Lord William’s voice invited him to come in, Sharpe obeyed and was negligently waved toward a chair. Lord William was alone in the room, sitting at the long table which was covered with books and papers. He was writing, and the scratch of his pen seemed ominous. He wrote for a long time, ignoring Sharpe. The skylight above the table was open and the wind rustled the papers on the table. Sharpe stared at his lordship’s gray hair, not one out of place.
“I am writing a report,” Lord William broke the silence, making Sharpe jump with guilty surprise, “about the political situation in India.” He dipped the nib in an inkwell, drained it carefully, then wrote another sentence before placing the pen on a small silver stand. His cold eyes were pouchy and glassy, probably from the laudanum that he took each night, but they were still filled with their usual distaste for Sharpe. “I would not normally turn to a junior officer for assistance, but I have small choice under the present circumstances. I would like your opinion, Sharpe, on the fighting abilities of the Mahrattas.”
Sharpe felt a pang of relief. The Mahrattas! Ever since entering the cabin he had been thinking of Braithwaite and his claim to have written a damned letter, but all Lord William wanted was an opinion on the Mahrattas! “Brave men, my lord,” Sharpe said.
Lord William shuddered. “I suppose I deserve a vulgar opinion, since I requested it of you,” he said tartly, then steepled his fingers and looked at Sharpe over his well-manicured nails. “It is evident to me, Sharpe, that we must eventually take over the administration of the whole Indian continent. In time that will also become evident to the government. The major obstacles to that ambition are the remaining Mahratta states, particularly those governed by Holkar. Let me be specific. Can those states prevent us from annexing their territory?”
“No, my lord.”
“Be explicit, please.” Lord William had drawn a clean sheet of paper toward him and had the pen poised.
Sharpe took a deep breath. “They are brave men, my lord,” he said, risking an irritated glance, “but that ain’t enough. They don’t understand how to fight in our way. They think the secret is artillery, so what they do, sir, is line up all their guns in a great row and put the infantry behind them.”
“We don’t do that?” Lord William asked, sounding surprised.
“We put the guns at the sides of the infantry, sir. That way, if the other infantry attacks, we can rake them with crossfire. Kill more men that way, my lord.”
“And you,” Lord William said acidly as his pen raced over the paper, “are an expert on killing. Go on, Sharpe.”
“By putting their guns in front, sir, they give their own infantry the idea that they’re protected. And when the guns fall, sir, which they always do, the infantry lose heart. Besides, sir, our lads fire muskets a good deal faster than theirs, so once we’re past the guns it’s really just a matter of killing them.” Sharpe watched the pen scratch, waited until his lordship dipped it into the inkwell again. “We like to get close, my lord. They shoot volleys at a distance, and that’s no good. You have to march up close, very close, till you can smell them, then start firing.”
“You’re saying their infantry lack the discipline of ours?”
“They lack the training, sir.” He thought about it. “And no, they’re not as disciplined.”
“And doubtless,” Lord William said pointedly, “they do not use the lash. But what if their infantry was properly led? By Europeans?”
“It can be good then, sir. Our sepoys are as good, but the Mahrattas don’t take well to discioline. Thev’re raiders. Pirates. Thev hire infantry from other states, and a man never fights so well when he’s not fighting for his own. And it takes time, my lord. If you gave me a company of Mahrattas I’d want a whole year to get them ready. I could do it, but they wouldn’t like it. They’d rather be horsemen, my lord. Irregular cavalry.”
“So you do not think we need take Monsieur Vaillard’s errand to Paris too seriously?”