lived, they would be carried to the surgeons. And if they survived the
knives and saws they would be shipped home, good for nothing except to
be a burden on the parish. Or maybe the Scots did not have parishes;
Sharpe was not sure, but he was certain the buggers had workhouses.
Everyone had workhouses and paupers’ graveyards. Better to be buried
out here in the black earth of enemy India than condemned to the
charity of a workhouse.
Then he saw why the guns in the centre of the Mahratta line had ceased
fire. The gaps between the guns were suddenly filled with men running
forward. Men in long robes and headdresses. They streamed between the
gaps, then joined together ahead of the guns beneath long green banners
that trailed from silver-topped poles. Arabs, Sharpe thought. He had
seen some at Ahmednuggur, but most of those had been dead. He
remembered Sevajee, the Mahratta who fought alongside Colonel
McCandless, saying that the Arab mercenaries were the best of all the
enemy troops.
Now there was a horde of desert warriors coming straight for the 74th
and their kilted neighbours.
The Arabs came in a loose formation. Their guns had decorated stocks
that glinted in the sunlight, while curved swords were scabbarded at
their waists. They came almost jauntily, as though they had utter
confidence in their ability. How many were there? A thousand? Sharpe
reckoned at least a thousand. Their officers were on horseback. They
did not advance in ranks and files, but in a mass, and some, the
bravest men, ran ahead as if eager to start the killing. The great
robed mass was chanting a shrill war cry, while in its centre drummers
were beating huge instruments that pulsed a belly-thumping beat across
the field. Sharpe watched the nearest British gun load with canister.
The green banners were being waved from side to side so that the silk
trails snaked over the warriors’ heads. Something was written on the
banners, but it was in no script that Sharpe recognized.
’74th!” Major Swinton called.
“Halt!”
The 78th had also halted. The two Highland battalions, both under
strength after their losses at Assaye, were taking the full brunt of
the Arab charge. The rest of the battlefield seemed to melt away. All
Sharpe could see was the robed men coming so eagerly towards him.
“Make ready!” Swinton called.
“Make ready!” Urquhart echoed.
“Make ready!” Sergeant Colquhoun shouted. The men raised their
muskets chest high and pulled back the heavy hammers.
Sharpe pushed into the gap between number six company and its left-hand
neighbour, number seven. He wished he had a musket. The sabre felt
flimsy.
“Present!” Swinton called.
“Present!” Colquhoun echoed, and the muskets went into the men’s
shoulders. Heads bowed to peer down the barrels’ lengths.
“You’ll fire low, boys,” Urquhart said from behind the line, ‘you’ll
fire low. To your place, Mister Sharpe.”
Bugger it, Sharpe thought, another bloody mistake. He stepped back
behind the company where he was supposed to make sure no one tried to
run.
The Arabs were close. Less than a hundred paces to go now. Some had
their swords drawn. The air, miraculously smoke-free, was filled with
their blood-chilling war cry which was a weird ululating sound.
Not far now, not far at all. The Scotsmen’s muskets were angled
slightly down. The kick drove the barrels upwards, and untrained
troops, not ready for the heavy recoil, usually fired high. But this
volley would be lethal.
“Wait, boys, wait,” Pig-ears called to number seven company. Ensign
Venables slashed at weeds with his claymore. He looked nervous.
Urquhart had drawn a pistol. He dragged the cock back, and his horse’s
ears flicked back as the pistol’s spring clicked.
Arab faces screamed hatred. Their great drums were thumping. The
redcoat line, just two ranks deep, looked frail in front of the savage
charge.
Major Swinton took a deep breath. Sharpe edged towards the gap again.
Bugger it, he wanted to be in the front line where he could kill. It
was too nerve-racking behind the line.
’74th!” Swinton shouted, then he paused. Men’s fingers curled about
their triggers.
Let them get close, Swinton was thinking, let them get close. It Then