The Company of Shadows (Wellington Undead Book 3) (29 page)

The 6-pounders that he
did
have were going to be spaced between his infantry battalions. Drawn by bullock teams, he could see their drivers maneuvering them into place now. Galloper guns were also attached to the cavalry squadrons out on either flank to lend a little bit of support to the far left and right of Wellesley’s line.

He spurred his horse over to where Colonel Wallace marched on foot at the head of his men, the kilted Highlanders of the 78th.
“
Sound the advance, Colonel, if you please.”

“It shall be my pleasure, sir.” There was a certain roguish twinkle in the old campaigner’s eye, Wellesley saw, and it was one that he was more than familiar with. It popped up whenever Wallace knew that his beloved bagpipes were about to play.

And there they go now,
he thought, hearing the first pipers begin to play
.
The bagpipes, while something of an anachronism on the modern battlefield according to some, put an undeniable spring in the step of every Scotsman who heard them. The reverse was also true of the enemy, for whenever opposing troops came under the spell of this ancient musical weapon of war, the skirling, braying groans and wheezes would often turn their bowels to water.

Satisfied that all was progressing as it should with the infantry, Wellesley broke his horse into a canter and made for the cavalry squadrons who were screening his flanks to the east. The cavalry had taken a particularly brutal beating at Assaye, and their officers had paid an extremely heavy toll — so much so that they were now commanded by a mere major, who went by the name of Geoffrey Owen. Owen was a proficient enough officer, Wellesley was forced to admit, but he was stepping into some rather large boots, and if there was any weak link in his current chain of battle, the General feared that his easternmost cavalry was going to be it.

“Major Owen.”

“General Wellesley.” The two men exchanged salutes. Owen sat atop a large chestnut mount, and seemed completely at ease with the way things were progressing. The Major nodded toward the long Maratha battle line, which stretched as far as the eye could see along the northern horizon. “There seem to be a great many of them, sir.”

“That there are,” Wellesley agreed affably, his eyes glowing crimson in the darkness, “but that just makes for more glory all round, eh?”

“Quite right, sir. Quite right.” Owen lowered his voice a few octaves and whispered, “If they enfold us, sir, I will do all that is within my power to hold this flank. You may depend upon it. But I cannot answer for how well the native cavalry will hold up if we are encircled.”

It was a very real threat, Wellesley knew. The Maratha cavalry was mostly irregular, which meant that there was more of the amateur than the hardened professional about them, and yet even the most seasoned professional soldier had been known to panic when surrounded by a swarm of enemy horsemen that were many times his number.

“If all goes according to plan, then the infantry shall have lanced this particular boil long before the sun is up, Major. Hold fast, if you please.”

Owen touched two fingers to the brim of his hat, part salute, part acknowledgment of the General’s words.

Wellesley eyed the galloper gun teams. “Deploy your cavalry into line and have them dismount, Owen. Then let’s get the artillery into action, as quickly possible. Have them advance to around a thousand yards from the enemy line. They may then open fire when they are ready and proceed to fire at will.”

Acknowledging this order, Owen beckoned for a subaltern. After a hurried conversation, the junior officer galloped off to relay Wellesley’s orders to the gun captains.

In just a few minutes, the first six pounders had closed to within range and were laying down fire upon the Maratha position. A cheer went up from the leading British infantry lines, and at least one cry of “Let’s see how you like that, you heathen bastards!” which was rapidly quieted by a sergeant.

The Maratha gunners were getting tired, or so it seemed to Wellesley, at least. Just as the British gunners were hitting their stride, sending a steady stream of lead into the enemy positions, their return fire began to slacken and ebb, becoming lazier and more scattered with every incoming round.

From his mounted position in the center of the British line, Wellesley could easily see above the fields of tall millet. The redcoats were only just entering it, their shakoes and bayonets gleaming in the moonlight. The blindness factor would unnerve even the hardiest of troops, he knew, but on the other hand, the millet would screen them from the enemy. While the crop wouldn’t stop musket balls, the enemy would at least be reduced to firing blindly.

The 33rd marched directly in front of him, with the 74th and 78th on either side. He had launched his prime troops straight into the center of the enemy position, plunging them like a dagger into its very heart.

A sudden thunder drew his attention to the right. His cavalry commander on that wing had decided to launch into a charge; not bad decision with only a few hundred yards separating them from the enemy. The line of horse slammed into their enemy counterparts without a single shot being fired from either side. This contest would be decided by the blade, not by the bullet; the British cavalrymen and their allies began to lay about them with their sabers, hacking, slashing, and spearing on all sides. For their part, the Maratha horsemen were no pushovers, and they outnumbered the British rather heavily.

And yet ours are better trained,
Wellesley reflected with quiet confidence.
Give me training over numbers any day of the week, and twice on Sunday.

He glanced to the left, sitting tall in the saddle. Stevenson’s cavalry, far out on that flank, were launching into their own charge. The enemy horse on that wing sat quietly, their commander apparently indecisive. And yet suddenly, a large formation of them broke into their own gallop. At first Wellesley took it for a counter-charge, but it did not take long for him to realize that he was mistaken: the charging mass broke off, angling away from the oncoming British cavalry and wheeling to the left, bearing down upon the left wing of his infantry formation.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Manoo Bappoo could be called many things, but
coward
was not among them.

Ever since he had received his orders in a secret audience with Scindia, Bappoo had been under no illusions about the role that he and his force were intended to play in this particular game of military brinksmanship: at best, they had perhaps a fifty-fifty chance of beating the British and their lickspittle allies on the field of battle. At worst, their lives had already been sacrificed, written off by their shrewd and calculating ruler.

Bappoo’s brother, the Raja of Berar, had been conspicuously absent from the meeting, forcing Bappoo to wonder whether Scindia was operating behind his back, or if he was simply allowing himself the thin comfort of plausible deniability.

It really didn’t matter in the end.

As he surveyed the oncoming British line with his finely-crafted telescope, Bappoo squinted, trying to count numbers and make out greater detail. He hated fighting battles at night — yet against the vampire-led army of the British, what other choice did they have? With hindsight, he knew, he should have kept marching south, until the two villages were far behind them, and hit the invading army’s camp under the light of the noonday sun.

Except that you wanted to fight on ground of your own choosing,
Bappoo chastised himself mentally, stifling a curse. The handful of precious European vampires that remained in the service of the Maratha princes had been kept with the main force, hoarded by the likes of his brother and that treacherous cur Scindia.
The daylight would have been a far more valuable ally than the ground,
he admitted ruefully,
but it is too late to worry about that now.

He watched impassively as the British cavalry struck hard at his left flank. They appeared to be about to try the same thing on his right. And there were the infantry, so damnably confident, strutting like peacocks in their bright red coats and those ridiculously tall hats.
The vaunted Scotsmen. Well, I’ll be damned if I simply stand here and
wait.

Bappoo beckoned to a pair of aides, two staff officers who were tasked with relaying his orders. “Have the arabs advance to meet the British infantry when it emerges from the millet,” he told the first. To the second he said, “Instruct Bamiya that one third of his cavalry on our right wing is to engage the British infantry formations on their far left flank. Let us cut these
Highlanders
and their lackeys down to size.”

Suspecting that the British would try to break his center with their best troops, he had countered by placing his own elite battalions directly opposite them. The arabs were tough and disciplined fighters, and he had almost two thousand of them, the cream of his army. His aide had done his job well, Bappoo saw, because the white-robed troops were already moving, marching forward to close the distance between themselves and their foe. He watched the rows of millet wavering in response to the British soldiers shoving their way through. His artillery continued to pepper the field with case shot, smashing paths through the crop and occasionally earning a scream from within, but the British counter-battery fire was taking a heavy toll upon the Maratha gunners. Their fire was slackening badly, a product of both fatigue and loss of men.

And then there they were, the first of the red-coated soldiers emerging from concealment. The first ranks checked for a moment, apparently shocked to find the arab battalions bearing down on them, but as their officers began to appear and took charge, the redcoats were soon moving forward again, stepping off smartly. When no more than two hundred yards separated the two front ranks, the British halted and at a shout from one of their leaders, brought their weapons up into the aim position.

Halt the men. Halt. The. Men!
Bappoo’s teeth were clenched. If the British got in the first volley…

The arabs advanced bravely, directly into a thousand yawning muzzles of the British muskets. He realized that they were not going to stop, that their commander did not intend to trade volleys with the redcoats, but rather wanted to close the range and take the
tulwar
to them. It was a brave plan, to be sure, but one that failed to take into account the lethality of the vaunted British volley fire.

A thousand muskets barked in unison, unleashing a storm of leaden hatred upon the arab formation. The front ranks simply disintegrated, many of the men blown apart. Others fell, writhing and howling, only to trip those who came on in the ranks behind them. Now the arabs halted, unsure of what to do next, but equally unwilling to simply push on over the dead and wounded bodies of their comrades.

The British were reloading; he could see the glint of light on their ramrods. Now it was the turn of the surviving arabs to level their weapons and discharge them. The volley was a little more ragged, probably due to the shock that they had sustained just seconds before, but it still stung. Redcoats fell both left and right, dropping out of line and leaving gaps. The British sergeants wasted no time in closing the files, swiftly reorganizing the battle line — at the point of their boots, where necessary. They ignored the moans and screams of the wounded and dying, which would have struck the civilian observer as being callous, but in actuality was the only viable option.

Not thirty seconds after their first volley had obliterated the arab front ranks, the King’s regiments sent a second one to chase it down. More screams rose from the white-robed ranks, which had begun to shuffle forward toward the British once more. Many had simply discarded their firearms and were drawing blades,
tulwars
and scimitars for the most part. The redcoats lowered their muskets to waist height and began to advance, their bayonets leading the way.

Less than a minute later, the two opposing forces clashed. Steel rang upon steel, sometimes lighting the darkness with sparks. Blades cut, thrust, and jabbed at one another. What had been a mass exchange of muskets had now become a melee, with every man looking out for himself. The arabs were lusty and hardy combatants, yet the Scots were renowned for their propensity to go berserk when the combat became hand to hand.

Bappoo glanced to his right. His cavalry were galloping hard toward the East India Company infantry battalions on the western side of the watercourse, the left of their line. Their cavalry were moving forward in an attempt to counter, but it was obvious that they would never reach the charging Maratha horse in time. Besides, two-thirds of the Maratha horsemen were now advancing at the trot to engage them, tying them up before they could break the charge upon the infantry.

Good. These are not redcoats. They are mere mercenaries, bribed in coin to serve the British cause. Let us see how well they can stand against my cavalry.

Unfortunately, the answer turned out to be that they would stand surprisingly well. The native battalions checked their step, halted, turned, and leveled their muskets at the onrushing horsemen. Rather than rush to form a hasty square, which would have eaten up precious time, they simply held their lines and waited, letting the cavalry close to within a hundred yards of them. Then they fired.