The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I continued to ignore him. “Well, Squire,” says I to Brough, “I must be off; can’t stand gossiping with yachtsmen, you know,” and I wheeled away, leaving them gaping, and an indignant “Haw-haw” sounding behind me.

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

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

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

  “Aye,” says he, “there it is.”

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

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

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

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

  “Dross,” says Campbell.

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

  “Damn all society women,” says Campbell. And it occurred to me, even through the misery of my stomach and my rising fear, that Balaclava Plain that morning was more like the Row – Fanny Duberly out riding, and Cardigan ambling about haw-hawing.

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

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

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

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

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

  They were a hundred yards away now, that thundering tide of men and horses, the hooves crashing like artillery on the turf. The double bank of muskets with their fixed bayonets covered them; the locks were back, the fingers hanging on the triggers; Campbell was smiling sourly beneath his moustache, the madman; he glanced to his left along the silent lines – give the word, damn you, you damned old fool, I wanted to shout, for they were a bare fifty yards off, in a split second they would be into us, he had left it too late –

  “Fire!” he bellowed, and like one huge bark of thunder the front-rank volley crashed out, the smoke billowed back in our faces, and beyond it the foremost horsemen seemed to surge up in a great wave; there was a split-second of screaming confusion, with beasts plunging and rearing, a hideous chorus of yells from the riders, and the great line crashed down on the turf before us, the men behind careering into the fallen horses and riders, trying to jump them or pull clear, trampling them, hurtling over them in a smashing tangle of limbs and bodies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “They’re coming this way,” says someone, and Campbell snapped his glass shut.

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

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

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

  “Ho-ho, Flashman!” cries he. “Were you down there with the Sawnies? Capital work, what? That’s a bloody nose for Ivan, I say. Ain’t it, though, Elliot? Dam’ fine, dam’ fine! And where are you off to, Flashman, my son?”