But where the hell was Wellesley? He could see no one on the high ground that led towards the enemy, and the only men on the road straight ahead were the leading companies of the picquets of the day who continued to march northwards. A slapping sound came from the river and he twisted in his saddle to see that a round shot had whipped through a file of infantry. A body floated downstream in eddies of blood, then the sergeants shouted at the ranks to close up and the infantry kept on coming. But where the hell was Sharpe to go? To his right was the village of Waroor, half hidden behind its trees and for a second Sharpe thought the General must have gone there, but then he saw Lieutenant Colonel Orrock riding up onto the higher ground to the left and Sharpe guessed the Colonel was following Wellesley and so he tugged the mare that way.
The land climbed to a gentle crest across stubble fields dotted by a few trees. Colonel Orrock was the only man in sight and he was forcing his horse up the slope towards the skyline and so Sharpe followed him.
He could hear the enemy guns firing, presumably still bombarding the ford that had not been supposed to exist, but as he kicked the mare up through the growing crop the guns suddenly ceased and all he could hear was the thump of hooves, the banging of the sabre’s metal scabbard against his boot and the dull sound of the Scottish drums behind.
Orrock had turned north along the skyline and Sharpe, following him, saw that the General and his aides were clustered under a group of trees from where they were gazing westwards through their telescopes. He joined them in the shade, and felt awkward to be in such exalted company without McCandless, but Campbell turned in his saddle and grinned.
“Well done, Sergeant. Still with us, eh?”
“Managing, sir,” Sharpe said, rearranging the canteens that had tangled themselves into a lump.
“Oh, dear God,” Colonel Orrock said a moment later. He was gazing through his own telescope, and whatever he saw made him shake his head before peering through the glass again.
“Dear me,” he said, and Sharpe stood in his stirrups to see what had so upset the East India Company Colonel.
The enemy was redeploying. Wellesley had crossed the ford to bring his small army onto the enemy’s left flank, but the Mahratta commander had seen his purpose and was now denying him the advantage. The enemy line was marching towards the Peepulgaon ford, then wheeling left to make a new defence line that stretched clean across the land between the two rivers; a line that would now face head on towards Wellesley’s army. Instead of attacking a vulnerable flank, Wellesley would be forced to make a head-on assault. Nor were the Mahrattas making their manoeuvre in a panicked hurry, but were marching calmly in disciplined ranks. The guns were moving with them, drawn by bullocks or elephants. The enemy was less than a mile away now and their steady unhurried re deployment was obvious to the watching officers.
“They anticipate us, sir!” Orrock informed Wellesley, as though the General might not have understood the purpose of the enemy’s manoeuvre.
“They do,” Wellesley agreed calmly, ‘they do indeed.” He collapsed his telescope and patted his horse’s neck.
“And they manoeuvre very well!” he added admiringly, as though he was engaged in nothing more ominous than watching a brigade go through its paces in Hyde Park.
“Your men are through the ford?” he asked Orrock.
“They are, sir, they are,” Orrock said. The Colonel had a nervous habit of jutting his head forward every few seconds as if his collar was too tight.
“And they can reverse themselves,” he added meaningfully.
Wellesley ignored the defeatist sentiment.
“Take them one half-mile up the road,” he ordered Orrock, ‘then deploy on the high ground this side of the road. I shall see you before we advance.”
Orrock gazed goggle-eyed at the General.
“Deploy?”
“On this side of the road, if you please, Colonel. You will form the right of our line, Colonel, and have Wallace’s brigade on your left. Let us do it now, Colonel, if you would so oblige me?”