“Four hundred pounds, Sharpe,” Urquhart said.
“That’s the official rate for an ensign’s commission, but between you
and me you can squeeze at least another fifty. Maybe even a hundred!
And in guineas.
But if you do sell to a ranker here, then make damn sure his note is
good.”
Sharpe said nothing. Were there really gentlemen rankers in the 94th?
Such men could afford to be officers, and had an officer’s breeding,
but until a commission was vacant they served in the ranks, yet ate in
the mess. They were neither fish nor fowl. Like Sharpe himself. And
any one of them would snap at the chance to buy a commission in the
74th. But Sharpe hardly needed the money. He possessed a fortune
already, and if he wanted to leave the army then all he needed to do
was resign his commission and walk away. Walk away a rich man.
“Of course,” Urquhart went on, oblivious of Sharpe’s thoughts, ‘if the
note’s written on a decent army agent then you won’t have any
worries.
Most of our fellows use John Borrey in Edinburgh, so if you see one of
his notes then you can place full trust in it. Borrey’s an honest
fellow.
Another Calvinist, you see.”
“And a freemason, sir?” Sharpe asked. He was not really sure why he
asked, but the question just got blurted out. He supposed he wanted to
know if it was the same thing as a Calvinist.
“I really couldn’t say.” Urquhart frowned at Sharpe and his voice
became colder.
“The point is, Sharpe, he’s trustworthy.”
Four hundred and fifty guineas, Sharpe thought. It was not to be spat
on. It was another small fortune to add to his jewels, and he felt the
temptation to accept Urquhart’s advice. He was never going to be
welome in the 74th, and with his plunder he could set himself up in
England.
“Coins on the barrel-head,” Urquhart said.
“Think on it, Sharpe, think on it. Jock, my horse!”
Sharpe threw away the cigar. His mouth was dry with dust and the smoke
was harsh, but as Urquhart mounted his horse he saw the scarcely smoked
cigar lying on the ground and gave Sharpe an unfriendly look. For a
second it seemed as if the Captain might say something, then he pulled
on the reins and spurred away. Bugger it, Sharpe thought. Can’t do a
thing right these days.
The Mahratta cannon had got the range of the British galloper guns now
and one of their round shot landed plumb on a carriage. One wheel
splintered, tipping the six-pounder gun onto its side. The gunners
leaped off the limber, but before they could detach the spare wheel,
the ox team bolted. They dragged the broken gun back towards the
sepoys, leaving a vast plume of dust where the axle boss dragged
through the dry soil. The gunners ran to head the oxen off, but then a
second team panicked. The beasts had their painted horns down and were
galloping away from the bombardment. The Mahratta guns were firing
fast now.
A round shot slashed into another gun team, spurting ox blood bright
into the sky. The enemy guns were big brutes, and with a much longer
range than the small British six-pounders. A pair of shells exploded
behind the panicked oxen, driving them even faster towards the sepoy
battalions on the right of Wellesley’s line. The limbers were bouncing
frantically on the uneven ground and every lurch sent shot tumbling or
powder spilling. Sharpe saw General Wellesley turn his horse towards
the sepoys. He was doubtless shouting at them to open ranks and so
allow the bolting oxen to pass through the line, but instead, quite
suddenly, the men themselves turned and ran.
“Jesus!” Sharpe said aloud, earning himself a reproving look from
Sergeant Colquhoun.
Two battalions of the sepoys were fleeing. Sharpe saw the General
riding among the fugitives, and he imagined Wellesley shouting at the
frightened men to stop and re-form, but instead they kept running
towards the millet. They had been panicked by the oxen and by the
weight of enemy shot that beat the dry grassland with dust and smoke.
The men vanished in the high stalks, leaving nothing behind but a