Flashman At The Charge Part 3

He was all stern reproach when finally I stood in front of him, covered in dust, played out with fear, and doing my d.a.m.ndest to look contrite - which wasn't difficult.

"What," says he, in a voice like a church bell, "will you tell her majesty?"

"My lord," says I. "I am sorry, but it was no fault -"

He held up his one fine hand. "Here is no question of fault, Flashman. You had a sacred duty - a trust, given into your hands by your own sovereign, to preserve that precious life. You have failed, utterly. I ask again, what will you tell the Queen?"

Only a b.l.o.o.d.y fool like Raglan would ask a question like that, but I did my best to wriggle clear.

"What could I have done, my lord? You sent me for the guns, and -"

"And you had returned. Your first thought thereafter should have been for your sacred charge. Well, sir, what have you to say? Myself, in the midst of battle, had to point to where honour should have taken you at once. And yet you paused; I saw you, and -"

"My lord!" cries I, full of indignation. "That is unjust! I did not fully understand, in the confusion, what your order was, I -"

"Did you need to understand?" says he, all quivering sorrow. "I do not question your courage, Flashman; it is not in doubt." Not with me, either, I thought. "But I cannot but charge you, heavily though it weighs on my heart to do so, with failing in that . . . that instinct for your first duty, which should have been not to me, or to the army even, but to that poor boy whose shattered body lies in the ambulance. His soul, we may be confident, is with G.o.d." He came up to me, and his eyes were full of tears, the maudlin old hypocrite. "I can guess at your own grief; it has moved not only Airey, but myself. And I can well believe that you wish that you, too, could have found an honourable grave on the field, as William of Celle has done. Better, perhaps, had you done so." He sighed, thinking about it, and no doubt deciding that he'd be a deal happier, when he saw the Queen again, to be able to say: "Oh, Flashy's kicked the bucket, by the way, but your precious w.i.l.l.y is all right." Well, fearful and miserable as I was, I wasn't that far gone, myself.

He prosed on a bit, about duty and honour and my own failure, and what a h.e.l.l of a blot I'd put on my copybook. No thought, you'll notice, for the blot he'd earned, with those thousands of dead piled up above the Alma, the incompetent buffoon.

"I doubt not you will carry this burden all your life," says he, with gloomy satisfaction. "How it will be received at home - I cannot say. For the moment, we must all look to our duty in the campaign ahead. There, it may be, reparation lies." He was still thinking about Flashy filling a pit, I could see. "I pity you, Flashman, and because I pity you, I shall not send you home. You may continue on my staff, and I trust that your future conduct will enable me to think that this lapse - irreparable though its consequences are - was but one terrible error of judgment, one sudden dereliction of duty, which will never - nay, can never - be repeated. But for the moment, I cannot admit you again to that full fellowship of the spirit in which members of my staff are wont to be embraced."

Well, I could stand that. He rummaged on his table, and picked up some things. "These are the personal effects of your . . . your dead comrade. Take them, and let them be an awful reminder to you of duty undone, of trust neglected, and of honour - no, I will not say aught of honour to one whose courage, at least, I believe to be beyond reproach." He looked at the things; one of them was a locket which w.i.l.l.y had worn round his neck. Raglan snapped it open, and gave a little gulp. He held it out to me, his face all n.o.ble and working. "Look on that fair, pure face," cries he, "and feel the remorse you deserve. More than anything I can say, it will strike to your soul - the face of a boy's sweetheart, chaste, trusting, and innocent. Think of that poor, sweet creature who, thanks to your neglect, will soon be draining the bitterest cup of sorrow."

I doubted it myself, as I looked at the locket. Last time I'd seen her, the poor sweet creature had been wearing nothing but black satin boots. Only w.i.l.l.y in this wide world would have thought of wearing the picture of a St. John's Wood wh.o.r.e round his neck; he had been truly wild about her, the randy little rascal. Well, if I'd had my way, he'd still have been thumping her every night, instead of lying on a stretcher with only half his head. But I wonder if the preaching Raglan; or any of the pious hypocrites who were his relatives, would have called him back to life on those terms? Poor little w.i.l.l.y.

Well, if I was in disgrace, I was also in good health, and that's what matters. I might have been one of the three thousand dead, or of the shattered wounded lying shrieking through the dusk along that awful line of bluffs. There seemed to be no medical provision - among the British, anyway - and scores of our folk just lay writhing where they fell, or died in the arms of mates hauling and carrying them down to the beach hospitals. The Russian wounded lay in piles by the hundred round our bivouacs, crying and moaning all through the night - I can hear their sobbing "Pajalsta! pajalsta!" still. The camp ground was littered with spent shot and rubbish and broken gear among the pools of congealed blood - my stars, wouldn't I just like to take one of our Ministers, or street-corner orators, or blood-l.u.s.ting, breakfast-scoffing papas, over such a place as the Alma hills - not to let him see, because he'd just tut-tut and look anguished and have a good pray and not care a d.a.m.n - but to shoot him in the belly with a soft-nosed bullet and let him die screaming where he belonged. That's all they deserve.

Not that I cared a fig for dead or wounded that night. I had worries enough on my own account, for in brooding about the injustice of Raglan's reproaches, I convinced myself that I'd be broke in the end. The loss of that mealy little German pimp swelled out of all proportion in my imagination, with the Queen calling me a murderer and Albert accusing me of high treason, and The Times trumpeting for my impeachment. It was only when I realized that the army might have other things to think about that I cheered up.

I was feeling as lonely as the policeman at Herne Bay14 when I loafed into Billy Russell's tent, and found him scribbling away by a storm lantern, with Lew Nolan perched on an ammunition box, holding forth as usual.

"Two brigades of cavalry!" Nolan was saying. "Two brigades, enough to have pursued and routed the whole pack of 'em! And what do they do? Sit on their backsides, because Lucan's too d.a.m.ned scared to order a bag of oats without a written order from Raglan. Lord Lucan? Bah! Lord b.l.o.o.d.y Look-on, more like."

"Hm'm," says Billy, writing away, and glanced up. "Here, Flash - you'll know. Were the Highlanders first into the redoubt? I say yes, but Lew says not.15 Stevens ain't sure, and I can't find Campbell anywhere. What d'ye say?"

I said I didn't know, and Nolan cried what the devil did it matter, anyway, they were only infantry. Billy, seeing he would get no peace from him, threw down his pen, yawned, and says to me: "You look well used up, Flash. Are you all right? What's the matter, old fellow?"

I told him w.i.l.l.y was lost, and he said aye, that was a pity, a nice lad, and I told him what Raglan had said to me, and at this Nolan forgot his horses for a minute, and burst out: "By G.o.d, isn't that of a piece? He's lost the best part of five brigades, and he rounds on one unfortunate galloper because some silly little a.s.s who shouldn't have been here at all, at all, gets himself blown up by the Russians! If he was so blasted concerned for him, what did he let him near the field for in the first place? And if you was to wet-nurse him, why did he have you galloping your a.r.s.e off all day? The man's a fool! Aye, and a bad general, what's worse - there's a Russian army clear away, thanks to him and those idle Frogs, and we could have cut 'em to bits on this very spot! I tell you, Billy, this fellow'll have to go."

"Come, Lew, he's won his fight," says Russell, stroking his beard. "It's too bad he's set on you, Flash - but I'd lose no sleep over it. Depend upon it, he's only voicing his own fears of what may be said to him - but he's a decent old stick, and bears no grudges. He'll have forgotten about it in a day or so."

"You think so?" says I, brightening.

"I should hope so!" cries Nolan. "Mother of G.o.d, if he hasn't more to think about, he should have. Here's him and Lucan between 'em have let a great chance slip, but by the time Billy here has finished tellin' the British public about how the matchless Guards and stern Caledonians swept the Muscovite horde aside on their bayonet points -" ' "I like that," says Billy, winking at me. "I like it, Lew; go on, you're inspiring."

"Ah, bah, the old fool'll be thinking he's another Wellington," says Lew. "Aye, you can laugh, Russell - tell your readers what I've said about Lucan, though - I dare ye! That'd startle 'em!"

This talk cheered me up, for after all, it was what Russell thought - and wrote - that counted, and he never even mentioned w.i.l.l.y's death in his despatches to The Times. I heard that Raglan later referred to it, at a meeting with his generals, and Cardigan, the dirty swine, said privately that he wondered why the Prince's safety had been entrusted to a common galloper. But Lucan took the other side, and said only a fool would blame me for the death of another staff officer, and de Lacy Evans said Raglan should think himself lucky it was w.i.l.l.y he had lost and not me. Sound chaps, some of those generals.

And Nolan was right - Raglan and everyone else had enough to occupy them, after the Alma. The clever men were for driving on hard to Sevastopol, a bare twenty miles away, and with our cavalry in good fettle we could obviously have taken it. But the Frogs were too tired, or too sick, or too Froggy, if you ask me, and days were wasted, and the Ruskis managed to bolt the door in time.

What was worse, the carnage at Alma, and the cholera, had thinned the army horribly, there was no proper trans-port, and by the time we had lumbered on to Sevastopol peninsula we couldn't have robbed a hen-roost. But the siege had to be laid, and Raglan, looking wearier all the time, was thrashing himself to be cheerful and enthusiastic, with his army wasting, and winter coming, and the Frogs groaning at him. Oh, he was brave and determined and ready to take on all the odds - the worst kind of general imaginable. Give me a clever coward every time (which, of course, is why I'm such a dam' fine general myself).

So the siege was laid, the French and ourselves sitting down on the muddy, rain-sodden gullied plateau before Sevastopol, the dismalest place on earth, with no proper quarters but a few poor huts and tents, and everything to be carted up from Balaclava on the coast eight miles away. Soon the camp, and the road to it, was a stinking quagmire; everyone looked and felt filthy, the rations were poor, the work of preparing the siege was cruel hard (for the men, anyway), and all the bounce there had been in the army after Alma evaporated in the dank, feverish rain by day and the biting cold by night. Soon half of us were lousy, and the other half had fever or dysentery or cholera or all three - as some wag said, who'd holiday at Brighton if he could come to sunny Sevastopol instead?

I didn't take any part in the siege operations myself, not because I was out of favour with Raglan, but for the excellent reason that like so many of the army I spent several weeks on the flat of my back with what was thought at first to be cholera, but was in fact a foul case of dysentery and wind, brought on by my own hoggish excesses. On the march south after the Alma I had been galloping a message from Airey to our advance guard, and had come on a bunch of our cavalry who had bushwhacked a Russian baggage train and were busily looting it.16 Like a good officer, I joined in, and bagged as much champagne as I could carry, and a couple of fur cloaks as well. The cloaks were splendid, but the champagne must have carried the germ of the Siberian pox or something, for within a day I was blown up like a sheep on weeds, and spewing and skittering d.a.m.nably. They sent me down to a seedy little house in Balaclava, not far from where Billy Russell was established, and there I lay sweating and rumbling, and wishing I were dead. Part of it I don't remember, so I suppose I must have been delirious, .but my orderly looked after me well, and since I still had all the late w.i.l.l.y's gear and provisions - not that I ate much, until the last week - I did tolerably well. Better at least than any other sick man in the army; they were being carted down to Balaclava in droves, rotten with cholera and fever, lying in the streets as often as not.

Lew Nolan came down to see me when I was mending, and gave me all the gossip - about how my old friend Fan Duberly was on hand, living on a ship in the bay, and how Cardigan's yacht had arrived, and his n.o.ble lordship, pleading a weak chest, had deserted his Light Brigade for the comforts of life aboard, where he slept soft and stuffed his guts with the best. There were rumours, too, Lew told me, of Russian troops moving up in huge strength from the east, and he thought that if Raglan didn't look alive, he'd find himself bottled up in the Sevastopol peninsula. But most of Lew's talk was a great harangue against Lucan and Cardigan; to him, they were the clowns who had mishandled our cavalry so d.a.m.nably and were preventing it earning the laurels which Lew thought it deserved. He was a dead bore on the subject, but I'll not say he was wrong - we were both to find out all about that shortly.

For now, although I couldn't guess it, as I lay pampering myself with a little preserved jellied chicken and Rhine wine - of which w.i.l.l.y's store-chest yielded a fine abundance - that terrible day was approaching, that awful thunderclap of a day when the world turned upside down in a welter of powder-smoke and cannon-shot and steel, which no one who lived through it will ever forget. Myself least of all. I never thought that anything could make Alma or the Kabul retreat seem like a charabanc picnic, but that day did, and I was through it, dawn to dusk, as no other man was. It was sheer bad luck that it was the very day I returned to duty. d.a.m.n that Russian champagne; if it had kept me in bed just one day longer, what I'd have been spared. Mind you, we'd have lost India, for what that's worth.

I had been up a day or two, riding a little up to the Balaclava Plain, and wondering if I was fit enough to look up Fan Duberly, and take up again the attempted seduction which had been so maddeningly frustrated in Wiltshire six years before. She'd ripened nicely, by what Lew said, and I hadn't bestrode anything but a saddle since I'd left England - even the Turks didn't fancy the Crim Tartar women, and anyway, I'd been ill. But I'd convalesced as long as I dared, and old Colin Campbell, who commanded in Balaclava, had dropped me a sour hint that I ought to be back with Raglan in the main camp up on the plateau. So on the evening of October 24 I got my orderly to a.s.semble my gear, left w.i.l.l.y's provisions with Russell, and loafed up to headquarters.

Whether I'd exerted myself too quickly, or it was the sound of the Russian bands in Sevastopol, playing their h.e.l.lish doleful music, that kept me awake, I was taken d.a.m.ned ill in the night. My bowels were in a fearful state, I was blown out like a boiler, and I was unwise enough to treat myself with brandy, on the principle that if your guts are bad they won't feel any worse for your being foxed. They do, though, and when my orderly suddenly tumbled me out before dawn, I felt as though I were about to give birth. I told him to go to the devil, but he insisted that Raglan wanted me, p.d.q., so I huddled into my clothes in the cold, shivering and rumbling and went to see what was up.

They were in a great sweat at Raglan's post; word had come from Lucan's cavalry that our advanced posts were signalling enemy in sight to the eastward, and gallopers were being sent off in all directions, with Raglan dictating messages over his shoulder while he and Airey pored over their maps.

"My dear Flashman," says Raglan, when his eye lit on me, "why, you look positively unwell. I think you would be better in your berth." He was all benevolent concern this morning - which was like him, of course. "Don't you think he looks ill, Airey?" Airey agreed that I did, but muttered something about needing every staff rider we could muster, so Raglan tut-tutted and said he much regretted it, but he had a message for Campbell at Balaclava, and it would be a great kindness if I would bear it. (He really did talk like that, most of the time; consideration fairly oozed out of him.) I wondered if I should plead my belly, so to speak, but finding him in such a good mood, with the w.i.l.l.y business apparently forgotten, I gave him my brave, suffering smile, and pocketed his message, fool that I was.

I felt d.a.m.ned shaky as I hauled myself into the saddle, and resolved to take my time over the broken country that lay between headquarters and Balaclava. Indeed, I had to stop several times, and try to vomit, but it was no go, and I cantered on over the filthy road with its litter of old stretchers and broken equipment, until I came out on to the open ground some time after sunrise.

After the downpour of the night before, it was dawning into a beautiful clear morning, the kind of day when, if your innards aren't heaving and squeaking, you feel like a fine gallop with the wind in your face. Before me the Balaclava Plain rolled away like a great grey-green blanket, and as I halted to have another unsuccessful retch, the scene that met my eyes was like a galloping field day. On the left of the plain, where it sloped up to the long line of the Causeway Heights, our cavalry were deployed in full strength, more than a thousand hors.e.m.e.n, like so many brilliant little puppets in the sunny distance, trotting in their squadrons, wheeling and reforming. About a mile away, nearest to me, I could easily distinguish the Light Brigade - the pink trousers of the Cherrypickers, the scar-let of Light Dragoons, and the blue tunics and twinkling lance-points of the 17th. The trumpets were tootling on the breeze, the words of command drifted across to me as clear as a bell, and even beyond the Lights I could see, closer in under the Causeway, and retiring slowly in my direction, the squadrons of the Heavy Brigade - the grey horses with their scarlet riders, the dark green of the Skins, and the hundreds of tiny glittering slivers of the sabres. It was for all the world like a green nursery carpet, with tiny toy soldiers deployed upon it, and as pretty as these pictures of reviews and parades that you see in the galleries.

Until you looked beyond, to where Causeway Heights faded into the haze of the eastern dawn, and you could see why our cavalry were retiring. The far slopes were black with scurrying ant-like figures - Russian infantry pouring up to the gun redoubts which we had established along the three miles of the Causeway; the thunder of cannon rolled continuously across the plain, the flashes of the Russian guns stabbing away at the redoubts, and the sparkle of their muskets was all along the far end of the Causeway. They were swarming over the gun emplacements, engulfing our Turkish gunners, and their artillery was pounding away towards our retreating cavalry, pushing it along under the shadow of the Heights.

I took all this in, and looked off across the plain to my right, where it sloped up into a crest protecting the Balaclava road. Along the crest there was a long line of scarlet figures, with dark green blobs where their legs should be - Campbell's Highlanders, at a safe distance, thank G.o.d, from the Russian guns, which were now ranging nicely on the Heavy Brigade under the Heights. I could see the shot plumping just short of the horses, and hear the urgent bark of commands: a troop of the Skins scattered as a great column of earth leaped up among them, and then they reformed, trotting back under the lee of the Causeway.

Well, there was a mile of empty, unscathed plain between me and the Highlanders, so I galloped down to-wards them, keeping a wary eye on the distant artillery skirmish to my left. But before I'd got halfway to the crest I came on their outlying picket breakfasting round a fire in a little hollow, and who should I see but little f.a.n.n.y Duberly, presiding over a frying-pan with half a dozen grinning Highlanders round her. She squealed at the sight of me, waving and shoving her pan aside; I swung down out of my saddle, bad belly and all, and would have embraced her, but she caught my hands at arms' length. And then it was Harry and f.a.n.n.y, and where have you sprung from, and all that nonsense and chatter, while she laughed and I beamed at her. She had grown prettier, I think, with her fair hair and blue eyes, and looked d.a.m.ned fetching in her neat riding habit. I longed to give her t.i.ts a squeeze, but couldn't, with all those leering Highlanders nudging each other.

She had ridden up, she said, with Henry, her husband, who was in attendance on Lord Raglan, although I hadn't seen him.

"Will there be a great battle to-day, Harry?" says she. "I am so glad Henry will be safely out of it, if there is. See yonder" - and she pointed across the plain towards the Heights - "where the Russians are coming. Is it not exciting? Why do the cavalry not charge them, Harry? Are you going to join them? Oh, I hope you will take care! Have you had any breakfast? My dear, you look so tired. Come and sit down, and share some of our haggis!"

If anything could have made me sick, it would have been that, but I explained that I hadn't time to tattle, but must find Campbell. I promised to see her again, as soon as the present business was by, and advised her to clear off down to Balaclava as fast as she could go - it was astonishing, really, to see her picnicking there, as fresh as a May morning, and not much more than a mile away the Russian forces pounding away round the redoubts, and doubtless ready to sweep right ahead over the plain when they had regrouped.

The sergeant of Highlanders said Campbell was some-where off with the Heavy Brigade, which was bad news, since it meant I must approach the firing, but there was nothing for it, so I galloped off north again, through the extended deployment of the Lights, who were now sitting at rest, watching the Heavies reforming. George Paget hailed me; he was sitting with one ankle c.o.c.ked up on his saddle, puffing his cheroot, as usual.

"Have you come from Raglan?" cries he. "Where the h.e.l.l are the infantry, do you know? We shall be sadly mauled at this rate, unless he moves soon. Look at the Heavies yonder; why don't Lucan shift 'em back faster, out of harm's way?" And indeed they were retiring slowly, it seemed to me, right under the shadow of the Heights, with the Russian fire still kicking up the clods round them as they came. I ventured forward a little way: I could see Lucan, and his staff, but no sign of Campbell, so I asked Morris, of the 17th, and he said Campbell had gone back across the plain, towards Balaclava, a few minutes since.

Well, that was better, since it would take me down to the Highlanders' position, away from where the firing was. And yet, it suddenly seemed very secure in my present situation, with the blue tunics and lances of the 17th all round me, and the familiar stench of horse-flesh and leather, and the bits jingling and the fellows patting their horses' necks and muttering to steady them against the rumble of the guns; there were troop horse artillery close by, banging back at the Russians, but it was still rather like a field day, with the plain all unmarked, and the uniforms bright and gay in the sunlight. I didn't want to leave 'em - but there were the Highlanders drawn up near the crest across the plain southward: I must just deliver my message as quickly as might be, and then be off back to head-quarters.

So I turned my back to the Heights, and set off again through the ranks of the 17th and the Cherrypickers, and was halfway down the plain to the Highlanders on the crest when here came a little knot of riders moving up towards the cavalry. And who should it be but my bold Lord Cardigan, with Squire Brough and his other toadies all in great spirits after a fine comfortable boozy night or his yacht, no doubt.

I hadn't seen the man face to face since that nigh in Elspeth's bedroom, and my bile rose up even at the thought of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, so I cut him dead. When Brough hailed me, and asked what was the news I reined up, not even looking in Cardigan's direction, and told Brough the Ruskis were over-running the far end of the Heights, and our horse were falling back.

"Ya-as," says Cardigan to his toadies, "it is the usual foolishness. There are the Wussians, so our cavalry move in the other diwection. Haw-haw. You, there, Fwashman, what does Word Waglan pwopose to do?"

I continued to ignore him. "Well, Squire," says I to Brough, "I must be off; can't stand gossiping with yachts-men, you know," and I wheeled away, leaving then gaping, and an indignant "Haw-haw" sounding behind me.

But I hadn't time to feel too satisfied, for in that moment there was a new thunderous cannonade from the Russians, much closer now; the whistle of shot sounded overhead, there was a great babble of shouting and orders from the cavalry behind me, the calls of the Lights and Heavies sounded, and the whole ma.s.s of our horse began to move off westward, retiring again. The cannonading grew, as the Russians turned their guns southward, I saw columns of earth ploughed up to the east of the Highlanders' position,and with my heart in my mouth I buried my head in the horse's mane and fairly flew across the turf. The shot was still falling short, thank G.o.d, but as I reached the crest a ball came skipping and rolling almost up to my horse's hooves, and lay there, black and smoking, as I tore up to the Highlanders' flank.

"Where is Sir Colin?" cries I, dismounting, and they pointed to where he was pacing down between the ranks in my direction. I went forward, and delivered my message.

"Oot o' date," says he, when he had read it. "Ye don't look weel, Flashman. Bide a minute. I've a note here for Lord Raglan." And he turned to one of his officers, but at that moment the shouting across the plain redoubled, there was the thunderous plumping of shot falling just beyond the Highland position, and Campbell paused to look across the plain towards the Causeway Heights.

"Aye," says he, "there it is."

I looked towards the Heights, and my heart came up into my throat.

Our cavalry was now away to the left, at the Sevastopol end of the plain, but on the Heights to the right, near the captured redoubts, the whole ridge seemed to have come alive. Even as we watched, the movement resolved itself into a great ma.s.s of cavalry - Russian cavalry, wheeling silently down the side of the Heights in our direction. They've told me since that there were only four squadrons, but they looked more like four brigades, blue uniforms and grey, with their sabres out, preparing to descend the long slope from the Heights that ran down towards our position.

It was plain as a pikestaff what they were after, and if I could have sprouted wings in that moment I'd have been fluttering towards the sea like a d.a.m.ned gull. Directly behind us the road to Balaclava lay open; our own cavalry were out of the hunt, too far off to the left; there was nothing between that horde of Russians and the Balaclava base - the supply line of the whole British army - but Campbell's few hundred Highlanders, a rabble of Turks on our flank, and Flashy, full of wind and horror.

Campbell stared for a moment, that granite face of his set; then he pulled at his dreary moustache and roared an order. The ranks opened and moved and closed again, and now across our ridge there was a double line of Highlanders, perhaps a furlong from end to end, kneeling down a yard or so on the seaward side of the crest. Campbell looked along them from our stance at the right-hand extremity of the line, bidding the officers dress them. While they were doing it, there was a tremendous caterwauling from the distant flank, and there were the Turks, all order gone, breaking away from their positions in the face of the impending Russian charge, flinging down their arms and tearing headlong for the sea road behind us.

"Dross," says Campbell.

I was watching the Turks, and suddenly, to their rear, riding towards us, and then checking and wheeling away southward, I recognized the fair hair and riding fig of f.a.n.n.y Duberly. She was flying along as she pa.s.sed our far flank, going like a little jockey - she could ride, that girl.

"d.a.m.n all society women," says Campbell. And it occurred to me, even through the misery of my stomach and my rising fear, that Balaclava Plain that morning was more like the Row - f.a.n.n.y Duberly out riding, and Cardigan ambling about haw-hawing.

I looked towards the Russians; they were rumbling down the slope now, a bare half-mile away; Campbell shouted again, and the long scarlet double rank moved forward a few paces, with a great swishing of their kilts and clatter of gear, and halted on the crest, the front rank kneeling and the second standing behind them. Campbell glanced across at the advancing ma.s.s of the Russian horse, measuring the distance.

"Ninety-third!" he shouted. "There is no retreat from here! Ye must stand!"

He had no need to tell me; I couldn't have moved if I had wanted to. I could only gape at that wall of hors.e.m.e.n, galloping now, and then back at the two frail, scarlet lines that in a moment must be swept away into b.l.o.o.d.y rabble with the hooves smashing down on them and the sabres swinging; it was the finish, I knew, and nothing to do but wait trembling for it to happen. I found myself staring at the nearest kneeling Highlander, a huge, swarthy fellow with his teeth bared under a black moustache; I remember noticing the hair matting the back of his right hand as it gripped his musket. Beyond him there was a boy, gazing at the advancing squadrons with his mouth open; his lip was trembling.

"Haud yer fire until I give the wurr-rd!" says Campbell, and then quite deliberately he stepped a little out before the front rank and drew his broadsword, laying the great glittering blade across his chest. Christ, I thought, that's a futile thing to do - the ground was trembling under our feet now, and the great quadruple rank of hors.e.m.e.n was a bare two hundred yards away, sweeping down at the charge, sabres gleaming, yelling and shouting as they bore down on us, a sea of flaring horse heads and bearded faces above them.

"Present!" shouts Campbell, and moved past me in behind the front rank. He stopped behind the boy with the trembling lip. "Ye never saw the like o' that comin' doon the Gallowgate," says he. "Steady now, Ninety-third! Wait for my command!"

They were a hundred yards away now, that thundering tide of men and horses, the hooves crashing like artillery on the turf. The double bank of muskets with their fixed bayonets covered them; the locks were back, the fingers hanging on the triggers; Campbell was smiling sourly beneath his moustache, the madman; he glanced to his left along the silent lines - give the word, d.a.m.n you, you d.a.m.ned old fool, I wanted to shout, for they were a bare fifty yards off, in a split second they would be into us, he had left it too late - "Fire!" he bellowed, and like one huge bark of thunder the front-rank volley crashed out, the smoke billowed back in our faces, and beyond it the foremost hors.e.m.e.n seemed to surge up in a great wave; there was a split-second of screaming confusion, with beasts plunging and rearing, a hideous chorus of yells from the riders, and the great line crashed down on the turf before us, the men behind careering into the fallen horses and riders, trying to jump them or pull clear, trampling them, hurtling over them in a smashing tangle of limbs and bodies.

"Fire!" roars Campbell above the din, and the pieces of the standing rank crashed together into the press; it seemed to shudder at the impact, and behind it the Russian ranks wheeled and stumbled in confusion, men screaming and going down, horses lashing out blindly, sabres gleaming and flying. As the smoke cleared there was a great tangled b.l.o.o.d.y bank of stricken men and beasts wallowing within a few yards of the kneeling Highlanders - they'll tell you, some of our historians, that Campbell fired before they reached close range, but here's one who can testify that one Russian, with a fur-crested helmet and pale blue tunic rolled right to within a foot of us; the swarthy Highlander nearest me didn't have to advance a step to plunge his bayonet into the Russian's body.

A great yell went up from the Ninety-third; the front rank seemed to leap forward, but Campbell was before them, bawling them back. "d.a.m.n your eagerness!" cries he. "Stand fast! Reload!"

They dropped back, snarling like dogs, and Campbell turned and calmly surveyed the wreckage of the Russian ranks. There were beasts thrashing about everywhere and men crawling blindly away, the din of screaming and groaning was fearful, and a great reek that you could literally see was steaming up from them. Behind, the greater part of the Russian squadrons was turning, reforming, and for a moment I thought they were coming again, but they moved off back towards the Heights, closing their ranks as they went.

"Good," says Campbell, and his sword grated back into its scabbard.

"Ye niver saw a sight like that goin' back up the Gallowgate, Sir Colin," pipes a voice from somewhere, and they began to laugh and cheer, and yell their heathenish slogans, shaking their muskets, and Campbell grinned and pulled at his moustache again. He saw me - I hadn't stirred a yard since the charge began, I'd been so petrified - and walked across.

"I'll add a line to my message for Lord Raglan," says he, and looks at me. "Ye've mair colour in yer cheeks now, Flashman. Field exercises wi' the Ninety-third must agree wi' ye."

And so, with those kilted devils still holding their ranks, and the Russians dying and moaning before them, I waited while he dictated his message to one of his aides. Now that the terror was past, my belly was aching horribly and I felt thoroughly ill again, but not so ill that I wasn't able to note (and admire) the carriage of the retreating Russian cavalry. In charging, I had noticed how they had opened their ranks at the canter and then closed them at the gallop, which isn't easy; now they were doing the same thing as they retired towards the Heights, and I thought, these fellows ain't so slovenly as we thought. I remember thinking they'd perhaps startle Jim the Bear and his Light Brigade - but most of all, from that moment of aftermath, I can still see vividly that tangled pile of Russian dead, and sprawled out before them the body of an officer, a big grey-bearded man with the front of his blue tunic soaked in blood, lying on his back with one knee bent up, and his horse standing above him, nuzzling at the dead face.

Campbell put a folded paper into my hand and stood, shading his eyes with a hand under his bonnet-rim, as he watched the Russian horse canter up the Causeway Heights.

"Poor management," says he. "They'll no' come this way again. In the meantime, I've said to Lord Raglan that in my opeenion the main Russian advance will now be directed north of the Causeway, and will doubtless be wi' artillery and horse against our cavalry. What it is doin' sittin' yonder, I cannae - but, hollo! Is that Scarlett movin'? Hand me that gla.s.s, Cattenach. See yonder."

The Russian cavalry were now topping the Causeway ridge, vanishing from our view, but on the plain farther left, perhaps half a mile from us, there was movement in the ranks of our Heavy Brigade: a sudden uniform twinkle of metal as the squadrons nearest to us turned.

"They're coming this way," says someone, and Camp-bell snapped his gla.s.s shut.

"Behind the fair," says he, glumly - I never saw him impatient yet. Where other men would get angry and swear, Campbell simply got more melancholy. "Flashman - on your way to Lord Raglan, I'll be obliged if you'll present my compliments to General Scarlett, or Lord Lucan, whichever comes first in your road, and tell them that in my opeenion they'll do well to hold the ground they have, and prepare for acteevity on the northern flank. Away wi' ye, sir."

I needed no urging. The farther I could get from that plain, the better I'd be suited, for I was certain Campbell was right. Having captured the eastern end of the Cause-way Heights, and run their cavalry over the central ridge facing us, it was beyond doubt that the Russians would be moving up the valley north of the Heights, advancing on the plateau position which we occupied before Sevastopol. G.o.d knew what Raglan proposed to do about that, but in the meantime he was holding our cavalry on the southern plain - to no good purpose. They hadn't budged an inch to take the retreating Russian cavalry in flank, as they might have done, and now, after the need for their support had pa.s.sed, the Heavies were moving down slowly towards Campbell's position.

I rode through their ranks - Dragoon Guards and a few Skins, riding in open order, eyeing me curiously as I galloped through - "That's Flashman, ain't it?" cries someone, but I didn't pause. Ahead of me I could see the little knot of coloured figures, red and blue, of Scarlett and his staff; as I reined up, they were cheering and laughing, and old Scarlett waved his hat to me.

"Ho-ho, Flashman!" cries he. "Were you down there with the Sawnies? Capital work, what? That's a b.l.o.o.d.y nose for Ivan, I say. Ain't it, though, Elliot? Dam' fine, dam' fine! And where are you off to, Flashman, my son?"

"Message to Lord Raglan, sir," says I. "But Sir Colin Campbell also presents his compliments, and advises that you should move no nearer to Balaclava at present."

"Does he, though? Beatson, halt the Dragoons, will you? Now then, why not? Lord Lucan has ordered us to support the Turks, you know, in case of Russian movement towards Balaclava."

"Sir Colin expects no further movement there, sir. He bids you look to your northern flank," and I pointed to the Causeway Heights, only a few hundred yards away. "Anyway, sir, there are no longer any Turks to support. Most of 'em are probably on the beach by now."

"That's true, biG.o.d!" Scarlett exploded in laughter. He was a fat, cheery old Falstaff, mopping his bald head with a hideously-coloured scarf, and then dabbing the sweat from his red cheeks. "What d'ye think, Elliot? No point in goin' down to Campbell that I can see; he and his red-shanks don't need support, that's certain."

"True, sir. But there is no sign of Russian movement to our north, as yet."

"No," said Scarlett, "that's so. But I trust Campbell's judgment, ye know; clever fella. If he smells Ruskis to our north, beyond the Heights, well, I dunno. I trust an old hound any day, what?" He sniffed and mopped himself again, tugging at his puffy white whiskers. "Tell you what, Elliot, I think we'll just hold on here, and see what breaks cover, hey? What d'ye say to that, Beatson? Flashman? No harm in waitin', is there?"

He could dig trenches for all I cared; I was already measuring the remaining distance across the plain west-ward; once in the gullies I'd be out of harm's way, and could pick my way to Raglan's head-quarters at my leisure. North of us, the ground sloping up to the Heights through an old vineyard was empty; so was the crest beyond, but the thump of cannon from behind it seemed to be growing closer to my nervous imagination. There was an incessant whine and thump of shot; Beatson was scanning the ridge anxiously through his gla.s.s.

"Campbell's right, sir," says he. "They must be up there in the north valley in strength."

"How d'ye know?" says Scarlett, goggling.

"The firing, sir. Listen to it - that's not just cannon. There - you hear? That's Whistling d.i.c.k! If they have mortars with 'em, they're not skirmishing!"

"By G.o.d!" says Scarlett. "Well I'm d.a.m.ned! I can't tell one from another, but if you say so, Beatson, I -"

"Look yonder!" It was one of his young gallopers, up in his stirrups with excitement, pointing. "The ridge, sir! Look at 'em come!"

We looked, and for the second time that day I forgot my gurgling aching belly in a freezing wave of fear. Slowly topping the crest, in a great wave of colour and dancing steel, was a long rank of Russian hors.e.m.e.n, and behind them another, and then another, moving at a walk. They came over the ridge as if they were in review, extended line after line, and then slowly closed up, halting on the near slope of the ridge, looking down at us. G.o.d knows how far their line ran from flank to flank, but there were thousands of them, hanging over us like an ocean roller frozen in the act of breaking, a huge body of blue and silver hussars on the left, and to the right the grey and white of their dragoons.

"By G.o.d!" cries Scarlett. "By G.o.d! Those are Russians - d.a.m.n 'em!"

"Left about!" Beatson was yelling. "Greys, stand fast! Cunningham, close 'em up! Inniskillings - close order!

Connor, Flynn, keep 'em there! Curzon, get those squadrons of the Fifth up here, lively now!"

Scarlett was sitting gaping at the ridge, d.a.m.ning his eyes and the Russians alternately until Beatson jerked at his sleeve.