“They probably planned on doing that anyway, sir.”
“Of course they did, but it’s far better that I should demand it than that they should impose it,” McCandless said and then, with a lordly gesture, he gave permission for the Mahratta chief to lead the way and the enemy dutifully formed themselves into an escort either side of the three Europeans.
“Fine-looking beggars, are they not?” McCandless asked.
“Wicked, sir.”
“But sadly out of date.”
“They could fool me, sir,” Sharpe said, for though many of the Mahratta horsemen carried weapons that might have been more usefully employed at Agincourt or Crecy than in modern India, all had fire locks in their saddle holsters and all had savagely curved tulwars.
McCandless shook his head.
“They may be the finest light horsemen in the world, but they won’t press a charge home and they can’t stand volley fire. There’s rarely any need to form square against men like these, Sharpe. They’re fine for picquet work, unrivalled at pursuit, but chary of dying in front of the guns.”
“Can you blame them?” Simone asked.
“I don’t blame them, Madame,” McCandless said, ‘but if a horse can’t stand fire, then it’s of scant use in battle. You don’t gain victories by rattling across country like a pack of hunters, but by enduring the enemy’s fire and overcoming it. That’s where a soldier earns his pay, hard under the enemy muzzles.”
And that, Sharpe thought, was something he had never really done.
He had faced the French in Flanders years before, but those battles had been fleeting and rain-obscured, and the lines had never closed on each other. He had not stared at the whites of the enemy’s eyes, heard his volleys and returned them. He had fought at Malavelly, but that battle had been one volley and a charge, and the enemy had not contested the day, but fled, while at Seringapatam Sharpe had been spared the horror of going through the breach. One day, he realized, he would have to stand in a battle line and endure the volleys, and he wondered whether he would stand or instead break in terror. Or whether he would even live to see a battle, for, despite McCandless’s blithe confidence, there was no assurance that he would survive this visit to the enemy’s encampment.
They reached Pohlmann’s army that evening. The camp was a short march south of Aurungabad and it was visible from miles away because of the great smear of smoke that hung in the sky. Most of the campfires were burning dried cakes of bullock dung and the acrid smoke caught in Sharpe’s throat as he trotted through the lines of infantry shelters. It all looked much like a British camp, except that most of the tents were made from reed matting rather than canvas, but the lines were still neatly arrayed, muskets were carefully stacked in threes and a disciplined ring of picquets guarded the camp’s perimeter. They passed some European officers exercising their horses, and one of those men spurred to intercept the newcomers. He ignored McCandless and Sharpe, raising his plumed hat to Simone instead.
“Bonsoir, Madame.”
Simone did not look at the man, but just tapped her horse’s rump with her riding crop.
“That fellow’s French, sir,” Sharpe said to McCandless.
“I do speak the language, Sergeant,” the Colonel said.
“So what’s a Frog doing here, sir?”
“The same as Lieutenant Dodd, Sharpe. Teaching Scindia’s infantry how to fight.”
“Don’t they know how to fight, sir? Thought it came natural.”
“They don’t fight as we do,” McCandless said, watching the rebuffed Frenchman canter away.
“How’s that, sir?”
“The European, Sergeant, has learned to close the gap fast. The closer you are to a man, the more likely you are to kill him; however, the closer you get, the more likely you are to be killed, but it’s no use entertaining that fear in battle. Get up close, hold your ranks and start killing, that’s the trick of it. But given a chance an Indian will hold back and try to kill at long range, and fellows like Dodd are teaching them how to close the gap hard and fast. You need discipline for that, discipline and tight ranks and good sergeants. And no doubt he’s teaching them how to use cannon as well.” The Colonel spoke sourly, for they were trotting beside an artillery park that was crammed with heavy cannon. The guns looked odd to Sharpe, for many of them had been cast with ornate patterns on their barrels, and some were even painted in gaudy colours, but they were neatly parked and all had limbers and full sets of equipment; rammers and worm screws and handspikes and buckets. The axles gleamed with grease and there was not a spot of rust to be seen on the long barrels. Someone knew how to maintain guns, and that suggested they also knew how to use them.