.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’ve got young eyes. Come here, and keep low.”

  Sharpe joined the General on the crest where, to his surprise, he was handed the telescope. “Look at the village,” Wellesley ordered, “then look at the opposite bank and tell me what you see.”

  It took Sharpe a moment to find Peepulgaon in the lens, but suddenly its mud walls filled the glass. He moved the telescope slowly, sliding its view past oxen, goats and chickens, past clothes set to dry on bushes by the river bank, and then the lens slid across the brown water of the River Kaitna and up its opposite bank where he saw a muddy bluff topped by trees and, just beyond the trees, a fold of land. And in the fold of land were roofs, straw roofs. “There’s another village there, sir,” Sharpe said.

  “You’re sure?” Wellesley asked urgently.

  “Pretty sure, sir. Might just be cattle sheds.”

  “You don’t keep cattle sheds apart from a village,” the General said scathingly, “not in a country infested by bandits.” Wellesley twisted around. “McCandless? Ask your fellow if there’s a village on the other side of the river from Peepulgaon.”

  The farmer listened to the question, then nodded. “Waroor,” he said, then helpfully informed the General that his cousin was the village headman, the naique.

  “How far apart are those villages, Sharpe?” Wellesley asked.

  Sharpe judged the distance for a couple of seconds. “Three hundred yards, sir?”

  Wellesley took the telescope back and moved away from the crest. “Never in my life,” he said, “have I seen two villages on opposite banks of a river that weren’t connected by a ford.”

  “He insists not, sir,” McCandless said, indicating the farmer.

  “Then he’s a rogue, a liar or a blockhead,” Wellesley said cheerfully. “The latter, probably.” He frowned in thought, his right hand drumming a tattoo on the telescope’s barrel. “I’ll warrant there is a ford,” he said to himself.

  “Sir?” Captain Campbell had run back from the western knoll. “Enemy’s breaking camp, sir.”

  “Are they, by God!” Wellesley returned to the crest and stared through the glass again. The infantry immediately on the Kaitna’s north bank were not moving, but far away, close to the fortified village, tents were being struck. “Preparing to run away, I dare say,” Wellesley muttered.

  “Or readying to cross the river and attack us,” McCandless said grimly.

  “And they’re sending cavalry across the river,” Campbell added ominously.

  “Nothing to worry us,” Wellesley said, then turned back to stare at the opposing villages of Peepulgaon and Waroor. “There has to be a ford,” he said to himself again, so quietly that only Sharpe could hear him. “Stands to reason,” he said, then he went silent for a long time.

  “That enemy cavalry, sir,” Campbell prompted him.

  Wellesley seemed startled. “What?”

  “There, sir.” Campbell pointed westwards to a large group of enemy horsemen who had appeared from a grove of trees, but who seemed content to watch Wellesley’s group from a half-mile away.

  “Time we were away,” Wellesley said. “Give that lying blockhead a rupee, McCandless, then let’s be off.”

  “You plan to retreat, sir?” McCandless asked.

  Wellesley had been hurrying down the slope, but now stopped and stared in surprise at the Scotsman. “Retreat?”

  McCandless blinked. “You surely don’t intend to fight, sir, do you?”

  “How else are we to do His Majesty’s business? Of course we’ll fight! There’s a ford there.” Wellesley flung his arm east towards Peepulgaon. “That wretched farmer might deny it, but he’s a blockhead! There has to be a ford. We’ll cross it, turn their left flank and pound them into scraps! But we must hurry! Noon already. Three hours, gentlemen, three hours to bring on battle. Three hours to turn his flank.” He ran on down the hill to where Diomed, his white Arab horse, waited.

  “Good God,” McCandless said. “Good God.” For five thousand infantry would now cross the Kaitna at a place where men said the river was uncrossable, then fight an enemy horde at least ten times their number. “Good God,” the Colonel said again, then hurried to follow Wellesley south. The enemy had stolen a march, the redcoats had journeyed all night and were bone tired, but Wellesley would have his battle.

  CHAPTER•9

  “There!” Dodd said, pointing.

  “I can’t see,” Simone Joubert complained.

  “Drop the telescope, use your naked eye, Madame. There! It’s flashing.”

  “Where?”

  “There!” Dodd pointed again. “Across the river. Three trees, low hill.”

  “Ah!” Simone at last saw the flash of reflected sunlight from the lens of a telescope that was being used on the far bank of the river and well downstream from where Dodd’s Cobras held the left of Pohlmann’s line.

  Simone and her husband had dined with the Major who was grimly happy in anticipation of a British attack which, he claimed, must inevitably fall hardest on his Cobras. “It will be slaughter, Ma’am,” Dodd said wolfishly, “sheer slaughter!” He and Captain Joubert had walked Simone to the edge of the bluff above the Kaitna and shown her the fords, and demonstrated how any men crossing the fords must be caught in the mangling crossfire of the Mahratta cannon, then maintained that the British had no option but to walk forward into that weltering onslaught of canister, round shot and shell. “If you wish to stay and watch, Madame,” Dodd had offered, “I can find a place of safety for
you.” He gestured towards a low rise of ground just behind the regiment. “You could watch from there, and I credit no British soldier will come near you.”

  “I could not bear to watch a slaughter, Major,” Simone had said feelingly.

  “Your squeamishness does you credit, Ma’am,” Dodd had answered. “War is man’s work.” It was then that Dodd had spotted the British soldiers on the opposite bank and had trained his telescope on the distant men. Simone, knowing now where to look, rested the glass on her husband’s shoulder and trained its lens on the far hill. She could see two men there, one in a cocked hat and the other in a shako. Both were keeping low. “Why are they so far down the river?” she asked.

  “They’re looking for a way around our flank,” Dodd said.

  “Is there one?”

  “No. They must cross here, Ma’am, or else they don’t cross at all.” Dodd gestured at the fords in front of the compoo. A band of cavalrymen was galloping through the shallow water, spraying silver from their horses’ hooves as they crossed to the Kaitna’s south bank. “And those horsemen,” Dodd explained, “are going to see whether they will cross or not.”

  Simone collapsed the telescope and handed it back to the Major. “They might not attack?”

  “They won’t,” her husband answered in English for Dodd’s benefit. “They have too much sense.”

  “Boy Wellesley don’t have sense,” Dodd said scathingly. “Look how he attacked at Ahmednuggur? Straight at the wall! A hundred rupees says he will attack.”

  Captain Joubert shook his head. “I do not gamble, Major.”

  “A soldier should relish risk,” Dodd said.

  “And if they don’t cross,” Simone asked, “there is no battle?”

  “There’ll be a battle, Ma’am,” Dodd said grimly. “Pohlmann’s gone to fetch Scindia’s permission for us to cross the river. If they won’t come to us, we’ll go to them.”

  Pohlmann had indeed gone to find Scindia. The Hanoverian had dressed for battle, donning his finest coat, which was a blue silk jacket, trimmed in scarlet and decorated with loops of gold braid and black aiguillettes. He wore a white silk sash on which was blazoned a star of diamonds and from which hung a gold-hilted sword, though Dupont, the Dutchman, who accompanied Pohlmann to meet Scindia, noted that the Colonel’s breeches and boots were old and shabby. “I wear them for luck,” Pohlmann said, noting Dupont’s puzzled glance at his decrepit breeches. “They’re from my old East India Company uniform.” The Hanoverian was in a fine mood. His short march eastwards had achieved all he had desired, for it had brought one of the two small British armies into his lap while it was still far away from the other. All he needed to do now was snap it up like a minnow, then march on Stevenson’s force, but Scindia had been insistent that no infantry were to cross the Kaitna’s fords without his permission and Pohlmann now needed that permission. The Hanoverian did not plan to cross immediately, for first he wanted to be certain that the British were retreating, but nor did he wish to wait for permission once he heard news of the enemy’s withdrawal.

  “Our lord and master will be scared at the thought of attacking,” Pohlmann told Dupont, “so we’ll flatter the bugger. Slap on the ghee with a shovel, Dupont. Tell him he’ll be lord of all India if he lets us loose.”

  “Tell him there are a hundred white women in Wellesley’s camp and he’ll lead the attack himself,” Dupont observed dryly.

  “Then that is what we shall tell him,” Pohlmann said, “and promise him that every little darling will be his concubine.”

  Except that when Pohlmann and Dupont reached the tree-shaded stretch of ground above the River Juah where the Maharaja of Gwalior had been awaiting his army’s victory, there was no sign of his lavish tents. They had been struck, all of them, together with the striped tents of the Rajah of Berar, and all that remained were the cook tents that even now were being collapsed and folded onto the beds of a dozen ox carts. All the elephants but one were gone, the horses of the royal bodyguards were gone, the concubines were gone and the two princes were gone.

  The one remaining elephant belonged to Surjee Rao and that minister, ensconced in his howdah where he was being fanned by a servant, smiled benevolently down on the two sweating and red-faced Europeans. “His Serene Majesty deemed it safer to withdraw westwards,” he explained airily, “and the Rajah of Berar agreed with him.”

  “They did what?” Pohlmann snarled.

  “The omens,” Surjee Rao said vaguely, waving a bejeweled hand to indicate that the subtleties of such supernatural messages would be beyond Pohlmann’s comprehension.

  “The bloody omens are propitious!” Pohlmann insisted. “We’ve got the buggers by the balls! What more omens can you want?”

  Surjee Rao smiled. “His Majesty has sublime confidence in your skill, Colonel.”

  “To do what?” the Hanoverian demanded.

  “Whatever is necessary,” Surjee Rao said, then smiled. “We shall wait in Borkardan for news of your triumph, Colonel, and eagerly anticipate seeing the banners of our enemies heaped in triumph at the foot of His Serene Majesty’s throne.” And with that hope expressed he snapped his fingers and the mahout prodded the elephant which lumbered away westwards.

  “Bastards,” Pohlmann said to Dupont, loudly enough for the retreating minister to hear. “Lily-livered bastards! Cowards!” Not that he cared whether Scindia and the Rajah of Berar were present at the battle; indeed, given the choice, he would much prefer to fight without them, but that was not true of his men who, like all soldiers, fought better when their rulers were watching, and so Pohlmann was angry for his men. Yet, he consoled himself as he returned southwards, they would still fight well. Pride would see to that, and confidence, and the promise of plunder.

  And Surjee Rao’s final words, Pohlmann decided, had been more than enough to give him permission to cross the River Kaitna. He had been told to do whatever was necessary, and Pohlmann reckoned that gave him a free hand, so he would give Scindia a victory even if the yellow bastard did not deserve it.

  Pohlmann and Dupont cantered back to the left of the line where they saw that Major Dodd had called his men out from the shade of the trees and into their ranks. The sight suggested that the enemy was approaching the Kaitna and Pohlmann spurred his horse into a gallop, clamping one hand onto his extravagantly plumed hat to stop it falling off. He slewed to a stop just short of Dodd’s regiment and stared above their heads across the river.

  The enemy had come, except this enemy was merely a long line of cavalrymen with two small horse-drawn galloper guns. It was a screen, of course. A screen of British and Indian horsemen intended to stop his own patrols from discovering what was happening in the hidden country beyond. “Any sign of their infantry?” he called to Dodd.

  “None, sir.”

  “The buggers are running!” Pohlmann exulted. “That’s why they’ve put up a screen.” He suddenly noticed Simone Joubert and hastily took off his feathered hat. “My apologies for my language, Madame.” He put his hat back on and twisted his horse about. “Harness the guns!” he shouted.

  “What is happening?” Simone asked anxiously.

  “We’re crossing the river,” her husband said quietly, “and you must go back to Assaye.”

  Simone knew she must say something loving to him, for was that not expected of a wife at a moment such as this? “I shall pray for you,” she said shyly.

  “Go back to Assaye,” her husband said again, noting that she had not given him any love, “and stay there till it is all over.”

  It would not take long. The guns needed to be attached to their limbers, but the infantry were ready to march and the cavalry were eager to begin their pursuit. The existence of the British cavalry screen suggested that Wellesley must be withdrawing, so all Pohlmann needed to do was cross the river and then crush the enemy. Dodd drew his elephant-hilted sword, felt its newly honed edge and waited for the orders to begin the slaughter.

  The Mahratta cavalry pursued Wellesley?
??s party the moment they saw that the General was retreating from his observation post above the river. “We must look to ourselves, gentlemen!” Wellesley had called and driven back his heels so that Diomed had sprung ahead. The other horsemen matched his pace, but Sharpe, on his small captured Mahratta horse, could not keep up. He had mounted in a hurry, and in his haste he could not fit his right boot into the stirrup and the horse’s jolting motion made it all the more difficult, but he dared not curb the beast for he could hear the enemy’s shouts and the beat of their hooves not far behind. For a few moments he was in a panic. The thud of the pursuing hooves grew louder, he could see his companions drawing ever farther ahead of him and his horse was blowing hard and trying to resist the frantic kicks he gave, and each kick threatened to unseat him so that he clung to the saddle’s pommel and still his right boot would not find the stirrup. Sevajee, racing free on the right flank, saw his predicament and curved back towards him. “You’re not a horseman, Sergeant.”

  “Never bloody was, sir. Hate the bloody things.”

  “A warrior and his horse, Sergeant, are like a man and a woman,” Sevajee said, leaning over and pushing the stirrup iron onto Sharpe’s boot. He did it without once checking his own horse’s furious pace, then he slapped Sharpe’s small mare on the rump and she took off like one of the enemy’s rockets, almost tipping Sharpe backwards.

  Sharpe clung on to the pommel, while his musket, which was hanging by its sling from his left elbow, banged and thumped his thigh. His shako blew off and he had no time to rescue it, but then a trumpet sounded off to his right and he saw a stream of British cavalrymen riding to head off the pursuit. Still more cavalrymen were spurring north from Naulniah and Wellesley, as he passed them, urged them on towards the Kaitna.

  “Thank you, sir,” Sharpe said to Sevajee.

  “You should learn horsemanship.”

  “I’ll stay a foot soldier, sir. Safer. Don’t like sitting on things with hooves and teeth.”

  Sevajee laughed. Wellesley had slowed now and was patting the neck of his horse, but the brief pursuit had only increased his high spirits. He turned Diomed to watch the Mahratta cavalry spur away. “A good omen!” he said happily.