convulsion seemed to pass through the ranks of his brigades, a whisper moving in quick waves, back and forth:
‘Rathor.’
‘Stand to!’ La Borgne shouted, his voice breaking; ten thousand Rathor horsemen were coming against him, men dressed in chain
mail and steel helmets, men from the Rathor clan of the Rajputs of the desert, ten thousand incredibly handsome men, the flower
of the chivalry of Rajputana, ten thousand men who claimed descent from the sun, men of the clan which claimed to have forgotten
the feeling of fear; sunlight glanced off their helmets as they broke into a trot. There was laughter as they swept down onto
the infantry drawn into a hollow square, because no infantry had ever withstood the onslaught of the Rathor cavalry (there
were songs that floated through the dry, windswept valleys of Rajputana, songs about the Rathor horsemen, the Rathor swordsmen);
they broke into a gallop, coming steadily at La Borgne’s lines; closer, closer, then the musket-men pulled back, revealing
La Borgne’s guns —the Rathors riding on, swords raised —then the hot yellow and red belch of grape-shot swept into the horsemen,
spilling them over, and he thinks, I will henceforth be known as Benoit de Boigne; torn apart, they come on, keep coming,
coming into the guns, slashing at the gunners, beyond, at de Boigne’s line, closer, closer, then on command, a vast, long
sheet of fire blossoms from two thousand muskets, tearing down the Rathors, spinning them down into the mud, sudden spurt
of blood blackening the sand till it is too wet to rise into the air (horses fall into this, eyes rolling, with a wet slipping
sound), the volleys ring out one after the other, regular, crack-crack-crack, and de Boigne’s men stand elbow-to-elbow like
figures made of rock, refusing to rise to the taunts that the baffled horsemen are screaming at them, the invitations to come
out and test their skill. De Boigne’s men are quiet; there is no cheering because no one has ever seen anything like this;
the Rathors are trying to rally, eyes red, but de Boigne sounds the advance, and his battalions move forward, steady themselves,
and again, precise and coordinated, the muskets swing up and spit. The Rathors flee.
The forces aligned with de Boigne’s battalions won that morning, but that is of no consequence to us now. That evening, when
other officers came to de Boigne’s tent, bringing gifts, they found him seated outside,his gaze focused on the horizon. The officers laid their gifts around him and backed away, bowing, thinking that he was reliving
the events of the morning, that facing the dreaded Rathors was an experience that needed to be faced again and again, till
it faded away. They were wrong. De Boigne was seeing visions of the future, and was fighting them; he saw other villages,
other fields where he would fulfil the destiny of his flesh and breeding and history, where he would be the instrument of
the perverse gods who moulded events and decided the fate of soldiers and nations. De Boigne fought his private battles at
night and in the morning, on horse-back and in the perfumed rooms of palaces, but to no avail. On other fields, near other
quiet villages with names like Chaksana and Patan, his battalions, moving like clock-work, decimated other hosts. Again and
again, the infuriated cavalrymen hurled themselves against de Boigne’s unnatural unmoving ranks. At Patan, the Rathors broke
and ran again, and a song was heard in the passes of the desert mountains:
At Patan, the Rathors lost five things:
Horse, shoes, turban,
the upturned moustache of the warrior
And the sword of Marwar
…
Incensed at this shame, every Rathor capable of bearing a weapon made his way to Merta, near Ajmer. Eighty thousand Rathors
collected in this dry brown valley, and awaited the arrival of de Boigne’s battalions and their Maratha allies. The armies
collected and formed their lines; on the
‘Rathor.’
‘Stand to!’ La Borgne shouted, his voice breaking; ten thousand Rathor horsemen were coming against him, men dressed in chain
mail and steel helmets, men from the Rathor clan of the Rajputs of the desert, ten thousand incredibly handsome men, the flower
of the chivalry of Rajputana, ten thousand men who claimed descent from the sun, men of the clan which claimed to have forgotten
the feeling of fear; sunlight glanced off their helmets as they broke into a trot. There was laughter as they swept down onto
the infantry drawn into a hollow square, because no infantry had ever withstood the onslaught of the Rathor cavalry (there
were songs that floated through the dry, windswept valleys of Rajputana, songs about the Rathor horsemen, the Rathor swordsmen);
they broke into a gallop, coming steadily at La Borgne’s lines; closer, closer, then the musket-men pulled back, revealing
La Borgne’s guns —the Rathors riding on, swords raised —then the hot yellow and red belch of grape-shot swept into the horsemen,
spilling them over, and he thinks, I will henceforth be known as Benoit de Boigne; torn apart, they come on, keep coming,
coming into the guns, slashing at the gunners, beyond, at de Boigne’s line, closer, closer, then on command, a vast, long
sheet of fire blossoms from two thousand muskets, tearing down the Rathors, spinning them down into the mud, sudden spurt
of blood blackening the sand till it is too wet to rise into the air (horses fall into this, eyes rolling, with a wet slipping
sound), the volleys ring out one after the other, regular, crack-crack-crack, and de Boigne’s men stand elbow-to-elbow like
figures made of rock, refusing to rise to the taunts that the baffled horsemen are screaming at them, the invitations to come
out and test their skill. De Boigne’s men are quiet; there is no cheering because no one has ever seen anything like this;
the Rathors are trying to rally, eyes red, but de Boigne sounds the advance, and his battalions move forward, steady themselves,
and again, precise and coordinated, the muskets swing up and spit. The Rathors flee.
The forces aligned with de Boigne’s battalions won that morning, but that is of no consequence to us now. That evening, when
other officers came to de Boigne’s tent, bringing gifts, they found him seated outside,his gaze focused on the horizon. The officers laid their gifts around him and backed away, bowing, thinking that he was reliving
the events of the morning, that facing the dreaded Rathors was an experience that needed to be faced again and again, till
it faded away. They were wrong. De Boigne was seeing visions of the future, and was fighting them; he saw other villages,
other fields where he would fulfil the destiny of his flesh and breeding and history, where he would be the instrument of
the perverse gods who moulded events and decided the fate of soldiers and nations. De Boigne fought his private battles at
night and in the morning, on horse-back and in the perfumed rooms of palaces, but to no avail. On other fields, near other
quiet villages with names like Chaksana and Patan, his battalions, moving like clock-work, decimated other hosts. Again and
again, the infuriated cavalrymen hurled themselves against de Boigne’s unnatural unmoving ranks. At Patan, the Rathors broke
and ran again, and a song was heard in the passes of the desert mountains:
At Patan, the Rathors lost five things:
Horse, shoes, turban,
the upturned moustache of the warrior
And the sword of Marwar
…
Incensed at this shame, every Rathor capable of bearing a weapon made his way to Merta, near Ajmer. Eighty thousand Rathors
collected in this dry brown valley, and awaited the arrival of de Boigne’s battalions and their Maratha allies. The armies
collected and formed their lines; on the
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