Five regiments marched forward in a line with their left flank against the Kaitna and directly towards the right-hand third of the Mahratta line. The rest, a regiment of Highlanders and a sepoy detachment of all the advance guards, set off diagonally across the field towards Assaye. For the next hour the battle was broken into two halves, with very different results.
I swung the telescope round to watch the five regiments. They had the shortest distance to travel and would reach the Mahratta first. It looked a pitifully thin line of red-coated soldiers marching abreast straight towards the barrels of fifty cannon directly in front of them. Wellesley and some of his staff officers rode behind the line as the guns to their front fired death and dismemberment at them. Sometimes you would see a puff of dirt where a ball pitched short and bounced over their heads, but all too often you would see a sudden spray of blood and guts and a gap in the line appear. Slowly, man by man, the line began to shrink. I could not imagine the courage required to continue pacing towards those guns, knowing that thousands of men waited behind them, but not once did they hesitate. Steadily they tramped on, covering the yards that took them closer and closer to the muzzles facing them.
The earlier cannonade across the river now started to take its toll as I could see some of the Mahratta gunners running out of ammunition. Wagons were racing back to the powder and ball stored back at the camp, or at their original firing positions on the river bank. This meant various carts trying to break through the lines of Mahratta infantry behind the guns, and the infantry soon started to become disorganised. Pohlmann was there with his officers, trying to organise some channels through the men for the carts, but I saw that some of the cannon, particularly the ornate ones which probably took specially cast balls, had stopped firing. Until now the guns had been firing solid shot which, if it hit the red line, rarely took out more than one man at a time. But now, as the red line crept closer, some of the gunners switched to canister.
When the guns fired the space in front of them was filled with gunsmoke, but during the couple of minutes that it took the gunners to reload and lay their guns this dissipated and so the infantry could see when the gun was going to fire at them again. With canister, instead of a single man disappearing in spray of gore, a whole group could be sent spinning away, dead and wounded, and a gaping hole in the line would be left. Now I saw several groups of men throw themselves to the ground as they saw the gun in front of them about to fire, but only once did I see a sergeant have to prompt them to get up again.
Closer and closer they marched; not one man broke or ran away or even tried to. Wellesley later referred to his men in the peninsula as the scum of the earth, but even he admits that he never saw a nobler sight than that thin red line marching stoutly to those guns.
As they got closer the Mahratta gunners tried to reload even faster. They were now starting to panic. One fired while the rammer was still down the barrel, others out of ammunition began to creep back to the safety of the infantry behind them. They had expected the British and Indian sepoy soldiers to break long before now, but even though their numbers were thinned, the line still consisted of over three thousand men.
The red-coated infantry was just a hundred yards away from the guns when they were finally released into a charge. Even from nearly half a mile away I heard the guttural roar as they shouted their challenge at those who had tormented them. Through the telescope I watched as they sprang forward with their glittering bayonets outstretched to take their revenge on the gunners who had been killing their comrades, making them sweat with terror. Many of the gunners did not stay around to contest the issue but ran. Others tried to hide under the wheels of their guns as Wellesley and the other officers rode forward and urged the soldiers on past the cannon and into the waiting infantry beyond. A few redcoats stayed to hunt down the gunners but most swept on.
The Mahratta soldiers had been told that at most a few shattered and disorientated redcoats would stagger through the line of guns. They did not for one moment expect a serious fight on their hands. First their lines were broken by ammunition carts and then, instead of destroying the enemy with a final barrage of canister, the gunners started to run back to them in panic. They were followed by thousands of well-trained professional killers who had been driven mad with anger and fear and who were now filled with bloodlust. The Mahratta line rocked back with the impact of the redcoats. They had roughly the same number of trained soldiers as Wellesley, but their untrained, irregular infantry got in the way as they tried to fight back, often with the irregular soldiers pushing through the Mahratta ranks to get away. There were no organised volleys, just a steady crackle of musketry from both sides, and then they closed to fight with bayonets and swords. A skilled man with a bayonet will beat a swordsman every time as the bayonet has a much longer reach, and now the redcoats started to plough through the Mahratta ranks. As I watched in astonishment, more and more of the Mahratta started to slip away from the fight or step back to avoid the stabbing blades, and suddenly their whole line began to curve back.
Pohlmann tried to order in reinforcements but men were retreating faster than they could be replaced and many seemed to hold back in the hope that the Mahratta cavalry further behind them would come to their rescue. The horseman showed no inclination to intervene. Many were pindaree and this was no strung-out baggage train full of loot to attack. There was a good chance of being killed by these deadly red-coated men and little hope of plunder, and so they stood back. Perhaps they remembered the angry jeering of their own infantry earlier in the day and decided that, as their infantry were double the number of the enemy, it was time for them to earn some respect.
Wellesley, riding past the guns, must have been shouting encouragement at his men, but the presence of the enemy commander proved too tempting a target for the Mahratta gunners who were hiding near the guns. One charged him with a pike. Wellesley saw the man just in time and turned, but the pike went into his horse’s chest and it fell, trapping Wellesely's leg underneath the animal. More gunners ran forward to kill him, but a redcoat sergeant who had been hunting the gunners saw what was happening and ran over and fought furiously to hold them off until Wellesley got free and his staff galloped over to rescue him.
There was no doubt about it: despite the huge disparity in numbers, on the far side of the battlefield the British and sepoy forces were winning. I was astonished and jubilant. Then I took my eye from the telescope to look at how the other British and sepoy troops who were marching towards Assaye were doing and my heart lurched again.
I later learned that Wellesley had ordered their commander, Colonel Orrock, to join his soldiers to the end of Wellesley’s men to extend the line of attack. Orrock, being possibly the stupidest man on the battlefield, had seen all of Wellesley’s troops form a long line. When his orders arrived to ‘extend the right of the attack’, he misunderstood and marched his men straight at the strongest part of the enemy line. At some point his staff officers, seeing the rest of the army march off in a line, may have questioned the wisdom of the attack or his orders, but as none survived we will never know. Orrock was brave, though, riding a white horse among the middle of his men while the remaining fifty Mahratta cannon were now trained in his direction. Things would have been better if he had extended his men out in a longer line to give them a thinner target to aim at, as Wellesley had done. But instead, he kept them in a double line with the sepoys still as an advance guard at the front. Behind them were the 74th Highlanders with their colours flying, drummer boys to the fore and a piper doing his best impression of the sound of a pig castration.
Shot was soon whistling through this red slug of men, who marched slowly across the full width of the battlefield, leave a trail of dead and dying in their wake. Instinctively men closed up, taking comfort from being part of a large group, and so when ball hit it would pulverise three of four of them together. When I finally turned my attention to this group I could see clearly the route of their journey towards me from the line o
f broken bodies that they had left behind. They were now about four hundred yards off, having lost around two hundred men on the march: little more than six hundred left against half of the entire Mahratta army.
“What does the fool think he is doing with such a small force?” asked the begum, who had now joined me on the rooftop after organising her forces down below. I had heard her cursing and swearing in a very soldier-like manner when the Mahratta right had fallen back under Wellesley’s attack and at the cavalry’s failure to respond. She had sent messages to get a detachment of the more reliable regular cavalry to support her forces that were even now forming up behind her line of infantry. She took the telescope and studied the Mahratta right in more detail. It was slowly swinging like a gate in the Mahratta line but the ‘hinge’ in the middle was also now starting to retreat. Soon the Mahratta would be lined up with their backs facing the shore of the northern river, the Juah.
“We must sweep these fools away quickly,” she said brusquely. “Then I can swing my forces round to catch Wellesley in the flank. Let’s see how he does fighting proper soldiers. If our cavalry find their balls then they can charge him on the other flank and we can destroy him between us.”
I looked again at the redcoated group in front of us and saw a sight that will live long in the memory. There was a battery of four of the begum’s guns in front of us which had taken to firing simultaneous salvoes to dishearten the enemy. They now roared again at what was for them almost point-blank range. The balls tore through the tightly packed men. One of the little drummer boys and about a dozen soldiers just ceased to exist. I saw a leg spin into the air, bent at the knee; I think it was the boy’s and now every time I see the Isle of Man flag with its three-legged wheel I have a flashback to that spinning leg.
The sepoys had reached a small rise in the ground at about three hundred yards from the Mahratta line. It gave some shelter and there they faltered and finally stopped. Orrock roared for them to go on as the Highlanders were just a few yards behind them.
“Release the cavalry on them!” shouted the begum to one of her officers who ran to pass on the command.
“Leave them, look they are stopping,” I shouted back as the Highlanders also started to hesitate to climb over the last bit of cover between them and the guns.
“Do you think I am a fool?” demanded the begum, her eyes suddenly blazing. “I know of your soldiers’ courage. Have I not just seen them attack twice their number and guns? I am not leaving redcoats alive on my flanks.” Her words were interrupted by the call of trumpets and a large squadron of Mahratta cavalry poured through a gap in their infantry ranks. “Release the second regiment to attack!” the begum now shouted over the parapet and I realised that the 74th and the sepoys who were with them were doomed.
Colonel Orrock, miraculously still mounted on his white horse, gaped uncomprehendingly as the two hundred or so horsemen streamed out of the lines in front of him and spread out to charge his line of men. His other officers were quicker shouting for the men to form a square to defend themselves against cavalry. The men on the extremity of the redcoat line stood little chance of reaching the relative safety of the square before the cavalry reached them. A number were cut down by the lethally sharp swinging blades and some threw themselves to the ground in the hope of not being trampled. But one flinty-faced sergeant armed with a spear-like weapon called a spontoon that was normally used to defend the regiment’s flags or colours from horsemen swung his blade up and caught a cavalry man square in the chest with it. I watched with astonishment as, with a grunt of effort, he used the weapon to lift the horseman off his saddle and slam him into another rider, who was then knocked off his horse. The sergeant freed his weapon as the rest of the cavalry rode on to turn for another charge and then jabbed its blade through the throat of the second man he had dismounted. Then, with enemy cavalry wheeling to his right and enemy infantry beginning to march in from his left, this cool character marched towards his square, shouting at some of the men in it to adjust their facings and pausing only to help a sepoy soldier who was hobbling back to the square with a blood-soaked leg.
“My God,” I said to myself, “even now they don’t think they are beaten.”
Cavalry charged the ragged square from one side and infantry from the other. The cavalry struggled to make progress against the tight hedgehog of bayonets that held them back and there was soon a pile of dead men and horses on their side of the square. The begum’s trained infantry made more progress because they concentrated their fire on just one side of the square. After several rounds of volley fire from men who massively outnumbered the defenders on that side, the ranks of Highlanders and sepoys facing the Mahratta line were shot to pieces. The begum’s men fixed bayonets and went in for the final kill just as the rest of the square began to fall apart, its officers desperately tried to find men to face this last assault. I remember pounding the parapet around the edge of the roof with my fist in frustration at the slaughter before me. I was cursing at the begum and imploring her to show some mercy because within moments these redcoats would be slaughtered to the last man.
I did not expect the begum to listen; she was a soldier at heart and she had a good military reason to destroy this force. But suddenly she seemed to take notice and I heard her calling for the soldiers to be recalled. It was not pity; she had seen something I had not. Through the gun smoke ahead of us she had glimpsed more horsemen coming. At last, whether under Wellesley’s orders or that of their own commander, Colonel Maxwell, the British cavalry reserve was coming to the rescue.
There had been no British trumpet calls so the two thousand horsemen of the 19th Dragoons and the 4th Native Cavalry caught their enemy completely by surprise. Sweeping forward in two ranks, the horsemen were a majestic sight with flags flying and sabres glistening in the sunlight. The remaining Mahratta infantry and cavalry around the 74th Highlanders and sepoys were ridden down and slaughtered. This task needed only the squadrons of horsemen closest to the northern river and the rest of the red-coated riders swept on towards the Mahratta line. The begum’s remaining infantry and artillery stood firm in their tight ranks, partly protected by the village, and their guns roared their defiance. But Scindia’s troops further along the line began to panic. Those at the middle of the Mahratta line were already in a confused state as they joined the begum’s troops, who still faced east with the rest of the Mahratta line, which was gradually moving back to face a southerly direction. Now these soldiers saw a large contingent of enemy cavalry riding towards them while they were deployed in a vulnerable and disjointed line. Some of the better-trained infantry tried to change into a square formation, but the irregular infantry got in their way and began to stream back towards the northern river. Seeing the confusion his men were causing, Maxwell veered his men away to charge at the ‘hinge’ in the Mahratta line, which dissolved before him.
I have seen the moment a semi-orderly withdrawal becomes a rout in battle many times, but rarely have I had as good a view as from that rooftop. As the hinge of the Mahratta line broke before him, Maxwell wisely did not allow his men to chase the Mahratta fleeing towards the river. Instead they rode on to the now-exposed flank of the next section of the Mahratta line, which broke in turn and so they continued along the line. Within a few moments thousands of Mahratta were abandoning weapons and running for their lives. Some ran for the river, but many of the better-trained troops ran for the safety of the begum’s lines of infantry who now began to extend around in an arc towards the river so that the remaining Mahratta line formed a bow shape with one end at the ford at Assaye and the other against the river a quarter of a mile along the bank. These remaining soldiers were pretty much all the European-trained infantry and I could see Pohlmann, who had abandoned his elephant for a horse, giving orders and sending staff officers off to get the troops in order.
The rest of the Mahratta infantry who had broken were running full tilt for the river, chased by the sepoy troops and 78th Highlanders on the far en
d of the original line of attack. They showed no mercy and were shooting and bayoneting any stragglers as they pursued the enemy from the field. With the redcoats scattered over a wide area with their backs to the Mahratta cavalry and the British cavalry blown and disordered from their prolonged charge, it would have been an ideal time for the Mahratta cavalry to launch an attack of their own. They still outnumbered the British horsemen ten to one, and if they had charged, they could have saved the day for the Mahratta, as most of the British cavalry and infantry were exposed. Instead the Mahratta horsemen, who were mostly pindaree, decided that the battle was lost and it was time to save themselves. With their enemy vulnerable before them, rather than attacking they turned their horses to ride west, away from the battle. I watched as Pohlmann sent a couple of riders, presumably to order them to attack, but I knew that this desperate measure would prove fruitless.
The begum had been watching the cavalry through the telescope to see if they would attack, and when she saw them turn away she issued a volley of curses and insults that she must have learned in her early days as a nautch dancer, for they would have made the coarsest ship’s bosun choke on his grog.
“It seems you are of use to me after all, Thomas,” she muttered, still looking slightly shaken by the speed of the change in Mahratta fortunes.
“You mean I am free to go?” I enquired eagerly, realising that after months of risk and danger, safety might now be at hand.
“Not yet, I need to write a letter for Wellesley. Wait here a few minutes and then we will let you go.”
Flashman and the Cobra Page 21