The Beast of Mysore (Wellington Undead Book 1) Read online

  “They are the Sultan’s cavalry, surely enough.”

  “What are we to do, sir?” Sergeant Belton called out beseechingly.

  Wellesley’s cold, red eyes flashed in his direction. “Stay here. I shall be back, and I shall bring the army. If the enemy should reach you before I do…be sure to give a good account of yourselves.” He knew that the horsemen would capture the small party long before he could make it to the lines and back, but what else could he offer them?

  Raising both arms out to his sides, Arthur closed his eyes for a moment and began to gather the energies necessary to levitate. He did not change form completely; rather, he simply reduced the solidity of his body just enough that he was able to ascend smoothly straight up into the air. Continuing to rise vertically, he reached a height of perhaps two hundred yards, and then stopped, hanging motionless in mid-air. To those men on the ground, whether British or Indian, he was all but invisible, a dark shape against a dark background.

  He saw that Tipu’s cavalry were numbered in the hundreds, and more were entering the village with every passing moment.

  This is no mere patrol that has been sent out to investigate the musketry in the village, Arthur realized. For one thing, it has arrived too soon after the shots, and for another, there are far too many of them. He counted over two hundred horsemen already coming downslope towards the village, with plenty more behind then. Some had sabers drawn, whereas others held aloft a long spear or lance.

  Simply by willing himself to move forward, he glided towards the sloping north-western rise that lay just beyond the village itself. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair. The enemy cavalrymen remained oblivious, focusing their attention entirely upon the village to their front. As he gained a little more height and achieved a better vantage point, Arthur’s eyes widened in something very close to shock.

  How had what appeared to be the entire enemy army gotten this close to them without General Floyd’s cavalry patrols finding out?

  For the Sultan’s men had been busy. A number of artillery batteries were being manhandled into place on the low ridgeline that ran to the west and north of Mallavelly, including a couple of the monstrously heavy 24-pounders. Between the guns were scattered companies of infantry, a horde of which were also congregating in a large depression in the ground directly behind the low hills. There, they would be perfectly sheltered from any artillery fire that the British could possibly put down on them.

  “This is a trap,” Arthur whispered, somewhat incredulously. “We have been humbugged, by God.”

  “Tipu is on the march!”

  The dark, swirling cloud of Arthur Wellesley’s traveling form suddenly coalesced and solidified in the very center of General Harris’s tent. The tone of his voice demanded the attention of both generals, and immediately received it.

  Harris cut straight to the point. “Where, and how many?”

  “I did not have the time to make an accurate count, but they number in the thousands. Their main force is concentrated upon the hills to the west and northwest of the village, sir. Tipu is leading with his cavalry, but I also saw infantry and artillery emplaced along the ridgeline. There were even a number of war elephants, of all things…”

  “Bloody elephants?” Baird sounded incredulous, but knew better than to doubt Wellesley’s report. Despite his personal distaste for the man, the brawny Scot knew that he was a reputable soldier. There were elephants in the British baggage train too, but they had no place in the actual order of battle itself. “It’s barbarism, plain and simple,” he muttered to himself.

  “Then there is no time to waste.” Harris strode to the tent opening, and called out in a loud, clear voice, “Adjutant. Adjutant! Gather the officers and assemble the men! All ranks are to form up immediately and prepare to march.” Under his breath, he said, “So the Tipu means to bloody our nose, does he? We shall see who comes out of this with the cleaner snout, by God.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Before leaving the great palace at Seringapatam for the front lines, Tipu had dressed in his grandest finery for what he just knew, without a shadow of a doubt, was to be his day of great victory over the British invaders.

  He had reached the position of his army, behind a line of hills just to the north and west of Malavelly in a little over an hour, for he and Jamelia had run themselves hard; Jamelia had stuck to him like glue throughout the entire journey, never falling back, never seeming to tire. They found the army making a cold camp, with heating and cooking fires strictly forbidden to avoid tipping off the enemy to their presence.

  Tamar Singh, the respected commander of the Sultan’s cavalry, welcomed them both upon their arrival. Despite his fifty years of age, Singh was as lean as a whip and every bit as deadly. A Hindu by faith, he was a spiritual man at heart, yet more than willing to raise sword and lance against those who would invade his homeland with the intent of despoiling it.

  “Your Majesty, it is a pleasure to see you here.” Tamar Singh bowed low, sweeping his tiger-skin pelisse back over his left shoulder as he did so. Tipu despised the pelisse, a fundamentally useless fashion accessory that was modeled after the affectation so beloved by the French cavalry. It was theoretically supposed to guard the wearer’s shoulder against the swipe of his enemy’s sword, or so his cavalrymen liked to claim. Tipu suspected it was rather more about cutting a dash, as the English liked to say, but it was good for the morale of his horsemen, cost him little, and so he tolerated it without complaint.

  “Tamar Singh, what news of the British?” the Sultan asked eagerly.

  “They remain blissfully oblivious of our presence,” the horseman replied with a wolfish grin. “One can see their campfires, if one climbs to the top of this ridge. In fact, Your Majesty…?” Tipu nodded eagerly, allowed his cavalry commander to escort him to the top of the hill that they had all been standing behind. Jamelia followed several steps behind them both, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword, vigilantly scanning the darkness for threats. Tamar Singh was careful to climb only high enough to allow the Sultan’s head and shoulders to clear the crest; even in this darkness, he did not want to run the risk of a glinting piece of the man’s flamboyant jewelry to betray their position to the enemy.

  The British camp was visible in the far distance from his vantage point just below the top of the ridgeline. As Tipu gazed out to the south, he saw a mass of tents and a large number of scattered campfires spread out across the plain. He then looked to either side of him and saw a line of field guns deployed along the edge of the crest. The crew of each gun dozed fitfully around the wheels, and Tipu noted with satisfaction that buckets of water, spikes, rammers, sacks of powder, and baskets of shot had all been laid out within easy reach of the gunners, in readiness for when the shooting started.

  “These guns command all of the ground around the village,” the Sultan observed, immensely pleased with their siting. From here, he felt like a demi-god, ready to unleash fire and lightning upon his enemies in the world below.

  “We will move the infantry into position upon your word, Your Majesty,” Jamelia explained. “They will take position on top of the ridge, exactly where we are standing now, but only after the British have committed themselves to assaulting our artillery batteries.”

  Tipu nodded. Bait the trap with something juicy, draw them in, and then crush them. “Then all that remains is for us to give them a rude awakening, and to lure them out into the open.”

  “The British columns generally march at night,” she told him, a note of uncharacteristic concern entering her voice. “I had expected them to have broken camp by now, and already be marching in this direction.”

  “The British have gotten lazy and complacent,” Tipu said dismissively. “They think that we mean to simply sit behind the walls of Seringapatam and let them travel through our lands without impediment. We shall disabuse them of that notion soon enough.”

  “What are your orders, Your Majesty?” asked Tamar Singh. Tipu could tell from h
is posture and tone that the man was itching for a fight, a quality which he found much to his liking in his field commanders.

  “Once you are satisfied with our defensive position here, allow the men a few hours more rest. You have cavalry screens out, in case the British are out reconnoitering?” Tamar Singh nodded. “Then we attack at dawn,” Tipu said simply.

  That decision did not appear to sit well with the commander of his cavalry. “Your majesty, please forgive my impertinence, but why not simply attack them now?” Tamar Singh pleaded. “My horsemen can fall upon the British camp like the tiger upon a lamb. Before they know what has hit them, we shall have killed thousands, and perhaps put the others to rout.”

  “Jamelia?” Tipu deferred the question. That this was a test of her abilities of generalship was evident in his tone. As ever, she did not disappoint him.

  “Were this any ordinary army, I would agree with you,” Jamelia explained carefully. “But this is not an ordinary army. Consider their officers – the vampires, as the British like to call them. In the darkness, they have the advantage over our men - perhaps not our Tiger Guard, but certainly over everybody else. Their officers are supernaturally strong and fast, and it is said that they have the ability to fly through the air and turn their bodies into smoke.”

  “I have heard such things also,” Tamar Singh conceded. “But these beings are few and far between are they not – in positions of leadership only? Their foot soldiers are mortal men, and those we can kill with ease.”

  “Even a handful of their vampire officers may turn the tide of battle, if used in the right way,” interjected the Sultan. “The ability to observe our positions from the air; to coordinate their forces with mental powers which we do not yet understand; even employing a handful of the more powerful vampires in the role of champions upon the field, could all be potentially devastating to our army. To my army,” he corrected himself.

  Jamelia elaborated upon the key points of her strategy. Her intent was to bait the British out into the field in the early hours just before dawn, when their generals would be faced with a genuine dilemma: to deploy with their troops and run the risk of being caught out in the open when the sun rose, leaving them vulnerable to its rays, or to retire to their earthen holes and let the far less experienced junior officers lead the fight. Either way, the tiger-soldiers of Mysore would be at a distinct advantage over their heathen opponents.

  Or so it seemed, until the sounds of gunfire began in the village below.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mounted on his favorite stallion, a robust charger by the name of Diomed, Wellesley spurred briskly forwards at the head of a large column of troops.

  It had taken an amazingly short amount of time to get the men stood to and formed up into ranks, and although the undead no longer had functioning pores, Arthur had almost broken into a cold sweat that entire time. If they fall upon us now, we are doomed, he thought. Those horsemen would cut through this camp like a knife through wet canvas. The picquets would be overwhelmed almost instantly, Arthur knew, smacking a fist angrily into the palm of his other hand.

  We have allowed ourselves to grow complacent, and now it may have cost us dear.

  Yet incredibly, the cavalry attack had not come. As the minutes ticked by, the 33rd were fully formed up into their ranks and joined on either flank by not only by men from the native cavalry regiments (who should have been out scouting the enemy positions, Arthur thought irritably) but also the better-trained and equipped British Dragoons, whose presence reassured the men considerably. There were even galloper guns, light cannon attached to horse limbers that could keep pace with the marching infantry and provide some up-close artillery support.

  Floyd has the cavalry, Arthur reminded himself. The Major-General has a cool head and a steady hand. We shall be well-supported there, at least. Of the Nizam’s men, I am not so sure.

  Harris had divided them into two separate columns. Colonel Wellesley commanded the first, while General Baird had been given the second. “Attack,” Harris stated bluntly. “Attack, and attack with all that you have. Maintain a small reserve as necessary, of course - I shall leave the details up to you. But hold nothing back. If we can defeat Tipu’s army in detail, then we can end this here, and save ourselves the bloodbath of hurling men at the walls of Seringapatam.”

  “Did ye see the damned Sultan up on that ridge when ye were out there, Wellesley?” Baird demanded. The man was practically salivating at the prospect of a fight, Arthur saw. It was well-known that Baird’s accent thickened when his blood was up.

  “I am not sure,” he was forced to admit. “I made only a swift estimate of their numbers and composition, and returned immediately to make my report.”

  “You did right, Colonel Wellesley,” Harris reassured him. “You did right. Time is of the essence now.”

  “Aye, you did right sure enough,” Baird agreed reluctantly, shoving his distaste for the whippersnapper colonel to one side now that they were going into battle alongside one another. “Because if he’s up there, then we’ve got the rum little bastard cornered.”

  “If their numbers are anything to go by, a significant proportion of the Sultan’s army awaits us along that line of hills,” Arthur said. “Based upon his reputation, I find it difficult to believe that he would not accompany them into the field.”

  “Then that may be his final mistake,” the Scottish general hissed. The enormous claymore sword scabbarded at his belt would see to that, Baird had decided.

  “Indeed it may. Off with you, gentlemen.” Harris narrowed his eyes, the only change in a face that was otherwise an expressionless mask. “Go and skin yourselves a tiger.”

  Baird superseded Wellesley in both rank and seniority, and was therefore well within his rights to dictate strategy, Arthur was only too aware. But the old vampire was no fool, and had not achieved his position without merit.

  “My boys will be on the right. We’ll take the enemy head on, and push those buggers out of the village,” the general stated without preamble. “Colonel Wellesley, you shall have the leftmost of our two divisions. How many men d’ye have?”

  “Seven hundred steady redcoats, give or take, from my own regiment, and five battalions of sepoy troops, General. Somewhere on the order of 6,000 men.”

  “That should more than suffice. I shall be obliged if you would flank the enemy position to their extreme right, Wellesley, there on the western end. See if you can get into their rear and wreak some havoc back there, do as much mischief as possible, d’ye see?”

  Wellesley nodded, seeing the wisdom of this approach. One column of troops to fix and hold the enemy, one to hook around the back and beat them decisively. He and Baird would maintain a necessary degree of separation and move their columns independently, but would not be so far apart that they could not offer mutual support to one another if the situation called for it.

  “And how might my men be of service, General Baird?” Commanding not only the 19th and 25th Light Dragoons, but also four regiments of native Indian cavalry, Major-General Floyd had a mighty punch at his disposal, thousands of horsemen, although the quality varied from regiment to regiment. That should keep Tipu’s cavalry from our backs for a while, Arthur thought.

  “Pray have them screen our advance, General Floyd,” Baird answered earnestly. “Above all, keep the Sultan’s horse from our flanks. Do that – secure my back – and Wellesley and I shall between us skin a cat before daybreak. Eh, Wellesley?” He let out a bray of laughter, wide-eyed and flashing teeth, their former enmity now forgotten in the hours before battle.

  Arthur smiled drily, not quite matching Baird’s exuberance, but agreeing with the sentiment nonetheless. He was pleased to see Baird at least attempting to make common ground with him, determined to accept the olive branch.

  “Yes indeed, sir. We shall have him, General Baird. We shall have him.”

  Sitting high in his saddle, Tamar Singh gripped the pommel tightly with one hand and stared intently at
the approaching columns of enemy soldiers. His mount stood at the south-eastern edge of the village, where the outskirts of Mallavelly merged with the sparse plains to the south. That’s it, English. Take the bait. Come and push us back out of the village. We are just a poor band of horsemen, no match for your precious redcoats. Come on…that’s it…

  A scuffle off to one side broke him from his reverie. He looked across to his left and saw a pair of dismounted cavalrymen half-leading and half-dragging what appeared to be a British prisoner through the darkness towards him. The man wore a red jacket, Tamar Singh noted with sudden interest, and on its sleeve were the three white chevrons of a sergeant.

  “And what have we here?” the cavalry commander asked rhetorically.

  “We captured this Englishman a few moments ago, General,” said the smaller of the two, bobbing his head respectfully. He was holding a curved dagger to the underside of the prisoner’s jaw. “The dog was cowering behind a wall, along with others of his kind.”

  “How many others?”

  “Six others, General. One was wounded. We put him out of his misery.” It was said completely without emotion. The group of cavalry that had discovered the small gaggle of British soldiers in the village had offered them one opportunity to surrender; recognizing that they were hopelessly outnumbered, Sergeant Belton had complied, ordering his men to place their muskets on the floor beside them. The Sultan’s troops had moved in swiftly and bound the able-bodied redcoats’ wrists and, with the exception of their sergeant, gagged them with strips of dirty cloth. It was only then that the Sultan’s troops had used their curved sabers to hack the luckless Private Teague to death.