Sharpe’s Triumph: The Battle of Assaye, September 1803
Richard Sharpe, now a sergeant, and his unit are attacked by apparent allies.Determined to uncover the traitors and avenge the killing of his men, Sharpe travels far into enemy territory, encountering once again his fearsome opponent, Obadiah Hakeswill. Their old quarrel over the death of the Tippoo Sultan and the whereabouts of his treasure resurfaces, and a warrant is issued…
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Bernard Cornwell
Sharpeâs Triumph
Richard Sharpe and the Battle of Assaye, September 1803
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1998
SHARPEâS TRIUMPH. Copyright © Bernard Cornwell 1998.
Map by Ken Lewis
Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018. Cover photographs © AKG-Images
The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780007338757
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2011 ISBN: 9780007338757
Version: 2018-04-13
Dedication
Sharpeâs Triumph is for Joel Gardner, who walked Ahmednuggur and Assaye with me
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Maps
Chapter 1
It was not Sergeant Richard Sharpeâs fault. He was notâ¦
Chapter 2
Sharpe sat in the open shed where the armoury storedâ¦
Chapter 3
Colonel McCandless led his small force into Sir Arthur Wellesleyâsâ¦
Chapter 4
Sharpe followed McCandless into the gatehouseâs high archway, using theâ¦
Chapter 5
Sharpe was curiously relieved when Colonel McCandless found him nextâ¦
Chapter 6
Colonel McCandless excused himself from Pohlmannâs supper, but did notâ¦
Chapter 7
Dodd called his new gelding Peter. âBecause itâs got noâ¦
Chapter 8
General Wellesley was like a gambler who had emptied hisâ¦
Chapter 9
âThere!â Dodd said, pointing.
Chapter 10
The redcoats advanced in a line of two ranks. Theâ¦
Chapter 11
Colonel McCandless had stayed close to his friend Colonel Wallace,â¦
Chapter 12
Assaye alone remained in enemy hands, for the rest ofâ¦
Historical Note
About the Author
The SHARPE Series (in chronological order)
Maps
CHAPTER 1
It was not Sergeant Richard Sharpeâs fault. He was not in charge. He was junior to at least a dozen men, including a major, a captain, a subadar and two jemadars, yet he still felt responsible. He felt responsible, angry, hot, bitter and scared. Blood crusted on his face where a thousand flies crawled. There were even flies in his open mouth.
But he dared not move.
The humid air stank of blood and of the rotted egg smell made by powder smoke. The very last thing he remembered doing was thrusting his pack, haversack and cartridge box into the glowing ashes of a fire, and now the ammunition from the cartridge box exploded. Each blast of powder fountained sparks and ashes into the hot air. A couple of men laughed at the sight. They stopped to watch it for a few seconds, poked at the nearby bodies with their muskets, then walked on.
Sharpe lay still. A fly crawled on his eyeball and he forced himself to stay absolutely motionless. There was blood on his face and more blood had puddled in his right ear, though it was drying now. He blinked, fearing that the small motion would attract one of the killers, but no one noticed.
Chasalgaon. Thatâs where he was. Chasalgaon: a miserable, thorn-walled fort on the frontier of Hyderabad, and because the Rajah of Hyderabad was a British ally the fort had been garrisoned by a hundred sepoys of the East India Company and fifty mercenary horsemen from Mysore, only when Sharpe arrived half the sepoys and all of the horsemen had been out on patrol.
Sharpe had come from Seringapatam, leading a detail of six privates and carrying a leather bag stuffed with rupees, and he had been greeted by Major Crosby who commanded at Chasalgaon. The Major proved to be a plump, red-faced, bilious man who disliked the heat and hated Chasalgaon, and he had slumped in his canvas chair as he unfolded Sharpeâs orders. He read them, grunted, then read them again. âWhy the hell did they send you?â he finally asked.
âNo one else to send, sir.â
Crosby frowned at the order. âWhy not an officer?â
âNo officers to spare, sir.â
âBloody responsible job for a sergeant, wouldnât you say?â
âWonât let you down, sir,â Sharpe said woodenly, staring at the leprous yellow of the tentâs canvas a few inches above the Majorâs head.
âYouâd bloody well better not let me down,â Crosby said, pushing the orders into a pile of damp papers on his camp table. âAnd you look bloody young to be a sergeant.â
âI was born late, sir,â Sharpe said. He was twenty-six, or thought he was, and most sergeants were much older.
Crosby, suspecting he was being mocked, stared up at Sharpe, but there was nothing insolent on the Sergeantâs face. A good-looking man, Crosby thought sourly. Probably had the bibbis of Seringapatam falling out of their saris, and Crosby, whose wife had died of the fever ten years before and who consoled himself with a two-rupee village whore every Thursday night, felt a pang of jealousy. âAnd how the devil do you expect to get the ammunition back to Seringapatam?â he demanded.
