The Generals

‘If you wish to spare yourself from my men, then the fort must be surrendered at once.’

‘My commander, the killadar, wishes to know what terms you will offer.’

‘I’ve already stated my terms,’ Arthur replied. ‘Surrender now, or perish.’

There was a brief exchange between the Mahratta and the Frenchman before the latter continued. ‘The killadar wishes to negotiate.’

‘The negotiations are over. I will not permit the killadar to play for time. I will give him ten minutes to make his decision, from the moment we finish speaking. You may tell him that he and his men will be permitted to quit the fort and I will give them two days’ grace before I advance from Ahmadnagar.’

‘That is a generous offer,’ the French officer conceded. ‘I will do my best to see that it is accepted, sir.’

Arthur nodded, and then drew out his fob watch and looked at it pointedly as he muttered, ‘Ten minutes, then.’

Just as the hands on the watch crept towards the deadline, the gates of the fortress were thrown open and the garrison began to file out, glancing nervously at the massed ranks of the British troops formed up in front of them. As the Mahrattas formed a makeshift column, a few hastily loaded wagons and carts trundled over the bridge across the ditch, and finally the killadar and his senior officers emerged. Accompanied by the French officer they approached Arthur and bowed their heads respectfully, before the killadar looked at the British general in frank admiration and spoke briefly, pausing to allow his French officer to translate.

‘He says that there is no dishonour in surrender to an army that could make such short work of the pettah and its garrison . . . He says the British are a strange people. You came here in the morning, looked at the pettah wall, walked over it, killed all the defenders, and returned to breakfast. What enemy can withstand you?’

Arthur forced himself to keep his face expressionless, and the French officer laughed before he continued. ‘I doubt any native army has seen anything like it before. I can imagine the effect it will have on Scindia’s men when the killadar tells the tale,’ he concluded shrewdly. ‘You are a formidable adversary, General. I fear we may meet again soon.’

‘Not if you leave India,’ Arthur replied firmly.

‘Even if I did, sir, I am sure that a man of your talent will be called back to fight in Europe and I fear for my countrymen.’

‘You are most generous in your praise, sir,’ Arthur replied tersely. ‘Now, if you would be so kind as to ask the killadar to move his column out, I have a fortress to occupy and a campaign to fight.’

The French officer saluted and then translated for the Mahratta commander before they strode off to join their column. The moment the Mahrattas shambled away to the north, Arthur led his men into the fortress of Ahmadnagar.

With a secure base to his rear, garrisoned by a battalion of Company soldiers, Arthur moved north across the Godavery river, while Colonel Stevenson marched towards him across the territory of Hyderabad. As the summer sun baked the landscape the two British columns marched deeper into enemy territory, closely following reports of the movement of Scindia’s army. Such was the heat during daytime that the army broke camp while it was still dark and covered as much ground as possible before late morning, when they made camp and rested in whatever shade they could find. Then, late in September, news came that Scindia was at the village of Borkardan, two days’ march away. Arthur hastily sent a message to Stevenson instructing him to join Arthur’s column there to confront the enemy and force a battle. As word spread through the ranks that the enemy was close to hand the sense of excitement and tension was palpable.

On the morning of the 23rd the army ended their march at the village of Naulniah. If their intelligence was good, the enemy was camped another day’s march away, but already the soldiers were sca

Arthur had just retired to his tent for some refreshment when he saw through the tent flaps a patrol from the 19th Dragoons come galloping up to the array of tents that formed the army’s headquarters. Their cornet hurriedly dismounted and beckoned to a brinjarri merchant riding with them. Arthur set down his cup of tea and rose to meet the dragoon officer.

‘What is it?’

‘Sir, this man ran into our patrol three miles from here. He says he was on his way to sell food to Scindia’s troops in their camp, nearby.’

Arthur’s attention snapped to the brinjarri merchant. He questioned him in Hindoostani. ‘Where is Scindia?’

‘Two or three coos from here, sahib.’

No more than six miles, Arthur calculated, his pulse quickening.

‘How many men are in this camp?’ he asked, and then realised that there was no question of the merchant’s being able to judge the number accurately. He tried another tack. ‘How big is this camp, then?’

The merchant paused a moment before he replied, struggling to work out the scope of what he had seen. ‘Sahib, they are camped along the Kaitna river, for a stretch of three coos.’

‘Three coos?’ Arthur repeated, astonished. He made a quick estimate and felt his heart beat fast with excitement as he realised that the enemy force must be at least a hundred thousand men strong. He had found Scindia’s army. Better still, he had caught them in camp. Arthur looked over his army arriving to make camp for the night. They had already marched fourteen miles. Stevenson was still several miles distant and could not hope to reach the enemy camp before the end of the day. Yet there was not an instant’s hesitation as he made his decision. Turning back to the tent he called out to Fitzroy.

‘Pass the word. I want the battalion commanders to have their men stand to and prepare for battle.’

Chapter 68

Assaye, 23 September 1803

‘Good God . . .’ Fitzroy muttered as he gazed at the host stretched out along the far side of the Kaitna river. His mount shuffled as he and his general surveyed the enemy camp from a small hill half a mile from the river. The strongest position was to the east, where Scindia’s regular battalions were forming up on raised ground covering the far bank of the river. Interspersed amongst the enemy infantry were scores of artillery pieces.‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Arthur smiled. ‘Nor have I. They must outnumber us fifteen or twenty to one. But now we have them. Scindia can’t escape a battle without having to abandon his guns.’

‘With those odds I doubt that escape is on his mind, sir. Any frontal attack across the river would be suicidal.’

‘Well, don’t be too troubled by those horsemen at least. They’re nothing but rabble.’

Fitzroy stared across the river.To the west tens of thousands of mounted Mahrattas were slowly saddling up and massing in their war bands.To the north of the village of Assaye, on the far side of another river, the Juah, another host of mounted men was gathering. Fitzroy cleared his throat.‘Even so, sir, if we meet them in the open, those horsemen will surround us in an instant.’

‘Perhaps,’ Arthur mused. ‘One thing is for certain, they know we are close. They’re already breaking camp and taking up positions for battle. So there goes the element of surprise. Get back to the column and bring the army up.Tell Maxwell to have his cavalry deploy on this side of the river. He’s to screen the movement of our infantry and guns.Tell them all to hurry.We’ve no time to lose.’