LITMIR.BIZ

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Panhapur. Not much of a wall, Sharpe, just a thicket of cactus thorn really, but it took his sepoys five minutes to follow him, and by the time they reached him he’d killed a dozen of the enemy. He’s a tall man who can use a sword and is a fine pistol shot too. He is, in brief, a killer.’

      ‘If he’s so good, sir, why is he still a lieutenant?’

      The Colonel sighed. ‘I fear that is the way of the Company’s army, Sharpe. A man can’t buy his way up the ladder as he can in the King’s army, and there’s no promotion for good service. It all goes by seniority. Dead men’s shoes, Sharpe. A fellow must wait his turn in the Company, and there’s no way round it.’

      ‘So Dodd has been waiting, sir?’

      ‘A long time. He’s forty now, and I doubt he’d have got his captaincy much before he was fifty.’

      ‘Is that why he ran, sir?’

      ‘He ran because of the murder. He claimed a goldsmith cheated him of money and had his men beat the poor fellow so badly that he died. He was court-martialled, of course, but the only sentence he got was six months without pay. Six months without pay! That’s sanctioning murder, Sharpe! But Wellesley insisted the Company discharge him, and he planned to have Dodd tried before a civilian court and condemned to death, so Dodd ran.’ The Colonel paused. ‘I wish I could say we’re pursuing him because of the murder, Sharpe,’ he went on, ‘but that isn’t so. We’re pursuing him because he persuaded his men to defect. Once that rot starts, it might never stop, and we have to show the other sepoys that desertion will always be punished.’

      Just before nightfall, when the rain had stopped and Sharpe thought his sore muscles and bleeding calves would make him moan aloud in agony, a group of horsemen came cantering towards them. To Sharpe they looked like silladars, the mercenary horsemen who hired themselves, their weapons and their horses to the British army, and he pulled his mare over to the left side of the road to give the heavily armed men room to pass, but their leader slowed as he approached, then raised a hand in greeting. ‘Colonel!’ he shouted.

      ‘Sevajee!’ McCandless cried and spurred his horse towards the oncoming Indian. He held out his hand and Sevajee clasped it.

      ‘You have news?’ McCandless asked.

      Sevajee nodded. ‘Your fellow is inside Ahmednuggur, Colonel. He’s been given Mathers’s regiment.’ He was pleased with his news, grinning broadly to reveal red-stained teeth. He was a young man dressed in the remnants of a green uniform Sharpe did not recognize. The jacket had European epaulettes hung with silver chains, and over it was strapped a sword sling and a sash, both of white silk and both stained brown with dried blood.

      ‘Sergeant Sharpe,’ McCandless made the introductions, ‘this is Syud Sevajee.’

      Sharpe nodded a wary greeting. ‘Sahib,’ he said, for there was something about Syud Sevajee that suggested he was a man of rank.

      ‘The Sergeant has seen Lieutenant Dodd,’ McCandless explained. ‘He’ll make sure we capture the right man.’

      ‘Kill all the Europeans,’ Sevajee suggested, ‘and you’ll be sure.’ The suggestion, it seemed to Sharpe, was not entirely flippant.

      ‘I want him captured alive,’ McCandless said irritably. ‘Justice must be seen to be done. Or would you rather that your people believe a British officer can beat a man to death without any punishment?’

      ‘They believe that anyway,’ Sevajee said carelessly, ‘but if you wish to be scrupulous, McCandless, then we shall capture Mister Dodd.’ Sevajee’s men, a dozen wild-looking warriors armed with everything from bows and arrows to lances, had fallen in behind McCandless.

      ‘Syud Sevajee is a Mahratta, Sharpe,’ McCandless explained.

      ‘One of the romantic ones, sir?’

      ‘Romantic?’ Sevajee repeated the word in surprise.

      ‘He’s on our side, if that’s what you mean,’ McCandless said.

      ‘No,’ Sevajee hurried to correct the Colonel. ‘I am opposed to Beny Singh, and so long as he lives I help the enemies of my enemy.’

      ‘Why’s this fellow your enemy, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Sharpe asked.

      Sevajee touched the hilt of his tulwar as if it was a fetish. ‘Because he killed my father, Sergeant.’

      ‘Then I hope you get the bastard, sir.’

      ‘Sharpe!’ McCandless said in reprimand.

      Sevajee laughed. ‘My father,’ he explained to Sharpe, ‘led one of the Rajah of Berar’s compoos. He was a great warrior, Sergeant, and Beny Singh was his rival. He invited my father to a feast and served him poison. That was three years ago. My mother killed herself, but my younger brother serves Beny Singh and my sister is one of his concubines. They too will die.’

      ‘And you escaped, sir?’ Sharpe asked.

      ‘I was serving in the East India Company cavalry, Sergeant,’ Sevajee answered. ‘My father believed a man should know his enemy, so sent me to Madras.’

      ‘Where we met,’ McCandless said brusquely, ‘and now Sevajee serves me.’

      ‘Because in return,’ Sevajee explained, ‘your British bayonets will hand Beny Singh to my revenge. And with him, of course, the reward for Dodd. Four thousand, two hundred rupees, is it not?’

      ‘So long as he’s taken alive,’ McCandless said dourly, ‘and it might be increased once the Court of Directors hears what he did at Chasalgaon.’

      ‘And to think I almost caught him,’ Sevajee said, and described how he and his few men had visited Ahmednuggur posing as brindarries who were loyal to Scindia.

      ‘Brindarrie?’ Sharpe asked.

      ‘Like silladars,’ McCandless told him. ‘Freelance horsemen. And you saw Dodd?’ he asked Sevajee.

      ‘I heard him, Colonel, though I never got close. He was lecturing his regiment, telling them how they would chase you British out of India.’

      McCandless scoffed. ‘He’ll be lucky to escape from Ahmednuggur! Why has he stayed there?’

      ‘To give Pohlmann a chance to attack?’ Sevajee suggested. ‘His compoo was still close to Ahmednuggur a few days ago.’

      ‘Just one compoo, sir?’ Sharpe suggested. ‘One compoo won’t beat Wellesley.’

      Sevajee gave him a long, speculative look. ‘Pohlmann, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘is the best infantry leader in Indian service. He has never lost a battle, and his compoo is probably the finest infantry army in India. It already outnumbers Wellesley’s army, but if Scindia releases his other compoos, then together they will outnumber your Wellesley three to one. And if Scindia waits until Berar’s troops are with him, he’ll outnumber you ten to one.’

      ‘So why are we attacking, sir?’

      ‘Because we’re going to win,’ McCandless said firmly. ‘God’s will.’

      ‘Because, Sergeant,’ Sevajee said, ‘you British think that you are invincible. You believe you cannot be defeated, but you have not fought the Mahrattas. Your little army marches north full of confidence, but you are like mice waking an elephant.’

      ‘Some mice,’ McCandless snorted.

      ‘Some elephant,’ Sevajee said gently. ‘We are the Mahrattas, and if we did not fight amongst ourselves we would rule all India.’

      ‘You’ve not faced Scottish infantry yet,’ McCandless said confidently, ‘and Wellesley has two Scottish regiments with him. Besides, you forget that Stevenson has an army too, and he’s not so very far away.’ Two armies, both small, were invading the Mahratta Confederation, though Wellesley, as the senior officer, had control of both. ‘I reckon the mice will startle you yet,’

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