that their shots lost all their forward momentum long before they
reached the ground. The balls fell like nightmare rain and the Captain
shouted at his men to lead their horses out of range.
“Their final refuge,” he said, then laughed, ‘but it’s nothing to do
with us, boys! The infantry will have to deal with that big
bastard.”
The cavalrymen slowly moved southwards. Some of their horses had lost
shoes, which meant they had to be walked home, but their night’s work
was well done. They had ravaged a broken army, and now the infantry
must cope with the Mahrattas’ final refuge.
A sergeant shouted from the right flank and the Captain turned
westwards to see a column of enemy infantry appearing from a grove of
trees just over a mile away. The white-coated battalion still
possessed their artillery, but they showed no sign of wanting a fight.
A crowd of civilians and several companies of fugitive Mahrattas had
joined the regiment which was heading for a road that twisted into the
hills beneath the fort, then zigzagged its way up the face of the rock
promontory.
If that road was the only way into the fort, the cavalry Captain
thought, then God help the redcoats who had to attack Gawilghur. He
stared at the infantry through his telescope. The white-coated troops
were showing small interest in the British cavalry, but it still seemed
prudent to quicken his pace southwards.
A moment later and the cavalry was hidden behind millet fields. The
Captain turned a last time and gazed again at the fortress on the
soaring cliffs. It seemed to touch the sky, so high it stood above all
India.
“Bastard of a place,” the Captain said wonderingly, then turned and
left.
He had done his job, and now the infantry must climb to the clouds to
do theirs.
Colonel William Dodd watched the blue-coated cavalrymen walk their
tired horses southwards until they vanished beyond a field of standing
millet. The sub adar in charge of the regiment’s small cannon had
wanted to unlimber and open fire on the horsemen, but Dodd had refused
his permission. There would have been no point in attacking, for by
the time the guns were loaded the cavalrymen would have walked out of
range.
He watched a last salvo of round shot plummet to earth from the fort’s
high guns. Those cannon were of little use, Dodd thought, except to
overawe people on the plain.
It took Dodd’s regiment over seven hours to climb to the fort of
Gawilghur, and by the time he reached the summit Dodd’s lungs were
burning, his muscles aching and his uniform soaked with sweat. He had
walked every step of the way, refusing to ride his horse, for the beast
was tired and, besides, if he expected his men to walk up the long
road, then he would walk it as well. He was a tall, sallow-faced man
with a harsh voice and an awkward manner, but William Dodd knew how to
earn his men’s admiration. They saw that he walked when he could have
ridden, and so they did not complain as the steep climb sapped their
breath and stole their strength. The regiment’s families, its baggage
and its battery of cannon were still far below on the twisting,
treacherous track that, in its last few miles, was little more than a
ledge hacked from the cliff.
Dodd formed his Cobras into four ranks as they approached Gawilghur’s
southern entrance where the great metal-studded gates were being swung
open in welcome.
“March smartly now!” Dodd called to his men.
“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of! You lost no battle!” He pulled
himself up into his saddle and drew his gold-hiked sword to salute the
flag of Berar that flapped above the high gate-tower. Then he touched
his heels to the mare’s flanks and led his undefeated men into the
tower’s long entrance tunnel.
He emerged into the afternoon sun to find himself staring at a small
town that was built within the stronghold’s ramparts and on the summit
of Gawilghur’s promontory. The alleys of the town were crammed with
soldiers, most of them Mahratta cavalrymen who had fled in front of the