Flashman At The Charge Part 5

I turned in the saddle, and there was Nolan, his sabre out, charging across behind me, shouting hoa.r.s.ely, "Wheel, my lord! Not that way! Wheel - to the redoubts!" His voice was all but drowned in the tumult of explosion, and then he was streaking past Cardigan, reining his beast back on its haunches, his face livid as he turned to face the brigade. He flourished his sabre, and shouted again, and a sh.e.l.l seemed to explode dead in front of Cardigan's horse; for a moment I lost Nolan in the smoke, and then I saw him, face contorted in agony, his tunic torn open and gushing blood from shoulder to waist. He shrieked horribly, and his horse came bounding back towards us, swerving past Cardigan with Lew toppling forward on to the neck of his mount. As I stared back, horrified, I saw him careering into the gap between the Lancers and the 13th Light, and then they had swallowed him, and the squadrons came surging down towards me.

I turned to look for Cardigan; he was thirty yards ahead, tugging like d.a.m.nation to hold his charger in, with the shot crashing all about him. "Stop!" I screamed. "Stop! For Christ's sake, man, rein in!" For now I saw what Lew had seen - the fool was never going to wheel, he was taking the Light Brigade straight into the heart of the Russian army, towards those ma.s.sive batteries at the valley foot, that were already belching at us, while the cannon on either side were raking us from the flanks, trapping us in a terrible enfilade that must smash the whole command to pieces.

"Stop, d.a.m.n you! I yelled again, and was in the act of wheeling to shout at the squadrons behind when the earth seemed to open beneath me in a sheet of orange flame; I reeled in the saddle, deafened, the horse staggered, went down, and recovered, with myself clinging for dear life, and then I was grasping nothing but loose reins. The bridle was half gone, my brute had a livid gash spouting blood along her neck; she screamed and hurtled madly forward, and I seized the mane to prevent myself being thrown from the saddle.

Suddenly I was level with Cardigan; we bawled at each other, he waving his sabre, and now there were blue tunics level with me, either side, and the lance points of the 17th were thrusting forward, with the men crouched low in the saddles. It was an inferno of bursting sh.e.l.l and whistling fragments, of orange flame and choking smoke; a trooper alongside me was plucked from his saddle as though by an invisible hand, and I found myself drenched in a shower of blood. My little mare went surging ahead, crazy with pain; we were outdistancing Cardigan now - and even in that h.e.l.l of death and gunfire, I remember, my stomach was a.s.serting itself again, and I rode yelling with panic and farting furiously at the same time. I couldn't hold my horse at all; it was all I could do to stay aboard as we raced onwards, and as I stared wildly ahead I saw that we were a bare few hundred yards from the Russian batteries. The great black muzzles were staring me in the face, smoke wreathing up around them, but even as I saw the flame belching from them I couldn't hear the crash of their discharge - it was all lost in the fearful continuous reverberating cannonade that surrounded us. There was no stopping my mad career, and I found myself roaring pleas for mercy to the distant Russian gunners, crying stop, stop, for G.o.d's sake, cease fire, d.a.m.n you, and let me alone. I could see them plainly, crouching at their breeches, working furiously to reload and pour another torrent of death at us through the smoke; I raged and swore mindlessly at them, and dragged out my sabre, thinking, by heaven, if you finish me I'll do my d.a.m.ndest to take one of you with me, you filthy Russian sc.u.m. ("And then," wrote that fatuous a.s.s of a correspondent, "was seen with what n.o.bility and power the gallant Flashman rode. Charging ahead even of his valiant chief, the death cry of the ill.u.s.trious Nolan in his ears, his eye flashing terribly as he swung the sabre that had stemmed the horde at Jallalabad, he hurtled against the foe.") Well, yes, you might put it that way, but my n.o.bility and power was concentrated, in a moment of inspiration, in trying to swerve that maddened beast out of the fixed lines of the guns; I had just sense enough left for that. I tugged at the mane with my free hand, she swerved and stumbled, recovered, reared, and had me half out of the saddle; my innards were seized with a fresh spasm, and if I were a fanciful man I'd swear I blew myself back astride of her. The ground shook beneath us with another exploding sh.e.l.l, knocking us sideways; I clung on, sobbing, and as the smoke cleared Cardigan came thundering by, sabre thrust out ahead of his charger's ears, and I heard him hoa.r.s.ely shouting: "Steady them! Hold them in! Cwose' up and hold in!"

I tried to yell to him to halt, that he was going the wrong way, but my voice seemed to have gone. I turned in the saddle to shout or signal the men behind, and my G.o.d, what a sight it was! Half a dozen riderless horses at my very tail, crazy with fear, and behind them a score - G.o.d knows there didn't seem to be any more - of the 17th Lancers, some with hats gone, some streaked with blood, strung out any old how, glaring like madmen and tearing along. Empty saddles, shattered squadrons, all order gone, men and beasts going down by the second, the ground furrowing and spouting earth even as you watched - and still they came on, the lances of the 17th, and behind the sabres of the 11th - just a fleeting instant's thought I had, even in that inferno, remembering the brilliant Cherrypickers in splendid review, and there they were tearing forward like a horde of h.e.l.l-bound spectres.

I had only a moment to look back - my mare was gal-loping like a thing demented, and as I steadied, there was Cardigan, waving his sabre and standing in his stirrups; the guns were only a hundred yards away, almost hidden in a great billowing bank of smoke, a bank which kept glaring red as though some Lucifer were opening furnace doors deep inside it. There was no turning, no holding back, and even in that deafening thunder I could hear the sudden chorus of yells behind me as the torn remnant of the Light Brigade gathered itself for the final mad charge into the battery. I dug in my heels, yelling nonsense and brandishing my sabre, shot into the smoke with one final rip from my bowels and a prayer that my gallant little mare wouldn't career headlong into a gun-muzzle, staggered at the fearful concussion of a gun exploding within a yard of me - and then we were through, into the open s.p.a.ce behind the guns, leaping the limbers and ammunition boxes with the Russians scattering to let us through, and Cardigan a bare two yards away, reining his beast back almost on its haunches.

And then for a moment everything seemed to happen very slowly. I can see it all so distinctly: immediately to my left, and close enough to toss a biscuit, there was a squadron of Cossacks, with their lances couched, but all immobile, staring as though in amazement. Almost under my mare's hooves there was a Russian gunner, clutching a rammer, sprawling to get out of the way - he was stripped to the waist, I remember, and had a medal round his neck on a string - ahead of me, perhaps fifty yards off, was a brilliant little group of mounted men who could only be staff officers, and right beside me, still stiff and upright as a lance at rest, was Cardigan - by G.o.d, I thought, you're through that without a scratch on you, d.a.m.n you! And so, it crossed my mind, was I - for the moment. And then everything jerked into crazy speed again, as the Light Brigade came careering out of the smoke, and the whole battery was suddenly a melee of rearing beasts, yelling maniacs, cracking pieces and flashing steel.

I was in the final moments of Little Big Horn, and the horror of Chillianwallah, which are among my nastiest recollections still, but for sheer murderous fury I recall nothing like the mad few minutes when the battered rabble of the Light Brigade rode over that Russian battery. It was as though they had gone mad - which, in a sense, they had. They slashed those Russian gun-crews apart, sabring, lancing, pounding them down under-hoof - I saw a corporal of the 17th drive his lance point four feet through a gunner's body and then leap from the saddle to tear at the fellow with his hands, Cardigan exchanging cuts with a mounted officer, troopers wrestling with Cossacks in the saddle, one of our Hussars on foot, whirling his sabre round his head and driving into a crowd of half a dozen, a Russian with his arm off at the elbow and a trooper still sabring him about the head - and then a Cossack came lumbering at me, roaring, with his lance couched to drive me through, but he was a handless clown, and missed me by a yard. I howled and slashed him back-handed as he blundered by, and then I was buffeted clean out of the saddle and went rolling away, weaponless, beneath a gun limber.

If I hadn't been scared witless I dare say I'd have stayed where I was, meditating, getting rid of some more wind, and generally taking a detached view, but in my panic I came scurrying out again, and there was George Paget, of all people, leaning from his saddle to grab my arm and swing me towards a riderless horse. I scrambled up, and George shouted: "Come on, Flash, you old savage - we can't lose you! I'll want another of your cheroots presently!19 Close here, 4th Lights! Clo-o-o-se!"

There was a swirl of troopers round us, glaring smoke-blackened, b.l.o.o.d.y faces, a volley of commands, someone thrust a sabre into my hand, and George was crying: "What a b.l.o.o.d.y pickle! We must cut our way home! Follow me!" and off we pounded, gasping and blinded, at his heels. I must have been near stupid with panic, for all I could think was: one more rush, just one more, and we'll be out of this h.e.l.l-hole and back into the valley - G.o.d knows that was a horrifying prospect enough, but at least we were riding in the right direction, and providence or something had been on my side so far, and if only my luck would hold I might come through and reach the Sapoune and the camp beyond it and my bed and a ship and London and never, never go near a b.l.o.o.d.y uniform again - "Halt!" bawls George, and I thought, I don't care, this is one gallant cavalryman who isn't halting for anything, I've had enough, and if I'm the only man who goes streaking back up that valley, leaving his comrades in the lurch, to h.e.l.l with it. I put my head down and my heels in, thrust out my sabre to discourage any fool who got in the way, and charged ahead for all I was worth.

I heard George bawling behind me: "Halt! No, Flash, no!" and thought, carry on, George, and be d.a.m.ned to you. I fairly flew over the turf, the shouting died behind me, and I raised my head and looked - straight at what appeared to be the entire Russian army, drawn up in review order. There were great hideous ranks of the brutes, with Cossacks dead ahead, not twenty yards off - I had only a fleeting glimpse of amazed, bearded faces, there wasn't a hope of stopping, and then with a blasphemous yell of despair I plunged into them, horse, sabre and all.

"Picture, if you can bear it, reader" - as that idiot journalist put it - "the agony of Lord George Paget and his gallant remnant, in that moment. They had fought like heroes in the battery, Lord George himself had plucked the n.o.ble Flashman from b.l.o.o.d.y hand-to-hand conflict, they had rallied and ridden on through the battery, Lord George had given the halt, preparatory to wheeling about and charging back into the battery and the valley beyond, where ultimate safety lay - picture then, their anguish, when that great heart, too full to think of safety, or of aught but the cruel destruction of so many of his comrades, chose instead to launch himself alone against the embattled ranks of Muscovy! Sabre aloft, proud defiance on his lips, he chose the course that honour pointed, and rode like some champion of old to find death on the sabres of his enemies."

Well, I've always said, if you get the Press on your side you're half way there. I've never bothered to correct that glowing tribute, until now; it seems almost a shame to do it at last. I don't remember which journal it appeared in - Bell's Sporting Life, for all I know - but I don't doubt it caused many a manly tear to start, and many a fair bosom to heave when they read it. In the meantime, I was doing a bit in the manly tear and bosom-heaving line myself; with my horse foundering under me, my sabre flying from my hand, and my sorely-tried carcase sprawling on the turf while all those peasant hors.e.m.e.n shied back, growling and gaping, and then closed in again, staring down at me in that dull, astonished way that Russians have. I just lay there, gasping like a salmon on the bank, waiting for the lance-points to come skewering down on me, and babbling weakly: "Kamerad! Ami! Sarte! Amigo! Oh G.o.d, what's the Russian for 'friend'?"

Being a prisoner of war has its advantages, or used to. If you were a British officer, taken by a civilized foe, you could expect to be rather better treated than your adversary would treat his own people; he would use you as a guest, entertain you, be friendly, and not bother overmuch about confining you. He might ask your parole not to try to escape, but not usually - since you would be exchanged for one of his own people at the first opportunity there wasn't much point in running off.

Mind you, I think we British fared rather better than most. They respected us, and knew we didn't make war in a beastly fashion, like these Balkan fellows, so they treated us accordingly. But a Russian taken by the Poles, or an Austrian by the Eyetyes, or even a Confederate by the Yankees - well, he might not come off quite so comfortably. I'm told it's all changing now, and that war's no longer a gentleman's game (as though it ever was), and that among the "new professionals" a prisoner's a prisoner so d.a.m.ned well cage him up. I don't know: we treated each other decently, and weren't one jot more incompetent than this Sandhurst-and-Shop crowd. Look at that young pup Kitchener - what that fellow needs is a woman or two.

At all events, no one has ever treated me better, by and large, than the Russians did, although I don't think it was kindness, but ignorance. From the moment I measured my length among those Cossacks, I found myself being regarded with something like awe. It wasn't just the Light Brigade fiasco, which had impressed them tremendously, but a genuine uncertainty where the English were concerned - they seemed to look on us as though we were men from the moon, or made of dynamite and so liable to go off if scratched. The truth is, they're such a dull, wary lot of peasants - the ordinary folk and soldiers, that is - that they go in fear of anything strange until someone tells 'em what to do about it. In those days, of course, most of them were slaves - except for the Cossacks - and behaved as such.

I'll have more to say about this, but for the moment it's enough to note that the Cossacks kept away from me, glowering, until one of their officers jumped down, helped me to my feet, and accepted my surrender. I doubt if he understood a word I said, for I was too shocked and confused to be coherent, even if I'd spoken Russian, which I didn't much, at that time. He led me through the crowd, and once I had realized that they weren't going to do me violence, and that I was safely out of that h.e.l.lish maelstrom, I set myself to collect my wits and consider what should be done.

They stuck me in a tent, with two ma.s.sive Cossacks at the entrance - Black Sea Cossacks, as I learned later, with those stringy long-haired caps, and scarlet lances - and there I sat, listening to the growing chatter outside, and every now and then an officer would stick his face in, and regard me, and then withdraw. I was still feeling fearfully sick and giddy, and my right ear seemed to have gone deaf with the cannonading, but as I leaned against the pole, shuddering, one thought kept crowding gloriously into my mind: I was alive, and in one piece. I'd survived, G.o.d knew how, the shattering of the Light Brigade, to say nothing of the earlier actions of the day - it seemed like a year since I'd stood with Campbell's Highlanders, though it was a bare five hours ago. You've come through again, my boy, I kept thinking; you're going to live. That being the case, head up, look alive and keep your eyes open.

Presently in came a little dapper chap in a, fine white uniform, black boots, and a helmet with a crowned eagle. "Lanskey," says he, in good French - which most educated Russians spoke, by the way - "Major, Cuira.s.siers of the Guard. Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?"

"Flashman," says I, "Colonel, 17th Lancers."

"Enchanted," says he, bowing. "May I request that you accompany me to General Liprandi, who is most anxious to make the acquaintance of such a distinguished and gallant officer?"

Well, he couldn't have said fairer; I bucked up at once, and he led me out, through a curious throng of officers and staff hangers-on, into a great tent where about a dozen senior officers were waiting, with a genial-looking, dark-whiskered fellow in a splendid sable coat, whom I took to be Liprandi, seated behind a table. They stopped talking at once; a dozen pairs of eager eyes fixed on me as Lanskey presented me, and I stood up tall, ragged and muck-smeared though I was, and just stared over Liprandi's head, clicking my heels.

He came round the table, right up to me, and said, also in excellent French: "Your pardon, colonel. Permit me." And to my astonishment he stuck his nose up close to my lips, sniffing.

"What the devil?" cries I, stepping back.

"A thousand pardons, sir," says he. "It is true, gentle-men," turning to his staff. "Not a suspicion of liquor." And they all began to buzz again, staring at me.

"You are perfectly sober," says Liprandi. "And so, as I have ascertained, are your troopers who have been taken prisoner. I confess, I am astonished.20 Will you perhaps enlighten us, colonel, what was the explanation of that . . . that extraordinary action by your light cavalry an hour ago? Believe me," he went on, "I seek no military intelligence from you - no advantage of information. But it is beyond precedent - beyond understanding. Why, in G.o.d's name, did you do it?"

Now, I didn't know, at that time, precisely what we had done. I guessed we must have lost three-quarters of the Light Brigade, by a hideous mistake, but I couldn't know that I'd just taken part in the most famous cavalry action ever fought, one that was to sound round the world, and that even eye-witnesses could scarcely believe. The Russians were amazed; it seemed to them we must have been drunk, or drugged, or mad - they weren't to guess that it had been a ghastly accident. And I wasn't going to enlighten them. So I said: "Ah, well, you know, it was just to teach you fellows to keep your distance."

At this they exclaimed, and shook their heads and swore, and Liprandi looked bewildered, and kept muttering: "Five hundred sabres! To what end?", and they crowded round, plying me with questions - all very friendly, mind, so that I began to get my bounce back, and played it off as though it were just another day's work. What they couldn't fathom was how we'd held together all the way to the guns, and hadn't broken or turned back, even with four saddles empty out of five, so I just told 'em, "We're British cavalry," simple as that, and looked them in the eye. It was true, too, even if no one had less right to say it than I.

At that they stamped and swore again, incredulously, and one huge chap with a beard began to weep, and insisted on embracing me, stinking of garlic as he was, and Liprandi called for brandy, and demanded of me what we, in English, called our light cavalry, and when I told him they all raised their gla.s.ses and shouted together: "Thee Light Brigedde!" and dashed down their gla.s.ses and ground them underfoot, and embraced me again, laughing and shouting and patting me on the head, while I, the unworthy recipient, looked pretty bluff and offhand and said, no, dammit all, it was nothing, just our usual form, don't you know. (I should have felt shame, doubtless, at the thought that I, old windy Harry, was getting the plaudits and the glory, but you know me. Anyway, I'd been there, hadn't I, all the way; should I be disqualified, just because I was babbling scared?) After that it was all booze and good fellowship, and when I'd been washed and given a change of clothes Liprandi gave me a slap-up dinner with his staff, and the champagne flowed - French, you may be certain; these Russians know how to go to war - and they were all full of attention and admiration and a thousand questions, but every now and then they would fall silent and look at me in that strange way that every survivor of the charge has come to recognize: respectfully, and almost with reverence, but with a hint of suspicion, as though you weren't quite canny.

Indeed their hospitality was so fine, that night, that I began to feel regretful at the thought that I'd probably be exchanged in the next day or two, and would find myself back in that lousy, fever-ridden camp under Sevastopol - it's a curious thing, but my belly, which had been in such wicked condition all day, felt right as rain after that dinner. We all got gloriously tight, drinking healths, and the bearded garlic giant and Lanskey carried me to bed, and we all fell on the floor, roaring and laughing. As I crawled on to my blankets I had only a moment's blurred recollection of the sound of cannonade, and ranks of Highlanders, and Scarlett's gaudy scarf, and the headlong gallop down the Sapoune, and Cardigan cantering slowly and erect, and those belching guns, all whirling together in a great smoky confusion. And it all seemed past and unimportant as I slid away into unconsciousness and slept like a winter hedgehog.

They didn't exchange me. They kept me for a couple of weeks, confined in a cottage at Yalta, with two musketmen on the door and a Russian colonel of Horse ,Pioneers to walk the little garden with me for exercise, and then I was visited by Radziwill, a very decent chap on Liprandi's staff who spoke English and knew London well. He was terribly apologetic, explaining that there wasn't a suitable exchange, since I was a staff man, and a pretty rare catch. I didn't believe this; we'd taken senior Russian officers every bit as important as I, at the Alma, and I wondered exactly why they wanted to keep me prisoner, but there was no way of finding out, of course. Not that it concerned me much - I didn't mind a holiday in Russia, being treated as an honoured guest rather than a prisoner, for Radziwill hastened to rea.s.sure me that what they intended to do was send me across the Crimea to Kertch, and then by boat to mainland Russia, where I'd be safely tucked away on a country estate. The advantage of this was that I would be so far out of harm's way that escape would be impossible - I tried to look serious and knowing when he said this, as though I'd been contemplating running off to rejoin the b.l.o.o.d.y battle again - and I could lead a nice easy life without over-many restrictions, until the war was over, which couldn't be long, anyway.

I've learned to make the best of things, so I accepted without demur, packed up my few traps, which consisted of my cleaned and mended Lancer blues and a few shirts and things which Radziwill gave me, and prepared to go where I was taken. I was quite looking forward to it - fool that I was.

Before I went, Radziwill - no doubt meaning to be kind, but in fact just being an infernal nuisance - arranged for me to visit those survivors of the Light Brigade who'd been taken prisoner, and were in confinement down near Yalta. I didn't want to see them, much, but I couldn't refuse.

There were about thirty of them in a big stuffy shed, and not above six of them unwounded. The others were in cots, with bandaged heads and slings, some with limbs off, lying like wax dummies, one or two plainly just waiting to die, and all of them looking desperate hangdog. The moment I went inside I wished I hadn't come - it's this kind of thing, the stale smell of blood, the wasted faces, the hushed voices, the awful hopeless tiredness, that makes you understand what a h.e.l.lish thing war is. Worse than a battle-field, worse than the blood and the mud and the smoke and the steel, is the dank misery of a hospital of wounded men - and this place was a good deal better than most. Russians ain't clean, by any means, but the ward they'd made for our fellows was better than our own medical folk could have arranged at Balaclava.

Would you believe it, when I came in they raised a cheer? The pale faces lit up, those that could struggled upright in bed, and their non-com, who wasn't wounded, threw me a salute.

"Ryan, sir," says he. "Troop sergeant-major, Eighth 'Ussars. Sorry to see you're took, sir - but glad to see you well."

I thanked him, and shook hands, and then went round, giving a word here and there, as you're bound to do, and feeling sick at the sight of the pain and disfigurement - it could have been me, lying there with a leg off, or my face st.i.tched like a football.

"Not takin' any 'arm, sir, as you see," says Ryan. "The grub ain't much, but it fills. You're bein' treated proper yourself, sir, if I may make so bold? That's good, that is; I'm glad to 'ear that. You'll be gettin' exchanged, I reckon? No - well, blow me! Who'd ha' thought that? I reckon they doesn't want to let you go, though - why, when we heard t'other day as you'd been took, old d.i.c.k there - that's 'im, sir, wi' the sabre-cut - 'e says: 'That's good noos for the Ruskis; ole Flashy's worth a squadron any day' - beggin' yer pardon, sir."

"That's mighty kind of friend d.i.c.k," says I, "but I fear I'm not worth very much at present, you know."

They laughed - such a thin laugh - and growled and said "Garn!", and Ryan dropped his voice, glancing towards where Lanskey loitered by the door, and says softly: "I knows better, sir. An' there's 'arf a dozen of us sound enough 'ere to be worth twenty o' these Ruski chaps. If you was to say the word, sir, I reckon we could break our way out of 'ere, grab a few sabres, an' cut our way back to th'Army! It can't be above twenty mile to Sevasto-pool! We could do it, sir! The boys is game fer it, an' -"

"Silence, Ryan!" says I. "I won't hear of it." This was one of these dangerous b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, I could see, full of duty and desperate notions. "What, break away and leave our wounded comrades? No, no, that would never do - I'm surprised at you."

He flushed. "I'm sorry, sir; I was just -"

"I know, my boy." I put a hand on his shoulder. "You want to do your duty, as a soldier should. But, you see, it can't be. And you can take pride in what you have done already - all of you can." I thought a few patriotic words wouldn't do any harm. "You are stout fellows, all of you. England is proud of you." And will let you go to the poor-house, in time, or sell laces at street corners, I thought to myself.

"Ole Jim the Bear'll be proud, an' all," pipes up one chap with a bandage swathing his head and eye, and I saw the blood-stained Cherrypicker pants at the foot of his cot. "They do say as 'is Lordship got out the battery, sir. Dryden there was picked up by the Ruskis in the valley, an' 'e saw Lord Cardigan goin' back arterwards - says 'e 'ad a b.l.o.o.d.y sabre, too, but wasn't hurt 'isself."

That was bad news; I could have borne the loss of Cardigan any day.

"Good ole Jim!"

"Ain't 'e the one, though!"

"'E's a good ole commander, an' a gentleman, even if 'e is an 11th 'Ussar!" says Ryan, and they all laughed, and looked shy at me, because they knew I'd been a Cherrypicker, once.

There was a very pale, thin young face in the cot nearest the door, and as I was turning away, he croaked out, in a little whisper: "Colonel Flashman, sir - Troop sarn't major was sayin' - it never 'appened afore - cavalry, chargin' a battery wi' no support, an' takin' it. Never 'appened nowheres, in any war, sir. Is that right, sir?"

I didn't know, but I'd certainly never heard of it. So I said, "I believe that's right. I think it may be."

He smiled. "That's good, then. Thank'ee, sir." And he lay back, with his eyelids twitching, breathing very quietly.

"Well," says I. "Good-bye, Ryan. Good-bye, all of you. Ah - keep your spirits up. We'll all be going home soon."

"When the Ruskis is beat," cries someone, and Ryan says: "Three cheers for the Colonel!" and they all cheered, feebly, and shouted "Good old Flash Harry!" and the man with the patched eye began to sing, and they all took it up, and as I drove off with Lanskey I heard the words of the old Light Brigade canter fading behind me: In the place of water we'll drink ale, An' pay no reck'ning on the nail, No man for debt shall go to jail, While he can Garryowen hail.

I've heard it from Afghanistan to Whitehall, from the African veldt to drunken hunting parties in Rutland; heard it sounded on penny whistles by children and roared out in full-throated chorus by Custer's 7th on the day of Greasy Gra.s.s - and there were survivors of the Light Brigade singing on that day, too - but it always sounds bitter on my ears, because I think of those brave, deluded, pathetic b.l.o.o.d.y fools in that Russian shed, with their mangled bodies and lost limbs, all for a shilling a day and a pauper's grave - and yet they thought Cardigan, who'd have flogged 'em for a rusty spur and would see them murdered under the Russian guns because he hadn't wit and manhood enough to tell Lucan to take his order to h.e.l.l - they thought he was "a good old commander", and they even cheered me, who'd have turned tail on them at the click of a bolt. Mind you, I'm harmless, by comparison - I don't send 'em off, stuffed with lies and rubbish, to get killed and maimed for nothing except a politician's vanity or a manufacturer's profit. Oh, I'll sham it with the best in public, and sport my tinware, but I know what I am, and there's no room for honest pride in me, you see. But if there was - just for a little bit, along with the disgust and hatred and selfishness - I'd keep it for them, those seven hundred British sabres.

It must be the drink talking. That's the worst of it; whenever I think back to Balaclava, there's nothing for it but the booze. It's not that I feel guilt or regret or shame - they don't count beside feeling alive, anyway, even if I were capable of them. It's just that I don't really understand Balaclava, even now. Oh, I can understand, without sharing, most kinds of courage - that which springs from rage, or fear, or greed or even love. I've had a bit of them myself - anyone can show brave if his children or his woman are threatened. (Mind you, if the hosts of Midian were a.s.sailing my little nest, offering to ravish my loved one, my line would be to say to her, look, you jolly 'em along, old girl, and look your best, while I circle round to a convenient rock with my rifle.) But are these emotions, that come of anger or terror or desire, really bravery at all? I doubt it, myself - but what happened in the North Valley, under those Russian guns, all for nothing, that's bravery, and you may take the word of a true-blue coward for it. It's beyond my ken, anyway, thank G.o.d, so I'll say no more of it, or of Balaclava, which as far as my Russian adventure is concerned, was really just an unpleasant prelude. Enough's enough; Lord Tennyson may have the floor for me.

The journey from Yalta through the woody hills to Kertch was not noteworthy; once you've seen a corner of the Crimea you've seen it all, and it's not really Russia. From Kertch, where a singularly surly and uncommunicative French-speaking civilian took me in charge (with a couple of dragoons to remind me what I was), we went by sloop across the Azov Sea to Taganrog, a dirty little port, and joined the party of an imperial courier whose journey lay the same way as ours. Ah-ha, thinks I, we'll travel in style, which shows how mistaken one can be.

We travelled in two telegues, which are just boxes on wheels, with a plank at the front for the driver, and straw or cushions for the pa.s.sengers. The courier was evidently in no hurry, for we crawled along at an abominably slow pace, although telegues can travel at a tremendous clip when they want to, with a bell clanging in front, and everyone scattering out of their way. It always puzzled me, when I later saw the shocking condition of Russian roads, with their ruts and pot-holes, how the highways over which the telegues travelled were always smooth and level. The secret- was this: telegues were used only by couriers and officials of importance, and before they came to a stretch of road, every peasant in the area was turned out to sand and level it.

So as we lumbered along, the courier in state in the first telegue, and Flashy with his escort in the second, there were always peasants standing by the roadside, men and women, in their belted smocks and ragged puttees, silent, unmoving, staring as we rolled by. This dull brooding watchfulness got on my nerves, especially at the post stations, where they used to a.s.semble in silent groups to stare at us - they were so different from the Crim Tartars I had seen, who are lively, tall, well-made men, even if their women are seedy. The steppe Russians were much smaller, and ape-like by comparison.

Of course, what I didn't realize then was that these people were slaves - real bound, European white slaves, which isn't easy to understand until you see it. This wasn't always so; it seems that Boris G.o.dunov - whom most of you will know as a big fellow who takes about an hour and a half to die noisily in an opera - imposed serfdom on the Russian peasants, which meant that they became the property of the n.o.bles and land-owners, who could buy and sell them, hire them out, starve them, lash them, imprison them, take their goods, beasts and womenfolk whenever they chose - in fact, do anything short of maiming them permanently or killing them. They did those things, too, of course, for I saw them, but it was officially unlawful.

The, serfs were just like the n.i.g.g.e.r slaves in the States - worse off, if anything, for they didn't seem to realize they were slaves. They looked on themselves as being attached to the soil ("we belong to the master, but the land is ours", was a saying among them) and traditionally they had bits of land to work for their own benefit three days on their patch each week, three on the master's, was supposed to be the rule, but wherever I went it seemed to be six on the master's and one for themselves, if they were lucky.

It may not seem possible to you that in Europe just forty years ago white folk could be used like this, that they could be flogged with rods and whips up to ten times a day, or knouted (which is something infinitely worse), or banished to Siberia for years at their landlord's whim; all he had to do was pay the cost of their transportation. They could be made to wear spiked collars, the women could be kept in harems, the men could be drafted off to the army so that the owners could steal their wives without embarra.s.sment, their children could be sold off- and in return for this they were meant to be grateful to their lords, and literally crawl in front of them, calling them "father", touching their heads on the ground, and kissing their boots. I've watched them do it - just like political candidates at home. I've seen a lot of human sorrow and misery in my time, but the lot of the Russian serf was the most appalling I've ever struck.

Of course, it's all changed now; they freed the serfs in '61, just a few years after I was there, and now, I'm told, they are worse off than ever. Russia depended on slavery, you see, and when they freed them they upset the balance, and there was tremendous starvation and the economy went to blazes - well, in the old days the landlords had at least kept the serfs alive, for their own benefit, but after emanc.i.p.ation, why should they? And it was all nonsense, anyway; the Russians will always be slaves - so will most of the rest of mankind, of course, but it tends to be more obvious among the Ruskis.

For one thing, they look so d.a.m.ned slavish. I remember the first time I really noticed serfs, the first day's drive out of Taganrog. It was at a little village post-station, where some official was thrashing a peasant - don't know why - and this dull clown was just standing and letting himself be caned by a fellow half his size, hardly even wincing under the blows. There was a little crowd of serfs looking on, ugly, dirty-looking rascals in hairy blue smocks and rough trousers, with their women and a few ragged brats - and they were just watching, like cowed, stupid brutes. And when the little official finally broke his cane, and kicked the peasant and screamed at him to be off, the fellow just lumbered away, with the others trailing after him. It was as though they had no feeling whatever.

Oh, it was a cheery place, all right, this great empire of Russia as I first saw it in the autumn of '54 - a great ill-worked wilderness ruled by a small landed aristocracy with their feet on the necks of a huge human-animal population, with Cossack devils keeping order when required. It was a brutal, backward place, for the rulers were ever fearful of the serfs, and held back everything educational or progressive - even the railway was discouraged, in case it should prove to be revolutionary - and with discontent every-where, especially among those serfs who had managed to better themselves a little, and murmurings of revolt, the iron hand of government was pressing ever harder. The "white terror", as they called the secret police, were everywhere; the whole population was on their books, and everyone had to have his "billet", his "ticket to live" - without it you were n.o.body, you did not exist. Even the n.o.bility feared the police, and it was from a landlord that I heard the Russian saying about being in jail - "Only there shall we sleep sound, for only there are we safe. "21 The land we travelled through was a fit place for such people - indeed, you have to see it to understand why they are what they are. I've seen big countries before - the American plains on the old wagon-trails west of St Louis, with the whispering gra.s.ses waving away and away to the very edge of the world, or the Saskatchewan prairies in gra.s.shopper time, dun and empty under the biggest sky on earth. But Russia is bigger: there is no sky, only empty s.p.a.ce overhead, and no horizon, only a distant haze, and endless miles of sun-scorched rank gra.s.s and emptiness. The few miserable hamlets, each with its rickety church, only seemed to emphasize the loneliness of that huge plain, imprisoning by its very emptiness - there are no hills for a man to climb into or to catch his imagination, nowhere to go: no wonder it binds its people to it.

It appalled me, as we rolled along, with nothing to do but strain your eyes for the next village, soaked by the rain or sweating in the sun, or sometimes huddling against the first wintry gusts that swept the steppes - they seemed to have all weathers together, and all bad. For amus.e.m.e.nt, of course, you could try to determine which stink was more offensive - the garlic chewed by the driver or the grease of his axles - or watch the shuttlec.o.c.ks of the wind-witch plant being blown to and fro. I've known dreary, depressing journeys, but that was the limit; I'd sooner walk through Wales.

The truth is, I was beginning to find Russia a frightening place, with its brooding, brutish people and countryside to match; one began to lose the sense of s.p.a.ce and time. The only reliefs were provided by our halts at the way-stations - poor, flea-ridden places with atrocious accommodation and worse food. You'd been able to get decent beef in the Crimea for a penny a pound, but here it was stchee and borsch, which are cabbage soups, horse-meat porridge, and sweet flour tarts, which were the only palatable things available. That, and their tea, kept me alive; the tea is good, provided you can get "caravan tea", which is Chinese, and the best. The wine they may put back in the moujiks*(*Peasants.) for me.

So my spirits continued to droop, but what shook them worst was an incident on the last morning of our journey when we had halted at a large village only thirty versts [twenty miles] from Starotorsk, the estate to which I was being sent. It wasn't so different, really, from the peasant-thrashing I'd already seen, yet it, and the man involved, branded on my mind the knowledge of what a fearful, barbarous, sickeningly cruel land this Russia was.

The village lay on what seemed to be an important cross-roads; there was a river, I remember, and a military camp, and uniforms coming and going from the munic.i.p.al building where my civilian took me to report my arrival - everything has to be reported to someone or other in Russia, in this case the local registrar, a surly, bull-necked brute in a grey tunic, who pawed over the papers, eyeing me nastily the while.

These Russian civil servants are a bad lot - pompous, stupid and rude at the best. They come in various grades, each with a military t.i.tle - so that General or Colonel So-and-so turns out to be someone who neglects the parish sanitation or keeps inaccurate records of livestock. The brutes even wear medals, and are immensely puffed-up, and unless you bribe them lavishly they will cause you all the trouble they can.

I was waiting patiently, being eyed curiously by the officials and officers with whom the munic.i.p.al hall was packed, and the registrar picked his teeth, scowling, and then launched into a great tirade in Russian - I gather it was addressed against all Englishmen in general and me in particular. He made it clear to my escort, and everyone else, that he considered it a gross waste of board and lodging that I should be housed at all - he'd have had me in the salt-mines for a stinking foreigner who had defiled the holy soil of Mother Russia - and so forth, until he got quite worked up, banging his desk and shouting and glaring, so that the noise and talk in the room died away as everyone stopped to listen.

It was just jack-in-office unpleasantness, and I had no choice but to ignore it. But someone else didn't. One of the officers who had been standing to one side, chatting, suddenly strolled forward in front of the registrar's table, paused to drop his cigarette and set a foot on it, and then without warning lashed the registrar full across the face with his riding crop. The fellow shrieked and fell back in his chair, flinging up his hands to ward another blow; the officer said something in a soft, icy voice, and the trembling hands came down, revealing the livid whip-mark on the coa.r.s.e bearded face.

There wasn't a sound in the room, except for the registrar's whimpering, as the officer leisurely raised his crop again, and with the utmost deliberation slashed him across the face a second time, laying the bearded cheek open, while the creature screamed but didn't dare move or protect himself A third slash sent man and chair over, the officer looked at his whip as though it had been in the gutter, dropped it on the floor, and then turned to me.

"This offal," says he, and to my amazement he spoke in English, "requires correction. With your permission, I shall reinforce the lesson." He looked at the blubbering, bleeding registrar crawling out of the wreck of his chair, and rapped out a string of words in that level, chilly whisper; the stricken man changed course and came wriggling across to my feet, babbling and snuffling at my ankles in a most disgusting fashion, while the officer lit another cigarette and looked on.

"He will lick your boots," says he, "and I have told him that if he bleeds on them, I shall have him knouted. You wish to kick him in the face?"

As you know, I'm something in the bullying line myself, and given a moment I dare say I'd have accepted; it isn't every day you have the opportunity. But I was too amazed - aye, and alarmed, too, at the cold, deliberate brutality I'd seen, and the registrar seized the opportunity to scramble away, followed by a shattering kick from my protector.

"Sc.u.m - but rather wiser sc.u.m," says he. "He will not insult a gentleman again. A cigarette, colonel?" And he held out a gold case of those paper abominations I'd tried at Sevastopol, but hadn't liked. I let him light one for me; it tasted like dung soaked in treacle.

"Captain Count Nicholas Pavlovitch Ignatieff,"22 says he, in that cold, soft voice, "at your service." And as our eyes met through the cigarette smoke I thought, hollo, this is another of those momentous encounters. You didn't have to look at this chap twice to remember him forever. It was the eyes, as it so often is - I thought in that moment of Bismarck, and Charity Spring, and Akbar Khan; it had been the eyes with them, too. But this fellow's were different from anything yet: one was blue, but the other had a divided iris, half-blue, half-brown, and the oddly fascinating effect of this was that you didn't know where to look, but kept shifting from one to the other.

For the rest, he had gingerish, curling hair and a square, masterful face that was no way impaired by a badly-broken nose. He looked tough, and immensely self-a.s.sured; it was in his glance, in the abrupt way he moved, in the slant of the long cigarette between his fingers, in the rakish tilt of his peaked cap, in the immaculate white tunic of the Imperial Guards. He was the kind who knew exactly what was what, where everything was, and precisely who was who - especially himself. He was probably a devil with women, admired by his superiors, hated by his rivals, and abjectly feared by his subordinates. One word summed him up: b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"I caught your name, in that beast's outburst," says he. He was studying me calmly, as a doctor regards a specimen. "You are the officer of Balaclava, I think. Going to Starotorsk, to be lodged with Colonel Count Pencherjevsky. He already has another English officer - under his care." I tried to meet his eye and not keep glancing at the registrar, who had hauled himself up at a nearby table, and was shakily trying to staunch his gashed face: no one moved a finger to help him. For some reason, I found my cigarette trembling between my fingers; it was foolish, with this outwardly elegant, precise, not unfriendly young gentleman doing no more than make civil conversation. But I'd just seen him at work, and knew the kind of soulless, animal cruelty behind the suave mask. I know my villains, and this Captain Count Ignatieff was a bad one; you could feel the savage strength of the man like an electric wave.

"I will not detain you, colonel," says he, in that same cold murmur, and there was all the immeasurable arrogance of the Russian n.o.bleman in the way he didn't look or beckon for my civilian escort, but simply turned his head the merest fraction, and the fellow came scurrying out of the silent crowd.

"We may meet at Starotorsk," says Ignatieff, and with the slightest bow to me he turned away, and my escort was hustling me respectfully out to the telegue, as though he couldn't get away fast enough. I was all for it; the less time you spend near folk like that, the better.

It left me shaken, that little encounter. Some people are just terrible, in the true sense of the word - I knew now, I thought, how Tsar Ivan had earned that nickname: it implies something far beyond the lip-licking cruelty of your ordinary torturer. Satan, if there is one, is probably a Russian; no one else could have the necessary soulless brutality; it is just part of life to them.

I asked my civilian who Ignatieff was, and got an unwilling mumble in reply. Russians don't like to talk about their superiors at any time; it isn't safe, and I gathered that Ignatieff was so important, and so high-born - mere captain though he was - that you just didn't mention him at all. So I consoled myself that I'd probably seen the last of him (ha!) and took stock of the scenery instead. After a few miles the bare steppe was giving way to large, well-cultivated fields, with beasts and peasants labouring away, the road improved, and presently, on an eminence ahead of us there was a great, rambling timbered mansion with double wings, and extensive outbuildings, all walled and gated, and the thin smoke of a village just visible beyond. We bowled up a fine gravel drive between well-kept lawns with willow trees on their borders, past the arched entrance of a large courtyard, and on to a broad carriage sweep before the house, where a pretty white fountain played.

Well, thinks I, cheering up a bit, this will do. Civilization in the midst of barbarism, and very fine, too. Pleasant grounds, genteel accommodation, salubrious out-look, company's own water no doubt, to suit overworked military man in need of rest and recreation. Flashy, my son, this will answer admirably until they sign the peace. The only note out of harmony was the Cossack guard lounging near the front steps, to remind me that I was a prisoner after all.

A steward emerged, bowing, and my civilian explained that he would conduct me to my apartment, and thereafter I would doubtless meet Count Pencherjevsky. I was led into a cool, light-panelled hall, and if anything was needed to restore my flagging spirits it was the fine furs on the well-polished floor, the comfortable leather furniture, the flowers on the table, the cosy air of civilian peace, and the delightful little blonde who had just descended the stairs. She was so unexpected, I must have goggled at her like poor w.i.l.l.y in the presence of his St John's Wood wh.o.r.e.

And she was worth a long stare. About middle height, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, plump-bosomed, tiny in the waist, with a saucy little upturned nose, pink, dimpled cheeks and a cloud of silvery-blonde hair, she was fit to make your mouth water especially if you hadn't had a woman in two months, and had just finished a long, dusty journey through southern Russia, gaping at misshapen peasants. I stripped, seized, and mounted her in a twinkling of my mind's eye, as she tripped past, I bowing my most military bow, and she disregarding me beyond a quick, startled glance from slanting grey eyes. May it be a long war, thinks I, watching her bouncing out of sight, and then my attention was taken by the major-domo, muttering the eternal "Pajalsta, excellence," and leading me up the broad, creaky staircase, along a turning pa.s.sage, and finally halting at a broad door. He knocked, and an English voice called: "Come in - no, hang it all - khadee-tyeh!"

I grinned at the friendly familiar sound, and strode in, saying: "Hollo, yourself, whoever you are," and putting out my hand. A man of about my own age, who had been reading on the bed, looked up in surprise, swung his legs to the ground, stood up, and then sank back on the bed again, gaping as though I were a ghost. He shook his head, stuttering, and then got out: "Flashman! Good heavens!"

I stopped short. The face was familiar, somehow, but I didn't know from where. And then the years rolled away, and I saw a boy's face under a tile hat, and heard a boy's voice saying: "I'm sorry, Flashman." Yes, it was him all right - Scud East of Rugby.

For a long moment we just stared at each other, and then we both found our voices in the same phrase: ".What on earth are you doing here?" And then we stopped, uncertainly, until I said: "I was captured at Balaclava, three weeks back."

"They took me at Silistria, three months ago. I've been here five weeks and two days."

And then we stared at each other some more, and finally I said: "Well, you certainly know how to make a fellow at home. Ain't you going to offer me a chair, even?"

He jumped up at that, colouring and apologizing - still the same raw Scud, I could see. He was taller and thinner than I remembered; his brown hair was receding, too, but he still had that quick, awkward nervousness I remembered.

"I'm so taken aback," he stuttered, pulling up a chair for me. "Why - why, I am glad to see you, Flashman! Here, give me your hand, old fellow! There! Well - well - my, what a mountainous size you've grown, to be sure! You always were a big . . . er, a tall chap, of course, but ... I say, isn't this a queer fix, us meeting again like this ... after so long! Let's see, it must be fourteen, no fifteen, years since . . . since . . . ah ..."

"Since Arnold kicked me out for being p.i.s.sy drunk?" He coloured again. "I was going to say, since we said goodbye."

"Aye. Well, ne'er mind. What's your rank, Scud? Major, eh? I'm a colonel."

"Yes," says he. "I see that." He gave me an odd, almost shy grin. "You've done well - everyone knows about you all the fellows from Rugby talk about you, when one meets 'em, you know ... "

"Do they, though? Not with any great love, I'll be bound, eh, young Scud?"