“I hear the British are making camp in Naulniah,” Pohlmann said, ‘so what we should do is march south and hammer him. It’s one thing to have Wellesley so close, but it’s quite another to bring him to battle.”
“So why don’t we march?” Dodd asked.
“Because Scindia won’t have it, that’s why. Scindia insists we fight on the defensive. He’s nervous.” Dodd spat, but made no other comment on his employer’s timidity.
“So there’s a nasty danger,” Pohlmann went on, ‘that Wellesley won’t attack us at all, but will retreat towards Stevenson.”
“So we beat them both at once,” Dodd said confidently.
“As we shall, if we must,” Pohlmann agreed drily, ‘but I’d rather fight them separately.” He was confident of victory, no soldier could ; be more confident, but he was no fool and given the chance to defeat ( two small armies instead of one medium-sized force, he would prefer } the former.
“If you have a god, Major,” he said, ‘pray that Wellesley ; } is over-confident. Pray that he attacks us.” I It was a fervent prayer, for if Wellesley did attack he would be forced to send his men across the Kaitna which was some sixty or seventy paces broad and flowing brown between high banks that were over a hundred paces apart. If the monsoon had come the river would have filled its bed and been twelve or fifteen feet deep, while now it was only six or seven, though that was quite deep enough to stop an army crossing, but right in front of Pohlmann’s position there was a series of fords, and Pohlmann’s prayer was that the British would try to cross the fords and attack straight up the road to Assaye. Wellesley would have no other choice, not if he wanted a battle, for Pohlmann had summoned farmers from every village in the vicinity, from Assaye and Waroor, from Kodully, Taunklee and Peepulgaon, and asked them where a man could drive a herd of cattle through the river. He had used the example of a herd of oxen because where such a herd could go so could oxen drawing guns, and every man had agreed that in this season the only crossing places were the fords between Kodully and Taunklee. A man could drive his herds upriver to Borkardan, they told Pohlmann’s interpreter, and cross there, but that was a half-day’s walk away and why would be a man be that foolish when the river provided eight safe fords between the two villages?
“Are there any crossing places downstream?” Pohlmann asked.
A score of dark faces shook in unison.
“No, sahib, not in the wet season.”
“This season isn’t wet.”
“There are still no fords, sahib.” They were sure, as sure as only local men who had lived all their lives bounded by the same water and trees and soil could be sure.
Pohlmann had still been unconvinced.
“And if a man does not want to drive a herd, but just wants to cross himself, where would he cross?”
The villagers provided the same answer.
“Between Kodully and Taunklee, sahib.”
“Nowhere else?”
Nowhere else, they assured him, and that meant Wellesley would be forced to cross the river in the face of Pohlmann’s waiting army. The British infantry and guns would have to slither down the steep southern bank of the Kaitna, cross a wide expanse of mud, wade through the river, then climb the steep northern bank, and all the while they would be under fire from the Mahratta guns until, when they reached the green fields on the northern shore, they would re-form their ranks and march forward into a double storm of musketry and artillery. Wherever the British crossed the Kaitna, anywhere between Kodully and Taunklee, they would find the same murderous reception waiting, for Pohlmann’s three prime compoos were arrayed in one long line that fronted that whole stretch of the river. There were eighty guns in that line, and though some threw nothing but a five- or six-pound ball, at least half were heavy artillery and all were manned by Goanese gunners who knew their business. The cannon were grouped in eight batteries, one for each ford, and there was not an inch of ground between the batteries that could not be flailed by canister or beaten by round shot or scorched by shells.