“It will all belong to my brother,” he said softly, ‘but it will begin
here. At Gawilghur.”
And here, Dodd suddenly thought, it would end for Bappoo. No man who
was willing to endure a feeble wretch like Beny Singh, or protect a
cowardly libertine like the Rajah, deserved to be a warlord of all
India.
No, Dodd thought, he would win his own victory here, and then he would
strike against Bappoo and against Beny Singh, and he would raise his
own army and use it to strike terror into the rich southern kingdoms.
Other Europeans had done it. Benoit de Boigne had made himself richer
than the kings of all Christendom, while George Thomas, an illiterate
Irish sailor, had risen to rule a princedom for his widowed mistress.
Dodd saw himself as a new Presterjohn. He would make a kingdom from
the rotting scraps of India, and he would rule from a new palace in
Gawilghur that would be like no other in the world. He would have
roofs of gold, walls of white marble and garden paths made from pearls,
and men from all India would come to pay him homage. He would be Lord
of Gawilghur, Dodd thought, and smiled. Not bad for a miller’s son
from Suffolk, but Gawilghur was a place to stir dreams for it lifted
men’s thoughts into the heavens, and Dodd knew that India, above all
the lands on God’s earth, was a place where dreams could come true.
Here a man was either made rich beyond all desire, or else became
nothing.
And Dodd would not be nothing. He would be Lord of Gawilghur and the
terror of India.
Once the redcoats were defeated.
“Is this the best you could manage, Sharpe?” Torrance enquired,
looking about the main room of the commandeered house.
“No, sir,” Sharpe said.
“There was a lovely house just up the road. Big shady courtyard,
couple of pools, a fountain and a gaggle of dancing girls, but I
thought you might prefer the view from these windows.”
“Sarcasm ill becomes an ensign,” Torrance said, dropping his saddlebags
on the earthen floor.
“Indeed, very little becomes ensigns, Sharpe, except a humble devotion
to serving their betters. I suppose the house will have to suffice.
Who is that?” He shuddered as he stared at the woman whose house he
was occupying.
“She lives here, sir.”
“Not now, she doesn’t. Get rid of the black bitch, and her foul
children. Brick!”
Clare Wall came in from the sunlight, carrying a sack.
“Sir?”
“I’m hungry, Brick. Find the kitchen. We made a late start, Sharpe,”
Torrance explained, ‘and missed dinner.”
“I imagine that’s why the General wants to see you, sir,” Sharpe
said.
“Not because you missed dinner, but because the supplies weren’t here
on time.”
Torrance stared at Sharpe in horror.
“Wellesley wants to see me?”
“Six o’clock, sir, at his tent.”
“Oh, Christ!” Torrance threw his cocked hat across the room. Just
because the supplies were a little late?”
“Twelve hours late, sir.”
Torrance glared at Sharpe, then fished a watch from his fob.
“It’s half past five already! God help us! Can’t you brush that coat,
Sharpe?”
“He don’t want to see me, sir. Just you.”
“Well, he’s bloody well going to see both of us. Clean uniform,
Sharpe, hair brushed, paws washed, face scrubbed, Sunday best.”
Torrance frowned suddenly.
“Why didn’t you tell me you saved Wellesley’s life?”
“Is that what I did, sir?”
“I mean, good God, man, he must be grateful to you?” Torrance asked.
Sharpe just shrugged.
“You saved his life,” Torrance insisted, ‘and that means he’s in your
debt, and you must use the advantage. Tell him we don’t have enough
men to run the supply train properly. Put in a good word for me,
Sharpe, and I’ll repay the favour. Brick! Forget the food! I need a
clean stock, boots polished, hat brushed. And give my dress coat a
pressing!”
Sergeant Hakeswill edged through the door.
“Your am mock sir,” he said to Torrance, then saw Sharpe and a slow
grin spread across his face.
“Look who it isn’t. Sharpie!”
Torrance wheeled on the Sergeant.
“Mister Sharpe is an officer, Hakeswill! In this unit we do observe