follow them? Scindia will shower
Dodd's men with gold, Major, with lucre and with spoil, in the hope that others will follow
them. I have to stop that, and I need Sharpe.”
" Major Stokes recognized the inevitable.
“You will bring him back, sir?”
“If it is the Lord's will, yes. Well, Sergeant? Will you come with me?”
Sharpe glanced at Major Stokes who shrugged, smiled, then nodded his permission.
“I'll come, sir,” Sharpe said to the Scotsman.
“How soon can you be ready?”
“Ready now, sir. ”Sharpe indicated the newly issued pack and musket that lay at his
feet.
“You can ride a horse?”
Sharpe frowned.
“I can sit on one, sir.”
“Good enough,” the Scotsman said. He pulled on his oilcloth cape, then untied the two
reins and gave one set to Sharpe.
“She's a docile thing, Sharpe, so don't saw on her bit.”
“We're going right now, sir?” Sharpe asked, surprised by the suddenness of it all.
“Right now,” McCandless said.
“Time waits for no man, Sharpe, and we have a traitor and a murderer to catch.” He pulled
himself into his saddle and watched as Sharpe clumsily mounted the second horse.
“So where are you going?” Stokes asked McCandless.
“Ahmednuggur first, and after that God will decide.” The Colonel touched his horse's
flanks with his spurs and Sharpe, his pack hanging from one shoulder and his musket slung on
the other, followed.
He would redeem himself for the failure at Chasalgaon. Not with 1 punishment, but with
something better: with vengeance.
Major William Dodd ran a white-gloved finger down the spoke of a gun wheel He inspected
his fingertip and nearly nine hundred men, or at least as many of the nine hundred on
parade who could see the , Major, inspected him in return.
No mud or dust on the glove. Dodd straightened his back and glowered at the gun crews,
daring any man to show pleasure in having achieved a near perfect turn-out. It had been
hard work, too, for it had rained earlier in the day and the regiment's five guns had been
dragged through the muddy streets to the parade ground just inside
Ahmednuggur's southern gate, but the gunners had still managed to clean their weapons
meticulously. They had removed every scrap of mud, washed the mahogany trails, then
polished the barrels until their alloy of copper and tin gleamed like brass.
Impressive, Dodd thought, as he peeled off the glove. Pohlmann had left Ahmednuggur,
retreating north to join his compoo to Scindia's gathering army, and Dodd had ordered
this surprise inspection of his new command. He had given the regiment just one hour's
notice, but so far he had found nothing amiss. They were impressive indeed; standing in
four long white-coated ranks with their four cannon and single howitzer paraded at the
right flank. The guns themselves, despite their gleam, were pitiful things. The four field
guns were mere four pounders while the fifth was a five-inch howitzer, and not one of the
pieces fired a ball of real weight. Not a killing ball.
“Peashooters!” Dodd said disparagingly.
“Monsieur?” Captain Joubert, the Frenchman who had desperately hoped to be given
command of the regiment himself, asked.
“You heard me, Monsewer. Peashooters!” Dodd said as he lifted a limber's lid and
hoisted out one of the four-pounder shots. It was half the size of a cricket ball.
“You might as well spit at them, Monsewer!”
Joubert, a small man, shrugged.
“At close range, Monsieur .. .” he began to defend the guns.
“At close range, Monsewer, close range!” Dodd tossed the shot to Joubert who fumbled the
catch.
“That's no use at close range! No more use than a musket ball, and the gun's ten times more
cumbersome than a musket.” He rummaged through the limber.
“No canister? No grape?”
“Canister isn't issued for four-pounder guns,” Joubert said.
“It isn't even made for them.”
“Then we make our own,” Dodd said.
"Bags
Dodd's men with gold, Major, with lucre and with spoil, in the hope that others will follow
them. I have to stop that, and I need Sharpe.”
" Major Stokes recognized the inevitable.
“You will bring him back, sir?”
“If it is the Lord's will, yes. Well, Sergeant? Will you come with me?”
Sharpe glanced at Major Stokes who shrugged, smiled, then nodded his permission.
“I'll come, sir,” Sharpe said to the Scotsman.
“How soon can you be ready?”
“Ready now, sir. ”Sharpe indicated the newly issued pack and musket that lay at his
feet.
“You can ride a horse?”
Sharpe frowned.
“I can sit on one, sir.”
“Good enough,” the Scotsman said. He pulled on his oilcloth cape, then untied the two
reins and gave one set to Sharpe.
“She's a docile thing, Sharpe, so don't saw on her bit.”
“We're going right now, sir?” Sharpe asked, surprised by the suddenness of it all.
“Right now,” McCandless said.
“Time waits for no man, Sharpe, and we have a traitor and a murderer to catch.” He pulled
himself into his saddle and watched as Sharpe clumsily mounted the second horse.
“So where are you going?” Stokes asked McCandless.
“Ahmednuggur first, and after that God will decide.” The Colonel touched his horse's
flanks with his spurs and Sharpe, his pack hanging from one shoulder and his musket slung on
the other, followed.
He would redeem himself for the failure at Chasalgaon. Not with 1 punishment, but with
something better: with vengeance.
Major William Dodd ran a white-gloved finger down the spoke of a gun wheel He inspected
his fingertip and nearly nine hundred men, or at least as many of the nine hundred on
parade who could see the , Major, inspected him in return.
No mud or dust on the glove. Dodd straightened his back and glowered at the gun crews,
daring any man to show pleasure in having achieved a near perfect turn-out. It had been
hard work, too, for it had rained earlier in the day and the regiment's five guns had been
dragged through the muddy streets to the parade ground just inside
Ahmednuggur's southern gate, but the gunners had still managed to clean their weapons
meticulously. They had removed every scrap of mud, washed the mahogany trails, then
polished the barrels until their alloy of copper and tin gleamed like brass.
Impressive, Dodd thought, as he peeled off the glove. Pohlmann had left Ahmednuggur,
retreating north to join his compoo to Scindia's gathering army, and Dodd had ordered
this surprise inspection of his new command. He had given the regiment just one hour's
notice, but so far he had found nothing amiss. They were impressive indeed; standing in
four long white-coated ranks with their four cannon and single howitzer paraded at the
right flank. The guns themselves, despite their gleam, were pitiful things. The four field
guns were mere four pounders while the fifth was a five-inch howitzer, and not one of the
pieces fired a ball of real weight. Not a killing ball.
“Peashooters!” Dodd said disparagingly.
“Monsieur?” Captain Joubert, the Frenchman who had desperately hoped to be given
command of the regiment himself, asked.
“You heard me, Monsewer. Peashooters!” Dodd said as he lifted a limber's lid and
hoisted out one of the four-pounder shots. It was half the size of a cricket ball.
“You might as well spit at them, Monsewer!”
Joubert, a small man, shrugged.
“At close range, Monsieur .. .” he began to defend the guns.
“At close range, Monsewer, close range!” Dodd tossed the shot to Joubert who fumbled the
catch.
“That's no use at close range! No more use than a musket ball, and the gun's ten times more
cumbersome than a musket.” He rummaged through the limber.
“No canister? No grape?”
“Canister isn't issued for four-pounder guns,” Joubert said.
“It isn't even made for them.”
“Then we make our own,” Dodd said.
"Bags
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