“A likely tale told by a turncoat renegade, I’ll be bound. Your name, sir?” he barked, looking down at me.
“Thomas Flashman,” I said coldly, “and I would be grateful if you would arrange for me to meet General Wellesley at once or you will answer for the consequences.”
My answer seemed to affect him like a stunning club on an ox for his eyes bulged in astonishment and his jaw sagged as he just stared at me, dumbfounded. “Flashman,” he gasped at last. “That ain’t possible. Flashman is dead.”
“I can assure you he isn’t, although it was a close-run thing on a number of occasions.”
“My God it is you, I can see it now. You did not have a beard when we last met.”
“We have met before?”
“Yes, when Arthur, I mean General Wellesley, and I caught up with you on the road to Seringapatam and took you back to Madras. I am Jock Malcolm.”
Looking through the beard and grime, I could now see the genial political officer who had helped talk me into this mess in the first place.
“We heard that you had been trapped in a hill fort with your escort and that you had all been massacred.”
“No, I escaped from that but was caught again later and sentenced to death by being tied to a pair of rockets.” I paused to allow for their gasps of horror and astonishment. “But I was rescued by the begum of Samru, who commands this part of the army,” I said, gesturing to the nearby troops. “She is not just seeking terms to withdraw, but offering to be an ally of the British amongst the Mahratta states.”
“Interesting, but I don’t think it will stop the general driving their arms from the field by force. They still outnumber us two to one, and if their cavalry ever find some courage, we could yet be in trouble. Give me the letter and I will take it to Wellesley, and when this is over you will have to tell me all about your adventures. If we can find you a horse, I will take you back to the staff officers. The general will want to see you as soon as the battle is over.”
A Mahratta cavalry horse had been caught and I swung myself aboard. We trotted along the abandoned line of guns towards a distant knot of officers. From the added height of the saddle I looked across to my right and saw the ranks of the remaining 78th Highlander and sepoy regiments marching abreast towards the waiting Mahratta troops. Cannon suddenly crashed out from the Assaye end of the Mahratta line where they still had big guns and you could see some of the balls whip diagonally through the red ranks. Smaller galloper guns that had moved with the Mahratta troops fired as lines got closer together and then, when they were only a hundred yards apart, the Mahratta infantry opened fire. They had organised themselves into three ranks to receive the redcoats and were firing by rank to send a steady stream of balls into the soldiers facing them. They were doing it damn handily too, reloading as fast as any troops I had seen. Slowly through the musket smoke you could see the redcoats falling back.
“Damn,” said Jock Malcolm, who was watching them with me. “Wellesley won’t want to see that. Generals think that they command armies, Flashman, but the common soldier on both sides can see the situation here. If the Mahratta break now, they are finished, trapped between the river and our bayonets. On the other hand, our soldiers know that the Mahratta will slip away come nightfall, so there is no need to get your head blown off rushing them. There is only an hour or so to dusk now anyway. Go and rest in the shade of that tree and I will get your message to Wellesley.”
He rode off and I trotted the horse slowly towards a big peepul tree. The horse was limping; it was lame, which was probably why they had managed to catch it in the first place. I got down from the saddle and sat with my back against the tree, trying to apply some pressure to my bayonet cut to stop the bleeding. I was facing the distant Mahratta line and could hear renewed volley firing from my left as the British officers tried to force the infantry forward against the Mahratta line again.
Sitting on the ground you could not see the hundreds of bodies that were scattered over the battlefield but there were now dozens of vultures circling above to confirm they were there. This was my first moment alone and safe for nearly a year and I almost had to pinch myself to believe it. After countless dangers I was now back with my own people. Not only that, but once the begum’s letter had been read I would emerge with some credit, which I would downplay in a way that could only earn more admiration. Most importantly I had escaped the bloodbath of Assaye without a scratch, unless you count a bayonet jab from my own side. I was sitting there feeling mighty pleased with myself. I even started planning my return to Madras; with Wellesley still out in the field I would have a clear run at Eliza Freese until the next boat for home came in.
As I watched, the British infantry attack fell back again, but it did not matter for the Mahratta had finally decided to leave the field of battle. Scindia’s remaining troops broke and ran to the river, but there was no such indiscipline amongst the soldiers of the begum. Their whole line gave a smart left turn and began marching in neat ranks with their galloper guns towards Assaye and the ford to cross the river. The battle was at last over... or so I thought.
Now I am not sure whether there is one god as us Christians believe or a whole crowd of them as the Hindus and others support, but what I can tell you is whatever deities there are, they enjoy tormenting us mortals. For while I was relaxing in the shade they were busy working the fates to get my bowels churning in terror again. The first I knew of this was when the ground began to shake. The hooves of two thousand horses slamming in the dirt create quite a vibration and I got up to see Colonel Maxwell bringing up the cavalry that had rescued the 74th Highlanders and broken half of the Mahratta line. I did not know whether Wellesley had got the begum’s letter, but her army remained a considerable force and he wanted it destroyed. The begum’s troops were strung out in a marching line and anyone with an ounce of military knowledge knew that the only way infantry could defend themselves against horsemen was in a square formation, otherwise they would be destroyed. I could see several of Wellesley’s staff officers riding over to join the cavalry for this devastating final stage of the battle. Well, they weren’t getting me to join in; I had done enough and I had no wish to see the begum’s destruction. She had saved me from certain death, and while I would not trust her further than a bankrupt stockbroker, she had always treated me fairly.
The horsemen lined up for the charge just twenty yards in front of my tree and several saw me and invited me to join in but I waved them away. Jock Malcolm rode over to join the throng and he called out to me too: “Flashman, after all you have been through I would have thought you would have wanted to join the last hurrah.” At this one of the dragoons looked round and positively goggled at me. I saw it was my old school friend Carstairs who had not recognised me with the beard.
“I would love to ride with you,” I lied. Gesturing to my horse I added, “But I can’t. My screw is lame, so I will have to miss out.”
“You can have Fairfax’s horse,” called out Carstairs. “He was shot off it earlier but it still rides with the herd. Here, I will bring it over.”
Bloody Carstairs, it was showing off to him that helped me into the soup in the first place, but with everyone watching I could hardly appear reluctant now. I certainly could not resist due to my wound as several of the horseman were carrying much worse with an arm in a sling or other bandages visible.
But wait, I could still wriggle out of this yet. “Hang on,” I called, “I don’t even have a sword. What do you expect me to do, get up close enough to bite them?”
Malcolm laughed. “I have just read the begum’s letter and from what she says of you then you probably would get close enough to bite them if you had to. But I am sure we can do better than that. Has anyone got a spare sword?”
The nearest cavalry troopers were looking at the strange, white-shirted civilian with renewed respect at Malcolm’s words and I admit I felt a twinge of pride at my growing reputation. Well, they could get me to join their charge and I would sho
ut “View halloo” as we went as loud as the rest, but I would just take care to ensure that my shouting was from the back.
An officer rode over and handed down a gold-and-jewel-encrusted sword. “I picked this up from a corpse earlier and I shall want it back, but I prefer my usual weapon for the charge.” Holding the sword with one hand, I reached up for the reins of the horse Carstairs had brought with the other and swung myself into the saddle. Too late did I notice that the previous rider had left blood and gore over the leather and neck of the horse.
“I say, Flash,” said Carstairs, “I heard that you had been killed by a pindaree bandit gang and that there was a prize on your head. You must have had some adventures escaping that lot, eh?”
“That is how it is in my line of work,” I said coolly. “I take it the previous owner of this horse did not survive?”
“God no, he took a bullet in the guts and then they damn near decapitated him. But it is a good cavalry horse and it should run well with the rest of us.” He gabbled on: “Gosh, today has been the first really interesting day I have had since I arrived in India.”
“Interesting!” I almost squeaked the word in dismay. “If this is just interesting, what do you fellows do for real excitement then?”
Carstairs just laughed and rode away to join his troop. He always had been a bit strange at school, what the masters called attention seeking and what the rest of us called half-mad. He had been completely fearless then too; he once climbed the chapel tower and then ran along the top of the chapel roof for a dare.
The cavalry was formed up in two ranks. The front rank was all cavalrymen while the second rank was also mostly troopers but included all the staff officers and other extras. I trotted my horse into the second rank and before I had a chance to say anything to my neighbours there was a trumpet call. I did not know what it signified but the late Mr Fairfax’s horse did, and I suddenly found myself at the walk and moving in an exact line with all the other troopers while several of the staff officers had to spur their horses to catch up and then rein them in to keep them in line. My mount behaved perfectly, and when there was another trumpet call I was not surprised when it smoothly moved into the trot with all the other cavalry troopers. It was the next trumpet call that caused the problems.
The strident tones of the charge rang out and the horses picked up speed again. The drumming of the hooves was thunderous now and dust was being kicked up by the rank of horses ahead. Looking down the line, troopers had the reins held loosely in their left hands and were now stretching their sword arms out in front for the attack. I, on the other hand, was struggling to control my mount, which had decided that its proper place in any charge was the front rank. It surged forward and I yanked on the leather to haul it back, only to feel something give. One of the reins must have been partly cut through in the melee that had killed Fairfax and it had now snapped. If the horse obeyed a pull on the remaining strip of leather, it would veer into the path of the second rank, bringing us all down in a mess of flailing hooves. With horror I realised that I was a passenger on this dammed horse which even now was pushing itself between two horses in the front rank. Riders on either side moved to make room and Carstairs, who was two horses away, saw me join his line and grinned. He shouted something that I could not catch above the noise. Doubtless the harebrained oaf thought I could not wait to get to the enemy.
Now I was at the front I could see the begum’s forces clearly. We were coming up at them on a diagonal line to theirs but they were making no attempt to get into squares. Instead they had stopped marching and had formed themselves into a long line of mostly green-jacketed troops, the front rank kneeling and the other ranks standing, interspersed with galloper guns. They did not seem to have read the manual explaining that infantry in line is always beaten by cavalry. God knows how the front rank found the courage to kneel in front of two thousand charging horses but they did. Imagine yourself kneeling at the finishing post of the derby with the horses a furlong to go. Then imagine the jockeys with swords and malicious intent. You would need nerves of steel to stay there even with a musket in your hands. But the begum’s troops stayed there all right. As I watched they brought their weapons to the shoulder and suddenly the whole world seemed to slow down as dozens of things happened at once.
We were just a hundred yards away now and I noticed the begum sitting on her horse a few yards behind her men, watching us. In fact she seemed to be looking straight at me. We would smash into their line in the next few seconds. Nine hundred and ninety-nine men in the front rank let out their charging roar or yells while one man let out a shriek of panic-stricken terror as he saw the enemy officers’ swords slash down as they gave the order to fire. The enemy line disappeared behind a triple row of orange dots that were instantly obscured with musket smoke. Then I was hit.
One moment I was screaming my head off and the next something slammed into my chest and I could not breathe; it was as though I had been punched in the solar plexus. Horses all around me were going down; the rider next to me was plucked clean from the saddle by the impact of shots. Incredibly the Mahratta line still stood, and while some horses got close enough to suffer bayonet wounds, Maxwell appeared to give the command to wheel away and most of the troopers did. Only later did they discover that he had been killed in the attack and the outstretched right arm was probably the result of the bullet impact. The remaining riders were starting to veer away. My horse tried to follow. Whether it was hit or tangled with the legs of the other thrashing horses I don’t know, but it went down amongst a pile of downed men and mounts. I dropped my sword as it stumbled, got my leg out of the stirrup and managed to fall clear. There were screams and yells all around and the thunder of hooves as the second rank veered right almost over the top of us.
I hit the ground hard and gasped for breath with an intense pain in my chest. Terrified, my shaking hands began to search my body for the wound. A bullet to the chest was nearly always fatal; was I to end my life in this dusty field? I had a horrid vision of that lieutenant I had met, it was just an hour or two ago, desperately trying to hold his guts in his body. Would that be me now? I scrabbled about the folds of my shirt, searching for the hole and the wound, and then found it. There was some blood but not a lot, and just as I found something small, hard and hot in the wound a horse whinnied behind my back and a hoof slammed into my head, sending me to a peaceful oblivion.
Chapter 22
Wellesley once said that the aftermath of a battle won was the second worst sight in the world, and he is not wrong. As I came back to consciousness it was night and it took me a full minute to remember where I was. Memories of the previous day came in waves, not all in the right order, but gradually I came to my senses. Tentatively my hands searched again where I remembered the wound to be and I could have cried with relief. I found now a cold musket or grape ball that must have struck something else on the way to me. Whatever it had hit took the brunt of its force but left a jagged edge. That edge had scored a deep cut in my chest almost exactly opposite the one in my back, but it was no worse than that.
My head still throbbed as I sat up and looked about. The begum’s troops had long since marched away but their former presence here was marked by a line of fallen men and horses. Some still moved and moaned in the darkness. I slowly pulled myself to my feet and stared across the battlefield. There was a startled shriek from nearby and two villagers from Assaye, who had evidently crept over in the darkness to plunder the bodies, suddenly leapt up and ran away into the gloom. I had no idea how many more there might be and, looking around for a weapon, I saw something glinting in the moonlight. There was the jewelled sword, worth a fortune to me, never mind a poor Indian farmer. I picked it up and felt slightly more secure. There were some men with burning torches moving around the battlefield but they seemed to be in uniform and a couple were heading my way. I staggered to meet them.
“’Who are you then?” called one who levelled his musket at me while his mate held the torch hi
gher.
“I’m British. I charged with the cavalry but must have got knocked out.”
“Where is your uniform then?” asked the soldier suspiciously.
“Leave off, George,” said his mate. “’e is hardly a Mahratta with a voice like that,”
“They had European officers,” said George defensively.
“Yes, but ’e is walking towards us, isn’t he. If ’e was a bleedin Mahratta, ’e would be running hell for leather the other way.”
“I am not sure I could run hell for leather in any direction at the moment,” I said. “Where is everybody?”
“Well,” said the soldier with the torch, “it depends on who you are looking for. The cavalry are mostly at that large ford by the south river. Those two big fires, that is where the surgeons are. The general and lots of the officers are there too. Most of the infantry have just laid down where they stopped.”
“What are you doing then?” I asked.
“Patrolin’ to keep jackals and vultures off the wounded,” said George importantly, “and stop any looters,” he added, looking meaningfully at my jewelled sword.
“There were a couple of villagers searching bodies, but they ran off when I got up.”
“You were lucky then,” said George. “They would cut your throat to get a sword like that if they found you. There are stretcher parties out too looking for wounded. Are there many wounded ’ere?”
“I have heard the odd groan but I have only just got up. Did the Mahratta get away?”
“Oh aye,” said the soldier with the torch. “They marched off with their banners flying, but I doubt that they will pick a fight with us again. They had to leave all their big guns behind, see. There must be a hundred of them spread over the field. Great big buggers they are too, and they were well served. We should know, we spent long enough marching towards their muzzles. You best get off, sir, head towards those big bonfires.”
Flashman and the Cobra Page 23