“He’s a murderer,” McCandless went on.
“He killed a goldsmith in Seedesegur, and he should be facing trial, but he ran instead and I want you, Sharpe, to help me catch him. And I’m not pursuing the rogue because I want the reward money; in fact I’ll refuse it. But I do want him, and I want your help.”
Major Stokes began to protest, saying that Sharpe was his best man and that the armoury would go to the dogs if the Sergeant was taken away, but McCandless shot the amiable Major a harsh look that was sufficient to silence him.
“I want Lieutenant Dodd captured,” McCandless said implacably, ‘and I want him tried, and I want him executed, and I need someone who will know him by sight.”
Major Stokes summoned the courage to continue his objections.
“But I need Sergeant Sharpe,” he protested.
“He organizes everything! The duty rosters, the stores, the pay chest, everything!”
“I need him more,” McCandless snarled, turning on the hapless Major.
“Do you know how many Britons are in India, Major? Maybe twelve thousand, and less than half of those are soldiers. Our power does not rest on the shoulders of white men, Major, but on the muskets of our sepoys. Nine men out of every ten who invade the Mahratta states will be sepoys, and Lieutenant Dodd persuaded over a hundred of those men to desert! To desert! Can you imagine our fate if the other sepoys follow them? Scindia will shower Dodd’s men with gold, Major, with lucre and with spoil, in the hope that others will follow them. I have to stop that, and I need Sharpe.”
” Major Stokes recognized the inevitable.
“You will bring him back, sir?”
“If it is the Lord’s will, yes. Well, Sergeant? Will you come with me?”
Sharpe glanced at Major Stokes who shrugged, smiled, then nodded his permission.
“I’ll come, sir,” Sharpe said to the Scotsman.
“How soon can you be ready?”
“Ready now, sir. “Sharpe indicated the newly issued pack and musket that lay at his feet.
“You can ride a horse?”
Sharpe frowned.
“I can sit on one, sir.”
“Good enough,” the Scotsman said. He pulled on his oilcloth cape, then untied the two reins and gave one set to Sharpe.
“She’s a docile thing, Sharpe, so don’t saw on her bit.”
“We’re going right now, sir?” Sharpe asked, surprised by the suddenness of it all.
“Right now,” McCandless said.
“Time waits for no man, Sharpe, and we have a traitor and a murderer to catch.” He pulled himself into his saddle and watched as Sharpe clumsily mounted the second horse.
“So where are you going?” Stokes asked McCandless.
“Ahmednuggur first, and after that God will decide.” The Colonel touched his horse’s flanks with his spurs and Sharpe, his pack hanging from one shoulder and his musket slung on the other, followed.
He would redeem himself for the failure at Chasalgaon. Not with 1 punishment, but with something better: with vengeance.
Major William Dodd ran a white-gloved finger down the spoke of a gun wheel He inspected his fingertip and nearly nine hundred men, or at least as many of the nine hundred on parade who could see the , Major, inspected him in return.
No mud or dust on the glove. Dodd straightened his back and glowered at the gun crews, daring any man to show pleasure in having achieved a near perfect turn-out. It had been hard work, too, for it had rained earlier in the day and the regiment’s five guns had been dragged through the muddy streets to the parade ground just inside
Ahmednuggur’s southern gate, but the gunners had still managed to clean their weapons meticulously. They had removed every scrap of mud, washed the mahogany trails, then polished the barrels until their alloy of copper and tin gleamed like brass.
Impressive, Dodd thought, as he peeled off the glove. Pohlmann had left Ahmednuggur, retreating north to join his compoo to Scindia’s gathering army, and Dodd had ordered this surprise inspection of his new command. He had given the regiment just one hour’s notice, but so far he had found nothing amiss. They were impressive indeed; standing in four long white-coated ranks with their four cannon and single howitzer paraded at the right flank. The guns themselves, despite their gleam, were pitiful things. The four field guns were mere four pounders while the fifth was a five-inch howitzer, and not one of the pieces fired a ball of real weight. Not a killing ball.