Sharpe’s Fortress: The Siege of Gawilghur, December 1803. Bernard Cornwell

A shout sounded behind the 74th. ‘Make way!’

      Two batteries of six-pounder galloper guns were being hauled up the dry riverbed to form an artillery line ahead of the infantry. The guns were called gallopers because they were light and were usually hauled by horses, but now they were all harnessed to teams of ten oxen so they plodded rather than galloped. The oxen had painted horns and some had bells about their necks. The heavy guns were all back on the road somewhere, so far back that they would probably be too late to join this day’s party.

      The land was more open now. There were a few patches of tall millet ahead, but off to the east there were arable fields and Sharpe watched as the guns headed for that dry grassland. The enemy was watching too, and the first round shots bounced on the grass and ricocheted over the British guns.

      ‘A few minutes before the gunners bother themselves with us, I fancy,’ Urquhart said, then kicked his right foot out of its stirrup and slid down beside Sharpe. ‘Jock!’ He called a soldier. ‘Hold onto my horse, will you?’ The soldier led the horse off to a patch of grass, and Urquhart jerked his head, inviting Sharpe to follow him out of the company’s earshot. The Captain seemed embarrassed, as was Sharpe, who was not accustomed to such intimacy with Urquhart. ‘D’you use a cigar, Sharpe?’ the Captain asked.

      ‘Sometimes, sir.’

      ‘Here.’ Urquhart offered Sharpe a roughly rolled cigar, then struck a light in his tinderbox. He lit his own cigar first, then held the box with its flickering flame to Sharpe. ‘The Major tells me a new draft has arrived in Madras.’

      ‘That’s good, sir.’

      ‘It won’t restore our strength, of course, but it’ll help,’ Urquhart said. He was not looking at Sharpe, but staring at the British guns that steadily advanced across the grassland. There were only a dozen of the cannon, far fewer than the Mahratta guns. A shell exploded by one of the ox teams, blasting the beasts with smoke and scraps of turf, and Sharpe expected to see the gun stop as the dying beasts tangled the traces, but the oxen trudged on, miraculously unhurt by the shell’s violence. ‘If they advance too far,’ Urquhart murmured, ‘they’ll become so much scrap metal. Are you happy here, Sharpe?’

      ‘Happy, sir?’ Sharpe was taken aback by the sudden question.

      Urquhart frowned as if he found Sharpe’s response unhelpful. ‘Happy,’ he said again, ‘content?’

      ‘Not sure a soldier’s meant to be happy, sir.’

      ‘Not true, not true,’ Urquhart said disapprovingly. He was as tall as Sharpe. Rumour said that Urquhart was a very rich man, but the only sign of it was his uniform, which was cut very elegantly in contrast to Sharpe’s shabby coat. Urquhart rarely smiled, which made it difficult to be easy in his company. Sharpe wondered why the Captain had sought this conversation, which seemed untypical of the unbending Urquhart. Perhaps he was nervous about the imminent battle? It seemed unlikely to Sharpe after Urquhart had endured the cauldron of fire at Assaye, but he could think of no other explanation. ‘A fellow should be content in his work,’ Urquhart said with a flourish of his cigar, ‘and if he ain’t, it’s probably a sign that he’s in the wrong line of business.’

      ‘Don’t have much work to do, sir,’ Sharpe said, wishing he did not sound so surly.

      ‘Don’t suppose you do,’ Urquhart said slowly. ‘I do see your meaning. Indeed I do.’ He shuffled his feet in the dust. ‘Company runs itself, I suppose. Colquhoun’s a good fellow, and Sergeant Craig’s showing well, don’t you think?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe knew he did not need to call Urquhart ‘sir’ all the time, but old habits died hard.

      ‘They’re both good Calvinists, you see,’ Urquhart said. ‘Makes ’em trustworthy.’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe said. He was not exactly sure what a Calvinist was, and he was not going to ask. Maybe it was the same as a Freemason, and there were plenty of those in the 74th’s mess, though Sharpe again did not really know what they were. He just knew he was not one of them.

      ‘Thing is, Sharpe,’ Urquhart went on, though he did not look at Sharpe as he spoke, ‘you’re sitting on a fortune, if you follow me.’

      ‘A fortune, sir?’ Sharpe asked with some alarm. Had Urquhart somehow smelt out Sharpe’s hoard of emeralds, rubies, diamonds and sapphires?

      ‘You’re an ensign,’ Urquhart explained, ‘and if you ain’t happy you can always sell your commission. Plenty of fine fellows in Scotland who’ll pay you for the rank. Even some fellows here. I gather the Scotch Brigade has some gentlemen rankers.’

      So Urquhart was not nervous about the coming fight, but rather about Sharpe’s reaction to this conversation. The Captain wanted to be rid of Sharpe, and the realization made Sharpe even more awkward. He had wanted to be made an officer so badly, and already he wished he had never dreamed of the promotion. What had he expected? To be slapped on the back and welcomed like a long-lost brother? To be given a company of troops? Urquhart was watching him expectantly, waiting for a response, but Sharpe said nothing.

      ‘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