Flashman and the Cobra

by Robert Brightwell

  “You step one foot inside this tent and I will have you shot, is that understood?” I told him firmly.

  The former owner of my kit, Captain Blakeney, obviously had employed an excellent orderly and everything was in prime condition, something that this ape-man could destroy in moments.

  “But ah’m to be your orderly,” he persisted, looking dejected.

  I cast around for something I could give him to do that would not require him to enter the tent. In the corner were a pair of brown boots that I had worn with the Mahratta. They were filthy from the days of marching to Assaye and as they were brown I would not need them in the army because their boots were black. “Here,” I said, giving them to him. “You can clean these.”

  McFarlane shambled off with the boots and I got on with other things. Looking back, I think Fergusson must have got someone to help McFarlane with the boots for he came back an hour or so later and they were absolutely gleaming. Sure, they were now black rather than brown, but I guessed that the army only had black polish. I was pleased as these boots were more comfortable than the army ones and so I could now wear these with my uniform. I looked at McFarlane and began to wonder if I had misjudged him. Perhaps he could clean but just did not take any pride in his own appearance?

  All of the best uniform I planned to wear for the parade was Blakeney’s pristine kit, apart from the shako hat. I had a bigger head and the only hat I could find that fitted was one that had been worn by another officer in the battle. It would have been acceptable for the parade despite being a bit dull and dusty, but as I looked at the boots I thought McFarlane could shine it up a bit. It was like a tall leather top hat but with a rounded top, the regimental number in silver on the front and a red-and-white cockade that went in a brass socket on one side. The cockade was only worn for battles and parades. Of course I know now that asking McFarlane to clean the shako was a mad decision. Even today as I write this I could knock my head against the wall at my own stupidity, but back then it seemed sensible, given the shine he had put on the boots.

  McFarlane seemed delighted and honoured to be given this task and carried the hat off in both hands as though it was a precious Greek urn. “Ah’ll get it reet proper-looking for you, sir,” he muttered in hushed tones as he bore it off.

  I got on with other jobs such as checking supplies with the quartermaster – Wellesley was always a stickler on logistics. I did not think about the hat again until I was preparing for the parade. I had gone back to my tent and carefully got dressed in my smartest finery. This was my first parade and I wanted to make a good impression. I suspected that many of the officers would not see me as ‘proper army’ with my battlefield commission. Even without a mirror I thought I looked damn fine, and when I stepped out of the tent I saw that Fergusson had worked similar magic with the men. Eighty-eight of them stood there, jackets brushed clean, belts whitened and boots gleaming. They were a credit to the regiment.

  “Where is McFarlane?” I asked as I scanned down the ranks and did not see him.

  “As he was working as your orderly I have excused him the parade,” said Fergusson primly.

  I knew his game: there was no way that McFarlane would pass muster on a general’s parade and so the crafty devil had given him duties that would keep him out of the way.

  “But he has my shako to clean, and I need it now.”

  “Doan worry, sir, ah’m here,” came a voice and a small cloud of flies could be seen moving down the left-hand side of the neat files of men before McFarlane appeared, running and breathless. In his hands was a shako that was every bit as gleaming as the boots had been. It was perfect, and even Fergusson looked surprised and impressed. I felt that my trust in him had been justified and was just congratulating myself on my good judgement of men when I noticed that the cockade was missing.

  “Doan worry yerself, sir,” said McFarlane when I pointed this out. “It is jist drying oot. I gave it a wee wash.”

  “Well, go and get it, man. The parade is in five minutes.”

  McFarlane turned about on the run and headed back in the direction he had come while I looked closely at the shako. It really was a good piece of work. The rim seemed a bit sticky with un-buffed polish when I put it on my head, but I did not worry about that as we set about getting the men marched to their position in the parade. All of the fit men from Stevenson and Wellesley’s columns were to be drawn up. It was an impressive show of strength. The villagers from Assaye were watching and would doubtless pass word of our strength to the Mahratta, which was probably what Wellesley intended.

  The sudden arrival of flies announced the return of McFarlane. “Here are yer feathers, sir,” he said, reaching up to place the cockade in its brass holder.

  “Now get out of sight until the parade is over, McFarlane,” barked Fergusson from behind me.

  “Ah’m goin’, ah’m goin’,” muttered McFarlane, shambling away.

  I stood there with my back to the men and waited for the general to appear. It was a hot day and I was soon sweating. There was a strange burning smell from somewhere but I thought nothing of it. There were more cremations for injured sepoys who had died of their wounds on the far side of the field and a gentle breeze was blowing the smoke slightly in our direction.

  Soon the general’s party could be seen coming down the line. Wellesley rode imperiously alone in front of his staff and was notorious for staring coldly at any officer who caught his eye. A gaggle of staff officers including Swinton trotted on some distance behind. I used the back of my hand to wipe away the rivulets of sweat that were running down my forehead and down my cheeks. I turned to look at the men to ensure that they were ready for inspection and if any looked alarmed at my appearance then I did not see it.

  As Wellesley approached I threw up my smartest salute as I had seen the other officers do and braced myself for his chilly glare. But when I looked at him he seemed to be fighting his emotions. I thought at first he was moved by the paltry size of our dwindled ranks and then I saw that the edges of his mouth kept curling up and that he was suppressing a smile.

  It turned out that thanks to McFarlane I was indeed making a memorable first impression to the officer corp of the army. If he had ever polished his own shako, McFarlane would have known not to put polish on the inside rim of the hat, certainly not whatever polish he had been using. As I discovered, it became more liquid with heat and mixed easily with the sweat of the wearer on a hot day, to send rivulets of a black polish and sweat mixture down their face. If the person wearing the hat inadvertently used the back of his hand to smear the mixture all over his forehead and cheeks just before the approach of a general then the effect was greatly enhanced. I only noticed that the back of my hand was black when the other officers rode up and started guffawing with laughter. It was also then I discovered that for a pièce de resistance effect McFarlane had also managed to set fire to the cockade when he had been drying it over a fire. Even then it was still smouldering gently in the breeze with a steady wisp of smoke like an incense burner.

  Chapter 24

  The day after the parade Stevenson’s men set off again in pursuit of Scindia’s forces, while our part of the army marched for a nearby hill fort where a more comfortable field hospital could be created for our wounded. For a while I was angry at the embarrassment I had experienced at the parade, but that did not last long. For a start the other officers viewed it as an amusing jape, an initiation into their brotherhood, and I began to feel more as though I belonged in their company. Most had similar tales of humiliations to tell. Fergusson became almost civil. I think the prank had gone much further than he expected; he hated to cause any embarrassment to his beloved 74th. As for McFarlane, he was keeping a very low profile. The simple fact was that I needed Fergusson at that time far more than he needed me. If I was to really antagonise him, well, I would not be the first young officer killed by an ‘accidental’ shot from my own side in the heat of battle.

  I was invited to join a staff meeting w
ith Wellesley a week later when he received a message from Scindia looking to open negotiations for peace. Scindia was requesting that emissaries from Wellesley and the nizam of Hyderabad visit his court to discuss peace terms and an armistice. It was a classic face-saving delaying tactic: Scindia would prolong negotiations until British supplies started to fail while he built up his army again for another attack. Wellesley agreed with my view and sent a message back to say that he would continue to attack until Scindia sent representatives to his camp to agree to peace terms.

  To drive the point home to Scindia, the army started its march north again. Stevenson’s men had crossed the river Tapti and captured the town of Burhampoor. He then opened a siege of Asseerghur, a strong hill fort belonging to Scindia. After some delay we moved forward so that we could support Stevenson if necessary and also headed to Burhampoor. Compared to the pindaree-ravaged plains the British had come from they were most impressed with the much more fertile regions they now found, with ripe harvests everywhere they went. Both men and beasts of burden could eat their fill. The country was not completely benign, though, as I nearly found out to some cost.

  When marching I generally rode on my horse in front of the men. As they marched the stench from them ripened even further as they sweated in the sun. Downwind of them when they were massed in tight ranks it was enough to make your eyes water. Compared to the daily washing of the Hindu soldiers, the Highlanders did not seem to wash at all. When we came to the Tapti river we had to wait for boats to ferry us across, which gave me an opportunity change things. Having had enough of the stink, I gave the command that the 74th Highlanders were going to bathe. The order was greeted with dismay and revulsion by some who thought it was a gross abuse of my position as an officer to suggest such a heresy, but Fergusson, trying to regain favour, enthusiastically backed me up.

  Soon clothes and kit were being abandoned by the riverbank and nearly ninety men were hesitantly approaching the water in various degrees of undress. While their faces and hands had been browned to a mahogany colour, the skins of their now-exposed backs and chests were a whitish grey. Some still wore their breeches and others took shirts and other clothes to wash in the river while they were there. I noticed that Wee Jock, the drummer boy, had gone away from the rest of the men to immerse himself. He was going through puberty and was more conscious of his body than the others. As well as his breeches he even kept on his bayonet belt; perhaps he was worried the others would try to duck him. Amongst the last into the water was McFarlane, who was struggling hard as he was half-carried in by four others including Fergusson while wailing, “Ah’m no dirty, ah’m no dirty!”

  I sat on my horse, watching them soak and wash in the water, feeling well pleased with myself. No more stink. They seemed to be enjoying themselves splashing about and I began to feel like a dip myself, but it would not be seemly for an officer to bathe with the men. I was trotting the horse down the bank when I saw it, a slight flick in the water a hundred yards beyond Wee Jock, who was standing chest deep. It meant nothing to start with and then a small log surfaced about fifty yards beyond the boy. I squinted at it in the sunlight and then a chill ran down my spine. The log had a wake, it was moving towards Wee Jock and it could be only one thing.

  “Crocodile!” I yelled, spurring my horse towards the boy in the water. “Crocodile!” I yelled again as the horse picked up speed.

  I was pointing now and shouting at the other bathers in the water, although what I expected them to do about it I don’t know. Come to that, I was not sure what I was going to do either. I certainly was not going to tackle a crocodile in the water. Not that it mattered anyway, as the great scaly beast was nearly on the boy.

  “Crocodile!” I yelled a third time, pointing at it. Wee Jock just stared at me with a puzzled look on his face. I realised as the great jaws started to open behind him that I had simply distracted him from his fate. But suddenly he sensed the attack and turned. The calm brown water suddenly seemed to explode with a flurry of splashing, with small white arms and a flailing reptilian tail visible in the spray. It was a hopelessly mismatched conflict: a primeval predator perfectly designed to hunt and kill all manner of prey in water against an urchin from the Glasgow slums. The crocodile did not stand a chance.

  I watched, aghast, expecting to see the reptile drag the boy under and leave just a whirl of disturbed water, but instead I saw the frantic thrashing of the beast. My horse reared in panic, and as I struggled to stay in the saddle to my astonishment I heard a plaintive cry of, “Help me wi ma big lizard.”

  By the time I had the horse under control men were rushing across to help Wee Jock as he tried to haul the beast ashore by his tail, its death throes now almost over. As the men got it onto the bank it was clear what had happened, as sticking out of the reptile’s eye was half a bayonet, the rest pushed by the boy into its brain. He must have been lightning-quick. The survival instincts required to live in a Scottish slum were evidently sharper than those needed by a river predator. The boy had taken deep gashes across his chest and an arm in the struggle, but he did not seem to mind as one of the corporals was assuring him that the bhinjarries would pay handsomely for crocodile skin.

  Perhaps the final word on this incident, though, should go to McFarlane. He shambled out of the water as soon as he could and, with rest of the men, edged over to look at the dead beast. As he got to the front of the crowd and looked down at it I saw him shudder with horror and then shake the water off himself like a dog. His face was filled with disgust, whether at being wet or at the tooth-filled jaws on the ground in front of them I could not tell. But as he turned to go away I distinctly heard him say, “Ah’m no gettin in the watter agin.”

  The army settled into a routine as it marched, much as it had been with the Company cavalry before. I was awoken in my tent well before dawn. Breakfast would be tea and rice eaten while orderlies took down the tents and loaded everything onto to carts. Then, in the cool of the morning, just as we could start to see where we were going, the march would start. There would be a cavalry screen to the front, followed by most of the infantry marching in column, then artillery and their wagons with the rest of the baggage train. Bringing up the rear would be another battalion of infantry as a rear guard and there was also a heavy cavalry presence around the wagons to deter any raids by pindaree. The march stopped after around six hours just before noon so that men could be in the shade for the heat of the day. They mostly dozed in the afternoon before a dinner of spiced meat stew and rice.

  In an area with plenty of food for us, fodder for the animals and no sign at all of the enemy, it was not unpleasant work. Every step we took deprived some Mahratta warlord of his lands and put more pressure on Scindia to settle with the British. He had already sent some representatives to open negotiations and they had returned with terms for Scindia to consider while we continued into his territory. The raja of Berar was also expected to start peace talks, but was still delaying.

  “Do you think we will have to fight again?” I asked Wellesley one morning as we rode along together. Compared to the starchiness of staff meetings, he could be quite informal when there were just the two of us.

  “I am not sure. There seems to be a power struggle now between Scindia and Berar for leadership of their confederation. They are both talking about peace, but either could try to make a last stand somewhere.”

  “Do you think it will come to that then, a last desperate stand?”

  “No, I think they will come to terms. I don’t think Berar is foolish enough to challenge us on his own, and every day Scindia is getting weaker as we are putting more pressure on him to settle.”

  We rode on in silence for a few minutes, each pondering the future. I was hoping for a quick and bloodless end to the campaign followed by a return to Madras and home. Wellesley was clearly hoping for more victories.

  “I would like to defeat them on the field of battle,” he said quietly. “Subdue the Mahratta once and for all, otherwise someone may hav
e to come back and do it all over again.”

  I smiled at him in the early dawn light. “Do you remember in Eliza’s garden when you said that you needed a victory in battle to be taken seriously as a general? Well, now you have had one, a historic victory against far greater numbers. You are now a proven general. You don’t have to destroy every last enemy you see. The Mahratta are like the Hydra, a many-headed monster: cut off one head and more will spring up. It might be better to leave a weak head that we know.”

  Wellesley thought about that for a while and then gave his short bark of a laugh. “There is a lot of truth in what you say, Thomas. I am seen now as a successful general, but I do not believe it myself yet. You know yourself that I had to fight when I did. I lost two horses under me that day, and if it were not for some savage sergeant saving me at the line of guns, I would not be here now. I am not sure if I won that battle or if the Mahratta lost it.”

  “There is a difference?” I asked, puzzled.

  “There is to me, Thomas, there is to me,” he repeated as he spurred away to chat to the commander of the next battalion.

  A few minutes later Swinton rode up and joined me. I think he was intimidated by Wellesley and he tried to avoid his company where possible. I had discovered that he was also a third son of a landowner. As his family could not afford to buy him a decent rank in the regular army, he had been sent to India to join the Company army instead. Here promotion was much more to do with length of service than the size of your purse. It had taken him twenty years to make major. He had kept his nerve at Assaye but I think blamed himself for not stopping Orrock’s march across the battlefield. He was too timid to be a natural leader, but after the McFarlane parade fiasco he had allowed his orderlies to look after me as well and he seemed pretty fair, so I could not complain.