The line moved forward steadily. As I looked left and right I could now see a solid line of red jackets moving with grim determination. The beat of the drums and even the ceaseless drone of the wretched pipes gave off a martial air, and looking ahead from my higher vantage point on horseback, I could see that the crops were starting to thin. The galloper guns accelerated ahead and I heard their officers shouting orders to unlimber the guns so that they were presented at the enemy when we emerged a few seconds later.
I don’t remember the enemy guns firing as we marched through the field, maybe the pipes drowned them out, but certainly they did no damage to the 74th. The guns had a much wider target area now with three regiments of sepoy troops making up the line to our right. I had half-expected a fresh cannonade from them as we emerged from the crop, but as soon as we appeared the Arab troops rushed forward to block the Mahratta cannon's line of fire. They paused in a long line some two hundred yards ahead of us. Their drums were beating loudly and they had a high-pitched, ululating war cry, similar to the sound I heard an Iroquois squaw make in North America during the 1812 affair. They were dressed almost entirely in white, with robes and turbans. Some had some ornately decorated muskets, but most had scimitars and small metal buckler-style shields. If the effect of the war cry was to intimidate us, it failed miserably.
“Look at those stupid bastards,” I heard Big Jock say to the man alongside him. “All that fancy work on their guns but hardly a bayonet between the lot of them.”
“Aye, we will make short work of them right enough,” said his mate.
This was just the sort of comforting view a chap like me wants to hear, although it did seem a tad optimistic given that there were over a thousand Arabs and only around six hundred Highlanders.
“Fix bayonets!” called Colonel Chalmers, who had overall command of the Highlander brigade, and the order was repeated by sergeants down the line. Six hundred seventeen-inch steel bayonets flashed in the sunlight as they were fixed onto the lugs at the end of the musket barrels. Even a military novice like me knew that this signified we would be firing just one volley as it was awkward to reload with the bayonet attached.
The bayonets seemed a provocation to the Arabs, for with an even wilder yell they started their charge down the hill. More Mahratta took their place in the line, but most stood back to watch the outcome of the confrontation between their best troops and the feared Highlanders. The contrast between the two groups of soldiers was startling. The Arabs came at the run, screaming their shouts and challenges. The ones with guns started to fire their muskets at us as they charged. God knows where the shots went as some even fired one-handed. The redcoats were still and silent, watching their enemy with the appraising look of the professional soldier.
“Present.”
Six hundred men angled their bodies slightly to the right and raised the musket buts into their shoulders.
“Aim low, lads, aim low,” Fergusson called as the musket recoil on firing would make the muzzle rise. “Make every shot count, then there will be less to kill later,” he added in a ringing tone that could be heard down the line.
They were a hundred yards away now. I knew that a musket’s optimal range was about eighty yards, but they ran past that point too. I looked across at Swinton. Had he frozen? Was he going to leave it too late? They were now just sixty yards off and I saw Swinton lick his lips in preparation for giving the order. If he had not, I think I would have shouted it myself.
“Fire!”
Six hundred muskets crashed out at what was almost point-blank range and the enemy was completely obscured behind a wall of musket smoke.
“Forward now, lads,” called Swinton. “Go and get ’em.”
Only now did the Highlanders make any kind of sound, a low guttural growl as they paced forward in a solid rank with their bayonets extended. The odd shriek indicated where an Arab still coming in the opposite direction had encountered seventeen inches of steel in the wall of musket smoke as he tried to run through it. I followed them through the smoke, and as it drifted away it revealed a scene of total carnage. At least half the Arabs had been hit with the opening volley and the rest were disentangling themselves from the bodies or climbing over them to continue their attack. Despite the slaughter they had already seen, none seemed ready to retreat. Big Jock was right: they were damned fools.
The Highlanders knew their business and, staying in disciplined ranks, they moved swiftly over the ground. Any man who tried to stand against them soon found cold steel jabbing at his front or sides, while the second rank finished off any of the fallen who looked still inclined to put up a fight. They moved forward like a machine of death and Swinton and I followed on behind with nothing to do. Soon even the Arabs could see that the day was lost and they began pulling back over the hill. It was an awesome display of disciplined fighting and as we crested the ridge the Mahratta infantry could be seen milling around on the reverse slope in complete disarray.
“Don’t let them stand,” came a voice from somewhere, I think it was Wellesley’s. Suddenly the men were released into a full Highland charge down the hill with the sepoys joining in enthusiastically alongside.
There are few things more exhilarating than chasing a broken enemy. Why, in Spain I have seen an army padre, who is now very senior in the church, chasing the fleeing French, laying about them with his cane while shrieking some very unchristian oaths. Flashy’s first principle of warfare is lie low when under attack and go for them when they are defenceless and on the run. It makes good sense: you don’t want to give them time to think or they might stop and fight back. In this case, after pressing myself into the dirt for over an hour with cannon balls crashing through the crops around me, I wanted revenge. Having experienced fear and terror, helping to inflict it on someone else kind of redeemed my manhood somehow. Finally as the commanding officer of a bunch of murderous Highlander savages who were at the vanguard of the slaughter, it seemed at the very least polite to be there to cheer them on. From a safe distance naturally.
This brings me to Flashy’s second principle of warfare. In retreat there are two kinds of people. There are those that will be driven by terror to run as though the hounds of hell are at their heels and regardless of the slaughter about them they will hang on to the hope that somehow they can win through to safety. I am of course in this group, and my ability to write this account in my old age is a testament to the fact that with a little ingenuity you can win through against enormous odds. Unfortunately there is also a tiresome second group who have ruined many a good rout. They come to a point where they see that there is no hope for survival and decide that it is better to die with a weapon in their hand and facing the enemy than with a sabre in the back. They are a most dangerous foe for they appear suddenly and are not looking to survive but just to take you to hell with them.
As I spurred the horse to follow the Highlanders down the reverse slope a knot of this second type gathered halfway down the hill. A group of Scots fell on them with enthusiasm, but one of the Mahratta had a long spear and quick arms and with a longer reach than their bayonets he was keeping them at bay. The now bandaged Gilray had broken away from the fight and was busy loading his musket. “Ah’ll shoot the bugger,” he called to me as I rode up. But with loaded pistols in my belt, I thought I could help out. So I drew one, aimed carefully for his chest and shot him in the head. It is true, the recoil really does raise the aim. With a roar of delight the Highlanders piled in and I wheeled my horse away, feeling pleased with myself.
When I first saw the horseman coming towards me I assumed it was one of ours. No enemy in his right mind with a horse should still be on the slope. They had the means to make their escape while our army was distracted by pursuing their poor bloody infantry and looting the baggage. He was dressed in white robes, though, like the Arabs, and as I watched I saw him spur his horse into a run and something glittered in his right hand. It took me a second to realise that the glittering thing was a sabre pointed in
my direction and that despite my very best endeavours I was being attacked.
I looked around. The nearest Highlanders were busy chasing the Mahratta and even though I shouted none looked round. There was no other cavalry nearby to give me assistance. It was already far too late to run as my horse was standing still. I dropped the fired pistol in my coat pocket and drew out the ungainly sabre as I spurred my horse forward. I hardly had time to think about what I was doing; I had a feeling of disbelief as the stranger charged in. What the hell was he still doing here and why was he trying to kill me? The white-robed horseman was already whirling his sword above his head for a killing cut as he swept past, and then some remnant of a memory from Poorum’s training sessions with the sabre came to mind and I managed to move my weapon to block the blow and the twisting back cut he tried next.
We both wheeled our horses around to face each other, mine now moving at the same speed as his as we closed again. We were due to pass down our right-hand sides, but I remembered Poorum talking about crossing in front of the enemy horse at the last minute and hacking down on their unprotected left-hand side. It was the only other bit of sabre training that I could remember, so I had to give it a go. With a few yards remaining, I yanked on the reins to haul my horse to the right and prepared to slash to my left, but my opponent had planned the same tactic and so we passed well out of reach of each other.
I sensed he was turning tightly and so I did the same. He was obviously a skilled horseman while I was now out of ideas. Looking around, I saw there was still no sign of anyone who could come to my aid. I could not run; his fast, nimble horse would enable him to slam a blade in my exposed back in a moment. My only chance was to try to hold him off until help arrived. Already he was coming at me again and I launched a massive haymaker swing of the sabre at him with all my strength. But he easily saw it coming and moved wide to cross in front of my horse.
What I did not realise was that my wild sabre cut had sliced off the top of my horse’s right ear. The mount took exception to this and decided that we should part company. I was already overbalanced, leaning out of the saddle to make the cut, and the horse kicked out with its back legs to launch me into the air. My feet came out of the stirrups and the next thing I knew I was flying high over my horse’s head and the Arab was below me. Not expecting an airborne attack, he just managed to look round as he heard my surprised yell, but could not bring his sword up in time. I desperately slashed with my sabre and more by luck caught him in the neck a split-second before I landed on top of him and we both tumbled from his saddle. Luckily he landed underneath me and I rolled away to come up, I am proud to say, with the sword still in my hand. One glance told me the Arab was finished. He had got into a kneeling position but the front of his robes was already crimson and blood was gushing from a deep wound down the side of his throat. He reached for his sword but did not make any attempt to attack, he just held it against his chest and seemed to be mouthing some prayer.
I stared around me but nobody seemed to have seen my novel method of attack. The Highlanders had their backs to me as they steadily drove the Mahratta on and the Mahratta were far too occupied with self-preservation to notice a British officer getting thrown from his horse. The battle was moving swiftly away and I was left with just the dead and dying.
I watched the Arab for a moment but then he made the most awful choking noise and started to shake. He was drowning in his own blood and went down on his hands and knees with his fingers digging deep into the dirt. He appeared to be in a lot of pain and I wondered if I should put him out of his misery. I got the second pistol out of my belt and was just cocking it when his head rose as he sat back on his haunches and glared up at me. His face was contorted in agony but he looked me steadily in the eye before gasping the single word “Solomon”. Then he looked at the pistol in my hand and seemed to nod his agreement before looking down again at his lap. I was not sure I could kill him now, but then he made another horrible gurgling noise and I realised that it would be better than watching him linger in pain. He now looked up with his eyes closed and his face towards the sky. With a shaking hand I raised the pistol. This time I managed to successfully shoot my target in the heart, having aimed just above his balls.
I sat down on the ground amongst the dead for a moment to let my nerves recover. After several minutes I heard another horse trotting up and turned to face it. If it was another enemy horseman, I would be finished, but luckily the rider was wearing a red jacket.
“Hello, Flashman, it looks like you have been busy,” said Jock Malcolm as he rode up. “I say, that is Abu Saleem you have killed there. He is, or should I say was, the commander of the Arab troops. He was supposed to be quite a horseman too. I see you got him with a sabre cut. You must be a sharp hand with a sword. Good work, man.” With that he rode off without waiting for any kind of answer to keep pace with the troops.
Looking again at the corpse, I saw that the sword this Abu Saleem had been holding when he died was a thing of beauty. The hilt was gold and had an astronomic design with a moon made of mother of pearl and a star constellation picked out in diamonds. There was also an inscription in Arabic which I did not understand. The blade was slim but intricately engraved in blue Damascus steel. I picked it up. It was perfectly balanced and fitted easily in the hand, much better than the one I had been using. I unhooked the scabbard from his belt and, putting the sword back in it, I exchanged it on my belt for my old sword.
His horse, a white gelding, stood passively nearby. I walked over and held the bridle and then swung up into the saddle to examine the saddlebags. There was an Arabic book, which I took to be the Koran. I dropped it next to its former owner. There was the usual food and some clothes, but burrowing down beneath these I found a substantial bag of gold coins on one side and a small leather bag on the other containing a handful of diamonds, rubies and sapphires. It was a handsome haul.
The Arab horse responded to the lightest of touches and I rode over to where my old horse stood with what was left of its ears pointing back and looking at me malevolently while the blood trickled down one side of its head. Well, you don’t say sorry to a horse, do you... or at least you don’t admit it if you have. But I reckon that nag saved my life that day. I would never have beaten the Arab if I had stayed in the saddle, so I don’t lose any sleep over cutting its ear. There have been a number of times in my career when my wrinkled carcass has been preserved due to some insignificant trifle, be it recalling the name of a distant Spanish relative I had never met, the twisted flight of a feather stuck to an Iroquois war arrow or the glint of sun on a weapon warning of an ambush. But perhaps the strangest is the tip of a horse’s ear. Mind you, since it happened I discovered that it is not that rare an occurrence. Novice troopers often slice a horse’s ear in training. Look for yourself next time you see a troop of cavalry in the park and more often than not you will spot that one of the mounts does not have all of an ear.
Chapter 27
With my old horse in tow I slowly followed my Highlanders as they worked their way forward until greed overtook their more violent instincts. Gradually more began to spend time looting the dead than pursuing the enemy. The last enemy soldiers were able to make their escape as the redcoats, both sepoys and Highlanders, began to retrace their footsteps, searching the dead with industrious efficiency. Bodies were stripped, clothing searched, turbans unravelled and anything of value was taken. Not that I could blame them, for inadvertently I had done quite well out of the battle myself. I was not the only one, though, for the baggage included elephants laden with treasure and one cavalry officer was made spectacularly rich by capturing one with a casket of priceless jewels.
It was nightfall by the time I made my way back to our camp where another surprise was waiting. I went to where I had left my shabby little campaign tent but it had gone. Instead there was a much larger tent and through the pinned back door I could see a rug, comfortable bed and chair. Behind this new tent stood two new bullock carts, one still hal
f-loaded with provisions. As I started to look round in puzzlement from inside the tent stepped Runjeet.
“Greetings, sahib,” he said, grinning broadly. “I receive your letter after the big battle and rush to bring your house to you. I also bring my cousin Jamma, your favourite cook.”
Here he gestured at another man who looked familiar from those few weeks a year ago when I had enjoyed my bungalow in Madras. Those memories rushed back at me and I could almost smell the delicious food they used to serve. Then I realised that they were not just memories and I could actually smell it. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was starving. In a few moments I was sitting down at my new camp table, eating one of the best meals I had consumed in months.
It is true what they say about an army marching on its stomach, and after satisfying their bloodlust and then filling their pockets, the thoughts of many of my fellow officers turned to filling their stomachs. The smell of Jamma’s cooking acted like a magnet, which fortunately he had anticipated by preparing a feast. Soon my tent was full of officers excitedly recounting their parts in the battle and showing off their spoils. My new sword was much admired, particularly when Jock arrived and explained I had taken it by going sabre to sabre with the Persian commander. I played down this achievement, suggesting I just managed to get in a lucky blow and not mentioning my novel method of aerial attack. Nobody likes a bragger, and downplaying my achievements earned me more credit with these men who now seemed to fully accept me into their brotherhood.
I was modest for another reason too. I had already learnt from my first meeting with Wellesley that if you overplay your abilities then people get unrealistic expectations of what you can achieve. Trying to claim that I was more than a courier to Carstairs had seen me sent on a near-suicidal mission behind enemy lines. I did not want my new undeserved reputation as an expert swordsman landing me in more trouble, but it was actually my errant cowardice that earned me praise from Wellesley.
Flashman and the Cobra Page 28