Sharpe tried standing in the stirrups to ease the pain in his seat, but it only made the chafing of his calves worse.
“And what’s our quarrel with those two, sir?”
“They’ve been much given to raiding into Hyderabad and Mysore lately, so now it’s time to settle them once and for all.”
“And Lieutenant Dodd’s joined their army, sir?”
“From what we hear, he’s joined Scindia’s army. But I haven’t heard much.” The Colonel had already explained to Sharpe how he had been keeping his ears open for news of Dodd ever since the Lieutenant had persuaded his sepoys to defect, but then had come the terrible news of Chasalgaon, and McCandless, who had been travelling north to join Wellesley’s army, had seen Sharpe’s name in the report and so had turned around and hurried south to Seringapatam. At the same time he had sent some of his own Mahratta agents north to discover Dodd’s whereabouts.
“We should meet those fellows today,” the Colonel said, ‘or tomorrow at the latest.”
The rain had not stopped, but nor was it heavy. Mud spattered up the horses’ flanks and onto Sharpe’s boots and white trousers. He tried sitting half sideways, he tried leaning forward or tipping himself back, but the pain did not stop. He had never much liked horses, but now decided he hated them.
“I’d like to meet Lieutenant Dodd again, sir,” he told McCandless as the two men rode under dripping trees.
“Be careful of him, Sharpe,” McCandless warned.
“He has a reputation.”
“For what, sir?”
“A fighter, of course. He’s no mean soldier. I’ve not met him, of course, but I’ve heard tales. He’s been up north, in Calcutta mostly, and made a name for himself there. He was first over the pettah wall at Panhapur. Not much of a wall, Sharpe, just a thicket of cactus thorn really, but it took his sepoys five minutes to follow him, and by the time they reached him he’d killed a dozen of the enemy. He’s a tall man who can use a sword and is a fine pistol shot too. He is, in brief, a killer.”
“If he’s so good, sir, why is he still a lieutenant?”
The Colonel sighed.
“I fear that is the way of the Company’s army, Sharpe. A man can’t buy his way up the ladder as he can in the King’s army, and there’s no promotion for good service. It all goes by seniority.
Dead men’s shoes, Sharpe. A fellow must wait his turn in the Company, and there’s no way round it.”
“So Dodd has been waiting, sir?”
“A long time. He’s forty now, and I doubt he’d have got his captaincy much before he was fifty.”
“Is that why he ran, sir?”
“He ran because of the murder. He claimed a goldsmith cheated him of money and had his men beat the poor fellow so badly that he died. He was court-martial led of course, but the only sentence he got was six months without pay. Six months without pay! That’s sanctioning murder, Sharpe! But Wellesley insisted the Company discharge him, and he planned to have Dodd tried before a civilian court and condemned to death, so Dodd ran.” The Colonel paused.
“I wish I could say we’re pursuing him because of the murder, Sharpe,” he went on, ‘but that isn’t so. We’re pursuing him because he persuaded his men to defect. Once that rot starts, it might never stop, and we have to show the other sepoys that desertion will always be punished.”
Just before nightfall, when the rain had stopped and Sharpe thought his sore muscles and bleeding calves would make him moan aloud in agony, a group of horsemen came cantering towards them. To Sharpe they looked like silladars, the mercenary horsemen who hired themselves, their weapons and their horses to the British army, and he pulled his mare over to the left side of the road to give the heavily armed men room to pass, but their leader slowed as he approached, then raised a hand in greeting.
“Colonel!” he shouted.
“Sevajee!” McCandless cried and spurred his horse towards the oncoming Indian. He held out his hand and Sevajee clasped it.