Stokes laughed. “Don’t be so absurd, man. Poor Sharpe is a prisoner! He’s locked away in the fortress, I’ve no doubt.”
“That’s what we all hear, sir,” Hakeswill said, “but I knows better.”
“A touch of the sun,” Morris explained to Stokes, then waved the Sergeant away. “Put your kit with the company, Sergeant. And I’m glad you’re back.”
“Touched by your words, sir,” Hakeswill said fervently, “and I’m glad to be home, sir, back in me own kind where I belong.” He saluted again, then swiveled on his heel and marched away.
“Salt of the earth,” Morris said.
Major Stokes, from his brief acquaintance with Hakeswill, was not sure of that verdict, but he said nothing. Instead he wandered a few paces northward to watch the sappers who were busy scraping at the plateau’s thin soil to fill gabions that had been newly woven from green bamboo. The gabions, great wicker baskets stuffed with earth, would be stacked as a screen to soak up the enemy gunfire while the battery sites were being leveled. Stokes had already decided to do the initial work at night, for the vulnerable time for making batteries close to a fortress was the first few hours, and at night the enemy gunfire was likely to be inaccurate.
The Major was making four batteries. Two, the breaching ones, would be constructed far down the isthmus among an outcrop of great black boulders that lay less than a quarter-mile from the fortress. The rocks, with the gabions, would provide the gunners some protection from the fortress’s counterfire. Sappers, hidden from the fort by the lie of the land, were already driving a road to the proposed site of the breaching guns. Two other batteries would be constructed to the east of the isthmus, on the edge of the plateau, and those guns would enfilade the growing breaches.
There would be three breaches. That decision had been made when Stokes, early in the dawn, had crept as close to the fortress as he had dared and, hidden among the tumbled rocks above the half-filled tank, had examined the Outer Fort’s wall through his telescope. He had stared a long time, counting the gun embrasures and trying to estimate how many men were stationed on the bastions and fire steps. Those were details that did not really concern him for Stokes’s business was confined to breaking the walls, but what he saw encouraged him.
There were two walls, both built on the steep slope which faced the plateau. The slope was so steep that the base of the inner wall showed high above the parapet of the outer wall, and that was excellent news, for making a breach depended on being able to batter the base of a wall. These walls, built so long ago, had never been designed to stop artillery, but to deter men. Stokes knew he could lay his guns so that they would hammer both walls at once, and that when the ancient stonework crumbled, the rubble would spill forward down the slope to make natural ramps up which the attackers could climb.
The masonry seemed to have stayed largely unrepaired since it had been built. Stokes could tell that, for the dark stones were covered with gray lichen and thick with weeds growing from the gaps between the blocks. The walls looked formidable, for they were high and well provided with massive bastions that would let the defenders provide flanking fire, but Stokes knew that the dressed stone of the two walls’ outer faces merely disguised a thick heart of piled rubble, and once the facing masonry was shattered the rubble would spill out. A few shots would then suffice to break the inner faces. Two days’ work, he reckoned. Two days of hard gunnery should bring the walls tumbling down.
Stokes had not made his reconnaissance alone, but had been accompanied by Lieutenant Colonel William Kenny of the East India Company who would lead the assault on the breaches. Kenny, a lantern-jawed and taciturn man, had lain beside Stokes. “Well?” he had finally asked after Stokes had spent a silent five minutes examining the walls.
“Two days’ work, sir,” Stokes said. If the Mahrattas had taken the trouble to build a glacis it would have been two weeks’ work, but such was their confidence that they had not bothered to protect the base of the outer wall.
Kenny grunted. “If it’s that easy, then give me two holes in the inner wall.”
“Not the outer?” Stokes asked.
“One will serve me there,” Kenny said, putting an eye to his own telescope. “A good wide gap in the nearer wall, Stokes, but not too near the main gate.”
“We shall avoid that,” the Major said. The main gate lay to the left so that the approach to the fortress was faced by high walls and bastions rather than by a gate vulnerable to artillery fire. However, this gate was massively defended by bastions and towers, which suggested it would be thick with defenders.
“Straight up the middle,” Kenny said, wriggling back from his viewpoint. “Give me a breach to the right of that main bastion, and two on either side of it through the inner wall, and we’ll do the rest.”
It would be easy enough to break down the walls, but Stokes still feared for Kenny’s men. Their approach was limited by the existence of the great reservoir that lay on the right of the isthmus. The water level was low, and scummed green, but the tank still constricted the assault route so that Kenny’s men would be squeezed between the water and the sheer drop to the left. That slender space, scarce more than fifty feet at its narrowest, would be furious with gunfire, much of it coming from the fire steps above and around the main gate that flanked the approach. Stokes had already determined that his enfilading batteries should spare some shot for that gate in an attempt to unseat its cannon and unsettle its defenders.
Now, under the midday sun, the Major wandered among the sappers filling the gabions. He tested each one, making certain that the sepoys were ramming the earth hard into the wicker baskets, for a loosely filled gabion was no use. The finished gabions were being stacked on oxcarts, while other carts piled with powder and shot waited nearby. All was being done properly, and the Major stared out across the plateau where the newly arrived troops were making their camp. The closest tents, ragged and makeshift, belonged to a troop of Mahratta horsemen who had allied themselves with the British. Stokes, watching the robed guards who sat close to the tents, decided it would be best if he locked his valuables away and made sure his servant kept an eye on the trunk. The rest of the Mahratta horsemen had trotted northward, going to seek springs or wells, for it was dry up here on the plateau. Dry and cooler than on the plain, though it was still damned hot. Dust devils whirled between the farther tent rows where muskets were stacked in neat tripods. Some shirtsleeved officers, presumably from the East India Company battalions, were playing cricket on a smoother stretch of turf, watched by bemused sepoys and men from the Scotch Brigade.
“Not their game, sir, is it, sir?” Hakeswill’s voice disturbed Stokes.
The Major turned. “Eh?”
“Cricket, sir. Too complicated for blackamoors and Scotchmen, sir, on account of it being a game that needs brains, sir.”
“Do you play, Sergeant?”
“Me, sir? No, sir. No time for frittering, sir, being as I’m a soldier back to front, sir.”
“It does a man good to have a pastime,” Stokes said. “Your Colonel, now, he plays the violin.”
“Sir Arthur does, sir?” Hakeswill said, plainly not believing Stokes. “He’s never done it near me, sir.”
“I assure you he does,” Stokes said. He was irritated by Hakeswill’s presence. He disliked the man intensely, even though Hakeswill had spent only a short time as Sharpe’s substitute. “So what is it, Sergeant?”
Hakeswill’s face twitched. “Come to be of use to you, sir.”
The reply puzzled Stokes. “I thought you’d been returned to company duties?”
“That I am, sir, and not before time. But I was thinking of poor Sharpie, sir, as you tell me he languishes in the heathens’ jail, sir, which I did not know, sir, until you told me.”
Stokes shrugged. “He’s probably being fairly treated. The Mahrattas aren’t renowned for being unduly cruel to prisoners.”
“I was wondering if he left his pack with you, sir?”
“Why
would he do that?” Stokes asked.
“I was just wondering, sir. Officers don’t like carrying their baggage everywhere, sir, not if they want to keep their dignity, and if he did leave his pack with you, sir, then I thought as how we might relieve you of the responsibility, sir, seeing as how Mr. Sharpe was a comrade of ours for so long. That’s what I was thinking, sir.”
Stokes bridled, but was not certain why. “It isn’t a heavy responsibility, Sergeant.”
“Never thought it was, sir, but it might be a nuisance to you, sir, seeing as how you’re charged with other duties, and I would relieve you of the responsibility, sir.”
Stokes shook his head. “As it happens, Sergeant, Mr. Sharpe did leave his pack with me, and I promised him I would keep it safe, and I’m not a man to break promises, Sergeant. I shall keep it.”
“As you chooses, sir!” Hakeswill said sourly. “Just thought it was a Christian act, sir.” He turned and marched away. Stokes watched him, then shook his head and turned back to gaze at the growing encampment.
Tonight, he thought, tonight we shall make the batteries, and tomorrow the big guns will be hauled forward. Another day to fill the magazines with powder and shot and then the stone-breaking could begin. Two days of battering, of dust and rubble and smoke, and then the cricketers could lead the charge across the isthmus. Poor men, Stokes thought, poor men.
“I hate night actions,” Captain Morris complained to Hakeswill.
“Because of Serryapatam, sir? A right dog’s mess, that was.” The battalion had attacked a wood outside Seringapatam by night and the companies had become separated, some became lost, and the enemy had punished them.
Morris attached his scabbard to its slings and pulled his hat on. It was dark outside, and soon the oxen would drag the gabions forward to the position Stokes had chosen for the breaching batteries. It would be a prime moment for the enemy to sally out of the fortress, so Morris and his company must form a picket line ahead of the proposed batteries. They must watch the fortress and, if an attack was made, they must resist it, then slowly fall back, protecting the sappers until the reserve troops, a battalion of sepoys, could be brought forward from the plateau. With any luck, Morris fervently hoped, the enemy would stay in bed.
“Evening, Morris!” Major Stokes was indecently cheerful. “Your lads are ready?”
“They are, sir.”
Stokes led Morris a few yards from his tent and stared toward the fortress that was nothing but a dark shape in the night beyond the closer blackness of the rocks. “The thing is,” Stokes said, “that they’re bound to see our lanterns and must hear the carts, so they’re liable to unleash a pretty furious artillery barrage. Maybe rockets as well. But take no heed of it. Your only job is to watch for infantry coming from the gate.”
“I know, sir.”
“So don’t use your muskets! I hear musket fire, Captain, and I think infantry. Then I send for the Madrassi lads, and the next moment the whole place is swarming with redcoats who can’t tell who’s who in the dark. So no firing, you understand? Unless you see enemy infantry. Then send a message to me, fight the good fight and wait for support.”
Morris grunted. He had been told this twice already, and did not need the instructions a third time, but he still turned to the company which was paraded and ready. “No one’s to fire without my express permission, you understand?”
“They understands, sir,” Hakeswill answered for the company. “One musket shot without permission and the culprit’s earned himself a skinned back, sir.”
Morris took the company forward, following the old road that led directly to the gateway of the Outer Fort. The night was horribly dark, and within a few paces of leaving the engineer’s encampment, Morris could hardly see the road at all. His men’s boots scuffed loud on the hard-packed stones. They went slowly, feeling their way and using what small light came from the merest sliver of moon that hung like a silver blade above Gawilghur.
“Permission to speak, sir?” Hakeswill’s hoarse voice sounded close to Morris.
“Not too loud, Sergeant.”
“Like a mouse, sir, quiet I will be, but, sir, if we’re here, does that mean we’ll be joining the assault on the fort, sir?”
“God, no,” Morris said fervently.
Hakeswill chuckled. “I thought I should ask, sir, on account of making a will.”
“A will?” Morris asked. “You need a will?”
“I have some wealth,” Hakeswill said defensively. And soon, he reckoned, he would have even more, for he had cleverly confirmed his surmise that Sharpe’s missing pack was in Major Stokes’s keeping.
“You have some wealth, do you?” Morris asked sarcastically. “And who the hell will you leave it to?”
“Your own self, sir, if you’ll forgive me, sir. No family, apart from the army, sir, which is mother’s milk to me.”
“By all means make your will,” Morris said. “Connors can draw one up for you.” Connors was the company clerk. “I trust, of course, that the document proves redundant.”
“Whatever that means, sir, I hopes the same.”
The two men fell silent. The dark loom of the fortress was much closer now, and Morris was nervous. What was the point of this futile exercise anyway? He would be damned if he would be able to see any enemy infantrymen, not in this pitch black,—unless the fools decided to carry a lantern. Some lights showed in Gawilghur. There was a glow above the Outer Fort that must have been cast by the fires and lights in the Inner Fort, while closer Morris could see a couple of flickering patches where fires or torches burned inside the nearer defenses. But those scattered lights would not help him see an enemy force debouching from the gate.
“Far enough,” he called. He was not really sure if he had gone close enough to the fort, but he had no fancy to go further, and so he stopped and hissed at Hakeswill to spread the men westward across the isthmus. “Five paces between each pair of men, Sergeant.”
“Five paces it is, sir.”
“If anyone sees or hears anything, they’re to pass the message back here to me.”
“They’ll do so, sir.”
“And no fool’s to light a pipe, you hear me? Don’t want the enemy spraying us with canister because some blockhead needs tobacco.”
“Your orders is noted, sir. And where would you want me, sir?”
“Far end of the line, Sergeant.” Morris was the sole officer with the company, for both his lieutenant and ensign had the fever and so had stayed in Mysore. But Hakeswill, he reckoned, was as good as any lieutenant. “You can order men to fire if you’re certain you see the enemy, but God help you if you’re wrong.”
“Very good, sir,” Hakeswill said, then hissed at the men to spread out. They vanished into the blackness. For a moment there was the sound of boots, the thump of musket stocks hitting rocks and the grunts as the redcoats settled, but then there was silence. Or near silence. The wind sighed at the cliff’s edge while, from the fort, there drifted a plangent and discordant music that rose and fell with the wind’s vagaries. Worse than bagpipes, Morris thought sourly.
The first axle squeals sounded as the oxen dragged the gabions forward. The noise would be continuous now and, sooner or later, the enemy must react by opening fire. And what chance would he have of seeing anything then, Morris wondered. The gun flashes would blind him. The first he would see of an enemy would be the glint of starlight on a blade. He spat. Waste of time.
“Morris!” a voice hissed from the dark. “Captain Morris!”
“Here!” He turned toward the voice, which had come from behind him on the road back to the plateau. “Here!”
“Colonel Kenny,” the voice said, still in a sibilant whisper. “Don’t mind me prowling around.”
“Of course not, sir.” Morris did not like the idea of a senior officer coming to the picket line, but he could hardly send the man away. “Honored to have you, sir,” he said, then hissed a warning to his men. “Senior officer present, don’t be startled. P
ass the word on.”
Morris heard Kenny’s footsteps fade to his right. There was the low murmur of a brief conversation, then silence again, except for the demonic squeal of the oxcart axles. A moment later a lantern light showed from behind the rocks where Stokes was making one of his main batteries. Morris braced himself for the enemy reaction, but the fortress stayed silent.
The noise grew louder as the sappers heaved the gabions from the carts and manhandled them up onto the rocks to form the thick bastion. A man swore, others grunted and the great baskets thumped on stone. Another lantern was unmasked, and this time the man carrying it stepped up onto the rocks to see where the gabions were being laid. A voice ordered him to get down.
The fort at last woke up. Morris could hear footsteps hurrying along the nearer fire step, and he saw a brief glow as a linstock was plucked from a barrel and blown into red life. “Jesus,” he said under his breath, and a moment later the first gun fired. The flame stabbed bright as a lance from the walls, its glare momentarily lighting all the rocky isthmus and the green-scummed surface of the tank, before it was blotted out by the rolling smoke. The round shot screamed overhead, struck a rock and ricocheted wildly up into the sky. A second gun fired, its flame lighting the first smoke cloud from within so that it seemed as if the wall of the fort was edged with a brief vaporous luminance. The ball struck a gabion, breaking it apart in a spray of earth. A man groaned. Dogs were barking in the British camp and inside the fortress.
Morris stared toward the dark gateway. He could see nothing, because the guns’ flames had robbed him of his night vision. Or rather he could see wraithlike shapes which he knew were more likely to be his imagination than the approach of some savage enemy. The guns were firing steadily now, aiming at the small patch of lantern light, but then more lights, brighter ones, appeared to the west of the isthmus, and some of the gunners switched their aim, not knowing that Stokes had unveiled the second lights as a feint.
Then the first rockets were fired, and they were even more dazzling than the guns. The fiery trails seemed to limp up from the fort’s bastions, seething smoke and sparks, then they leaped up into the air, wobbling in their flight, to sear over Morris’s head and slash north toward the camp. None went near their targets, but their sound and the flaming exhausts were nerve-racking. The first shells were fired, and they added to the night’s din as they cracked apart among the rocks to whistle shards of shattered casing over the struggling sappers. The firing was deliberate as the gun captains took care to lay their pieces before firing, but still there were six or seven shots every minute, while the rockets were more constant. Morris tried to use the brightness of the rocket trails to see the ground between his hiding place and the fort, but there was too much smoke, the shadows flickered wildly, and his imagination made movement where there was none. He held his fire, reckoning he would hear the gate open or the sound of enemy footsteps. He could hear the defenders shouting on the wall, either calling insults to the enemy hidden in the dark or else encouraging each other.