“In a minute,” Dodd called back. He picked his target, another
officer, and waited for the man to ride into the rifle’s sights. The
wind was fitful.
It gusted, blowing dust into Dodd’s right eye and making him blink.
Sweat trickled down his face. The approaching cavalry had sabres drawn
and the blades glittered in the sun. One man carried a dusty pennant
on a short staff. They came raggedly, twisting between the rocks and
low bushes. Their horses kept their heads low, tired after the effort
of climbing the steep hill.
The officer curbed his horse to let his men catch up. The wind died to
nothing and Dodd squeezed the trigger and flinched as the heavy stock
slammed into his bruised shoulder.
“Sahib!”
“We’re going,” Dodd said, and he put his left foot into the stirrup and
heaved himself into the saddle. A glance behind showed a riderless
horse and a score of men spurring forward to take revenge. Dodd
laughed, slung the rifle, and kicked his horse into a canter. He heard
a shout behind as the sepoy cavalry were urged into the pursuit, but
Dodd and his escort were mounted on fresh horses and easily outstripped
the sepoys.
Dodd curbed his horse on the neck of rocky land that led to Gawilghur’s
Outer Fort. The walls were thick with men who watched the enemy’s
approach, and the sight of those spectators gave Dodd an idea. He
threw the rifle to the commander of his escort.
“Hold it for me!”
he ordered, then turned his horse to face the pursuing horsemen. He
waved his escort on towards the fortress and drew his sword. It was a
beautiful weapon, European made, then sent to India where craftsmen had
given it a hilt of gold shaped like an elephant’s head. The escort
commander, charged with protecting Dodd’s life, wanted to stay, but
Dodd insisted he ride on.
“I’ll join you in five minutes,” he promised.
Dodd barred the road. He glanced behind him once, just to check that
the Outer Fort’s ramparts were crowded with men, then he looked back to
the approaching cavalry. They slowed as they reached the rock isthmus.
They could have kept galloping, and Dodd would then have turned his
horse and outrun them, but instead they curbed their sweating horses
and just stood watching him from a hundred paces away. They knew what
he wanted, but Dodd saluted them with his sword just to make certain
they understood his challenge. A havildar urged his horse forward, but
then an English voice summoned him back and the man reluctantly
turned.
The English officer drew his sabre. He had lost his hat in the gallop
along the edge of the clifF and had long fair hair that was matted with
sweat and dirt. He wore a black and scarlet jacket and was mounted on
a tall bay gelding that was white with sweat. He saluted Dodd by
holding his sabre up, hilt before his face, then he touched the
gelding’s flanks with the tips of his spurs and the horse walked
forward. Dodd spurred his own horse and the two slowly closed. The
Englishman went into a trot, then clapped his heels to drive his horse
into a canter and Dodd saw the puffs of dust spurting from the
gelding’s hooves. He kept his horse at a walk, only touching it into a
trot at the very last second as the Englishman stood in his stirrups to
deliver a scything cut with the sabre.
Dodd tweaked the rein and his horse swerved to the left, then he was
turning it back right, turning it all the way, and the sabre had missed
his head by a scant two inches and he had not even bothered to parry
with his sword. Now he spurred the horse on, following the officer who
was trying to turn back, and the Englishman was still half turned,
still tugging on the reins, as Dodd attacked. The sabre made an
awkward parry that just managed to deflect the sword’s thrust. Dodd
hacked back as he passed, felt the blade thump home, then he hauled on
the reins and was turning again, and the Englishman was also turning so