The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Kamerad! Ami! Sarte! Amigo! Oh God, 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 damned 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 hellish maelstrom, I set myself to collect my wits and consider what should be done.

  They stuck me in a tent, with two massive 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, God 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, Cuirassiers 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, gentlemen,” 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 God’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 glasses and shouted together: “Thee Light Brigedde!” and dashed down their glasses 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 c
urious 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 reassure 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 bloody 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 hellish 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 stitched 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 Dick 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 Dick,” 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 bastards, 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 bloody 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 Grass – 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 bloody 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 hell – 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 assailing 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 God, 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.