“You have news?” McCandless asked.
Sevajee nodded.
“Your fellow is inside Ahmednuggur, Colonel. He’s been given Mathers’s regiment.” He was pleased with his news, grinning broadly to reveal red-stained teeth. He was a young man dressed in the remnants of a green uniform Sharpe did not recognize. The jacket had European epaulettes hung with silver chains, and over it was strapped a sword sling and a sash, both of white silk and both stained brown with dried blood.
“Sergeant Sharpe,” McCandless made the introductions, ‘this is Syud Sevajee.”
Sharpe nodded a wary greeting.
“Sahib,” he said, for there was something about Syud Sevajee that suggested he was a man of rank.
“The Sergeant has seen Lieutenant Dodd,” McCandless explained.
“He’ll make sure we capture the right man.”
“Kill all the Europeans,” Sevajee suggested, ‘and you’ll be sure.” The suggestion, it seemed to Sharpe, was not entirely flippant.
“I want him captured alive,” McCandless said irritably.
“Justice must be seen to be done. Or would you rather that your people believe a British officer can beat a man to death without any punishment?”
“They believe that anyway,” Sevajee said carelessly, ‘but if you wish to be scrupulous, McCandless, then we shall capture Mister Dodd.”
Sevajee’s men, a dozen wild-looking warriors armed with everything from bows and arrows to lances, had fallen in behind McCandless.
“Syud Sevajee is a Mahratta, Sharpe,” McCandless explained.
“One of the romantic ones, sir?”
“Romantic?” Sevajee repeated the word in surprise.
“He’s on our side, if that’s what you mean,” McCandless said.
“No,” Sevajee hurried to correct the Colonel.
“I am opposed to Beny Singh, and so long as he lives I help the enemies of my enemy.”
“Why’s this fellow your enemy, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Sharpe asked.
Sevajee touched the hilt of his tulwar as if it was a fetish.
“Because he killed my father, Sergeant.”
“Then I hope you get the bastard, sir.”
“Sharpe!” McCandless said in reprimand.
Sevajee laughed.
“My father,” he explained to Sharpe, ‘led one of the Rajah of Berar’s compoos. He was a great warrior, Sergeant, and Beny Singh was his rival. He invited my father to a feast and served him poison. That was three years ago. My mother killed herself, but my younger brother serves Beny Singh and my sister is one of his concubines. They too will die.”
“And you escaped, sir?” Sharpe asked.
“I was serving in the East India Company cavalry, Sergeant,” Sevajee answered.
“My father believed a man should know his enemy, so sent me to Madras.”
“Where we met,” McCandless said brusquely, ‘and now Sevajee serves me.”
“Because in return,” Sevajee explained, ‘your British bayonets will hand Beny Singh to my revenge. And with him, of course, the reward for Dodd. Four thousand, two hundred rupees, is it not?”
“So long as he’s taken alive,” McCandless said dourly, ‘and it might be increased once the Court of Directors hears what he did at Chasalgaon.”
“And to think I almost caught him,” Sevajee said, and described how he and his few men had visited Ahmednuggur posing as brindanies who were loyal to Scindia.
“Brindarrie?” Sharpe asked.
“Like silladars,” McCandless told him.
“Freelance horsemen. And you saw Dodd?” he asked Sevajee.
“I heard him, Colonel, though I never got close. He was lecturing his regiment, telling them how they would chase you British out of India.”
McCandless scoffed.
“He’ll be lucky to escape from Ahmednuggur!
Why has he stayed there?”
“To give Pohlmann a chance to attack?” Sevajee suggested.
“His compoo was still close to Ahmednuggur a few days ago.”
“Just one compoo, sir?” Sharpe suggested.
“One compoo won’t beat Wellesley.”
Sevajee gave him a long, speculative look.
“Pohlmann, Sergeant,” he said, ‘is the best infantry leader in Indian service. He has never lost a battle, and his compoo is probably the finest infantry army in India. It already outnumbers Wellesley’s army, but if Scindia releases his other compoos, then together they will outnumber your Wellesley three to one. And if Scindia waits until Berar’s troops are with him, he’ll outnumber you ten to one.”
“So why are we attacking, sir?”
“Because we’re going to win,” McCandless said firmly.
“God’s will.”
“Because, Sergeant,” Sevajee said, ‘you British think that you are invincible. You believe you cannot be defeated, but you have not fought the Mahrattas. Your little army marches north full of confidence, but you are like mice waking an elephant.”