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, either. 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 the 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 up-hill, 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 see, 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 a
nd 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!"
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 bloodthirsty 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!"
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