Flashman and the Cobra

by Robert Brightwell

  She disappeared down the stairs to the room below and I watched as Wellesley tried to regroup his forces. His main infantry line had chased the enemy to the northern river bordering the battlefield, the Juah. While some blazed away at the Mahratta, clambering on each other to get over the steep, muddy northern bank, the majority of the redcoats were more interested in slaking their thirst, even if the water was tainted with enemy blood. They had marched over twenty miles to get to the battle, had fought long and hard in the baking heat of the afternoon and had spent some of that time biting down on paper cartridges containing salty gunpowder. With the enemy defenceless in the river before them, there were dozens of redcoats lying flat on the bank and trailing their canteens into the water to fill them. There would be no moving them until all canteens were full again. Their officers realised this and moved their men quickly away from the river when their wooden flasks were full so that others could get at the precious water. Slowly the men with water began to outnumber those still pushing to get to the riverbank.

  During this lull in the battle Maxwell had taken his cavalry to the south where the original Mahratta camp had been, opposite the largest ford across the southern river, the Kaitna. This gave his troopers the chance to water their horses and themselves in the river. The presence of his horsemen together with those left south of the Kaitna persuaded the remaining Mahratta horsemen on the southern bank of the Kaitna to withdraw in the same direction as their comrades, to the west. After the furious fighting of the last few hours both sides were regrouping.

  As I watched I heard heavy footsteps come up the stairs and there on the roof was Anthony Pohlmann, looking hot and harassed.

  “Ver is the lady of Samru?” he asked me.

  Before I had the chance to reply she also appeared, climbing the stairs behind him. “I am here, Anthony.”

  They made an incongruous couple. He was around six feet tall, broad shouldered and wearing a general’s uniform covered in various decorations. She was just over four feet tall and wearing a loose-fitting sari and a hooded turban on her head. She exuded calm and confidence while the general looked nervous and anxious.

  “Vould you give me one of your regiments to help defend our right flank?” he asked without hesitation.

  “No, Anthony,” she said calmly. “My men will not go further away from the ford here at Assaye. The battle is lost. We must look at how we can retire and protect our forces.”

  “But our infantry is as good as the British and sepoy battalions, and half of it has not been used,” he protested.

  In the tone of voice that a mother might use with an upset child she said to him softly, “Anthony, we have lost most of our guns and our cavalry will not fight. If we move away from the river, we will be outflanked by their horsemen. We have no choice but to retire.”

  Pohlmann walked to the edge of the roof and stared out at the ground where once his great army had looked so certain of victory. Now there was just an arc of nervous infantry remaining and thousands more troops on foot and horse fleeing in the distance. The abandoned line of cannon, marking his original defensive line, highlighted just how badly the battle had gone. Suddenly his shoulders seemed to slump in defeat as he accepted the inevitable and in a quiet voice he asked, “Vill you support me and tell Scindia that I did all I could?”

  “Anthony, you cannot think of going back.” She walked over to where he was standing and, reaching up above her head, she pulled his shoulder round so that he was forced to look at her. “Every one of his spineless cavalry will swear that you lost the battle and so there was no point in them attacking. Scindia will believe them because he loves his horsemen. If you return to him, you will be killed. Retreat with your men, take what treasure you have with you, but tonight set off on your own with any men you trust. Head south, change your name and appearance and go home.”

  “Vat will you do?” he asked.

  The begum gestured at me. “I am making my own arrangements,” she said.

  “You are a true friend,” Pohlmann said, his voice breaking slightly, and he reached down and kissed her hand. He looked out across the battlefield. Slowly his back straightened and he looked like a soldier again. “You know,” he mused, “they have withdrawn so far off that I think we can recover some of the nearest guns. That should help us hold them off until nightfall. I have heard that Vellesley has sworn he vill never carry out another night attack and his men will be truly exhausted by then.” He looked round, grinning again. “If we must be defeated then at least we can march the trained infantry away with its colours flying and unbroken.” He slammed his big fist into his palm “Dammit, ve are not beaten yet, yes?” And without waiting for an answer he walked over to the stairs and, shouting orders to his aides, disappeared out of sight.

  Chapter 21

  The begum watched Pohlmann go and then turned to me. She held a sealed letter in one hand. “My first husband once told me a story about a brave lion outwitted by a cunning jackal. I cannot remember the details now, but Pohlmann is a lion, brave but foolishly assuming everyone is as brave and honourable as he. I have had to be a jackal to survive this long and I am not sure about you.” She gave me a half-amused smile before adding, “The man who leapt in the air when he found me in my palanquin does not seem to be the same man who would coolly bayonet a tiger.”

  “I didn’t have a lot of choice with the tiger: it was him or me.”

  “Well, now you do have a choice. You can denounce me to the British as another heartless Mahratta leader or you can take this letter to Wellesley.” She held out the document, which had been wrapped in ribbon with a wax seal impressed with the ring she wore on her finger. “The letter describes how I saved you from certain death and warned the European officers of the plot to murder them at Oojeine.” She looked me in the eye and continued, “So that you emerge with credit from the affair, I have also confirmed that you escaped from five hundred pindaree bandits and had Scindia’s men looking for you for months. I also describe how you stood up to Scindia at Oojeine and that your example inspired some of the British officers to leave his service. Your reputation will be considerably enhanced with this letter if you support it.”

  She paused and looked out to where her army waited in disciplined ranks. “All I want is for Wellesley to allow me to withdraw my men in good order. In exchange I offer peace and friendship with Sardhana. You can doubtless tell him what a useful friend I can be amongst his enemies.”

  Well, she could have marched her forces away behind the town band for all I cared, although I was not sure that Wellesley would be so amenable. But she certainly had my measure: anyone who offers me a route to safety and some extra credit for my undeserved reputation gets my vote every time. Of course if I had known that for me the worst part of the battle was yet to come then perhaps I would not have been so quick to kiss her hand and make my escape, but I did.

  “Good luck, Thomas, and when this is over, come and see me again,” she said as I left.

  At the time I thought that there was more chance of my visiting Timbuktu than seeing her again, but I did. She lived another thirty-three years to the ripe old age of ninety and died in 1836. Years later when I revisited India, I went back to Sardhana and she welcomed me back as an honoured guest which, given what happened subsequently that day, was a pleasant surprise.

  I went down the stairs accompanied by one of her staff officers, who steered me through the Mahratta lines and arranged for me to be given a stick with a white neck-cloth tied to it. The only British troops nearby were the remains of the 74th Highlanders and the sepoys who had marched with them. They were three hundred yards off and so I walked in their direction. Their battle had looked a grisly affair from the rooftop, but close to the carnage left from the slaughter was terrible. Nobody took any notice of me as I approached; the begum’s troops had already helped their own wounded away. The ground was littered with the dead of both sides and wounded redcoats with some able-bodied soldiers moving amongst them, offering aid. T
he corpses were so thick on the ground that I had to step over them and I jumped when one suddenly spoke to me.

  “Have you come to surrender your forces?” I looked round and there, just a few feet away, a young British lieutenant was watching me. He was lying with his head on the thigh of another body and with both hands he was trying to hold into his body what looked like a knot of purple snakes. His guts must have been laid open with a horrendously deep sword cut and his white breeches were blood-soaked down to the knees.

  “I have a letter seeking terms to withdraw, yes,” I said, staring aghast as a spasm gripped his body and one of the purple snakes escaped his clutches and slithered down to his thigh.

  The lieutenant shut his eyes for a moment as though gathering his strength and then when he spoke again blood dribbled from his mouth down his chin. “Thought so, didn’t think they would want to tangle with us again.”

  From where he lay he could not see all of the slaughter around him and doubtless he was more focused on his own fate. Four-fifths of both forces that had marched with Orrock had been killed or wounded. I found out later that of the five hundred 74th Highlanders who had marched towards the begum’s part of the line all the officers had been killed or wounded apart from a Major Swinton. One hundred and twenty-four other ranks were killed and two hundred and seventy wounded. Only eighty-nine soldiers were left fit. Of Orrock’s picket detachment, the only able bodied survivors were Orrock himself and seventy-five men.

  “You’d better see Major Swinton,” said the lieutenant, his voice getting hoarse.

  I looked down at him. The wound was truly terrible and proved what I had been told about the sharpness of Mahratta swords, for he was nearly cut through to the backbone on one side. “Can I get you help or give you some water?” He was dying and he knew it, but I could not just walk away.

  “Thank you, no. Water just made it worse.” Another spasm gripped his body and more blood gushed from his mouth. He opened his eyes again and looked at me. In a voice just above a whisper he added, “I would take that Mahratta coat off if I were you. It is not too popular around here.” And then his eyes shut again. He still seemed to be breathing as I took his advice; with the stick in my teeth I shrugged off the green Mahratta coat and then, with white shirt and breeches, I stepped forward towards the thickest pile of bodies, where the 74th had made its final stand.

  Around twenty of the able survivors were marching back from the river, each holding half a dozen canteens of water. The fearsome sergeant I had seen earlier was looking up at vultures that were now circling in numbers above the battleground. The noise of battle had now died away and the birds were getting lower as they surveyed the feast of dead meat below them.

  “McTaggart,” the sergeant called to one of the corporals who were standing near him. “Take six men and go back the way we came across the field and shoot any of those black bastards,” he gestured at the birds above, “that try to get near our dead and wounded.”

  “Shouldn’t we try to keep the men together, Sergeant?” asked a cultured English voice from the crowd of men beyond him.

  “Why is that, sir?” asked the sergeant with more than a hint of aggression in his voice as though he was just holding in his temper in the presence of an imbecilic child.

  The officer stepped forward. He was a thin, immaculately dressed major with the exception of a cut to his head that despite having a rough bandage was still bleeding profusely down his cheek and neck and onto his shirt. He was polishing a pair of spectacles which he now put on and squinted at the battlefield around him. “In case they try to attack again?” he asked uncertainly.

  The sergeant made a point of looking around at the hundreds of dead and wounded men who surrounded them and then turned back to the major. “If they attack again, we are all dead men, sir.”

  This seemed my cue to step forward and confirm that the Mahratta were not looking to attack again and so I took a few steps forward towards the major.

  “There’s far enough.”

  The voice behind me accompanied by the unmistakeable click of a cocking musket, which was a convincing argument to stop. I slowly moved the stick out to one side so that the man behind could see it clearly.

  “I am here to speak to your commanding officer,” I called loudly. “I was a British prisoner of the Mahratta.”

  “Aye, so you say,” the voice behind me snarled, “but they had British officers, didn’t they. So perhaps you’re some bastard traitor.”

  I started to turn, “Now look here, I want...”

  The sharp point of a bayonet cut into my back, causing a stab of pain, and I felt warm, wet blood on my back. “You so much as twitch, you treacherous fucker,” the voice behind me snarled, “and you will have a foot of cold steel through your innards.”

  “That is enough, Private Gilray,” barked the sergeant.

  “I saw ’im taking off a Mahratta coat back over there. ’E was talking to Mr Collister,” protested Gilray behind me.

  “I have a letter from the Mahratta commander for General Wellesley,” I called, waving the sealed letter in the air so that the major could see it. “They are seeking terms to withdraw and are not planning to attack you again.”

  “Thank God,” muttered the major. “Gilray, step back and let the prisoner pass.” He stepped forward to meet me and held out his hand. “Major Swinton, 74th Highlanders, and you are?”

  “Thomas Flashman.” I paused – what was I... a courier, a spy? I couldn’t just say ‘a gentleman loitering behind enemy lines’. “The general sent me into Mahratta country nearly a year ago to try to split up their alliance,” I finished.

  “I see,” said Swinton, looking around again at the carnage as if to imply that I had not been that successful. “I suppose I should introduce you to Colonel Orrock as he is the senior officer, but he is somewhat broken up at the moment.” He gestured to a man some yards off in a red coat stiff with gold braid. The colonel was sitting cross-legged on the ground and on his lap rested the head of a white horse which had a wicked wound in its side but judging by the twitching legs was still alive. The colonel was openly weeping and crooning to the animal. “I gather the colonel had raised the horse from a foal,” said Swinton apologetically. “He is struggling to cope with what has happened to his command.”

  “He should be shot,” grunted the sergeant, although from his grim expression it was not clear whether he meant the horse or the colonel.

  Swinton gave the sergeant a nervous look as though he too was unsure of the meaning of the remark. “Thank you, Sarn’t Fergusson. If we are not to be attacked again, perhaps we should get the wounded organised so that when the surgeon arrives they are all in one place. And round up some of the loose horses, please, we need to get this message to the general.”

  “Yes, sir,” barked the sergeant and turned to issue a stream of commands to the men.

  The major led me away to one side as various soldiers started making battlefield stretchers out of their muskets and jackets to move the wounded. This essentially involved unhooking and crossing the shoulder straps of two muskets so that they formed a cross of leather between the weapons. Then the sleeves of a coat were threaded over the barrels of both guns so that the back of the jacket lay over the straps and the shoulders of the garment provided further support. The same was done with another coat over the butts of the weapons and then their owners went off looking for passengers. It was rudimentary but effective. Some more men were quietly approaching some of the nearest horses who were looking very jumpy.

  “Who commands these forces?” asked Swinton, gesturing at the hundreds of men watching us from just a few hundred yards away. “Is it Prince Scindia or one of his mercenary generals? We heard that a Hanoverian was commanding the army.”

  “These particular troops are commanded by the begum of Samru.”

  “Ah yes, I have heard about her. Some frog shot himself when in love with her, didn’t he?” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gave a loud gulp that could h
ave been heard in Assaye before he added, “I say, is she very pretty then?”

  Judging by the lascivious look on his face, he was already imagining an Indian Helen of Troy and I did not have the heart to tell him that she was only four feet tall with a nose you could open barrels with. “She was once,” I confirmed. “But don’t be fooled into thinking she is soft because she is a woman. Her mind is as sharp as that bayonet your man just jabbed in me.” I was reaching back to feel the wound, which was soaking blood into the back of my shirt.

  “Sorry about that,” muttered Swinton. “Gilray’s brother was blown to pieces by a cannon shot as we marched across the field.”

  We both turned as we heard hooves pounding the dirt behind us. A British staff officer and a couple of cavalry troopers as escort reined in beside us. I didn’t recognise the officer whose face was covered with dust and sweat and several days’ growth of beard.

  “Holy Mother of God,” the officer exclaimed as he surveyed the carnage all around. He turned to Swinton. “The general’s compliments, Major; he sent me to find out how you fared.”

  “We have around a hundred and fifty men still standing, sir,” said Swinton grimly. “But this officer has come from the Mahratta army with a letter for the general seeking terms to withdraw.”

  “Has he now. Well, he may be too late as I have just left Wellesley who was massing his remaining infantry for a final assault on their line. Now we have them beat there is no reason to leave their army in a state where it can challenge us again.” He looked coldly at me and added, “Now, Major, I suggest that you send this rascal back to his army with the news that their terms are being considered, rather than exchanging idle gossip.”

  I bridled at that. I had spend the best part of a year risking my precious skin for my country and when I finally got back to my own side I was insulted. But the major got in before I could say anything.

  “But, sir, he is not a Mahratta officer. He claims to be a British prisoner who was held by them. He says he was sent to the Mahratta by General Wellesley himself.”