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You’ll have difficulty finding Ferozeshah (or Pheeroo Shah, as we Punjabi purists call it) in the atlas nowadays. It’s a scrubby little hamlet about halfway between Ferozepore and Moodkee, but in its way it’s a greater place than Delhi or Calcutta or Bombay, for it’s where the fate of India was settled – appropriately by treachery, folly, and idiot courage beyond belief. And most of all, by blind luck.

It was where Lal Singh, on my advice, had left half his force when he marched to meet Gough, and it was where his battered advance guard retired after Moodkee. So there he was now, twenty thousand strong with a hundred splendid guns, all nicely entrenched and snug as bugs. And Gough must attack him at once, for who could tell when Tej Singh, loafing before Ferozepore a mere dozen miles away, would be forced by his colonels to do the sensible thing and join Lal, thereby facing Paddy with a Khalsa of over fifty thousand, outnumbering us more than three to one?

So it was bundle and go at Moodkee next day, with the last of the dead being shovelled under, the Native Infantry deploying for a night march, the 29th marching in from the Umballa track, their red coats as yellow as their facings with the rolling dust, and the band thumping out “Royal Windsor”, the elephant teams squealing as they hauled up the heavy pieces, camels braying in the lines, fellows shouting and waving papers in every tent opening, the munition carts rolling through, and Gough in his shirtsleeves at an open-air table with his staff scampering round him. And the discerning eye would also have noted a stalwart figure propped up on a charpoy with his leg swathed to the knee in an enormous bandage, cursing the luck which kept him out of the fun.

“I say, Cust,” cries Abbott, “have you seen? Flashy’s got the gout! Has to have beef tea and sal volatile, and kameela drenches twice a day!”

“Comes of boozin’ with maharanis at Lahore, I dare say,” says Cust, “while the rest of us poor politicals have to work for a living.”

“When did politicals ever work?” says Hore. “You stay where you are, Flashy, and keep out of the sun, mind! If the goin’ gets sticky we’ll haul you up to wave your crutch at the Sikhs!”

“Wait till I’m walking and I’ll wave more than a crutch!” cries I. “You fellows think you’re clever – I’ll be ahead of you all yet, you’ll see!” At which they all made game of me, and said they’d leave a few Sikh wounded for me to cut up. Cheery stuff, you see. Broadfoot himself had pronounced me hors de combat, and I got a deal of sympathy among all the chaff, but Gough insisted that I should be brought along to Ferozeshah anyway, to deal with casualty returns, of which there were likely to be a-plenty. “If he can’t ride he can still write,” says Paddy. “Besides, if I know the boy he’ll be in at the death before all’s done.” Live in hope, old Paddy, thinks I; I’d expected to be left behind at Moodkee with the wounded, but at least I’d be well out of the way at advance headquarters while the rest of them got on with the serious work.

Broadfoot and his Afghans were out all day, scouting the Sikh position, so I never saw him. I went hot and cold by turns when I thought of the awful prospect he’d unfolded to me the previous night – sneaking back to Lahore in disguise, no doubt to carry treasonable messages to Jeendan, and keep an eye on her and her court of snakes … how the devil was it to be done, and why? But sufficient unto the day; I’d find out soon enough.

We marched, after a broiling day of confused preparation, in the freezing small hours, the army in column of route and your humble obedient borne in a dooli^a by minions, which caused much hilarity among the staff-wallopers, who kept stopping by to ask if I needed any gruel or a stone pig to warm my toes. I responded with bluff repartee – and noticed that as the march progressed the comedians fell silent; we came within earshot of the Sikh drums soon after dawn, and by nine were deploying within sight of Ferozeshah. I bade my dooli-bearers set me down in a little grove not far from the headquarters group, to be out of the heat – with interesting results, as you’ll see. For while most of what I tell you of that momentous day is hearsay, one vital incident was played out under my nose alone. This is what happened.

The scouts had reported that the place was heavily entrenched on all sides, in a rough mile square about the village, with the Sikhs’ heavy guns among the mounds and ditches that enclosed it. On three sides there were jungly patches which would hinder our attack, but on the eastern side facing us it was flat maidan, and Gough, honest man, could see only one way – open up with the guns and sweep straight in, trusting to the bayonets of his twelve thousand to do the trick against twenty thousand Khalsa. During the night Littler had slipped out of Ferozepore with almost his whole seven thousand, leaving Tej guarding an empty town; Paddy’s notion may have been to drive the Sikhs out of Ferozeshah and into Littler’s path, but I ain’t sure.

At all events, I was reclining in my dooli in the shade, discussing beef and hardtack and coughing contentedly over my cheroot, admiring the view of our army deployed across my front and feeling patriotic, when there was a commotion fifty yards off, where the HQ staff were at breakfast – Hardinge trying to hog the marmalade again, thinks I, but when I peeped out, here was the man himself striding towards my grove, looking stern, and five yards behind, Paddy Gough with his white coat flapping and bright murder in his eye. Hardinge stops just inside the grove and says: “Well, Sir Hugh?”

“Well, indeed, Sorr Hinry!” cries Paddy, Irish with fury. “I’ll tell ye again – you’re lookin’ at the foinest victory that ever was won in India, bigad, an’ –”

“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 chaggles^c 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 fodder for us an’ the guns. It’s Ferozeshah – or six feet under. Some asses were talkin’ about terms, or cuttin’ out for Ferozepore, but the G.G. an’ Paddy gave ’em the rightabout.” He lowered his voice. “Mind you, I don’t know if we can stand another gruellin’ like today … how’s the pension parade?”

He meant our casualties. “At a guess … maybe one in ten.”

“Could be worse … but there ain’t a whole man on the staff,” says he. “Oh, I say, did you hear? – Georgie Broadfoot’s dead.”

I didn’t take it in at all. I heard the words, but they meant nothing at first, and I just stood staring at him while he went on: “I’m sorry … he was a chum o’ yours, wasn’t he? I was with him, you see … the damnedest thing! I’d been hit …” he touched his sling “… an’ thought I was gone, when old Georgie rides up, shouting: ‘Get up, Sandy! Can’t go to sleep, you know!’ So up I jumped, an’ then Georgie tumbled out of his saddle, shot in the leg, but he popped straight up again, an’ says to me: ‘There you are, you see! Come on!’ It was fairly rainin’ grape from the south entrenchment, an’ a second later, he went down again. So I yelled: ‘Come on, George! Sleepyhead yourself!’” He fumbled inside his shirt. “And … so he is now, for keeps, the dear old chap. You want these? Here, take ’em.”

They were George’s spectacles, with one lens broken. I took them, not believing it. Seeing Sale dead had been bad enough – but Broadfoot! The great red giant, always busy, always scheming – nothing could kill him, surely? No, he’d walk in presently, damning someone’s eyes – mine, like enough. For no reason I took a look through the remaining glass, and couldn’t see a thing; he must have been blind as a bat without them … and then it dawned on me that if he was dead, there’d be no one to send me to Lahore again – and no need! Whatever ploy he’d had in mind would have died with him, for even Hardinge wouldn’t know the ins and outs of it … So I was clear, and relief was flooding through me, making me tremble, and I choked between tears and laughter –

“Here, don’t take on!” cries Abbott, catching my wrist. “Never fret, Flashy – George’ll be paid for, you’ll see! Why, if he ain’t, he’ll haunt us, the old ruffian, gig-lamps an’ all! We’re bound to take Ferozeshah!”

And they did, a second time. They went in, Briton and sepoy, in ragged red lines under the lifting mist of dawn, with the horse guns thundering ahead of them and the Khalsa trenches bright with flame. The Sikh gunners fairly battered the advancing regiments and picked off our ammunition wagons, so that our ranks seemed to be moving through pillars of fiery cloud, with the white trails of our Congreves piercing the black smoke. It’s the last madness, thinks I, watching awestruck from the rear, for they’d no right to be on their feet, even, let alone marching into that tempest of metal, exhausted, half-starved, frozen stiff, and barely a swallow of water among them, with Hardinge riding ahead, his empty sleeve tucked into his belt, telling his aides he’d seen nothing like it since the Peninsula, and Gough leading the right, spreading the tails of his white coat to be the better seen. Then they had vanished into the smoke, the scarecrow lines and the tattered standards and the twinkling cavalry sabres – and I thanked God I was here and not there as I led the rocketeers in three cheers for our gallant comrades, before being borne back into the shade to a well-earned breakfast of bread and brandy.

Being new to the business, I half-expected to see ’em back shortly, in bloody rout – but beyond our view they were storming the defences again, and going through Ferozeshah like an iron fist, and by noon there wasn’t a live Punjabi in the position, and we’d taken seventy guns. Don’t ask me how – they say some of the Khalsa infantry cut stick in the night, and the rest were all at sea because Lal Singh and his cronies had fled, with the Akalis howling for his blood – but that don’t explain it, not to me. They still weren’t outnumbered, and had the defensive advantage, and fought their guns to the finish – so how did we beat ’em? I don’t know, I wasn’t there – but then, I still don’t understand the Alma and Balaclava and Cawnpore, and I was in the thick of them, God help me, and no fault of mine.

I ain’t one of your by jingoes, and I won’t swear that the British soldier is braver than any other – or even, as Charley Gordon said, that he’s brave for a little while longer. But I will swear that there’s no soldier on earth who believes so strongly in the courage of the men alongside him – and that’s worth an extra division any day. Provided you’re not standing alongside me, that is.

All morning the wounded kept coming back, but fewer by far than yesterday, and now they were jubilant. Twice they’d beaten the Khalsa against the odds, and there wouldn’t be a third Ferozeshah, not with Lal’s forces in flight for the Sutlej, and our cavalry scouting their retreat. “Tik hai, Johnnie!” roars a sergeant of the 29th, limping down with a naik of Native Infantry; they had two sound legs between them, and used their muskets as crutches. “’Oo’s got a tot o’ rum for my Johnnie, then? ’E may ’ave fired wide at Moodkee, but you earned yer chapattis today, didn’t yer, ye little black bugger!” And everyone roared and cheered and helped them along, the tow-headed, red-faced ruffian and the sleek brown Bengali, both of them grinning with the same wild light in their eyes. That’s victory – it was in all their eyes, even those of a pale young cornet of the 3rd Lights with his arm off at the elbow, raving as they carried him past at the run, and of a private with a tulwar gash in his cheek, spitting blood at every word as he told me how Gough was entrenched in the Sikhs’ position in case of counter-attack, but there was no fear of that.

“We done for ’em, sir!” cries he, and his yellow facings were as red as his coat with his own gore. “They won’t stop runnin’ till they gets to La’ore, I reckon! You should ’ear ’em cheer ole Daddy Gough – ain’t ’e the boy, though?” He peered at me, holding a grimy cloth to his wound. “’Ere, you orl right, sir? Fair done in you looks, if you’ll ’scuse my sayin’ so …”

It was true – I, who hadn’t been near the fight, and had been right as rain, was all at once ready to keel over where I sat. And it wasn’t the heat, or the excitement, or the sight of his teeth showing through his cheek (other folks’ blood don’t bother me), or the screaming from the hospital basha, or the stench of stale blood and acrid smoke from the battle, or the dull ache in my ankle – none of that. I believe it was the knowledge that at last it was all over, and I could give way to the numbing fatigue that had been growing through one of the worst weeks of my life. I’d had one night’s sleep out of eight, counting from the first which I’d spend galloping Mangla; then there’d been my Khalsa frolic, the Sutlej crossing, the ride from Lal and Tej to Ferozepore, the vigil as we listened to distant Moodkee, uneasy slumber after Broadfoot had given me his bad news, the freezing march to Misreewallah, and finally, the first night of Ferozeshah. Oh, I was luckier than many, but I was beat all to nothing – and now it was past, and I was safe, and could lurch from my stool and fall face-down on the charpoy, dead to the world.

Now, when I’m dog-tired with shock, I have nightmares worthy of cheese and lobster, but this one laid it over them all, for I fell slowly through the charpoy, into a bath of warm water, and when I rolled over I was staring up at a ceiling painting of Gough and Hardinge and Broadfoot, all figged out like Persian princes, having dinner with Mrs Madison, who tilted her glass and poured oil all over me, which made me so slippery that I couldn’t hope to transfer the whole Soochet legacy, coin by coin, from my navel to Queen Ranavalona’s as she pinned me down on a red-hot billiard-table. Then she began to pummel and shake me, and I knew she was trying to make me get up because Gough wanted me, and when I said I couldn’t, because of my ankle, the late lamented Dr Arnold, wearing a great tartan puggaree, came by on an elephant, crying that he would take me, for the Chief needed a Greek translation of Crotchet Castle instanter, and if I didn’t take it to Tej Singh, Elspeth would commit suttee. Then I was following him, floating across a great dusty plain, and the smell of burning was everywhere, and filthy ash was falling like snow, and there were terrible bearded faces of dead men, smeared with blood, and corpses all about us, with ghastly wounds from which their entrails spilled out on earth that was sodden crimson, and there were great cannon lying on their sides or tumbled into pits, and everywhere the charred wreckage of tents and carts and huts, some of them still in flames.

There was a mighty tumult, too, a great cannonading, and the shriek and crash of shot striking home, the rattle of musketry, and bugles blowing. There were voices yelling on all sides, in a great confusion of orders: “By sections, right – walk-march, trot!” and “Battalion, halt! Into line – left turn!” and “Troop Seven – left incline, forward!” But Arnold wouldn’t stop, though I shouted to him, and I couldn’t see where the troops were, for the horse I was riding was going too fast, and the sun was in my eyes. I raised my left hand to shield them, but the sun’s rays burned more fiercely than ever, causing me such pain that I cried out, for it was burning a hole in my palm, and I clutched at Arnold with my other hand – and suddenly he was Mad Charley West, gripping me round the shoulders and yelling to me to hold on, and my left hand was pumping blood from a ragged hole near the thumb, causing excruciating agony, and all hell was loose around me.

That was the moment when I realised that I wasn’t dreaming.

An eminent medico has since explained that exhaustion and strain induced a trance-like state when I sank down on the charpoy, and that while my nightmares turned to reality, I didn’t come to properly until I was wounded in the hand – which is the most immediately painful place in the whole body, and I should know, since I’ve been hit in most others. In between, Mad Charley had wakened me, helped me to mount (bad ankle and all), and we’d ridden at speed through the carnage of the recent battle to Gough’s position beyond Ferozeshah village – and all I’d taken in were those disjointed pictures I’ve just described. The sawbones had an impressive medical name for it, but I doubt if there’s one for the sensation I felt as I gripped my wounded hand to crush the pain away, and took in the scene about me.

Directly before me were two troops of Native horse artillery, firing as fast as they could load, the little brown gunners springing aside to avoid the recoil, the crash of the salvoes staggering my horse by its very violence. To my left was a ragged square of British infantry – the 9th, for I saw the penny badge on their shakos – and beyond them others, sepoy and British, kneeling and standing, with the reserve ranks behind. To my right it was the same, more squares, inclined back at a slight angle, with their colours in the centre, like the pictures of Waterloo. Red squares, with the dust boiling round them, and shot screaming overhead or ploughing through with a clap like thunder; men were falling, sometimes singly, sometimes hurtled aside as a shot tore into the ranks; I saw a great swathe, six files wide, cut by grape at the corner of the 9th’s square, and the air filled with red spray. Before me a horse gun suddenly stood up on end, its muzzle split like a stalk of celery, and then it crashed down in a hellish tangle of fallen men and stricken horses. It was as though a gale of iron rain was sweeping the ranks, coming God knew whence, for the dust and smoke enveloped us – and Mad Charley was hauling at my bridle, urging me through it.

There’s never a time when pain and fear don’t matter, but sometimes shock is so bewildering that you don’t think of them. One such time is when you wake up to find that good artillery has got your range and is pounding you to pieces; there’s nothing to be done, no time even to hope you won’t be hit, and you can’t hurl yourself to the ground and lie there squealing – not when you find you’re alongside Paddy Gough himself, and he’s pulling off his bandana and telling you to wrap it round your fin and pay attention.

“Put your finger on the knot, man! There, now – look ahead and take close note of what ye see!”

He yanked the bandage tight, and pointed, and through tears of anguish and terror I looked beyond the clouds of settling dust.

A bare half-mile away the plain was alive with horsemen. The artillery teams who’d been shelling us, light camel swivels and heavier field pieces, were wheeling away through the advancing ranks of a great tide of cavalry cantering towards us knee to knee. It must have been five hundred yards from wing to wing, with lancer regiments on the flanks, and in the centre the heavy squadrons in tunics of white and red, tulwars at the shoulder, the low sun gleaming on polished helms from which stiff plumes stood up like scarlet combs – and only when I remembered those same plumes at Maian Mir did I realise the full horror of what I was seeing. These were Sikh line cavalry, and dazed and barely half-awake as I was, I knew that could mean only one thing, even if it was impossible: we were facing the army of Tej Singh, the cream of the Khalsa thirty thousand strong, who should have been miles away in futile watch on Ferozepore. Now they were here – beyond the approaching storm of horsemen I could see the massed ranks of infantry, regiment on regiment, with the great elephant guns before them. And we were a bare ten thousand, dropping with exhaustion after three battles which had decimated us, and out of food, water, and shot.

Historians say that on that one moment, as the Khalsa’s spearhead was rushing at our throat, rested the three centuries of British India. Perhaps. It was surely the moment in which Gough’s battered little army stared certain death and destruction in the face, and whatever may have settled our fate later, one man turned the hinge then and there. Without him, we (aye, and perhaps all India) would have been swept away in bloody ruin. I’ll wager you’ve never heard of him, the forgotten brigadier, Mickey White.

It happened in split seconds. Even as I dashed the sweat from my eyes and stared again, the bugles blared along those surging lines of Khalsa horsemen, the tulwars rose in a wave of steel and the great forest of lance-points dipped as the canter became a gallop. Gough was roaring to our men to hold their fire, and I heard Huthwaite yelling that the guns were at the last round, and the muskets of the infantry squares came to the present in a ragged fence of bayonets that must be ridden under as that magnificent sea of men and horses engulfed us. I never saw the like in my life, I who watched the great charge against Campbell’s Highlanders at Balaclava – but those were only Russians, while these were the fathers of the Guides and Probyn’s and the Bengal Lancers, and the only thing to stop them at full tilt was a horse soldier as good as themselves.

He was there, and he chose his time. A few more seconds and the gallop would have been a charge – but now a trumpet sounded on the right, and wheeling out before our squares came the remnant of our own mounted division, the blue tunics and sabres of the 3rd Lights and the black fezzes and lances of the Native Cavalry, with White at their head, launching themselves at the charge against the enemy’s flank. They didn’t have the numbers, they didn’t have the weight, and they were spent, man and beast – but they had the time and the place to perfection, and in a twinkling the Khalsa charge was a struggling confusion of rearing beasts and falling riders and flashing steel as the Lights tore into its heart and the sowar lancers raked across its front.³⁶

My female and civilian readers may wonder how this could be – that a small force of horsemen could confound one far greater. Well, that’s the beauty of the flank attack – think of six hearty chaps racing forward in line, and one artful dodger barges into the end man, from the side. They’re thrown out of kilter, tumbling into one another, and though they’re six to one, five of ’em can’t come at their attacker. At its best a good flank movement can “roll up” the enemy like a window blind, and while White’s charge didn’t do that, it threw them quite off course, and when that happens to cavalry in formation their momentum’s gone, and good loose riders can play the devil with them.

So what happened under our noses was a deuce of a scrimmage, and though White’s horse went down, he was here and there like a wild-cat on foot, with the Lights closing round him, the sabres swinging, and Gough up in his stirrups shouting: “You’ll do, Mick! That’s your sort, my boy! And who,” he roars at me, “are those fellows, will ye tell me?”

I shouted that they were Khalsa regulars, not gorracharra – Mouton’s and Foulkes’s regiments, for certain, and Gordon’s, too, though I couldn’t be sure.

“That’s the pick of ’em, then!” snaps he. “Well, White’s put a flea in their ear, so he has! Now, take you this glass, and tell me about their infantry! West, note it down!”

So while the cavalry rumpus petered out, with the Khalsa horsemen drawing off, and our own fellows, half of them dismounted, limping back to reform, I surveyed that mass of infantry with a sinking heart, calling them off by name – Allard’s, Court’s, Avitabile’s, Delust’s, Alvarine’s, and the rest of the divisions. The standards were easy to read, and so were those grim bearded faces, sharp in my glass – I could even make out the silver buckles on the black cross-belts, the aigrets in the turbans, and the buttons on the tunics, white and red and blue and green, just as I’d seen them on Maian Mir. How the devil came they here – had Tej’s colonels lost patience and made him march to the sound of the guns? That must be it, and now that White had played our last card, we could only wait for them to advance and swallow us. The victory of Ferozeshah 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.

d Native house.