The Beast of Mysore (Wellington Undead Book 1) Page 7

  Tipu nodded. “It shall be an utter rout, my dear. Once our cannon have pounded their infantry into submission, I shall direct our own infantry to conduct a direct assault; and if any should survive that, our cavalry are more than capable of flanking whatever remains of the British force and slicing it to ribbons.”

  Tactically speaking, it was a sound plan, Jamelia knew. But so much depended upon Harris and his field commanders doing exactly what the Sultan wanted them to do. She was sure that she could make it work, or at least some variation of the overall plan, but if the British did something unexpected, her own battle plans were going to have to remain flexible. But then, flexibility was what the Sultan paid her so handsomely for…just not in the way that most people thought.

  Her lord was energized once again, reinvigorated now that battle strategies were starting to take shape. In his mind’s eye, he could already see Harris’s army, broken and bleeding on the sun-baked plain.

  “What are my orders, Your Majesty?”

  Tipu did not hesitate. “It is not even midnight. You and I shall return with all speed to the army – it should take no longer than two hours at the outside, if we run fast. If all preparations can be made in time, we will attack with the rising of the morning sun. Just as their…gentlemen officers are returning to their burrows for the coming day.

  “Let us see how well the British fight without their vampire generals.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sergeant Nathaniel Belton was a large man, probably larger than was good for him, if the truth be told. His love of food and copious amounts of alcohol saw to that. Unlike the late and unlamented Captain Ponsonby however, Nathaniel never let the drink interrupt the performance of his duty. Pissed as a newt on his own time, but never a drop on the army’s - that was his philosophy.

  Despite the slowly but steadily expanding waistline that required him to take his trousers to a seamstress every few months in order to have them widened, Nathaniel saw himself as a decent sweat of an NCO, a son of the old school; the type of soldier who had spent a lot of nights outdoors over the years, huddled with his mates around campfires, or standing guard duty when his turn came. He had also stood in more than his fair share of battle lines, loading and firing, trading musket balls (and sometimes even bayonets) with whichever enemy of the King his officers told him was the target that day.

  Yes, Nathaniel had been around. He knew how the army game was played, knew how to get the job done – and had a reputation to match. It was, he suspected, the main reason why the Colonel had allowed him to live, or at least given him the opportunity to set things straight.

  He checked his fob watch again. A quarter ‘til midnight. Let’s get this over with, he thought. If we can find the little bugger’s hiding place, we might still make it back to camp before dawn and get a bit of shut-eye.

  Nathaniel collected his musket and fighting gear from the pile in which his company stored it, though he doubted that he would need even one of the sixty musket balls. Standards and appearances must be maintained, as the colonel himself liked to say. What’s the point in having a musket if you can’t fire it?

  Morale was high among the men. The 33rd had found itself right in the center of a division comprised mostly of native sepoy soldiers. Nathaniel had watched them perform at drill. Some weren’t half bad, especially those backed by the coin and training of the East India Company; but others were downright awful, and he knew those battalions would fold when the first shots were fired, unless he missed his guess. Not so the King’s troops, however. Colonel Wellesley might be a stickler for the rules, but he knew how to run a fighting regiment, that was for sure. Under his watchful eye, the 33rd trained daily, whether in quarters or campaigning, in which case they trained on the march. It had reached the point where their formation close-order drill and musketry went like clockwork, meeting even the Colonel’s most demanding expectations. The 33rd had proved itself capable of being able to fire three volleys of well-aimed musket fire every minute, sometimes four when the conditions were right. Nathaniel had seen regiments who could barely fire two rounds a minute, toy soldiers such as the local yeomanry and militia units that “guarded” England’s shores from invasion – while the proper soldiers were off overseas, taking care of the real business of soldiering.

  The men of Nathaniel’s company had already eaten, and were stretched out around their fires, fast asleep and snoring. Some were still awake and enjoying a crafty drink or two. Nobody was going to get drunk tonight, the corporals and sergeants would make sure of it - for if the Tipu’s men turned out to be nearby, they redcoats would need to be able to march hard and to shoot straight. Many had already bedded down for a nap, enjoying this unexpected opportunity to snatch a little extra sleep.

  A handful of those married men whose wives were on the official compliment and who had accompanied the regiment on the voyage out to India when it had first deployed, were off in dark corners of the lines, enjoying their spousal benefits.

  Nathaniel sighed. Perhaps it was time for him to marry again. It had been months since his Maggie had died of the fever. Hadn’t he mourned long enough? With a conscious effort, he pushed the question aside. Time enough for that later.

  “Higgins. Teague. O’Donnell. Hogan. Let me see…Barnes. Miller. On your feet.” He applied his boot judiciously to a number of indistinct forms who slumbering beneath thick grey blankets, receiving groans and imprecations by way of reply. “Up, up, you shower of bastards. On your feet. Full fighting kit. We’ve got extra duty.”

  He had chosen these six men with great care, not only because they were six of the biggest, beefiest soldiers in the company, but also because none of them had seemed to be particularly close friends with Thomas Gilman. That should mean that there would be less chance of them letting him slip the net, which in turn would allow Nathaniel’s own neck to slip the noose, as it were, if they caught up with him in the village.

  Despite the grumbling, all six had rolled up their blankets, secured them with their packs, and stood smartly in a line before their Sergeant. Each had a musket slung on one shoulder, and Nathaniel was pleased to see that each also carried his cartridge box and bayonet. Don’t reckon we’ll need those pig-stickers, but you can never be too careful.

  “Alright, my lads,” Nathaniel said loudly, injecting a note of cheer into his voice that he most assuredly did not feel. “Here’s what’s up. I know it’s late. I know it’s cold. I know you’re bleeding tired.” Nods and muttered assent came from the gathering of soldiers. “But we’ve been given a job to do – a special job it is – by the Colonel himself. And we ain’t going to let him down, are we?”

  The silhouettes of six heads shaking in agreement were just about visible to him in the gathering darkness. You did not let Colonel Wellesley down. Not unless you wanted your back striped, or worse.

  “Good lads. Here’s what we’re going to do. You all know that Private Gilman took leave of ‘is senses earlier tonight and ran, stupid bastard that he is. The colonel doesn’t take kindly to desertion, lads, and an example has to be made. Private Gilman has already been flogged, but now he’s really gone and done it.

  “He can’t have gotten far. Unless he went out into the open plains, in which case he’ll be dead inside of a couple of days, he has to have gone to ground in that village. There ain’t many other sources of water for miles and miles, unless he wants to drink that muck from the fields. You mark my words, lads, we’ll find him cowering in one of them huts. If he puts up a fight, we’ll give him a bit of a slapping about, but nothing too rough, understand?” More nods. “The colonel wants him back alive and in one piece, and I’m not about to disappoint him. Any questions? Good. Alright, boys. Off we go then.”

  The small party of redcoats marched out of the British lines after arranging a password with the sergeant in charge of the night guard. “Tiger” would be the challenge, and “slayers” the response. Might as well think big, Nathaniel thought to himself.

  Making their way
northward under a crystal clear night sky, the soldiers had covered barely a mile when dark outline of the village came into sight on the horizon up ahead of them. There were no cooking fires or any other sources of light out there that he could see.

  Foraging parties would be sent here after daybreak, with order to fill skins and barrels of water from the village well before the day’s march – unless the Tipu had ordered it poisoned, which was a distinct possibility.

  “Here we go, lads,” said Belton quietly when they were about two hundred yards from the first building. “Load.” The soldiers had marched with unloaded and unprimed muskets, to prevent an accidental discharge from occurring if one of them happened to trip or stumble. Now all seven made their weapons ready, but did not cock them. Hopefully it would not be necessary to fire a shot.

  “Fix bayonets.”

  The men worked at the half-time, sliding out the wickedly sharp triangular blades and affixing them to the end of their musket barrels.

  “Advance.”

  Seven red-coated figures slunk into the streets of the shadowy village. All was peaceful and quiet, just as one would expect at this ungodly hour of the morning.

  “Teague. O’Donnell. Take that building there.” Belton gestured towards one of the huts with the point of his bayonet. “Hogan, Higgins…that one there. You two, with me.” Surprisingly nimble for a man of his size and age, the big sergeant took a three step run-up, planted his right foot firmly on the ground, and drove his left boot hard into the front door of the closest home. Once, twice, and then his foot was through, the door splintering under the force of his assault.

  The three soldiers piled inside. A woman’s scream answered their intrusion, high and shrill. What seemed to be the mother of the family placed her arms protectively about three small children.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got here then…” Private Barnes began to rifle through the family’s belongings.

  “Oi! We’re not here for that!” Belton thumped him on the shoulder. “If Nosey catches you looting, you’ll wish you’d never been bloody well born.”

  A tall, long-haired figure lurched at them from the darkest recesses of the hut. Nathaniel caught the gleam of a blade in its upraised hand. This will be daddy, then. Without bothering to shout a warning, the Sergeant simply reacted, bringing the butt of his musket up and swinging it forcefully into the figure’s chest. The man hissed explosively, crumpling to the floor. His knife skittered away to rest at the feet of the woman of the house.

  “English! English!” Davey Miller, a kind-faced young lad from West Yorkshire, spread his hands in what he hoped to be a reassuring manner. “We just want the Englishman, we’re not here to hurt you or your family.” From the look of puzzlement on the cowering woman’s face, she hadn’t got the faintest idea of what he was talking about. Her gaze shifted anxiously to the man who was spread-eagled on his face, mewling piteously in pain.

  “He’ll be alright love,” said Belton soothingly. “Private Barnes, what have you got back there?” The private had disappeared into the shadows at the back of the room. Nathaniel could hear him rummaging around back there, could hear the rustle of blankets and of other fabric being turned over and pushed aside.

  “Nothing, Sergeant. Place looks clean.” Barnes emerged empty-handed, though what goodies he might have secreted in his pockets was anybody’s guess. Rather you than me, son. If Wellesley catches you, you’ll wish you’d never been born.

  “Okay then, on we go. On to the next house.” Nathaniel stepped out into the street. He could hear a similar disturbance coming from other huts now, as the villagers began to wake up. Oddly, nobody was coming out into the street to see what was going on yet. Hopefully that musket butt to the chest was as much violence as they would have to use tonight.

  Rounding a corner, Nathaniel just happened to look up for a moment, and what he saw made him frown. Off to the west of the village, up there on the crest of that low line of hills, something shiny was glinting in the darkness. He frowned. There shouldn’t be anything up there, those hills were supposed to be barren and empty. The column had planned to pass around them that evening when it moved out. He thought that perhaps it was one of the cavalry patrols that the colonel had spoken of, off to sniff out the enemy.

  He squinted. There was something else shiny, off to the right of the first object. Its shape was unnatural, the silhouette low, square, boxy. And another, to the left of that.

  Nathaniel opened his mouth to speak. It was then that he heard the gunshot.

  Privates John Teague and Robert O’Donnell both came backwards out of the doorway to their assigned domicile. The men were moving at the double-step, and he saw that the barrel of O’Donnell’s musket was smoking.

  “What the bloody hell are you two playing at?” Belton demanded. “We said minimal force—“

  A second shot rang out, this time from inside the hut itself. The doorway was briefly lit up with a brilliant orange flash, followed by the sickening thump of metal meeting flesh. Teague groaned, dropping to the floor with both hands clamped to his right thigh. Inky dark blood was gushing from between his tightly-pressed fingers, already forming a puddle on the ground below.

  “The filthy Hindu bastard shot me, sergeant,” Teague hissed through gritted teeth.

  Both musket shots had been deafeningly loud, shattering the still night air for miles around.

  Still nobody emerged into the street.

  “Miller, Barnes, get in there and have the bastard.” Belton’s dander was up now. Nobody shot one of his men, orders be damned. “O’Donnell, bind that wound up for him. We—“ He was interrupted by the sound of a distant drumming, far away at first but seeming to grow louder by the second. He looked towards the western edge of the village, the general direction from which it seemed to be coming. Nothing.

  Nathaniel continued to look upwards, into the dark hills beyond Mallavelly’s western edge. Then he saw it.

  “Oh Christ,” the sergeant murmured under his breath. “Now look at what you’ve gone and done.”

  For up there, coming down the mountainside at a swift trot, was what appeared to be a massive force of enemy cavalry.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Colonel Arthur Wellesley was deep in consultation with Generals Baird and Harris, leaning across the big regional map and poring over the terrain with an eye towards the next stage of the Grand Army’s march.

  “It is approximately twenty-five miles to Seringapatam, at least, if we were to march directly there,” Harris mused aloud. “But with Tipu burning out everything in our path, it may be wiser for us to take a more…circuitous approach.”

  “Aye, General,” Baird agreed. “We’ll not bring the oily little weasel to battle in a fair fight, out in the field. He’ll wait for us behind his walls and claim the defender’s advantage. But if we approach Seringapatam along a different axis than that which he anticipates, we just might be able to grab some more forage for the livestock.”

  “That could make all the difference once the monsoons arrive, and our supplies are running out,” Harris said.

  “Another possibility might be to—“All three suddenly stood bolt upright.

  “That’s gunfire,” said Wellesley, beating the others to the punch.

  “Aye,” agreed Baird. “It’s faint, right enough, but that’s one of ours…that’s a Brown Bess musket, if I’m any judge.”

  “But that most certainly was not,” Arthur said a few heartbeats later. Blessed with heightened vampire senses, they had each heard the musket shots, though just barely. The latter was something coarser than a British weapon, probably something local, and using a different quality of powder. He frowned “It will doubtless be the party which I dispatched to Mallavelly in order to retrieve Private Gilman. With your leave, General, I shall go and investigate.”

  “By all means,” answered Harris, returning to the map once more in an attempt to refocus his thoughts. “By all means. Now, as I was saying, General Baird…”


  Turning away from the table, Wellesley took flight.

  After a swift flight in his nebulous form, what awaited him in the streets of Mallavelly was a distinct surprise.

  Arthur was drawn almost immediately to the smell of coppery blood, which turned out to be leaking from the thigh of Private Teague. When the Colonel found him lying on his side in the shadow of a low mud wall in one of the village side streets, the enlisted man was pale, as pale as Wellesley was, in fact. One of his companions had tied a strip of rag tightly around his upper thigh in an attempt to control the bleeding, but the heavy lead ball with which he had been shot must have severed a major artery. Much of the crotch and right thigh of his trouser leg was saturated with blood, which continued to leak through the thick cloth.

  Private Teague’s plight would have to wait, Wellesley realized. He had assumed his physical form in a sheltered spot close to where the smell of blood was heaviest. Sergeant Belton and his five healthy soldiers formed a protective semi-circle around the wounded man, bayonets fixed and pointing towards the wider street in which the body of a local inhabitant lay lifeless in the dust. A cheap and weather-beaten pistol was held limply in the dead man’s hand.

  “Colonel Wellesley, sir—am I glad to see you!” The relief was almost palpable in Belton’s voice. Arthur could practically smell the fear on his body and that of his men.

  “What is happening, Sergeant?”

  “Cavalry, sir. Bloody Indian cavalry!” He pointed towards the western end of the village for emphasis. Seeing nothing, Wellesley took several steps out onto the broader dirt lane which ran through the center of the village. There, too dark for the human eye to make out in any detail but presenting no challenge at all for a vampire’s sight, he could plainly see a single file of horsemen moving slowly towards their position. The horsemen wore turbans, marking them out as native cavalry, and even without the tiger-striped vests which marked them as a part of Tipu’s army, Wellesley knew with absolute certainty that none of the Nizam’s cavalry had yet gone out on patrol this night, as they were still saddling up back at the camp.