“And we must have Europeans,” Pohlmann went on, stretching back on the divan that creaked under his weight.
“The Indians are fine soldiers, but we need Europeans who understand European tactics.”
“How many European officers have you lost, sir?” Dodd asked.
“From this compoo? Eighteen,” Pohlmann said.
“Too many.” The men who had gone were the British officers, and all had possessed contracts with Scindia that excused them from fighting against their own countrymen, and to make matters worse the East India Company had offered a bribe to any British officer who deserted the Mahrattas and, as a result, some of Pohlmann’s best men were gone. It was true that he still had some good officers left, most of them French, with a handful of Dutchmen, Swiss and Germans, but Pohlmann knew he could ill afford the loss of eighteen European officers. At least none of his artillerymen had deserted and Pohlmann put great faith in the battle-winning capacity of his guns. Those cannon were served by Portuguese, or by half-breed Indians from the Portuguese colonies in India, and those professionals had stayed loyal and were awesomely proficient.
Pohlmann drained a glass of rum and poured himself another. He had an extraordinary capacity for alcohol, a capacity Dodd did not share, and the Englishman, knowing his propensity for getting drunk, restrained himself to sips of watered wine.
“I promised you a reward, Major, if you succeeded in rescuing the cartridges,” Pohlmann said genially.
“Knowing I’ve done my duty is reward enough,” Dodd said. He felt shabby and ill-uniformed among Pohlmann’s gaudy aides and had decided that it was best to play the bluff soldier, a role he thought would appeal to a former sergeant. It was said that Pohlmann kept his old East India Company uniform as a reminder of just how far he had risen.
“Men do not join Scindia’s army merely for the pleasures of doing their duty,” Pohlmann said, ‘but for the rewards such service offers. We are here to become rich, are we not?” He unhooked the elephant-hilted sword from his belt. The scabbard was made of soft red leather and was studded with small emeralds.
“Here.” Pohlmann offered the sword to Dodd.
“I can’t take your sword!” Dodd protested.
“I have many, Major, and many finer. I insist.”
Dodd took the sword. He drew the blade from the scabbard and saw that it was finely made, much better than the drab sword he had worn as a lieutenant these last twenty years. Many Indian swords were made of soft steel and broke easily in combat, but Dodd guessed this blade had been forged in France or Britain, then given its beautiful elephant hilt in India. That hilt was of gold, the elephant’s head made the pommel, while the handguard was the beast’s curved trunk. The grip was of black leather bound with gold wire.
“Thank you, sir,” he said feelingly.
“It is the first of many rewards,” Pohlmann said airily, ‘and those rewards will shower on us when we beat the British. Which we shall, though not here.” He paused to drink rum.
“The British will attack any day now,” he went on, ‘and they doubtless hope I’ll stay and fight them here, but I don’t have a mind to oblige them. Better to make the bastards march after us, eh? The rains may come while they pursue us and the rivers will hold them up. Disease will weaken them. And once they are weak and tired, we shall be strong. All Scindia’s compoos will join together and the Rajah of Berar has promised his army, and once we are all gathered we shall crush the British. But that means I have to give up Ahmednuggur.”
“Not an important city,” Dodd commented. He noticed that Simone Joubert was sipping wine. She kept her eyes lowered, only occasionally glancing up at her husband or at Lieutenant Silliere. She took no notice of Dodd, but she would, he promised himself, she would. Her nose was too small, he decided, but even so she was a thing of pale and fragile wonder in this hot, dark-skinned land. Her blonde hair, which was hung with ringlets in a fashion that had prevailed ten years before in Europe, was held in place by small mother-of-pearl clips.