The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Campbell’s right, sir,” says he. “They must be up there in the north valley in strength.”

  “How d’ye know?” says Scarlett, goggling.

  “The firing, sir. Listen to it – that’s not just cannon. There – you hear? That’s Whistling Dick! If they have mortars with ’em, they’re not skirmishing!”

  “By God!” says Scarlett. “Well I’m damned! I can’t tell one from another, but if you say so, Beatson, I –”

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

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

  “By God!” cries Scarlett. “By God! Those are Russians – damn ’em!”

  “Left about!” Beatson was yelling. “Greys, stand fast! Cunningham, close ’em up! Inniskillings – close order! Connor, Flynn, keep ’em there! Curzon, get those squadrons of the Fifth up here, lively now!”

  Scarlett was sitting gaping at the ridge, damning his eyes and the Russians alternately until Beatson jerked at his sleeve.

  “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? Damned 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 damned 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 bastards! 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? Damn 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 God!” 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, God 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, cither. 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 God 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 mass was at th
e 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 mass 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 bastards! 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 mass 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 uphill, hey? Damn ’em, damn ’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 damned 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 sec, 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 damned 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 hell 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 bloody 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 something about not being able to abide these damned 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, damned 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 massaging, 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, nobody 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 arse for him, and my own.

  I sat up there on the Sapoune crest, feeling bloody 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, damn 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 horsemen 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, bigod, that’re still gettin’ out of their beds somewhere. Jaysus, it makes me sick!”