Read Online The Company of Shadows (Wellington Undead Book 3) by Richard Estep - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Estep
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region, the senior British representative in India (Richard Wellesley, Lord Mornington) had dispatched a force under the auspices of his younger brother with the obvious intent of shattering that alliance into pieces once and for all.
“Peace?” Berar’s head snapped round to face him, making the gold-crusted feather in his turban flap madly to and fro. “What is there to be at peace about? The British have beaten us!”
The two potentates rode together at the center of a phalanx made up of their personal guard, some five hundred elite fighting men dressed in cream-colored tunics and trousers. Each wore a pale yellow sash over the right shoulder that was belted at the hip, and a scarlet turban that seemed almost to mock the uniform of their most hated enemy: the British redcoat. The men did not quite march in step, for the terrain was too uneven to allow it, but their ordered, leisurely pace was something that Scindia found rather reassuring. They marched confidently, kicking up a small cloud of dust about their sandals with every step. Their commander, a subadar by the name of Romesh, had practically begged Scindia for the opportunity to join the battle last night, to take their scimitars and muskets against the vile British. For his part, Scindia had actually been tempted: it seemed to him that the presence of five hundred superbly-disciplined men might sway the battle in their favor once more. But he had been overruled by Berar, who had vehemently dismissed the idea with a chop of one richly-bejeweled hand.
“Absolutely not! I forbid it. Our safety is of paramount importance. All else is secondary!”
These men were lions, and one did not keep a lion on the leash for too long…not without irretrievably blunting its spirit, at any rate. Romesh had obeyed, just as Scindia had known he would, for the man was a professional fighting soldier. But that look in his eyes…it plainly rankled. What manner of true fighting man would willingly stand by and watch his brothers in arms be slaughtered, in order to protect a fat, perfumed prince? Even Scindia’s lip had curled at the refusal to let them help.
It was at that moment that Scindia had first known, with an utterly cold-blooded certainty, that Berar would have to die.
What was left of their army now marched to Gawilghur, Berar’s fortress, located high up in the mountains to the north-east. It was said to be impregnable, and in all the generations since it had first been hewn out of the rock, it had never once been taken by either siege or by storm.
He and Berar were counting on that impregnability now.
As a strongpoint, Gawilghur was of almost incalculable strategic importance, its sphere of control encompassing all of the plains and roads for miles around, in every direction. Wellesley would not – no, could not – bypass the fortress. He simply dared not, for the Maratha forces entrenched there would act as a dagger at his back, ever-vigilant and ready to cut his supply lines if he chose to do anything other than retreat. Half-drunk on blood one night, Pohlmann had insisted that he knew precisely how Wellesley thought and planned. Gawilghur had to be taken, the Hanoverian went on. There was simply no other way. And now that the first engagement at Assaye had proven indecisive, Gawilghur is where the Marathas would finally break the British.
“The British have most assuredly not beaten us,” Scindia retorted mildly, his attention drifting back to the here and now. “And while we have most assuredly not beaten them either, we still hold the upper hand.”
“The upper hand?” Berar sounded scornful. “Our army is broken. We are in retreat. Please explain to me how we hold the ‘upper hand.’”
Leeting out a long sigh, Scindia said, “The breaking of our army is temporary. To borrow a metaphor: We have been mauled, yes, but the bleeding as stopped and we shall soon heal. Remember, the British have been weakened also.” He dropped his voice to a
“Peace?” Berar’s head snapped round to face him, making the gold-crusted feather in his turban flap madly to and fro. “What is there to be at peace about? The British have beaten us!”
The two potentates rode together at the center of a phalanx made up of their personal guard, some five hundred elite fighting men dressed in cream-colored tunics and trousers. Each wore a pale yellow sash over the right shoulder that was belted at the hip, and a scarlet turban that seemed almost to mock the uniform of their most hated enemy: the British redcoat. The men did not quite march in step, for the terrain was too uneven to allow it, but their ordered, leisurely pace was something that Scindia found rather reassuring. They marched confidently, kicking up a small cloud of dust about their sandals with every step. Their commander, a subadar by the name of Romesh, had practically begged Scindia for the opportunity to join the battle last night, to take their scimitars and muskets against the vile British. For his part, Scindia had actually been tempted: it seemed to him that the presence of five hundred superbly-disciplined men might sway the battle in their favor once more. But he had been overruled by Berar, who had vehemently dismissed the idea with a chop of one richly-bejeweled hand.
“Absolutely not! I forbid it. Our safety is of paramount importance. All else is secondary!”
These men were lions, and one did not keep a lion on the leash for too long…not without irretrievably blunting its spirit, at any rate. Romesh had obeyed, just as Scindia had known he would, for the man was a professional fighting soldier. But that look in his eyes…it plainly rankled. What manner of true fighting man would willingly stand by and watch his brothers in arms be slaughtered, in order to protect a fat, perfumed prince? Even Scindia’s lip had curled at the refusal to let them help.
It was at that moment that Scindia had first known, with an utterly cold-blooded certainty, that Berar would have to die.
What was left of their army now marched to Gawilghur, Berar’s fortress, located high up in the mountains to the north-east. It was said to be impregnable, and in all the generations since it had first been hewn out of the rock, it had never once been taken by either siege or by storm.
He and Berar were counting on that impregnability now.
As a strongpoint, Gawilghur was of almost incalculable strategic importance, its sphere of control encompassing all of the plains and roads for miles around, in every direction. Wellesley would not – no, could not – bypass the fortress. He simply dared not, for the Maratha forces entrenched there would act as a dagger at his back, ever-vigilant and ready to cut his supply lines if he chose to do anything other than retreat. Half-drunk on blood one night, Pohlmann had insisted that he knew precisely how Wellesley thought and planned. Gawilghur had to be taken, the Hanoverian went on. There was simply no other way. And now that the first engagement at Assaye had proven indecisive, Gawilghur is where the Marathas would finally break the British.
“The British have most assuredly not beaten us,” Scindia retorted mildly, his attention drifting back to the here and now. “And while we have most assuredly not beaten them either, we still hold the upper hand.”
“The upper hand?” Berar sounded scornful. “Our army is broken. We are in retreat. Please explain to me how we hold the ‘upper hand.’”
Leeting out a long sigh, Scindia said, “The breaking of our army is temporary. To borrow a metaphor: We have been mauled, yes, but the bleeding as stopped and we shall soon heal. Remember, the British have been weakened also.” He dropped his voice to a
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