“We knew all that when we declared war,” Wellesley said testily, ‘and if it didn’t deter us then, why should it now?”
“Don’t underestimate them, sir,” McCandless said grimly.
“I rather hope they’ll underestimate me!” Wellesley said.
“You want that gelding of mine?”
“I don’t have the money, sir.”
“Oh come, McCandless! You on a Company colonel’s salary! You must have a fortune stacked away!”
“I’ve some savings, sir, for my retirement, which is not far off.”
“I’ll make it three hundred and eighty guineas, seeing as it’s you, and in a couple of years you can sell him for four hundred. You can’t go into battle on that thing.” He gestured at the Mahratta horse.
“I’ll think on it, sir, I’ll think on it,” McCandless said gloomily. He prayed that the good Lord would restore his own horse to him, along with Lieutenant Dodd, but if that did not happen soon then he knew he would have to buy a decent horse, though the prospect of spending such a vast sum grieved him.
“You’ll take supper with me tonight, McCandless?” Wellesley asked.
“We have a fine leg of mutton. A rare leg!”
“I eschew meat, sir,” the Scotsman answered.
“You eschew meat? And chew vegetables?” The General decided this was a splendid joke and frightened his horse by uttering a fierce neigh of a laugh.
“That’s droll! Very. You eschew meat to chew vegetables.
Never mind, McCandless, we shall find you some chewable shrubs.”
McCandless chewed his vegetables that night, and afterwards, excusing himself, went to the tent that Wellesley had lent to him. He was tired, his leg was throbbing, but there had been no sign of the fever all day and for that he was grateful. He read his Bible, knelt in prayer beside the cot, then blew out the lantern to sleep. An hour later he was woken by the thump of hooves, the sound of suppressed voices, a giggle, and the brush of someone half falling against the tent.
“Who is it?” McCandless demanded angrily.
“Colonel?” Sharpe’s voice answered.
“Me, sir. Sorry, sir. Lost my footing, sir.”
“I was sleeping, man.”
“Didn’t mean to wake you, sir, sorry, sir. Stand still, you bugger! Not you, sir, sorry, sir.”
McCandless, dressed in shirt and breeches, snatched the tent flap open.
“Are you drunk?” he demanded, then fell silent as he gazed at the horse Sharpe was holding. The horse was a gelding, a splendid bay gelding with pricked ears and a quick, nervous energy.
“He’s six years old, sir,” Sharpe said. Daniel Fletcher was trying to hammer in the picket and doing a very bad job because of the drink inside him.
“He’s got a capped hock, sir, whatever that is, but nothing that’ll stop him. Comes from Ireland, he does. All that green grass, sir, makes a good horse. Aeolus, he’s called.”
“Aeolus,” McCandless said, ‘the god of the wind.”
“Is he one of those Indian idols, sir? All arms and snake heads?”
“No, Sharpe, Aeolus is Greek.” McCandless took the reins from Sharpe and stroked the gelding’s nose.
“Is Wellesley lending him to me?”
“Oh no, sir.” Sharpe had taken the mallet from the half-drunk
Fletcher and now banged the picket firmly into the soil.
“He’s yours, sir, all yours.”
“But.. .” McCandless said, then stopped, not understanding the situation at all.
“He’s paid for, sir,” Sharpe said.
“Paid for by whom?” McCandless demanded sternly.
“Just paid for, sir.”
“You’re blithering, Sharpe!”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Explain yourself!” the Colonel demanded.
General Wellesley had said much the same thing when, just forty minutes before, an aide had told him that Sergeant Sharpe was begging to see him and the General, who was just bidding goodnight to the last of his supper guests, had reluctantly agreed.
“Make it quick, Sergeant,” he had said, his fine mood disguised by his usual coldness.
“It’s Colonel McCandless, sir,” Sharpe said woodenly.
“He’s decided to buy your horse, sir, and he sent me with the money.” He stepped forward and tipped a bag of gold onto the General’s map table. The gold was Indian, from every state and princedom, but it was real gold and it lay shining like butter in the candle flames.