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 sharp-shooters 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,*(*Water-carrier.) 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*(*Canvas water-bags.) 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,* (*Native house.) 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 Water-loo. 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 along-side 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.
