that men would
still be dying, ridden down by cavalry and pierced by lances or slashed by sabres, but Dodd
had got clean away. His men were tired, but they were safe in a dark countryside of millet
fields, drought-emptied irrigation ditches and scattered villages where dogs barked
frantically when they caught the scent of the marching column.
Dodd did not trouble the villagers. He had sufficient food, and earlier in the night
they had found an irrigation tank that had yielded enough water for men and beasts.
“Do you know where we are, Jemadar?” he asked.
“No, sahib.” Gopal grinned, his teeth showing white in the darkness.
“Nor do I. But I know where we're going.”
“Where, sahib?”
“To Gawilghur, Gopal. To Gawilghur.”
“Then we must march north, sahib.” Gopal pointed to the mountains that showed as a dark
line against the northern stars.
“It is there, sahib.”
Dodd was marching to the fortress that had never known defeat. To the impregnable
fastness on the cliff. To Gawilghur.
Dawn came to the millet fields. Ragged-winged birds flopped down beside corpses. The
smell of death was already rank, and would only grow worse as the sun rose to become a
furnace in a cloudless sky.
Bugles called reveille, and the picquets who had guarded the sleeping army around
Argaum cleared their muskets by loosing off shots. The gunfire startled birds up from
corpses and made the feasting dogs growl among the human dead.
Regiments dug graves for their own dead. There were few enough to bury, for no more than
fifty redcoats had died, but there were hundreds of Mahratta and Arab corpses, and the
lascars who did the army's fetching and carrying began the task of gathering the
bodies.
Some enemies still lived, though barely, and the luckiest of those were despatched with a
blow of a mattock before their robes were rifled.
The unlucky were taken to the surgeons' tents.
The enemy's captured guns were inspected, and a dozen selected as suitable for
British service. They were all well made, forged in Agra by French-trained gunsmiths, but
some were the wrong calibre and a few were so overdecorated with writhing gods and
goddesses that no self-respecting gunner could abide them. The twenty-six rejected
guns would be double-shot ted and exploded.
“A dangerous business,” Lieutenant Colonel William Wallace remarked to Sharpe.
“Indeed, sir.”
“You saw the accident at Assaye?” Wallace asked. The Colonel took off his cocked hat and
fanned his face. The hat's white plumes were still stained with blood that had dried black.
“I heard it, sir. Didn't see it,” Sharpe said. The accident had occurred after the
battle of Assaye when the enemy's captured cannon were being destroyed and one
monstrous piece, a great siege gun, had exploded prematurely, killing two
engineers.
“Leaves us short of good engineers,” Wallace remarked, 'and we'll need them if we're
going to Gawilghur."
“Gawilghur, sir?”
“A ghastly fortress, Sharpe, quite ghastly.” The Colonel turned and pointed north.
“Only about twenty miles away, and if the Mahrattas have any sense that's where they'll
be heading.” Wallace sighed.
"I've never seen the place, so maybe it isn't as bad as they say, but I remember poor
McCandless describing it as a brute. A real brute.
Like Stirling Castle, he said, only much larger and the cliff's twenty times
higher."
Sharpe had never seen Stirling Castle, so had no real idea what the Colonel meant. He
said nothing. He had been idling the morning away when Wallace sent for him, and now he and
the Colonel were walking through the battle's litter. The Arab boy followed a dozen paces
behind.
“Yours, is he?” Wallace asked.
“Think so, sir. Sort of picked him up yesterday.”
“You need a servant, don't you? Urquhart tells me you don't have one.”
So Urquhart had been discussing Sharpe with the Colonel. No good could come of that,
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