Free The Maharajah's General by Paul Fraser Collard Page A

faced the crest of the slope. It was a pitiful defence, about as formidable as a child’s sandcastle trying to hold back the tide. Yet the redcoats stood their ground, pointing their wicked bayonets forward. Ready for the enemy to appear.
    ‘Aim low when they come. Hit the bastards in the belly.’ Jack offered the advice through gritted teeth. ‘Aim low.’
    He reached down and tugged his regulation sabre from its scabbard. It felt horribly light in his hand. It was a cheap blade, the Calcutta dealer’s assurance that it was made from true English steel now looking as paper-thin as the sword itself. With his other hand he drew his Adams revolver, the sturdy weapon primed and loaded. At least he had one weapon he knew he could rely on.
    ‘Prepare to charge.’
    Ten dark faces turned to face him at once, the same look of horror and shock in each set of eyes. Only the havildar kept his expression neutral. He held Jack’s gaze for a long moment, his eyes betraying nothing.
    ‘Prepare to charge.’ The native sergeant echoed Jack’s order before taking his place behind the thin red line.
    Jack glanced quickly over his shoulder to check that Isabel had stayed where he had left her. There was no time for her to do anything but trust to her escort. The only hope for them all lay in fighting hard and driving off the ambush.
    Jack would not wait for the enemy to arrive. He would gamble everything on a single volley followed by a madcap charge. Ten native soldiers, one havildar and one impostor would risk a wild assault against the enemy. Eleven bayonets and a suspect sword against a horde.
    The slope stretched away in front of them, the distant tower standing proud against the palest blue sky. A single thin smear of cloud crept leisurely across the view like a steam-powered barge on a gentle afternoon’s cruise. The enemy’s musket fire had died away, so that only the noise of armed men on the move marred the tranquillity.
    The redcoats stood silent and steady, waiting for the enemy to appear. The men gripped their muskets tightly, holding them at the ready, the white of their knuckles evidence of the tension that surged through them.
    The first figure appeared, silhouetted against the skyline. The single bandit stood alone, his sword lifted high as he contemplated the thin line that barred his path. Then the rest of the mob appeared, surging past the lone figure, their blades raised as they charged the red-coated soldiers who had dared to enter their domain.
    There were many more than Jack had imagined. Some were naked save for a langoti around the groin. Their skin glistened with a thick layer of grease, their hands holding anything that could be used to cudgel or hack a man to death. Others were dressed like knights of old, the fierce sunlight reflecting from their polished armour, their gleaming sabres bared and ready to kill. There were flashes of red in the throng, the vivid scarlet of a deserter’s coat bright in the packed ranks. But mainly Jack just saw disaster, his small command no match for the multitude that thundered towards them.
    The enemy leader appeared. He was a giant of a man mounted on an enormous warhorse, and he loomed over his men like a vengeful god. He was dressed as finely as a prince, with thick, swirling black robes, his bearing as regal as that of an English duke. His thickly bearded face was creased in a ferocious scowl, his mouth stretched wide as he urged his men up and over the crest, calling for them to kill, to slay those who had strayed near to his lair.
    ‘Prepare to fire!’
    Ten bayonet-tipped muskets were brought to the shoulder at the curt command, the redcoats taking up the slack in the trigger as they readied for the order to fire.
    Jack held back the final command. He saw the muzzles waver as the men struggled to hold the unwieldy weapons steady, the seventeen inches of steel making them unbalanced and clumsy. There would be time for a single volley. One chance for the muskets to