Would he be more popular if it was known he was rich? He doubted it.
Wealth did not give respectability, not unless it was inherited. Besides, it was not poverty that excluded Sharpe from both the officers' mess and the ranks alike, but rather that he was a stranger. The 74th had taken a beating at Assaye. Not an officer had been left unwounded, and companies that had paraded seventy or eighty strong before the battle now had only forty to fifty men. The battalion had been ripped through hell and back, and its survivors now clung to each other. Sharpe might have been at Assaye, he might even have distinguished himself on the battlefield, but he had not been through the murderous ordeal of the 74th and so he was an outsider.
"Line to the right! " Sergeant Colquhoun shouted, and the company wheeled right and shook itself into a line of two ranks. The ditch had emerged from the millet to join a wide, dry riverbed, and Sharpe looked northwards to see a rill of dirty white gunsmoke on the horizon. Mahratta guns. But a long way away. Now that the battalion was free of the tall crops Sharpe could just detect a small wind. It was not strong enough to cool the heat, but it would waft the gunsmoke slowly away.
«Halt!» Urquhart called.
"Face front!»
The enemy cannon might be far off, but it seemed that the battalion would march straight up the riverbed into the mouths of those guns. But at least the 74th was not alone. The 78th, another Highland battalion, was on their right, and on either side of those two Scottish battalions were long lines of Madrassi sepoys.
Urquhart rode back to Sharpe.
"Stevenson's joined." The Captain spoke loud enough for the rest of the company to hear. Urquhart was encouraging them by letting them know that the two small British armies had combined. General Wellesley commanded both, but for most of the time he split his forces into two parts, the smaller under Colonel Stevenson, but today the two small parts had combined so that twelve thousand infantry could attack together. But against how many?
Sharpe could not see the Mahratta army beyond their guns, but doubtless the bastards were there in force.
"Which means the 94th's off to our left somewhere, " Urquhart added loudly, and some of the men muttered their approval of the news. The 94th was another Scottish regiment, so today there were three Scottish battalions attacking the Mahrattas. Three Scottish and ten sepoy battalions, and most of the Scots reckoned that they could have done the job by themselves. Sharpe reckoned they could too. They may not have liked him much, but he knew they were good soldiers. Tough bastards. He sometimes tried to imagine what it must be like for the Mahrattas to fight against the Scots. Hell, he guessed. Absolute hell.
"The thing is, " Colonel McCandless had once told Sharpe, 'it takes twice as much to kill a Scot as it does to finish off an Englishman."
Poor McCandless. He had been finished off, shot in the dying moments of Assaye. Any of the enemy might have killed the Colonel, but Sharpe had convinced himself that the traitorous Englishman, William Dodd, had fired the fatal shot. And Dodd was still free, still fighting for the Mahrattas, and Sharpe had sworn over McCandless's grave that he would take vengeance on the Scotsman's behalf. He had made the oath as he had dug the Colonel's grave, getting blisters as he had hacked into the dry soil. McCandless had been a good friend to Sharpe and now, with the Colonel deep buried so that no bird or beast could feast on his corpse, Sharpe felt friendless in this army.
«Guns!» 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?