“I’m thinking about it, sir.”
“You’ll be in my regiment, Sharpe,” Dodd said.
“I need European officers. I’ve only got Joubert and he’s no damn use, so I’ve spoken with Pohlmann and he says you can join my Cobras. I’ll give you three companies of your own to look after, and God help you if they’re not kept in prime condition. I like to look after the men, because come battle they look after you, but God help any officer who lets me down.”
He paused to drink half his arrack and pour some more.
“I’ll work you hard, Sharpe, I’ll work you damned hard, but there’ll be plenty of gold washing round this army once we’ve thrashed Boy Wellesley. Money’s your reward, lad, money.”
“Is that why you’re here, sir?”
“It’s why we’re all here, you fool. All except Joubert, who was posted here by his government and is too damned timid to help himself to Scindia’s gold. So report to me in the morning. We’re marching north tomorrow night, which means you’ll have one day to learn my ropes and after that you’re Mister Sharpe, gentleman. Come to me tomorrow morning, Sharpe, at dawn, and get rid of that damned red coat.” He poked Sharpe’s chest hard.
“I see a red coat,” he went on, ‘and I want to start killing.” He grinned, showing yellow teeth.
“Is that what happened at Chasalgaon, sir?” Sharpe asked.
Dodd’s grin vanished.
“Why the hell do you ask that?” he growled.
Sharpe had asked because he had been remembering the massacre, and wondering if he could ever serve under a man who had ordered such a killing, but he said none of that. He shrugged instead.
“I heard tales, sir, but no one ever tells us anything proper. You know that, sir, so I just wondered what happened there.”
Dodd considered that answer for a moment, then shrugged.
“I didn’t take prisoners, Sharpe, that’s what happened. Killed the bastards to the last man.”
And to the last boy, Sharpe thought, remembering Davi Lal. He remained impassive, not letting a hint of memory or hate show.
“Why not take prisoners, sir?”
“Because it’s war!” Dodd said vehemently.
“When men fight me, Sergeant, I want them to fear me, because that way the battle’s half won before it’s started. It ain’t kind, I’m sure, but who ever said war was kind? And in this war, Sergeant’ he waved his hand towards the officers clustering about Colonel Pohlmann – ‘it’s dog eat dog. We’re all in competition, and you know who’ll win? The most ruthless, that’s who. So what did I do at Chasalgaon? I made sure of a reputation, Sharpe. Made a name for myself. That’s the first rule of war, Sergeant.
Make the bastards fear you. And you know what the second rule is?”
“Don’t ask questions, sir?”
Dodd grinned.
“No, lad. the second rule is never to reinforce failure, and the third, lad, is to look after your men. You know why I had that goldsmith thrashed? You’ve heard of that, haven’t you? I’ll tell you. It wasn’t because he’d cheated me, which he did, but because he cheated some of my men. So I looked after them and let them give him a solid kicking, and the bastard died. Which he deserved to do, rich fat bastard that he was.” The Major turned and scowled at the servants bringing dishes from Pohlmann’s cook tent.
“And they’re just as bad here, Sharpe. Look at all that food! Enough to feed two regiments there, Sharpe, and the men are going hungry. No proper supply system, see? It costs money, that’s why. You don’t get issued food in this army, you go out and steal it.” He plainly disapproved.
“I’ve told Pohlmann, I have.
Lay on a commissary, I said, but he won’t, because it costs money. Scindia hoards food in his fortresses, but he won’t issue it, not unless he’s paid, and Pohlmann won’t give up a penny of profit, so no food ever comes. It just rots in the warehouses while we have to keep moving, because after a week we’ve stripped one set of fields bare and have to go on to the next. It’s no bloody way to run an army.”