cloth in the
village where they had spent the night, then torn the cloth into strips that he had wrapped
about his calves to protect them from the stirrup leathers, but his calves still hurt.
God, he thought, but he hated bloody horses.
He washed the worst of Diomed's blood from his hands and face, diluted what was on his
uniform, then went back to wait for McCandless. Sevajee's men still sat on their horses
and stared at the distant city that was topped by a smear of smoke. Sharpe could hear the
murmur of voices inside the General's tent, but he paid no attention. It wasn't his
business. He wondered if he could scrounge a tent for his own use for it had already rained
earlier in the day and Sharpe suspected it might rain again, but Colonel McCandless was
not a man much given to tents. He derided them as women's luxuries, preferring to seek
shelter with local villagers or, if no peasant house or cattle byre was available,
happily sleeping beneath the stars or in the rain. A pint of rum, Sharpe thought, would not
go amiss either.
“Sergeant Sharpe!” Wellesley's familiar voice broke into his thoughts and Sharpe turned
to see his old commanding officer coming from the big tent.
“Sir!” Sharpe stiffened to attention.
“So Colonel McCandless has borrowed you from Major Stokes?”
Wellesley asked.
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said. The General was bareheaded and Sharpe saw that his temples had
turned prematurely grey. He seemed to have forgotten Sharpe's handiwork with his horse,
for his long-nosed face was as unfriendly as ever.
“And you saw this man Dodd at Chasalgaon?”
“I did, sir.”
“Repugnant business,” Wellesley said, 'repugnant. Did he kill the wounded?"
“All of them, sir. All but me.”
“And why not you?” Wellesley asked coldly.
“I was covered in blood, sir. Fair drenched in it.”
“You seem to be in that condition much of the time, Sergeant,” Wellesley said with just a
hint of a smile, then he turned back to
McCandless.
“I wish you joy of the hunt, Colonel. I'll do my best to help you, but I'm short of men,
woefully short.”
“Thank you, sir,” the Scotsman said, then watched as the General went back into his big
tent which was crammed with red-coated officers.
“It seems,” McCandless said to Sharpe when the General was gone, 'that we're not
invited to supper.“ l ”Were you expecting to be, sir?"
“No,” McCandless said, 'and I've no business in that tent tonight either. They're
planning an assault for first light tomorrow."
Sharpe thought for a moment that he must have misheard. He looked northwards at the big
city wall.
“Tomorrow, sir? An assault? But they only got here today and there isn't a breach!”
“You don't need a breach for an escalade, Sergeant,” McCandless said.
“An escalade is nothing but ladders and murder.”
Sharpe frowned.
“Escalade?” He had heard the word, but was not really sure he knew what it meant.
“March straight up to the wall, Sharpe, throw your ladders against the ramparts and
climb.” McCandless shook his head.
“No artillery to help you, no breach, no trenches to get you close, so you must accept
the casualties and fight your way through the defenders. It isn't pretty, Sharpe, but it
can work.” The Scotsman still sounded disapproving. He was leading Sharpe away from the
General's tent, seeking a place to spread his blanket. Sevajee and his men were
following, and Sevajee was walking close enough to listen to McCandless's words.
“Escalades can work well against an unsteady enemy,” the Colonel went on, 'but I'm not at
all convinced the Mahrattas are shaky. I doubt they're shaky at all, Sharpe. They're
dangerous as snakes and they usually have Arab mercenaries in their ranks."
“Arabs, sir? From Arabia?”
“That's where they usually come from,” McCandless confirmed.
“Nasty fighters, Sharpe.”
“Good fighters,” Sevajee intervened.
“We hire
village where they had spent the night, then torn the cloth into strips that he had wrapped
about his calves to protect them from the stirrup leathers, but his calves still hurt.
God, he thought, but he hated bloody horses.
He washed the worst of Diomed's blood from his hands and face, diluted what was on his
uniform, then went back to wait for McCandless. Sevajee's men still sat on their horses
and stared at the distant city that was topped by a smear of smoke. Sharpe could hear the
murmur of voices inside the General's tent, but he paid no attention. It wasn't his
business. He wondered if he could scrounge a tent for his own use for it had already rained
earlier in the day and Sharpe suspected it might rain again, but Colonel McCandless was
not a man much given to tents. He derided them as women's luxuries, preferring to seek
shelter with local villagers or, if no peasant house or cattle byre was available,
happily sleeping beneath the stars or in the rain. A pint of rum, Sharpe thought, would not
go amiss either.
“Sergeant Sharpe!” Wellesley's familiar voice broke into his thoughts and Sharpe turned
to see his old commanding officer coming from the big tent.
“Sir!” Sharpe stiffened to attention.
“So Colonel McCandless has borrowed you from Major Stokes?”
Wellesley asked.
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said. The General was bareheaded and Sharpe saw that his temples had
turned prematurely grey. He seemed to have forgotten Sharpe's handiwork with his horse,
for his long-nosed face was as unfriendly as ever.
“And you saw this man Dodd at Chasalgaon?”
“I did, sir.”
“Repugnant business,” Wellesley said, 'repugnant. Did he kill the wounded?"
“All of them, sir. All but me.”
“And why not you?” Wellesley asked coldly.
“I was covered in blood, sir. Fair drenched in it.”
“You seem to be in that condition much of the time, Sergeant,” Wellesley said with just a
hint of a smile, then he turned back to
McCandless.
“I wish you joy of the hunt, Colonel. I'll do my best to help you, but I'm short of men,
woefully short.”
“Thank you, sir,” the Scotsman said, then watched as the General went back into his big
tent which was crammed with red-coated officers.
“It seems,” McCandless said to Sharpe when the General was gone, 'that we're not
invited to supper.“ l ”Were you expecting to be, sir?"
“No,” McCandless said, 'and I've no business in that tent tonight either. They're
planning an assault for first light tomorrow."
Sharpe thought for a moment that he must have misheard. He looked northwards at the big
city wall.
“Tomorrow, sir? An assault? But they only got here today and there isn't a breach!”
“You don't need a breach for an escalade, Sergeant,” McCandless said.
“An escalade is nothing but ladders and murder.”
Sharpe frowned.
“Escalade?” He had heard the word, but was not really sure he knew what it meant.
“March straight up to the wall, Sharpe, throw your ladders against the ramparts and
climb.” McCandless shook his head.
“No artillery to help you, no breach, no trenches to get you close, so you must accept
the casualties and fight your way through the defenders. It isn't pretty, Sharpe, but it
can work.” The Scotsman still sounded disapproving. He was leading Sharpe away from the
General's tent, seeking a place to spread his blanket. Sevajee and his men were
following, and Sevajee was walking close enough to listen to McCandless's words.
“Escalades can work well against an unsteady enemy,” the Colonel went on, 'but I'm not at
all convinced the Mahrattas are shaky. I doubt they're shaky at all, Sharpe. They're
dangerous as snakes and they usually have Arab mercenaries in their ranks."
“Arabs, sir? From Arabia?”
“That's where they usually come from,” McCandless confirmed.
“Nasty fighters, Sharpe.”
“Good fighters,” Sevajee intervened.
“We hire
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