Flashman and the Cobra

by Robert Brightwell

  Carstairs was now at the rampart and he turned and called, “Come on, Flash, just look at the bricks in front of you and don’t look down.”

  Of course when someone says that to you the first thing you instinctively do is look down. For a moment I was frozen with fear. If I had not heard the trap door behind me finally smash open my nerve might have failed me completely, but then I knew it was now or never. Gingerly I started moving forward with my eyes fixed on the bricks ahead of me.

  “That’s the way, Flash,” called Carstairs encouragingly and now I was taking bigger steps. I could hear shouting behind me but I blocked everything from my mind but that short stretch of wall. Soon I had just three steps to go, but then disaster struck. I stepped on a brick but the wall was old and evidently this one was a loose stone and it just tipped and fell away with my foot suddenly slipping into thin air. I could feel myself start to topple and flailed my arms desperately. I remember looking down and seeing a stone trough in the street below, which I seemed about to fall onto, but then I felt a strong hand grip my shoulder and steady me. I looked up to see a smiling Carstairs, who had come back out onto the wall.

  “Come on, Flash, two more steps now,” he said, stepping back to lead the way.

  “God, I thought I had bought it just then,” I said as I leant against the eastern rampart, feeling myself start to shake. “If we survive this, Teddy, I might kill you myself.”

  He was reaching forward with his sword to prise away more bricks from the top of the wall to make it harder for the Persians to follow us, as one of them was already lowering himself over the wall.

  Carstairs laughed. “I never have been frightened of heights. It is no worse than running along the top of the chapel roof at Rugby.”

  “Yes, but you were the only one mad enough to do that too. The rest of us were watching from our dormitory windows or dodging the schoolmasters.”

  I had a sudden memory of the fourteen-year-old Carstairs flitting across the moonlit roof, but the crack of a musket brought me swiftly to the present. A Persian had fired at us from the tower roof but had missed. His comrade was now edging his way across the bricks towards us. I looked to the north and could see a steady stream of redcoats still coming over the northern rampart and following Captain Campbell towards the gatehouses. There must have been thirty or forty across already, and judging by the screams and yells from the gatehouse, their muskets and long bayonets were already having a lethal effect.

  Carstairs hefted his captured sabre and prepared to meet the Persian on the wall. “I will hold them off here, Flash,” he called. “You go and see if you can open the southern gate and let your Highlanders in.” I hesitated, trying to work out the best course of action. Part of me wanted to join the safety in numbers of Campbell’s men, but they would have a hard fight through the gatehouses. We couldn’t hold the Persians off for long here and so perhaps going for the southern gate was the best course of action.

  “We should both go together,” I called back.

  Carstairs’ sword flicked out at the Persian. Crossing the bricks was hard enough, but getting past a swordsman at the end was near impossible, especially when more bricks were missing from our end of the wall. The Persian, who had been watching his footing, saw Carstairs lunge too late and his own parry was enough to unbalance him. With a scream, he toppled over and we were close enough to hear the crunch of broken bones as he smacked into the street below.

  “Go!” shouted Carstairs. “I’ll follow but I have score to settle with some of these bastards first.” Another Persian was already lowering himself onto the wall.

  I pride myself on the fact that I never need to be asked more than twice to save my own precious skin. Shouting “Don’t be long” over my shoulder, I started running down the eastern rampart. It was empty as it was on top of a part of the ravine that no one could climb, at least not without half a mile of rope. As I ran past an unmanned cannon on the rampart a hundred yards further on I looked over my shoulder. Carstairs was there at the end of the wall and the second Persian was wobbling precariously on it. Another Persian came up some steps from the street below and again Carstairs’ sword flicked out and the man went down. To give him his due, he was damn lethal with that blade and he was buying me valuable time to make my escape. To not waste it, I quickly ran on.

  I must have got three hundred yards down it when I looked back again. I stopped, frozen, as I was just in time to see two Persians level their muskets at Carstairs from the top of the tower. The weapons fired and he went down. I remember screaming in anguish as several more of the white-robed figures then swarmed up the steps to attack him from the street. I thought they would hack him to pieces, but instead they decided to kill him in the same way he had killed Khaled. Picking him up, they carried him to the battlements. I could see he was struggling in their grip, but they just threw him over the top. He screamed, finally discovering his fear of heights, as he dropped into the chasm.

  Grief affects us all in different ways, and seeing a boy you have known since you were ten being hurled to his death did strange things to me. I found myself with Abu’s sword in my hand running towards those white-robed fiends, yelling obscenities. Thank God I came to my senses in time. It was as they noticed the lunatic charging in their direction and levelled their muskets that I skidded to a halt. My natural sense of self-preservation reasserted itself and I turned back in the direction I had come.

  Muskets banged behind me but I was unscathed as I assumed Flashman’s classic battlefield tactic: frantic flight running full tilt away from the enemy. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the white-robed figures were shouting and setting off in pursuit, some two hundred yards behind. The ramparts offered no cover and so I charged down the next set of steps and disappeared into the maze of alleys. I had no real idea where I was going, turning left and right, but I tried to head in a southerly direction and shake off my pursuers. It worked, because the voices behind got further away until at last I pulled up in a doorway, gasping for breath. I took off my faded red coat – it was a dangerous thing to wear in these streets – and put it over my arm.

  I was still panting heavily when I turned the next corner and found myself at the southern gate, with twenty well-armed Mahratta soldiers all staring suspiciously back at me. I was stunned for a moment. What the hell was I going to do now? I stood there breathing hard, dirty and dishevelled and with a British army coat in my hands.

  One of the guards came towards me with a lowered musket. Then inspiration occurred and I was shouting in my best Hindi, “The British are in the inner fort. Look, I have one of their jackets, see for yourself. The prince wants all soldiers to drive them back through the gatehouses.”

  Thank God I am good with languages, one of my few skills, and I pick up accents too, and in between the panting for breath it seemed convincing. The captain of the guard snatched the coat from me and looked at it suspiciously. But the metal buttons with the Company crest on each one proved it was a British coat and he took this as proof that my story was true. Barking a command at one of his men to stay, the rest ran back down one of the alleyways into the centre of town. I leant back against the wall and gave a sigh of relief.

  There were still two gun crews watching me curiously from embrasures high up on the wall, one either side of the gate, with their cannon loaded with canister to sweep clear the small patch of land in front of the entrance. The one soldier left jabbered at me excitedly. I was not sure what he was saying but I don’t think he knew either; it looked like one Indian village was missing its idiot. He pointed at my coat still in my hand and at the gate, evidently telling me that the British were out there too, and then he gestured for me to come close to the gate. As I walked towards him he opened a flap in the gate which covered a barred window at head height to allow guards to see visitors before they let them in. He peered round to look through the flap and there was the sharp crack of a distant musket from the other side.

  The musket ball caught him in the jaw and h
e staggered back, holding his face and screaming in pain. The cannon either side of the gate both fired their lethal spread of shot and the gun crews threw themselves into the act of reloading their pieces. I realised I would never have a better chance. In a moment I had got my shoulder under the big wooden locking bar and was heaving it out of its bracket. The gunners did not have a clear view of the gate itself and only the idiot could see what I was doing, but he was far too distracted by his own injury. A moment later and the locking bar was out of both brackets and I was pulling furiously on one of the gate handles.

  Slowly it started to swing open, but while the gate was moving with ponderous speed everything else started happening very fast. There was a cheer from outside, and looking around the gate I saw a dozen redcoats spring up from where they had been lying flat at the end of the path. They knew both cannons had fired and it was a race for them to cover the fifty yards and get at the gunners before they could fire again. I was pulling my coat back on so that I would not be mistaken for the enemy when I heard another angry roar from behind me. I turned to see the white-robed Persians coming out of an alley some forty yards away. They had seen me and the open gate and they were now also running towards me.

  It was a race towards the gate and the outcome of the battle could depend on the outcome. The Persians, with a slightly shorter distance, looked like they were going to win. I looked around the gate again. The first redcoats were still some forty yards away but many more heads were rushing up over the cliff edge to join them. I stood there, looking at the running groups, and felt sure I should take some action, but was not sure what. I did not want to be trapped inside with the Persians, but if I ran out of the fort I would be exposed to the cannon, which would soon sweep the cliff top clear.

  It was then I heard it, a droning wheeze followed by a high-pitched peal of squeals like an asthmatic wild boar caught in a trap: it was the damned bagpipes. But I also saw their effect. For the Persians could now see through the open gateway the redcoats rushing towards them. Then they heard that wretched droning and squealing and, shouting in alarm, they came to a sudden halt. Memories of the slaughter at Argaum with that same accompaniment were evidently all too fresh. So with a few muttered curses, they turned tail and disappeared back into the alleys.

  “Bloody ’ell, it’s the captain!” called Gilray as he charged through the gate.

  He and several others ran straight up the nearby steps to carry their bayonets to the gunners, who even now were abandoning their guns and running for safety. Suddenly I was surrounded by friendly faces as the rest of the 74th started to run through the gateway.

  Fergusson appeared and gave me a look of astonishment as he saw who had let them in. He flung me a sharp salute as he said, “It is good to see you again, sir.”

  I looked around at the familiar Highlanders as they entered the fort. They were grinning in delight at getting in so easily with some shouting “Well done, sir” and others shouting things in Gaelic which, judging by the accompanying grins, must have meant something similar. I might be one of the ‘bastard English’ but I sensed that in their eyes I had at last gone some way to be accepted in a Highland regiment. I knew most of them by name now and their lethal skills in battle gave a sense of security.

  I had a sudden feeling of being back where I belonged and I turned to Fergusson and replied, “It’s good to be back with you all again, Sergeant.”

  He looked me in the eye and gave a nod. I think we both realised that this time I bloody meant it. Then he grinned and added, “With your permission, sir, we’ll start flushing the buggers out.”

  “Flashman, we thought you had been captured,” said a smiling Swinton, as he pushed through the throng.

  “I was,” I said trying to sound as offhand as possible. “But a friend and I escaped and we thought you might need some help getting this gate open.”

  “Where is your friend?” said Swinton, looking around, and I felt a sudden stab of sadness as I remembered that struggling body going over the edge no more than five minutes ago.

  “He didn’t make it,” I said curtly, not really wanting to talk about that now. I looked around for the 74th’s new colonel. “Where is Wallace?” I asked.

  “Dysentery,” replied Swinton simply. “But I am not getting too much freedom of command as you will see in a minute. I had better get on, but it is really good to see you, Flashman.” Swinton patted me on the shoulder and moved on to organise his men.

  “I told you he wasnae fooking dead.” The piping voice of Wee Jock was clearly audible and he grinned at me as he came through the gate. He was holding his drum to his body as he ran to stop it banging into his legs. Beside him was the lumbering bulk of his namesake, Big Jock, who also gave me a happy grin.

  The next face I saw, though, was not smiling. It looked tired and strained and the lips were turned down in haughty disapproval at the familiarity of the drummer boy.

  “Flashman, are Stevenson’s men through into the inner fort too? How is the battle going at the north gate?” Wellesley barked the questions at me; he was desperate for news. He had spent hours climbing the cliff with the Highlanders and listening to the distant sound of battle without knowing how it was going.

  “Some men have scaled the north wall and they are fighting their way along the gatehouses to let the rest of the army in. The garrison of the outer fort...”

  “How many gates are there for the inner fort?” Wellesley interrupted.

  “There are four; it is a death-trap. You would never be able to fight your way in without attacking the defenders from behind.”

  “Dear God,” breathed Wellesley, looking pale. “We had heard rumours but we were not sure if it was exaggeration to deter us from attacking.” Suddenly he was brisk again. “Major Swinton, never mind clearing the streets. Get your men into column. We must march straight for the northern gate. Put a skirmish line out in front, and a drummer and piper to tell them we’re coming.”

  There had already been a couple of screams from women in nearby houses as hairy, horny Highlanders burst in on them with evil intent, but a few minutes of shouting from Fergusson got the regiment back in order. With a skirl of pipes and the rattle of a drum we set off down the widest street from the gate that led to the centre of town. An advance guard of a dozen or so men went in front to spot any ambush, but the doors and shutters of the surrounding houses stayed shut and the occupants silent. As we set off I decided that I had done enough to deserve a place in the rear, and so I was ideally placed to see what happened after we passed.

  With the last British ranks still in sight down the street, Gawilghur residents were already charging towards the southern gate to make their escape. The British were in the inner fort, the town was lost and there was a battle raging around the northern gate. The locals were losing no time in saving themselves through the only other exit from the town, the south gate, before that was blocked again. Not all those escaping were civilians; I noticed there were also soldiers in the crowd. Houses that looked dark and closed up as the redcoats marched in front of them sprang into life after the redcoats were a hundred yards or so past. As we marched down the street I saw doors flung open further back and a stream of men, women and children emerge, looking nervously over their shoulders at us before running towards the southern gate, carrying bundles of precious possessions.

  At a crossroads we could see through to a parallel street where there was a sea of humanity heading in the opposite direction to us. Wellesley could see them too but he did not care. His battle was not with civilians, and if some soldiers wanted to run away too that was fine with him. He wanted to get to those northern gatehouses and help destroy the men who waited to trap and kill his army.

  In the event we were not required, as Captain Campbell and the many men who followed him did the job without us. The Mahratta had heard if not seen the terrible slaughter of the outer garrison, and when the British appeared behind them many panicked and ran without realising how few the redcoats were.
Only the final gatehouse put up any serious fight, but then the gates were flung open and Stevenson’s men were in. We heard the roar of victory when the final gate was thrown open and Wellesley called a halt.

  It was clear to everyone that the redcoats were now in the city, which meant that they would destroy any who tried to stand against them. The battle was won, and in the way of sieges and victorious armies, the raping, looting and slaughtering would begin. Wellesley had been clear before the assault that he would hang any soldiers caught looting or worse. With the general standing right in the middle of the ranks of the 74th, none of the soldiers felt like calling his bluff. Screams from the streets in front, though, indicated that other soldiers were taking a more cavalier approach to these restrictions as they claimed what they saw as the rights victorious armies had enjoyed for centuries. The inhabitants in the houses on either side of our column saw our men still standing in ranks and they heard the screams of their neighbours. First one or two started to emerge from their houses with bundles of possessions and run for the southern gate. Then, when they escaped unmolested, there was a general stampede of inhabitants all around us, heading south.

  Wellesley decided to head for the palace and changed the direction of the march. The streets were pandemonium. Hundreds of people running from the rampaging redcoats in the north of the town panicked when they saw us and tried to fight their way down other streets, while those who had seen others escape past us fought their way to escape down the wide street we were on. Mothers and children got separated in the crush and screamed for each other. I saw Big Jock stoop to pick up a baby who fitted comfortably in one of his huge hands. He looked for someone safe to put it where it would not be trampled by the crowds and left it in the sagging awning over some shop. Possessions and valuables were dropped and some of the Highlanders behind the general would sometimes dart out to retrieve them. At a couple of shops I saw soldiers step quickly in to grab something, but they then got back in their place, usually stuffing something into a shirt or pocket. Sometimes we could barely move forward at all and then some muskets would be fired to clear the way, which resulted in even more screaming, shouting and panic in the surrounding streets.