The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  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 bandage: 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 glasses 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 God! 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 glass 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 horsemen 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 glass, 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 bloody 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 God 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 God!” 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 glass 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 Ragla
n 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.18 All unnecessary repetition 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 hell 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 hell’s half acre, like a seaside sandcliff shot across by grassy 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 hell-for-leather. Besides, I wasn’t going to let that cocky 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 hell does it mean in the first place?” cries he. “It says here, ‘advance rapidly to the front’. Well, God 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 damned! He must have said offensive – how the hell 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, damn 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 damned 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 space 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 “Damned 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. “Damn 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 damned 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 passing 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 admired; 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 God, 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 passion, and as he drew abreast of me he rasped out:

  “The bloody fool! Does he want to sit on his great fat arse 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 bastard needs telling to act defensively – he’s capable of nothing else! Well, he’s got his bloody 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, damned 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 permission, 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 damned redoubts, chasing Raglan’s bloody guns – my God, after what I had been through already! In an instant, by pure chance, I’d been snatched 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 circumstances, except an extremity like this.