ribs.
“They tried to hang me but they couldn’t!” he declared.
“I dangled and I danced, and the rope wouldn’t kill me, and here I am!
I cannot die!” And then he screamed, because the sword had stabbed one
last time and Hakeswill had stepped back to avoid the lunge, only this
time there was no rock behind him, only a void, and he screamed as he
fell into the shadows of the snake pit.
He screamed again as he hit the stone floor with a thump.
“I can’t die!”
he shouted triumphantly, and stared up at the black shape of his
enemy.
“I can’t die!” Hakeswill called again, then something sinuous and
shadowy flickered to his left and he had no time to worry about
Sharpe.
He screamed, because the snakes were staring at him with hard flat
eyes.
“Sharpie!” he shouted.
“Sharpie!”
But Sharpe had gone to collect the pile of rags.
And Hakeswill was alone with the serpents.
Wellesley heard the distant cheers, but could not tell whether it was
his own men who celebrated or the enemy who was making the noise. The
smoke cloud that had hung so thick and constant beyond the fortress
faded.
He waited.
The defenders on the south wall still fought. They fired their cannon
at the 74th’s skirmish line which, because it was well spread out and
sheltered by the rocks on the steep hillside, survived the sporadic
cannonade. The smoke of the guns hung by the walls. Wellesley looked
at his watch. Four o’clock. If the fort had not fallen, then it would
soon be too late. Night would come and he would have to retreat
ignominiously to the plain below. The intermittent crackle of muskets
from the north told him that something was still happening, but whether
it was men looting, or the sound of the defenders firing at defeated
attackers, he could not tell.
Then the guns on the south wall fell silent. Their smoke lingered,
then drifted away in the hot wind. Wellesley waited, expecting the
cannon to fire again, but they remained quiet.
“Maybe they’ve run,” he said. The green and gold flag still hung over
the gate-tower, but Wellesley could see no defenders there.
“If the fortress has fallen, sir,” Wallace pointed out, ‘then why
aren’t they running out of this gate?”
“Because they know we’re here,” Wellesley said, and took out his
telescope. By mistake he had brought the new glass, the one he
intended to give to Sharpe which had been engraved with the date of
Assaye, and he put it to his eye and examined the southern wall. The
embrasures were empty. The guns were still there, their blackened
muzzles just showing, but no men.
“I think we shall advance, Wallace,” Wellesley said, snapping the glass
shut.
“It could be a trap, sir.”
“We shall advance,” Wellesley said firmly.
The 74th marched with colours flying, drummers beating and pipers
playing. A battalion of sepoys followed, and the two regiments made a
brave sight as they climbed the last stretch of the steep road, but
still the great Southern Gate of Gawilghur was closed before them.
Wellesley spurred ahead, half expecting the defenders to spring a
surprise and appear on the ramparts, but instead it was a redcoat who
suddenly showed there and Wellesley’s heart leaped with relief. He
could sail home to England with another victory in his pocket.
The redcoat on the wall slashed at the flag’s halyard and Wellesley
watched as the green and gold banner fluttered down. Then the redcoat
turned and shouted to someone inside the fortress.
Wellesley spurred his horse. Just as he and his aides came into the
shadow of the gatehouse, the great gates began to open, hauled back by
dirty-looking redcoats with stained faces and broad grins. An officer
stood just beyond the arch and, as the General rode into sight, the
officer brought his sword up in salute.
Wellesley returned the salute. The officer was drenched in blood, and
the General hoped that was not a reflection of the army’s casualties.
Then he recognized the man.
“Mister Sharpe?” He sounded puzzled.
“Welcome to Gawilghur, sir,” Sharpe said.
“I thought you’d been captured?”
“I escaped, sir. Managed to join the attack.”