fort.
“Where are you going?” Garrard shouted after Sharpe.
Sharpe did not answer. He just walked on. He had another enemy to
hunt, and an even richer reward to win.
The defenders were hunted down and killed. Even when they tried to
surrender, they were killed, for their fortress had resisted and that
was the fate of garrisons that showed defiance. Blood-maddened
redcoats, fed on arrack and rum, roamed the vast stronghold with
bayonets and greed both sharpened. There was little enough loot, but
plenty of women, and so the screaming began.
Some defenders, knowing Gawilghur’s geography, slipped to those parts
of the perimeter where no wall faced outwards and dangerously narrow
paths led down the cliffs. They streamed like ants down the rock,
going to oblivion. Some hid, knowing that the rage of the attackers
would soon enough be exhausted. Those who could not escape or find a
hiding place died.
Flies buzzed in the palace where the dead were already stinking in the
heat. Officers wandered the rooms, marvelling at their poverty. They
had expected to find another mansion like the Tippoo Sultan’s palace, a
glittering trove of gems, gold, ivory and silk, but the Rajah of Berar
had never been rich. Some discovered the cellars and they noted the
great armoury, but were more interested in the barrels of cash, though
when they saw the coins were all of copper they spat in disgust. A
company of sepoys found some silver plate that they cut apart with
their bayonets.
Syud Sevajee had found his enemy, his father’s murderer, but Beny Singh
was already dead and Sevajee could do little more than spit on his
corpse.
Beneath the palace, redcoats splashed in the lake, slaking their
thirst.
Some had discarded their red jackets, hanging them from the trees, and
a ragged man, who had slipped unseen from the palace, stole one of the
coats and pulled it on before limping towards the captured gatehouse.
He was a white man, and wore a pair of dirty trousers and a ragged
shirt, while a white coat and a black sash were bundled under one arm.
His hair was lank, his skin filthy, and his face twitched as he
shuffled along the path. No one took any notice of him, for he looked
like any other redcoat who had found his small scrap of loot, and so
Obadiah Hakeswill slunk northwards with a fortune in jewels concealed
in his shabby clothes.
He reckoned he had only to get through the gate, and across the Outer
Fort, and then he would run. Where? He did not know. Just run. He
was rich now, but he would still need to steal a horse. There would be
plenty of officers’ horses in the camp, and maybe he would be lucky and
find a dead man’s horse so that the loss would not be noticed for days.
Then he would ride southwards. South to Madras, and in Madras he could
sell the jewels, buy proper clothes and become a gentleman. Obadiah
Hakeswill, Gent. Then he would go home. Home to England. Be a rich
gentleman there.
He ignored the redcoats. The buggers had won, and it was not fair.
He could have been a rajah, but at least he was as rich as any rajah,
and so he sidled down the dusty path and the gatehouse was not very far
away now. An officer was ahead, standing with a drawn claymore beside
the snake pit and staring down into its horror, and then he turned and
walked towards Hakeswill. The officer was hatless, bloody-faced, and
Obadiah limped off the track, praying that he would not be noticed. The
officer went safely past and Hakeswill breathed a silent prayer of
thanks and swerved back to the track. Only a trickle of men came
through the gate now, and most of them were too intent on joining the
plundering to care about a single man limping the other way. Hakeswill
grinned, knowing he would get away. He would be a gentleman.
Then a sword point pricked his spine and Hakeswill froze.
“I’ve been looking for you for days, Obadiah,” a hated voice said, and
Hakeswill turned to look up into Sharpe’s face, but the face was half