Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins. George Fraser MacDonald
“And I tell you, Sir Hugh, it is not to be thought of! Why, you are outnumbered two to one in men, and even more in cannon – and they are in cover, sir!”
“And don’t I know that, then? I tell ye still, I’ll put Ferozeshah in your hand by noon! Dear man, our infantry aren’t Portuguese!”
That was a dig at Hardinge, who’d served with the Portugoosers in the Peninsula. His tone was freezing as he replied: “I cannot entertain it. You must wait for Littler to come up.”
“An’ if I wait that long, sure’n the rabbits’ll be runnin’ through Ferozeshah! ’Tis the shortest day o’ the year, man! And will ye tell me, plain now – who commands this army?”
“You do!” snaps Hardinge.
“And did ye not offer me your services, as a soldier, in whutsoivver capacity, now? Ye did! And I accepted, gratefully! But it seems ye won’t take my orders –”
“In the field, sir, I shall obey you implicitly! But as Governor-General I shall, if necessary, exert my civil authority over the Commander-in-Chief. And I will not hazard the army in such a risk as this! Oh, my dear Sir Hugh,” he went on, trying to smooth things, but Paddy wasn’t at home.
“In short, Sorr Hinry, ye’re questionin’ my military judgment!”
“As to that, Sir Hugh, I have been a soldier as long as you –”
“I know it! I know also ye haven’t smelt powder since Waterloo, an’ all the staff college lectures in creation don’t make a battlefield general! So, now!”
Hardinge was a staff college man; Paddy, you may suspect, was not.
“This is unseemly, sir!” says Hardinge. “Our opinions differ. As Governor-General, I positively forbid an attack until you are supported by Sir John Littler. That is my last word, sir.”
“And this is mine, sorr – but I’ll be havin’ another one later!” cries Paddy. “If we come adrift through this, with our fellows shootin’ each other in the dark, as they did at Moodkee – well, sorr, I won’t hold myself responsible unless I am!”
“Thank you, Sir Hugh!”
“Thank you, Sorr Hinry!”
And off they stumped, after a conference unique, I believe, in military history.34 As to which was right, God knows. On the one hand, Hardinge had to think of all India, and the odds scared him. Against that, Paddy was the fighting soldier – daft as a brush, granted, but he knew men and ground and the smell of victory or defeat. Heads or tails, if you ask me.
So Hardinge had his way, and the army set off again, south-west, to meet Littler, crossing the Sikh front with our flank wide as a barn door if they’d care to come out and fall on us. They didn’t, thanks to Lal Singh, who refused to budge while his staff tore their hair at the missed chance. Littler hove in view at Shukoor, and our force turned north again, now eighteen thousand strong, and stormed Ferozeshah.
I didn’t see the battle, since I was installed in a hut at Misreewallah, more than a mile away, surrounded by clerks and runners and sipping grog while I waited for the butcher’s bill. So I shan’t elaborate the bare facts – you can read the full horror in the official accounts if you’re curious. I heard it, though, and saw the results; that was enough for me.
It was shockingly botched, on both sides. Gough had to launch his force in frontal assault on the south and west entrenchments, which were the strongest, just as the sun was westering. Our fellows were caught in a hail of grape and musketry, with mines going off under them, but they stormed in with the bayonet, and drove the Sikhs from their camp and the village beyond. Just on dusk, the Sikhs’ magazine exploded, and soon there were fires everywhere, and it was slaughter all the way, but there was such confusion in the dark, with regiments going astray, and Harry Smith, as usual, miles ahead of the rest, that Gough decided to re-form – and the retire was sounded. Our fellows, with Ferozeshah in their hands, came out again – and the Sikhs walked back in, resuming the entrenchments we’d taken at such fearful cost. And they wonder why folk go to sea. So we were back where we began, in the freezing night, with the Khalsa sharpshooters hammering our bivouacs and wells. Oh, aye, and Lumley, the Adjutant-General, went off his rocker and ran about telling everyone we must retire on Ferozepore. Luckily no one minded him.
My memories of that night are a mixture of confused pictures: Ferozeshah, two miles away, like a vision of hell, a sea of flames under red clouds with explosions everywhere; men lurching out of the dark, carrying wounded comrades; the long dark mass of our bivouacs on the open ground, and the unceasing screams and groans of the wounded all night long; bloody hands thrusting bloody papers before me under the storm-lantern – Littler had lost 185 men in only ten minutes, I remember; the crash of our artillery at the Sikh sharpshooters; Hardinge, his hat gone and his coat bloody, calling: “Charles, where are the Ninth – I must visit all my old Peninsulars! See if they have a lady in barracks, what?”;35 a corporal of the 62nd, his trousers soaked in blood, sitting at my hut door with his hussif open, carefully stitching a tear in the white cover of his hat; the sudden blare of bugles and rattle of drums sounding the alarm as a regiment was mustered to make a sortie against a Sikh gun emplacement; a Light Dragoon, face black with powder, and a skinny little bhisti,b buckets in their hands, and the Dragoon crying who’d make a dash with them for the well, ’cos Bill must have water and the chagglesc were dry; the little German prince who’d played billiards while I romped Mrs Madison, putting in his head to ask ever so politely if Dr Hoffmeister, of whom I’d never heard, was on my lists – he wasn’t, but he was dead, anyway; and a hoarse voice singing softly in the dark:
Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket, jacket,
An’ say a poor buffer lies low, lies low,
An’ six stalwart lancers shall carry me, carry me,
With steps that are mournful an’ slow.
Then send for six brandies an’ soda, soda,
An’ set ’em up all in a row, a row …
I hobbled across to headquarters on my unnecessary crutch, to sniff the wind. It was a big bare basha,d with fellows curled up asleep on the earth, and at the far end Gough and Hardinge with a map across their knees, and an aide holding a light. By the door Baxu the butler and young Charlie Hardinge were packing a valise; I asked what was to do.
“Off to Moodkee,” says Charlie. “Currie must be ready to burn his papers.”
“What – is it all up, then?”
“Touch an’ go, anyway. I say, Flashy, have you seen the cabbage-walloper – Prince Waldemar? I’ve to take him out of it, confound him! Blasted civilians,” says Charlie, who was one himself, secretarying Papa, “seem to think war’s a sightseein’ tour!” Baxu handed him a dress sword, and Charlie chuckled.
“I say – mustn’t forget that, Baxu!”
“Nay, sahib! Wellesley sahib would be dam-displeased!”
Charlie tucked it under his coat. “Wouldn’t mind havin’ its owner walk in this minute, though.”
“Who’s that, then?” I asked.
“Boney. Wellington gave it to the guv’nor after Waterloo. Can’t let the Khalsa get hold of Napoleon’s side-arm, can we?”
I didn’t care for this – when the swells start sending their valuables down the road, God help the rest of us. I asked Abbott, who was smoking by the door, with his arm in a bloody sling, what was afoot.
“We’re goin’ in again at dawn. Nothin’ else for it, with only half a day’s