Flashman At The Charge Part 4

"Sir! We must prepare to receive them! When they take the brake off they'll roll down -"

"Receive 'em?" says Scarlett, coming back to earth. "What's that, Beatson? d.a.m.ned if I do!" He reared up in his stirrups, glaring along to the left, where the Greys' advanced squadrons were being dressed to face the Russian force. "What? What? Connor, what are you about there?" He was gesticulating to the right now, waving his hat. "Keep your d.a.m.ned Irishmen steady there! Wild devils, those! Where's Curzon, hey?"

"Sir, they have the slope of us!" Beatson was gripping Scarlett by the sleeve, rattling urgently in his ear. "They outflank us, too - I reckon that line's three times the length of ours, and when they charge they can sweep round and take us flank, both sides, and front! They'll swallow us, sir, if we break - we must try to hold fast!"

"Hold fast nothin'!" says Scarlett, grinning all over his great red cheeks. "I didn't come all this way to have some dam' Cossack open the ball! Look at 'em, there, the saucy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! What? What? Well, they're there, and we're here, and I'm goin' to chase the scoundrels all the way to Moscow! What, Elliot? Here, you, Flashman, come to my side, sir!"

You may gather my emotions .at hearing this; I won't attempt to describe them. I stared at this purpling old lunatic in bewilderment, and tried to say something about my message to Raglan, but the impetuous buffoon grabbed at my bridle and hauled me along as he took post in front of his squadrons.

"You shall tell Lord Raglan presently that I have engaged a force of enemy cavalry on my front an' dispersed 'em!" bawls he. "Beatson, Elliot, see those lines dressed! Where are the Royals, hey? Steady, there, Greys! Steady now! Inniskillings, look to that dressing, Flynn! Keep close to me, Flashman, d'ye hear? Like enough I'll have somethin' to add to his lordship. Where the devil's Curzon, then? d.a.m.n the boy, if it's not women it's somethin' else! Trumpeter, where are you? Come to my left side! Got your tootler, have you? Capital, splendid!"

It was unbelievable, this roaring fat old man, waving his hat like some buffer at a cricket match, while Beatson tried to shout sense into him.

"You cannot move from here, sir! It is all uphill! We must hold our ground - there's no other hope!" He pointed up hill frantically. "Look, they're moving, sir! We must hold fast!"

And sure enough, up on the Heights a quarter of a mile away, the great Russian line was beginning to advance, shoulder to shoulder, blue and silver and grey, with their sabres at the present; it was a sight to send you squealing for cover, but there I was, trapped at this idiot's elbow, with the squadrons of the Greys hemming us in behind.

"You cannot advance, sir!" shouts Beatson again.

"Can't I, by G.o.d!" roars Scarlett, throwing away his hat. "You just watch me!" He lugged out his sabre and waved it. "Ready, Greys? Ready, old Skins? Remember Waterloo, you fellas, what? Trumpeter - sound the . . . the thing, whatever it is! Oh, the devil! Come on, Flashman! Tally-ho!"

And he dug in his heels, gave one final yell of "Come on, you fellas!" and set his horse at the hill like a madman. There was a huge, crashing shout from behind, the squadrons leaped forward, my horse reared, and I found myself galloping along, almost up Scarlett's dock, with Beatson at my elbow shouting, "Oh, what the blazes - charge! Trumpeter, charge! charge! charge!"

They were all stark, raving mad, of course. When I think of them - and me, G.o.d help me - tearing up that hill, and that overwhelming force lurching down towards us, gathering speed with every step, I realize that there's no end to human folly, or human luck, either. It was ridiculous, it was nonsense, that old red-faced pantaloon, who'd never fired a shot or swung a sabre in action before, and was fit for nothing but whipping off hounds, urging his charger up that hill, with the whole Heavy Brigade at his heels, and poor old suffering Flashy jammed in between, with nothing to do but hope to G.o.d that by the time the two irresistible forces met, I'd be somewhere back in the mob behind.

And the brutes were enjoying it, too! Those crazy Ulstermen were whooping like Apaches, and the Greys, as they thundered forward, began to make that hideous droning noise deep in their throats; I let them come up on my flanks, their front rank hemming me in with glaring faces and glittering blades on either side; Scarlett was yards ahead, brandishing his sabre and shouting, the Russian ma.s.s was at the gallop, sweeping towards us like a great blue wave, and then in an instant we were surging into them, men yelling, horses screaming, steel clashing all round, and I was clinging like a limpet to my horse's right side, Cheyenne fashion, left hand in the mane and right clutching my Adams revolver. I wasn't breaking surface in that melee if I could help it. There were Greys all round me, yelling and cursing, slashing with their sabres at the hairy blue coats - "Give 'em the point! The point!" yelled a voice, and I saw a Greys trooper dashing the hilt of his sword into a bearded face and then driving his point into the falling man's body. I let fly at a Russian in the press, and the shot took him in the neck, I think; then I was dashed aside and swept away in the whirl of fighting, keeping my head ducked low, squeezing my trigger whenever I saw a blue or grey tunic, and praying feverishly that no chance slash would sweep me from the saddle.

I suppose it lasted five or ten minutes; I don't know. It seemed only a few seconds, and then the whole ma.s.s was struggling up the hill, myself roaring and blaspheming with the best of them; my revolver was empty, my hat was gone, so I dragged out my sabre, bawling with pretended fury, and seeing nothing but grey horses, gathered that I was safe.

"Come on!" I roared. "Come on! Into the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! Cut 'em to bits!" I made my horse rear and waved my sword, and as a stricken Russian came blundering through the mob I lunged at him, full force, missed, and finished up skewering a fallen horse. The wrench nearly took me out of my saddle, but I wasn't letting that sabre go, not for anything, and as I tugged it free there was a tremendous cheering set up - "Huzza! huzza! huzza" - and suddenly there were no Russians among us, Scarlett, twenty yards away, was standing in his stirrups waving a blood-stained sabre and yelling his head off, the Greys were shaking their hats and their fists, and the rout of that great ma.s.s of enemy cavalry was trailing away towards the crest.

"They're beat!" cries Scarlett. "They're beat! Well done, you fellas! What, Beatson? Hey, Elliot? Can't charge up-hill, hey? d.a.m.n 'em, d.a.m.n 'em, we did it! Hurrah!"

Now it is a solemn fact, but I'll swear I didn't see above a dozen corpses on the ground around me as the Greys reordered their squadrons, and the Skins closed in on the right, with the Royals coming up behind. I still don't understand it - why the Russians, with the hill behind 'em, didn't sweep us all away, with great slaughter. Or why, breaking as they did, they weren't cut to pieces by our sabres. Except that I remember one or two of the Greys complaining that-they hadn't been able to make their cuts tell; they just bounced off the Russian tunics. Anyway, the Ruskis broke, thank heaven, and away beneath us, to our left, the Light Brigade were setting up a tremendous cheer, and it was echoing along the ridge to our left, and on the greater heights beyond.

"Well done!" shouts Scarlett. "Well done, you Greys! Well done, Flashman, you are a gallant fellow! What? Hey? That'll show that d.a.m.ned Nicholas, what? Now then, Flashman, off with you to Lord Raglan - tell him we've . . . well, set about these chaps and driven 'em off, you see, and that I shall hold my position, what, until further orders. You understand? Capital!" He shook with laughter, and hauled out his coloured scarf for another mop at his streaming face. "Tell ye what, Flashman; I don't know much about fightin', but it strikes me that this Russian business is like huntin' in Ireland - confused and primitive, what, but d.a.m.ned interestin'!"

I reported his words to Raglan, exactly as he spoke them, and the whole staff laughed with delight, the idiots. Of course, they were safe enough, snug on the top of the Sapoune Ridge, which lay at the western end of Causeway Heights, and I promise you I had taken my time getting there. I'd ridden like h.e.l.l on my spent horse from the Causeway, across the north-west corner of the plain, when Scarlett dismissed me, but once into the safety of the gullies, with the noise of Russian gunfire safely in the distance, I had dismounted to get my breath, quiet my trembling heart-strings, and try to ease my wind-gripped bowels, again without success. I was a pretty bedraggled figure, I suppose, by the time I came to the top of Sapoune, but at least I had a b.l.o.o.d.y sabre, artlessly displayed - Lew Nolan's eyes narrowed and he swore enviously at the sight: he wasn't to know it had come from a dead Russian horse.

Raglan was beaming, as well he might, and demanded details of the action I had seen. So I gave 'em, fairly offhand, saying I thought the Highlanders had behaved pretty well - "Yes, and if we had just followed up with cavalry we might have regained the whole Causeway by now!" pipes Nolan, at which Airey told him to be silent, and Raglan looked fairly stuffy. As for the Heavies - well, they had seen all that, but I said it had been warm work, and Ivan had got his bellyful, from what I could see.

"Gad, Flashy, you have all the luck!" cries Lew, slapping his thigh, and Raglan clapped me on the shoulder.

"Well done, Flashman," says he. "Two actions today, and you have been in the thick of both. I fear you have been neglecting your staff duties in your eagerness to be at the enemy, eh?" And he gave me his quizzical beam, the old fool. "Well, we shall say no more about that."

I looked confused, and went red, and muttered some-thing about not being able to abide these d.a.m.ned Ruskis, and they all laughed again, and said that was old Flashy, and the young gallopers, the pink-cheeked lads, looked at me with awe. If it hadn't been for my aching belly, I'd have been ready to enjoy myself, now that the horror of the morning was past, and the cold sweat of reaction hadn't had a chance to set in. I'd come through again, I told myself - twice, no less, and with new laurels. For although we were too close to events just then to know what would be said later - well, how many chaps have you heard of who stood with the Thin Red Line and took part in the Charge of the Heavy Brigade? None, 'cos I'm the only one, d.a.m.ned unwilling and full of shakes, but still, I've dined out on it for years. That - and the other thing that was to follow.

But in the meantime, I was just thanking my stars for safety, and rubbing my inflamed guts. (Someone said later that Flashman was more anxious about his bowels than he was about the Russians, and had taken part in all the charges to try to ease his wind.) I sat there with the staff, gulping and ma.s.saging, happy to be out of the battle, and taking a quiet interest while Lord Raglan and his team of idiots continued to direct the fortunes of the day.

Now, of that morning at Balaclava I've told you what I remember, as faithfully as I can, and if it doesn't tally with what you read elsewhere, I can't help it. Maybe I'm wrong, or maybe the military historians are: you must make your own choice. For example, I've read since that there were Turks on both flanks of Campbell's Highlanders, whereas I remember 'em only on the left flank; again, my impression of the Heavy Brigade action is that it began and ended in a flash, but I gather it must have taken Scarlett some little time to turn and dress his squadrons. I don't remember that. It's certain that Lucan was on hand when the charge began, and I've been told he actually gave the word to advance - well, I never even saw him. So there you are; it just shows that no one can see everything.17 I mention this because, while my impressions of the early morning are fairly vague, and consist of a series of coloured and horrid pictures, I'm in no doubt about what took place in the late forenoon. That is etched forever; I can shut my eyes and see it all, and feel the griping pain ebbing and clawing at my guts - perhaps that sharpened my senses, who knows? Anyway, I have it all clear; not only what happened, but what caused it to happen. I know, better than anyone else who ever lived, why the Light Brigade was launched on its famous charge, because I was the man responsible, and it wasn't wholly an accident. That's not to say I'm to blame - if blame there is, it belongs to Raglan, the kind, honourable, vain old man. Not to Lucan, or to Cardigan, or to Nolan, or to Airey, or even to my humble self: we just played our little parts. But blame? I can't even hold it against Raglan, not now. Of course, your historians and critics and hypocrites are full of virtuous zeal to find out who was "at fault", and wag their heads and say "Ah, you see," and tell him what should have been done, from the safety of their studies and lecture-rooms - but I was there, you see, and while I could have wrung Raglan's neck, or blown him from the muzzle of a gun, at the time - well, it's all by now, and we either survived it or we didn't. Proving someone guilty won't bring the six hundred to life again - most of 'em would be dead by now anyway. And they wouldn't blame anyone. What did that trooper of the 17th say afterwards: "We're ready to go in again." Good luck to him, I say; once was enough for me - but, don't you understand, n.o.body else has the right to talk of blame, or blunders? Just us, the living and the dead. It was our indaba. Mind you, I could kick Raglan's a.r.s.e for him, and my own.

I sat up there on the Sapoune crest, feeling b.l.o.o.d.y sick and tired, refusing the sandwiches that Billy Russell offered me, and listening to Lew Nolan's muttered tirade about the misconduct of the battle so far. I hadn't much patience with him - he hadn't been risking his neck along with Campbell and Scarlett, although he no doubt wished he had - but in my shaken state I wasn't ready to argue. Anyway, he was fulminating against Lucan and Cardigan and Raglan mostly, which was all right by me.

"If Cardigan had taken in the Lights, when the Heavies were breaking up the Ruskis, we'd have smashed 'em all by this," says he. "But he wouldn't budge, d.a.m.n him - he's as bad as Lucan. Won't budge without orders, delivered in the proper form, with nice salutes, and 'Yes, m'lord' an' 'if your lordship pleases'. Christ - cavalry leaders! Cromwell'd turn in his grave, bad cess to him. And look at Raglan yonder - does he know what to do? He's got two brigades o' the best hors.e.m.e.n in Europe, itchin' to use their sabres, an' in front of 'em a Russian army that's shakin' in its boots after the maulin' Campbell an' Scarlett have given 'em - but he sits there sendin' messages to the infantry! The infantry, biG.o.d, that're still gettin' out of their beds somewhere. Jaysus, it makes me sick!"

He was in a fine taking, but I didn't mind him much. At the same time, looking down on the panorama beneath us, I could see there was something in what he said. I'm not Hannibal, but I've picked up a wrinkle or two in my time, about ground and movement, and it looked to me as though Raglan had it in his grasp to do the Russians some no-good, and maybe even hand them a splendid licking, if he felt like it. Not that I cared, you understand; I'd had enough, and was all for a quiet life for everybody. But anyway, this is how the land lay.

The Sapoune, on which we stood, is a great bluff rising hundreds of feet above the plain. Looking east from it, you see below you a shallow valley, perhaps two miles long and half a mile broad; to the north, there is a little clump

of heights on which the Russians had established guns to command that side of the valley. On the south the valley is bounded by the long spine of the Causeway Heights, running east from the Sapoune for two or three miles. The far end of the valley was fairly hazy, even with the strong sunlight, but you could see the Russians there as thick as fleas on a dog's back - guns, infantry, cavalry, everything except Tsar Nick himself, tiny puppets in the distance, just holding their ground. They had guns on the Causeway, too, pointing north; as I watched I saw the nearest team of them unlimbering just beside the spot where the Heavies' charge had ended.

So there it was, plain as a pool table - a fine empty valley with the main force of the Russians at the far end of it, and us at the near end, but with Ruskis on the heights to either side, guns and sharpshooters both - you could see the grey uniforms of their infantry moving among their cannon down on the Causeway, not a mile and a half away. Directly beneath where I stood, at the near end of the valley, our cavalry had taken up station just north of the Causeway, the Heavies slightly nearer the Sapoune and to the right, the Lights just ahead of them and slightly left. They looked as though you could have lobbed a stone into the middle of them - I could easily make out Cardigan, threading his way behind the ranks of the 17th, and Lucan with his gallopers, and old Scarlett, with his bright scarf thrown over one shoulder of his coat - they were all sitting out there waiting, tiny figures in blue and scarlet and green, with here and there a plumed hat, and an occasional band-age: I noticed one trooper of the Skins binding a stocking on to the forefoot of his charger, the little dark-green figure crouched down at the horse's hooves. The distant pipe of voices drifted up from the plain, and from the far end of the Causeway a popping of musketry; for the rest it was all calm and still, and it was this tranquillity that was driving Lew to a frenzy, the blood-thirsty young imbecile.

Well, thinks I, there they all are, doing nothing and taking no harm; let 'em be, and let's go home. For it was plain to see the Ruskis were going to make no advance up the valley towards the Sapoune; they'd had their fill for the day, and were content to hold the far end of the valley and the heights either side. But Raglan and Airey were forever turning their gla.s.ses on the Causeway, at the Russian artillery and infantry moving among the redoubts they'd captured from the Turks; I gathered both our infantry and cavalry down in the plain should have been moving to push them out, but nothing was happening, and Raglan was getting the frets.

"Why does not Lord Lucan move?" I heard him say once, and again: "He has the order; what delays him now?" Knowing Look-on, I could guess he was huffing and puffing and laying the blame on someone else. Raglan kept sending gallopers down - Lew among them - to tell Lucan, and the infantry commanders, to get on with it, but they seemed maddeningly obtuse about his orders, and wanted to wait for our infantry to come up, and it was this delay that was fretting Raglan and sending Lew half-crazy.

"Why doesn't Raglan make 'em move, dammit?" says he, coming over to Billy Russell and me after reporting back to Raglan. "It's too bad! If he would give 'em one clear simple command, to push in an' sweep those fellows off the Causeway - oh, my G.o.d! An' he won't listen to me - I'm a young pup green behind the ears. The cavalry alone could do it in five minutes - it's about time Cardigan earned his general's pay, anyway!"

I approved heartily of that, myself. Every time I heard Cardigan's name mentioned, or saw his hateful boozy vulture face, I remembered that vile scene in Elspeth's bedroom, and felt my fury boiling up. Several times it had occurred to me on the campaign that it would be a capital thing if he could be induced into action where he might well be hit between the legs and so have his brains blown out, but he'd not looked like taking a scratch so far.

And there seemed scant chance of it today; I heard Raglan snapping his gla.s.s shut with impatience, and saying to Airey: "I despair almost of moving our horse. It looks as though we shall have to rely on Cambridge alone - whenever his infantry come up! Oh, this is vexing! We shall accomplish nothing against the Causeway positions at this rate!"

And just at that moment someone sang out: "My lord! See there - the guns are moving! The guns in the second redoubt - the Cossacks are getting them out!"

Sure enough, there were Russian hors.e.m.e.n limbering up away down the Causeway crest, tugging at a little toy cannon in the captured Turkish emplacement. They had tackles on it, and were obviously intent on carrying it off to the main Russian army. Raglan stared at it through his gla.s.s, his face working.

"Airey!" cries he. "This is intolerable! What is Lucan thinking of - why, these fellows will clear the guns away before our advance begins!"

"He is waiting for Cambridge, I suppose, my lord," says Airey, and Raglan swore, for once, and continued to gaze fretfully down on the Causeway.

Lew was writhing with impatience in his saddle. "Oh, Christ!" he moaned softly. "Send in Cardigan, man - never mind the b.l.o.o.d.y infantry. Send in the Lights!"

Good idea, thinks I - let Jim the Bear skirmish into the redoubts, and get a Cossack lance where it'll do most good. So you may say it was out of pure malice towards Cardigan that I piped up - taking care that my back was to Raglan, but talking loud enough for him to hear: "There goes our record - Wellington never lost a gun, you know."

I've heard since, from a galloper who was at Raglan's side, that it was those words, invoking the comparison with his G.o.d Wellington, that stung him into action - that he started like a man shot, that his face worked, and he jerked at his bridle convulsively. Maybe he'd have made up his mind without my help - but I'll be honest and say that I doubt it. He'd have waited for the infantry. As it was he went pale and then red, and snapped out: "Airey - another message to Lord Lucan! We can delay no longer - he must move without the infantry. Tell him - ah, he is to advance the cavalry rapidly to the front, to prevent the enemy carrying off the guns - ah, to follow the enemy and prevent them. Yes. Yes. He may take troop horse artillery, at his discretion. There - that will do. You have it, Airey? Read it back, if you please."

I see it so clearly still Airey's head bent over the paper, jabbing at the words with his pencil, as he read back (more or less in Raglan's words, certainly in the same sense), Nolan's face alight with joy beside me - "At last, at last, thank G.o.d!" he was muttering - and Raglan sitting, nodding carefully. Then he cried out: "Good. It is to be acted on at once - make that clear!"

"Ah, that's me darlin'!" whispers Lew, and nudged me. "Well done, Flashy, me boy-you've got him movin'!"

"Send it immediately," Raglan was telling Airey. "Oh, and notify Lord Lucan that there are French cavalry on his left. Surely that should suffice." And he opened his gla.s.s again, looking down at Causeway Heights. "Send the fastest galloper."

I had a moment's apprehension at that - having started the ball, I'd no wish to be involved - but Raglan added: "Where is Nolan? - yes, Nolan," and Lew, beside himself with excitement, wheeled his horse beside Airey, grabbed at the paper, tucked it in his gauntlet, smacked down his forage cap, threw Raglan the fastest of salutes, and would have been off like a shot, but Raglan stayed him, repeating that the message was of the utmost importance, that it was to be delivered with all haste to Lucan personally, and that it was vital to act at once, before the Ruskis could make off with our guns."' All unnecessary repet.i.tion of course, and Lew was in a fever, going pink with impatience.

"Away, then!" cries Raglan at last, and Lew was over the brow in a twinkling, with a flurry of dust - showy devil - and Raglan shouting after him: "At once, Nolan - tell Lord Lucan at once, you understand."

That's how they sent Nolan off - that and no more, on my oath. And so I come to the point with which I began this memoir, with Raglan having a second thought, and shouting to Airey to send after him, and Airey looking round, and myself retiring modestly, you remember, and Airey spotting me and gesturing me violently up beside him.

Well, you know what I thought, of the unreasoning premonition that I had, that this would be the ultimate terror of that memorable day in which I had, much against my will, already been charged at by, and charged against, overwhelming hordes of Russians. There was nothing, really, to be agitated about, up there on the heights - I was merely to be sent after Nolan, with some addition or correction. But I felt the finger of doom on me, I don't know why, as I scrambled aboard a fresh horse with Raglan and Airey clamouring at me.

"Flashman," says Raglan, "Nolan must make it clear to Lord Lucan - he is to behave defensively, and attempt nothing against his better judgment. Do you understand me?"

Well, I understood the words, but what the h.e.l.l Lucan was expected to make of them, I couldn't see. Told to advance, to attack the enemy, and yet to act defensively. But it was nothing to me; I repeated the order, word for word, making sure Airey could hear me, and then went over the bluff after Lew.

It was as steep as h.e.l.l's half acre, like a seaside sandcliff shot across by gra.s.sy ridges. At any other time I'd have picked my way down nice and leisurely, but with Raglan and the rest looking down, and in full view of our cavalry in the plain, I'd no choice but to go h.e.l.l-for-leather. Besides, I wasn't going to let that c.o.c.ky little pimp Nolan distance me - I may not be proud of much, but I fancied myself against any galloper in the army, and was determined to overtake him before he reached Lucan. So down I went, with the game little mare under me skipping like a mountain goat, sliding on her haunches, careering headlong, and myself clinging on with my knees aching and my hands on the mane, jolting and swaying wildly, and in the tail of my eye Lew's red cap jerking crazily on the escarpment below.

I was the better horseman. He wasn't twenty yards out on the level when I touched the bottom and went after him like a bolt, yelling to him to hold on. He heard me, and reined up, cursing, and demanding to know what was the matter. "On with you!" cries I, as I came alongside, and as we galloped I shouted my message.

He couldn't make it out, but had to pluck the note from his glove and squint at it while he rode. "What the h.e.l.l does it mean in the first place?" cries he. "It says here, 'advance rapidly to the front'. Well, G.o.d love us, the guns ain't in front; they're in flank front if they're anywhere."

"Search me," I shouted. "But he says Look-on is to act defensively, and undertake nothing against his better judgment. So there!"

"Defensive?" cries Lew. "Defensive be d.a.m.ned! He must have said offensive - how the h.e.l.l could he attack defensively? And this order says nothin' about Lucan's better judgment. For one thing, he's got no more judgment than Mulligan's bull pup!"

"Well, that's what Raglan said!" I shouted. "You're bound to deliver it."

"Ah, d.a.m.n them all, what a set of old women!" He dug in his spurs, head down, shouting across to me as we raced towards the rear squadrons of the Heavies. "They don't know their minds from one minute to the next. I tell ye, Flash. that ould ninny Raglan will hinder the cavalry at all costs - an' Lucan's not a whit better. What do they think horse-soldiers are for? Well, Lucan shall have his order, and be d.a.m.ned to them!"

I eased up as we shot through the ranks of the Greys, letting him go ahead; he went streaking through the Heavies, and across the intervening s.p.a.ce towards the Lights. I'd no wish to be dragged into the discussion that would inevitably ensue with Lucan, who had to have every order explained to him three times at least. But I supposed I ought to be on hand, so I cantered easily up to the 4th Lights, and there was George Paget again, wanting to know what was up.

"You're advancing shortly," says I, and "d.a.m.ned high time, too," says he. "Got a cheroot, Flash? - I haven't a weed to my name."

I gave him one, and he squinted at me. "You're looking peaky,-" says he. "Anything wrong?"

"Bowels," says I. "d.a.m.n all Russian champagne. Where's Lord Look-on?"

He pointed, and I saw Lucan out ahead of the Lights, with some galloper beside him, and Nolan just reining up. Lew was saluting, and handing him the paper, and while Lucan pored over it I looked about me.

It was drowsy and close down here on the plain after the breezy heights of the Sapoune; hardly a breath of wind, and the flies buzzing round the horses' heads, and the heavy smell of dung and leather. I suddenly realized I was d.a.m.ned tired, and my belly wouldn't lie quiet again; I grunted in reply to George's questions, and took stock of the Brigade, squirming uncomfortably in my saddle - there were the Cherrypickers in front, all very spruce in blue and pink with their pelisses trailing; to their right the mortar-board helmets and blue tunics of the 17th, with their lances at rest and the little red point plumes hanging limp; to their right again, not far from where Lucan was sitting, the 13th Lights, with the great Lord Cardigan himself out to the fore, sitting very aloof and alone and affecting not to notice Lucan and Nolan, who weren't above twenty yards from him.

Suddenly I was aware of Lucan's voice raised, and trotted away from George in that direction; it looked as though Lew would need some help in getting the message into his lordship's thick skull. I saw Lucan look in my direction, and just at that moment, as I was pa.s.sing the 17th, someone called out: "Hollo, there's old Flashy! Now we'll see some fun! What's the row, Flash?"

This sort of thing happens when one is generally ad-mired; I replied with a nonchalant wave of the hand, and sang out: "Tally-ho, you fellows! You'll have all the fun you want presently," at which they laughed, and I saw Tubby Morris grinning across at me.

And then I heard Lucan's voice, clear as a bugle. "Guns, sir? What guns, may I ask? I can see no guns."

He was looking up the valley, his hand shading his eyes, and when I looked, by G.o.d, you couldn't see the redoubt where the Ruskis had been limbering up to haul the guns away - just the long slope of Causeway Heights, and the Russian infantry uncomfortably close.

"Where, sir?" cries Lucan. "What guns do you mean?"

I could see Lew's face working; he was scarlet with fury, and his hand was shaking as he came up by Lucan's shoulder, pointing along the line of the Causeway.

"There, my lord - there, you see, are the guns! There's your enemy!"

He brayed it out, as though he was addressing a dirty trooper, and Lucan stiffened as though he'd been hit. He looked as though he would lose his temper, but then he commanded himself, and Lew wheeled abruptly away and cantered off, making straight for me where I was sitting to the right of the 17th. He was shaking with pa.s.sion, and as he drew abreast of me he rasped out: "The b.l.o.o.d.y fool! Does he want to sit on his great fat a.r.s.e all day and every day?"

"Lew," says I, pretty sharp, "did you tell him he was to act defensively and at his own discretion?"

"Tell him?" says he, bearing his teeth in a savage grin. "By Christ, I told him three times over! As if that b.a.s.t.a.r.d needs telling to act defensively - he's capable of nothing else! Well, he's got his b.l.o.o.d.y orders - now let's see how he carries them out!"

And with that he went over to Tubby Morris, and I thought, well, that's that - now for the Sapoune, home and beauty, and let 'em chase to their hearts content down here. And I was just wheeling my horse, when from behind me I heard Lucan's voice.

"Colonel Flashman!" He was sitting with Cardigan, before the 13th Lights. "Come over here, if you please!"

Now what, thinks I, and my belly gave a great windy twinge as I trotted over towards them. Lucan was snapping at him impatiently, as I drew alongside: "I know, I know, but there it is. Lord Raglan's order is quite positive, and we must obey it."

"Oh, vewy well," says Cardigan, d.a.m.ned ill-humoured; his voice was a mere croak, no doubt with his roupy chest, or over-boozing on his yacht. He flicked a glance at me, and looked away, sniffing; Lucan addressed me.

"You will accompany Lord Cardigan," says he. "In the event that communication is needed, he must have a galloper."

I stared horrified, hardly taking in Cardigan's comment: "I envisage no necessity for Colonel Fwashman's pwesence, or for communication with your lordship."

"Indeed, sir," says I, "Lord Raglan will need me .. . I dare not wait any longer . . . with your lordship's per-mission, I -"

"You will do as I say!" barks Lucan. "Upon my word, I have never met such insolence from mere gallopers before this day! First Nolan, and now you! Do as you are told, sir, and let us have none of this shirking!"

And with that he wheeled away, leaving me terrified, enraged, and baffled. What could I do? I couldn't disobey - it just wasn't possible. He had said I must ride with Cardigan, to those d.a.m.ned redoubts, chasing Raglan's b.l.o.o.d.y guns - my G.o.d, after what I had been through already! In an instant, by pure chance, I'd been s.n.a.t.c.hed from security and thrust into the melting-pot again - it wouldn't do. I turned to Cardigan - the last man I'd have appealed to, in any circ.u.mstances, except an extremity like this.

"My lord," says I. "This is preposterous - unreasonable! Lord Raglan will need me! Will you speak to his lordship - he must be made to see -"

"If there is one thing," says Cardigan, in that croaking drawl, "of which I am tolewably certain in this uncertain world, it is the total impossibiwity of making my Word Wucan see anything at all. He makes it cwear, furthermore, that there is no discussion of his orders." He looked me up and down. "You heard him, sir. Take station behind me, and to my weft. Bewieve me, I do not welcome your pwesence here any more than you do yourself."

At that moment, up came George Paget, my cheroot clamped between his teeth.

"We are to advance, Lord George," says Cardigan. "I shall need close support, do you hear? - your vewy best support, Lord George. Haw-haw. You understand me?"

George took the cheroot from his mouth, looked at it, stuck it back, and then said, very stiff: "As always, my lord, you shall have my support."

"Haw-haw. Vewy well," says Cardigan, and they turned aside, leaving me stricken, and nicely hoist with my own petard, you'll agree. Why hadn't I kept my mouth shut in Raglan's presence? I could have been safe and comfy up on the Sapoune - but no, I'd had to try to vent my spite, to get Cardigan in the way of a bullet, and the result was I would be facing the bullets alongside him. Oh, a skirmish round gun redoubts is a small enough thing by military standards - unless you happen to be taking part in it, and I reckoned I'd used up two of my nine lives today already. To make matters worse, my stomach was beginning to churn and heave most horribly again; I sat there, with my back to the Light Brigade, nursing it miserably, while behind me the orders rattled out, and the squadrons reformed; I took a glance round and saw the 17th were now directly behind me, two little clumps of lances, with the Cherrypickers in behind. And here came Cardigan, trotting out in front, glancing back at the silent squadrons.

He paused, facing them, and there was no sound now but the restless thump of hooves, and the creak and jingle of the gear. All was still, five regiments of cavalry, looking down the valley, with Flashy out in front, wishing he were dead and suddenly aware that dreadful things were happening under his belt. I moved, gasping gently to myself, stirring on my saddle, and suddenly, without the slightest volition on my part, there was the most crashing discharge of wind, like the report of a mortar. My horse started; Cardigan jumped in his saddle, glaring at me, and from the ranks of the 17th a voice muttered: "Christ, as if Russian artillery wasn't bad enough!" Someone giggled, and another voice said: "We've 'ad Whistlin' d.i.c.k - now we got Trumpetin' Harry an' all!"

"Silence!" cries Cardigan, looking like thunder, and the murmur in the ranks died away. And then, G.o.d help me, in spite of my straining efforts to contain myself, there was another fearful bang beneath me, echoing off the saddle, and I thought Cardigan would explode with fury.

I could not merely sit there. "I beg your pardon, my lord," says I, "I am not well-"

"Be silent!" snaps he, and he must have been in a highly nervous condition himself, otherwise he would never have added, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper: "Can you not contain yourself, you disgusting fellow?"

"My lord," whispers I, "I cannot help it - it is the feverish wind, you see -" and I interrupted myself yet again, thunderously. He let out a fearful oath, under his breath, and wheeled his charger, his hand raised; he croaked out "Bwigade will advance - first squadron, 17th - walk-march - twot!" and behind us the squadrons stirred and moved forward, seven hundred cavalry, one of them palsied with fear but in spite of that feeling a mighty relief internally - it was what I had needed all day, of course, like those sheep that stuff themselves on some windy weed, and have to be pierced to get them right again.

And that was how it began. Ahead of me I could see the short turf of the valley turning to plough, and beyond that the haze at the valley end, a mile and more away, and only a few hundred yards off, on either side, the enclosing slopes, with the small figures of Russian infantry clearly visible. You could even see their artillerymen wheeling the guns round, and scurrying among the limbers - we were well within range, but they were watching, waiting to see what we would do next. I forced myself to look straight ahead down the valley; there were guns there in plenty, and squadrons of Cossacks flanking them; their lance points and sabres caught the sun and threw it back in a thousand sudden gleams of light. Would they try a charge when we wheeled right towards the redoubts? Would Cardigan deploy the 4th Lights? Would he put the 17th forward as a screen when we made our flank movement? If I stuck close by him, would I be all right? Oh, G.o.d, how had I landed in this fix again - three times in a day? It wasn't fair - it was unnatural, and then my innards spoke again, resoundingly, and perhaps the Russian gunners heard it, for far down the Causeway on the right a plume of smoke blossomed out as though in reply, there- was the crash of the discharge and the shot went screaming overhead, and then from all along the Causeway burst out a positive salvo of firing; there was an orange flash and a huge bang a hundred paces ahead, and a fount of earth was hurled up and came pattering down before us, while behind there was the crash of exploding sh.e.l.ls, and a new barrage opening up from the hills on the left.

Suddenly it was, as Lord Tennyson tells us, like the very jaws of h.e.l.l; I realized that, without noticing, I had started to canter, babbling gently to myself, and in front Cardigan was cantering too, but not as fast as I was (one celebrated account remarks that, "In his eagerness to be first at grips with the foe, Flashman was seen to forge ahead; ah, we can guess the fierce spirit that burned in that manly breast" - I don't know about that, but I'm here to inform you that it was nothing to the fierce spirit that burned in my manly bowels). There was a crash-crash-crash of flaming bursts across the front, and the scream of sh.e.l.l splinters whistling by; Cardigan shouted "Steady!", but his own charger was pacing away now, and behind me the clatter and jingle was being drowned by the rising drum of hooves, from a slow canter to a fast one, and then to a slow gallop, and I tried to rein in that little mare, smothering my own panic, and snarling fiercely to myself: "Wheel, wheel, for G.o.d's sake! Why doesn't the stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d wheel?" For we were level with the first Russian redoubt; their guns were levelled straight at us, not four hundred yards away, the ground ahead was being torn up by shot, and then from behind me there was a frantic shout.