crest of the low rise, but the Mahratta gunners dared not
fire because the remnants of the Lions of Allah were between them and the redcoats. The
gunners hesitated for a few seconds, then decided the day was lost and fled.
“Take the guns!” Wellesley called.
Colonel Wallace spurred among the fleeing enemy, striking down with the claymore, then
reined in beside a gaudily painted eighteen pounder
“Come on, lads! Come on! To me!”
The Scotsmen reached the guns. Most had reddened bayonets, all had sweat streaks
striping their powder-blackened faces. Some began rifling the limbers where gunners
stored food and valuables.
“Load!” Urquhart called.
“Load!”
“Form ranks!” Sergeant Colquhoun shouted. He ran forward and tugged men away from the
limbers.
“Leave the carts alone, boys! Form ranks! Smartly now!”
Sharpe, for the first time, could see down the long reverse slope. Three hundred paces
away were more infantry, a great long line of it massed in a dozen ranks, and beyond that
were some walled gardens and the roofs of a village. The shadows were very long for the sun
was blazing just above the horizon. The Arabs were running towards the stationary
infantry.
“Where are the galloper guns?” Wallace roared, and an aide spurred back down the slope to
fetch the gunners.
“Give them a volley, Swinton!” Wellesley called.
The range was very long for a musket, but Swinton hammered the battalion's fire down
the slope, and maybe it was that volley, or perhaps it was the sight of the defeated Arabs
that panicked the great mass of infantry. For a few seconds they stood under their big
bright flags and then, like sand struck by a flood, they dissolved into a rabble.
Cavalry trumpets blared. British and sepoy horsemen charged forward with sabres, while
the irregular horse, those mercenaries who had attached themselves to the British for
the chance of loot, lowered their lances and raked back their spurs.
It was a cavalryman's paradise, a broken enemy with nowhere to hide.
Some Mahrattas sought shelter in the village, but most ran past it, throwing down their
weapons as the terrible horsemen streamed into the fleeing horde with sabres and lances
slicing and thrusting.
"Puckaleesl' Urquhart shouted, standing in his stirrups to look for the men and boys who
brought water to the troops. There was none in sight and the 74th was parched, the men's
thirst made acute by the saltpetre in the gunpowder which had fouled their mouths.
“Where the .. . ?”
Urquhart swore, then frowned at Sharpe.
"Mister Sharpe? I'll trouble you to find our pucka lees
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said, not bothering to hide his disappointment at the order. He had
hoped to find some loot when the 74th searched the village, but instead he was to be a
fetcher of water. He threw down the musket and walked back through the groaning,
slow-moving litter of dead and dying men. Dogs were scavenging among the bodies.
“Forward now!” Wellesley called behind Sharpe, and the whole long line of British
infantrymen advanced under their flags towards the village. The cavalry was already
far beyond the houses, killing with abandon and driving the fugitives ever farther
northwards.
Sharpe walked on southwards. He suspected the pucka lees were still back with the
baggage, which would mean a three-mile walk and, by the time he had found them, the
battalion would have slaked its thirst from the wells in the village. Bugger it, he
thought. Even when they gave him a job it was a useless errand.
A shout made him look to his right where a score of native cavalrymen were slicing
apart the robes of the dead Arabs in search of coins and trinkets. The scavengers were
Mahrattas who had sold their services to the British and Sharpe guessed that the horsemen
had not joined the pursuit for fear of being mistaken for the defeated enemy. One of the
Arabs had only been feigning death and now, despite
fire because the remnants of the Lions of Allah were between them and the redcoats. The
gunners hesitated for a few seconds, then decided the day was lost and fled.
“Take the guns!” Wellesley called.
Colonel Wallace spurred among the fleeing enemy, striking down with the claymore, then
reined in beside a gaudily painted eighteen pounder
“Come on, lads! Come on! To me!”
The Scotsmen reached the guns. Most had reddened bayonets, all had sweat streaks
striping their powder-blackened faces. Some began rifling the limbers where gunners
stored food and valuables.
“Load!” Urquhart called.
“Load!”
“Form ranks!” Sergeant Colquhoun shouted. He ran forward and tugged men away from the
limbers.
“Leave the carts alone, boys! Form ranks! Smartly now!”
Sharpe, for the first time, could see down the long reverse slope. Three hundred paces
away were more infantry, a great long line of it massed in a dozen ranks, and beyond that
were some walled gardens and the roofs of a village. The shadows were very long for the sun
was blazing just above the horizon. The Arabs were running towards the stationary
infantry.
“Where are the galloper guns?” Wallace roared, and an aide spurred back down the slope to
fetch the gunners.
“Give them a volley, Swinton!” Wellesley called.
The range was very long for a musket, but Swinton hammered the battalion's fire down
the slope, and maybe it was that volley, or perhaps it was the sight of the defeated Arabs
that panicked the great mass of infantry. For a few seconds they stood under their big
bright flags and then, like sand struck by a flood, they dissolved into a rabble.
Cavalry trumpets blared. British and sepoy horsemen charged forward with sabres, while
the irregular horse, those mercenaries who had attached themselves to the British for
the chance of loot, lowered their lances and raked back their spurs.
It was a cavalryman's paradise, a broken enemy with nowhere to hide.
Some Mahrattas sought shelter in the village, but most ran past it, throwing down their
weapons as the terrible horsemen streamed into the fleeing horde with sabres and lances
slicing and thrusting.
"Puckaleesl' Urquhart shouted, standing in his stirrups to look for the men and boys who
brought water to the troops. There was none in sight and the 74th was parched, the men's
thirst made acute by the saltpetre in the gunpowder which had fouled their mouths.
“Where the .. . ?”
Urquhart swore, then frowned at Sharpe.
"Mister Sharpe? I'll trouble you to find our pucka lees
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said, not bothering to hide his disappointment at the order. He had
hoped to find some loot when the 74th searched the village, but instead he was to be a
fetcher of water. He threw down the musket and walked back through the groaning,
slow-moving litter of dead and dying men. Dogs were scavenging among the bodies.
“Forward now!” Wellesley called behind Sharpe, and the whole long line of British
infantrymen advanced under their flags towards the village. The cavalry was already
far beyond the houses, killing with abandon and driving the fugitives ever farther
northwards.
Sharpe walked on southwards. He suspected the pucka lees were still back with the
baggage, which would mean a three-mile walk and, by the time he had found them, the
battalion would have slaked its thirst from the wells in the village. Bugger it, he
thought. Even when they gave him a job it was a useless errand.
A shout made him look to his right where a score of native cavalrymen were slicing
apart the robes of the dead Arabs in search of coins and trinkets. The scavengers were
Mahrattas who had sold their services to the British and Sharpe guessed that the horsemen
had not joined the pursuit for fear of being mistaken for the defeated enemy. One of the
Arabs had only been feigning death and now, despite
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