Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins. George Fraser MacDonald
had become a death-trap – and I remembered Gardner’s words: “They reckon they can whip John Company.” And now John Company could barely stand up in his shot-tom squares, his pouches and magazines empty, his guns silent, his cavalry lame, and only his bayonets left.
Across the plain spurts of flame flickered along the Khalsa batteries like an electric storm, followed by the thunder of the discharge, the howl of shot overhead, and a hideous crashing and screaming as it burst open our squares. They were making sure, the bastards, pounding us to death at leisure before sending in their foot regiments to cut up the remains; again the dust boiled up as the grape and roundshot tore through the entrenchments; we could stand or we could run. John Company chose to stand, God knows why. In my case, he stood as close behind Gough as might be, too scared even to pray – and a bad choice of position it was, too. For as the bombardment reached its height, and the squares vanished in the rolling red clouds, and our army died by inches, with men going down like skittles and the blood running under our hooves, and some heroic ass bawling: “Die hard, Queen’s Own!”, and Flashy wondering if he dared cut out under the eye of his Chief, and knowing I hadn’t the game for it, and even my wound forgotten as the deadly hail swept through us – suddenly Gough wheeled his horse, looking right and left at the wreck of his army, and the old fellow was absolutely weeping! Then he flung away his hat, and I heard him growl:
“Oi nivver wuz bate, an’ Oi nivver will be bate! West, Flashman – follow me!”
And he wheeled his charger and went racing out into the plain.
You fall on your bloody sword if you want to, Paddy, thinks I, and would have stood my ground or dived for cover, more like – but Charley was away like a shot, my beast followed suit like the idiot cavalry screw he was, I clutched at the bridle with my shattered hand, near fainted at the pain, and found myself careering in their wake. For a moment I thought the old fellow had gone crazy, and was for charging the Khalsa on his own, but he veered away right, making for the flank square – and as he galloped clear of it and suddenly reined in on his haunches, and rose in his stirrups with his arms wide, I saw what he was at.
All India knew that white coat of Gough’s, the famous “fighting coat” that the crazy old son-of-a-bitch had been flaunting at his foes for fifty years, from South Africa and the Peninsula to the Northwest Frontier. Now he was using it to draw the fire from his army to himself (and the two unlucky gallopers whom the selfish old swine had dragged along). It was the maddest-brained trick you ever saw – and, damnation, it worked! I can see him still, holding the tails out and showing his teeth, his white hair streaming in the wind, and the earth exploding round him, for the Sikh gunners took the bait and hammered us with everything they had. And of course, we weren’t hit – try turning your batteries on three men at a thousand yards, and see what it gets you.37
But you don’t reckon mathematical probabilities with a hurricane of shot whistling about your ears. I forced my beast alongside him, and yelled:
“Sir Hugh, you must withdraw! The army cannot spare you, sir!” Which was inspiration, if you like, but wasted on that Irish idiot. He yelled something that I couldn’t hear … and then the miracle happened. And if you don’t believe it, look in the books.
All of a sudden, the firing died away, and across the plain the bugles rang out, and the drums rolled, the great gold banners were raised in the rays of the setting sun, and the Khalsa began to move. It came on in column by regiments, with a line of Jat light infantry leading, green figures with their pieces at the trail – and suddenly Charley West was shouting:
“Look, Sir Hugh! Our cavalry! The guns – my God, they’re retiring!”
Not before time, thinks I, ’though it shocked me, I can tell you. For he was right: where we sat, perhaps a furlong ahead of our right flank, we had a clear view of the appalling ruin of our army – the dozen battered squares of red figures, with great gaps in their ranks, the regimental colours stirring in the evening wind, the bodies sprawled on the earthworks, the plain before them littered with dead and dying beasts and men, the whole hideous scene mantled in dust and smoke from the charred wreckage.
And the cavalry, what was left of it, was trotting away southward, across the front of our left-hand squares, which were inclined slightly back from those on the right. They were in column by troops, Native lancers and Irregular Horse, and then the 3rd Lights, with the horse guns following, bouncing along behind the teams.
“They – they can’t be runnin’!” cries West. “Sir Hugh – shall I ride to ’em, sir? It must be a mistake, surely!”
Gough was staring after them as though he’d seen a ghost. I guess it was something he’d not seen in half a century – horse and guns leaving the infantry to their fate. But he didn’t stare more than a moment.
“After ’em, West! Bring ’em back!” he snapped, and Mad Charley was away, head down and heels in, drumming up the dust, while Gough turned to look again towards the Khalsa.
They were well out on the plain now, in splendid style, infantry in the centre with the horse guns at intervals among them, cavalry on the wings. Gough motioned to me, and we began to trot back towards our position. For the first time I saw Hardinge, with a little knot of officers, just in front of the right-hand squares. He was looking through a glass, and turning his head to call an order. The kneeling squares stood up, the men closing on each other, pieces at the present, the dying sun flickering on the line of bayonets. Gough reined up.
“Here’ll do as well as any place,” says he, and shaded his eyes to look across the plain. “Man, but there’s a fine sight, is it not? Fit to gladden a soldier’s heart, so it is. Well, here’s to them – and to us.” He nodded to me. “Thank you, me son.” He threw back the tail of his coat and drew his sabre, loosing the frog to let the scabbard fall to the ground.
“I think we’re all goin’ home,” says he.
I glanced over my shoulder. Behind me the plain was open beyond our right flank, with jungle not a mile away. My screw wasn’t blown or lame, and I was damned if I’d wait here to be butchered by that juggernaut tramping inexorably towards us; the blare of their heathen music came before them, and behind it the measured thunder of forty thousand feet. From the squares came the hoarse shouts of command; I stole another look at the distant jungle, tightening my sound hand on the bridle …
“Dear God!” exclaims Gough, and I started guiltily round. And what I saw was another impossibility, but … there it was.
The Khalsa had halted in its tracks. The dust was eddying up before the advance line of Jats, they were turning to look back at the main body, we could hear voices shrilling orders, and the music was dying away in a discordant wail. The great standards seemed to be wavering, the whole vast army was stirring like a swarm, the rattle of a single kettle-drum was taken up, repeated from regiment to regiment, and then it was as though a Venetian blind had opened and closed across the front of the great host – it was the ranks turning about, churning up the dust, and then they were moving away. The Khalsa was in full retreat.
There wasn’t a sound from our squares. Then, from somewhere behind me, a man laughed, and a voice called angrily for silence. That’s the only noise I remember, but I wasn’t paying much heed. I could only watch in stricken bewilderment as twenty thousand of the best native troops in the world turned their backs on an exhausted, helpless enemy … and left the victory to us.
Gough sat his horse like a statue, staring after them. A full minute passed before he chucked the reins, turning his mount. As he walked it past me towards the squares, he nodded and says:
“You get that hand seen to, d’ye hear? An’ when ye’re done with it, I’ll be obliged for the return of my neckercher.”
a Stretcher.
b Water-carrier.
c Canvas water-bags.