Arthur’s relief at the impact of their charge abruptly turned to frustration and anger. The army was small enough as it was without a significant part of it losing their heads and charging off when they were most needed by their general. As he rode up to the 74th his anger was interrupted by a distant cannon shot from the rear of the British position. He reined in and turned to look. Some of the enemy cannon had been recaptured by Mahratta gunners and they were now firing at the 74th.
‘How the hell . . .’ Arthur began before he realised they must have been feigning death when the British line swept over them. Some Mahratta horsemen had also managed to work their way round the right flank, no longer covered by Maxwell’s cavalry, and were helping to serve Scindia’s guns. As Arthur looked, another gun fired, and this time the shot was true and cut down two men at the corner of the square as it tore through their chests and flung the bloody remnants at the feet of their comrades.
There were only two formations ready for action, Arthur realised. The 78th and the 7th Native cavalry in the reserve. He turned Diomed about and galloped back across the field of bodies to Colonel Harness.
‘We have enemy to the rear!’Arthur gestured back towards the guns.
‘I wondered what the noise was.’ Harness frowned. ‘But those guns were taken, sir.’
‘Evidently not. We’ll have to do the job again. Get your men back there as quickly as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Arthur left the colonel to bellow his new orders and galloped back across the rear of his re-forming infantry battalions to the cavalry reserve, still behind the rise that the rest of the army had crossed just over an hour earlier. Explaining the situation to the regiment’s colonel, Arthur took over the command and ordered the regiment to form a line. As the manoeuvre was complete he ordered the men forward. They crested the rise and Arthur saw the 78th marching towards them. In between the two British forces Scindia’s men were firing their guns with the same dedicated efficiency as they had before, bombarding the remains of the 74th as that regiment fell back towards Assaye.
Drawing his sabre, Arthur indicated the guns and gave the order to increase pace to a trot as they flowed down the gentle slope towards the Mahrattas. They were spotted at once and the horsemen abandoned their guns and ran for their mounts, leaving the gunners to snatch up whatever weapons they could as the British converged on them. Once they had closed to within the last three hundred yards of the line of guns, Arthur shouted the order to charge. Diomed’s hooves drummed on the baked ground beneath him and her mane flickered in the wind and Arthur felt his heart pounding like a hammer as the cavalry thundered towards the enemy.
They smashed through the loose mass of Scindia’s horsemen, hacking and slashing with their sabres. The crude tulwars of the Mahratta horsemen were no match for the well-forged steel of the English blades, often shattering under the impact. Arthur saw a man to his side and made a cut to the head with all his strength. The edge of the blade struck the man on his turban, cutting through some layers of cloth and knocking him cold. He grunted and slipped from his saddle, while Arthur recovered his sword and rested it against his shoulder as he slowed Diomed and looked round. The enemy horsemen were already routed, riding their small beasts away from the melee as swiftly as they could as they raced for the safety of the Juah river.
‘Keep moving!’ Arthur called out. ‘Go for the guns!’
He urged Diomed forward and the native cavalry followed, charging in amongst Scindia’s artillery crews, who had finally ceased firing and were preparing to make their final stand. Arthur’s eye fixed on a richly dressed officer and with a twitch of the reins he steered Diomed towards the man, extending the tip of his sabre as he spurred the mare into a canter. The Maharatta officer saw him coming, and snatched up a handspike from the nearest gun and held it ready, as if it was a spear. At the last moment, Arthur swerved slightly and made a cut with his sabre. But the officer was too swift and dodged aside and at the same time rammed the handspike into Diomed’s chest with all his might.
A shrill whinny of agony and terror burst from the mare’s muzzle and she reared up so abruptly that Arthur was nearly unseated. He clamped his thighs round Diomed’s girth and threw his weight forward. The horse dropped to four feet again, the shaft of the handspike protruding from the bloody wound. The Mahratta officer had drawn his tulwar and darted forward to attack the British general. Arthur parried the blow, flicked his sword and cut at an angle into the man’s neck, severing muscles and arteries before the blade cut into the bone. The enemy officer had a startled expression on his face as the blood gushed from his wound in thick jets, then, as Arthur yanked the blade free, he toppled to the ground. Diomed was staggering dangerously, and Arthur sheathed his blade and slipped down from the saddle.
‘Easy, girl,’ he said softly as he worked his way forward to her head. ‘Easy.’
The handspike was lodged solidly in her chest and flecks of blood sprayed from her muzzle as her nostrils flared. She had been piked through a lung, Arthur realised.There was nothing he could do for her now. Such a wound was usually fatal, in which case the merciful thing to do was end the animal’s agony. Arthur drew a pistol from the saddle and his lips pressed into a thin line as he eased the muzzle to the side of the horse’s head and pulled the trigger. Diomed bucked to one side, legs tensing briefly before she died.
Arthur stared at Diomed for a moment before he took one of the few mounts that had been made available by the loss of its rider during the skirmish. From the saddle he saw the last of the gunners being shot down by Harness as they tried to flee towards the bank of the Kaitna. Arthur’s third mount of the day was a poor replacement for his previous horses and was badly blown by the long marches it had endured over the course of the day and the previous night.
By the time Arthur reached the infantry line every battalion had formed up in a line that ran across the spit of land. Ahead of them the remains of Scindia’s army formed their third line of defence for the day, with their backs to the Juah river. Most of Maxwell’s cavalry had drifted back across the river and was re-forming to the east of the British line, just outside Assaye.
Arthur steered his new mount towards Maxwell and his tired, but elated, troopers.
‘One last task for you today.’ Arthur forced himself to smile, aware that their initial exchange would be overheard by the nearest men.
‘Name it, sir.’ Maxwell was grinning, clearly having the time of his life. ‘Did you see my boys charge, sir? We tore them to pieces, by God! Would have chased them all the way to the Himalayas if the lads had had their way.’
‘Then I’m thankful that they didn’t. I need you here and I need you now. When the final attack goes forward, you must charge their flank and break them. Once the flank goes their whole line will collapse. I’m sure of it.’
‘You can count on us, sir.’ Maxwell saluted.
‘I am counting on you.’ Arthur lowered his voice. ‘And this time I’d be obliged if you retained greater control over your men. There are tens of thousands of enemy horsemen still in the field and I need every damn trooper I can lay my hands on if this battle is to end well for us. Do I make myself clear, Maxwell?’
‘Yes, sir. Amply.’
‘Then you have your orders. Carry them out.’
Once again, Arthur took a position beside the 78th and a peculiar stillness hung over the plain. The sun was sinking towards the horizon and a golden slanted light threw long shadows across the flattened and bloodstained grass of the battlefield. He drew a deep breath and raised his hat in the air.