"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 Raglan 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."' 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.
"My lord," says I. "This is preposterous—unreasonable! Lord Raglan will need me! Will you speak to his lordship—he must be made to see -"
"If there is one thing," says Cardigan, in that croaking drawl, "of which I am tolewably certain in this uncertain world, it is the total impossibiwity of making my Word Wucan see anything at all. He makes it cwear, furthermore, that there is no discussion of his orders." He looked me up and down. "You heard him, sir. Take station behind me, and to my weft. Bewieve me, I do not welcome your pwesence here any more than you do yourself."
At that moment, up came George Paget, my cheroot clamped between his teeth.
"We are to advance, Lord George," says Cardigan. "I shall need close support, do you hear?—your vewy best support, Lord George. Haw-haw. You understand me?"
George took the cheroot from his mouth, looked at it, stuck it back, and then said, very stiff: "As always, my lord, you shall have my support."
"Haw-haw. Vewy well," says Cardigan, and they turned aside, leaving me stricken, and nicely hoist with my own petard, you'll agree. Why hadn't I kept my mouth shut in Raglan's presence? I could have been safe and comfy up on the Sapoune—but no, I'd had to try to vent my spite, to get Cardigan in the way of a bullet, and the result was I would be facing the bullets alongside him. Oh, a skirmish round gun redoubts is a small enough thing by military standards—unless you happen to be taking part in it, and I reckoned I'd used up two of my nine lives today already. To make matters worse, my stomach was beginning to churn and heave most horribly again; I sat there, with my back to the Light Brigade, nursing it miserably, while behind me the orders rattled out, and the squadrons reformed; I took a glance round and saw the 17th were now directly behind me, two little clumps of lances, with the Cherrypickers in behind. And here came Cardigan, trotting out in front, glancing back at the silent squadrons.
He paused, facing them, and there was no sound now but the restless thump of hooves, and the creak and jingle of the gear. All was still, five regiments of cavalry, looking down the valley, with Flashy out in front, wishing he were dead and suddenly aware that dreadful things were happening under his belt. I moved, gasping gently to myself, stirring on my saddle, and suddenly, without the slightest volition on my part, there was the most crashing discharge of wind, like the report of a mortar. My horse started; Cardigan jumped in his saddle, glaring at me, and from the ranks of the 17th a voice muttered: "Christ, as if Russian artillery wasn't bad enough!" Someone giggled, and another voice said: "We've 'ad Whistlin' Dick—now we got Trumpetin' Harry an' all!"
"Silence!" cries Cardigan, looking like thunder, and the murmur in the ranks died away. And then, God help me, in spite of my straining efforts to contain myself, there was another fearful bang beneath me, echoing off the saddle, and I thought Cardigan would explode with fury.
I could not merely sit there. "I beg your pardon, my lord," says I, "I am not well-"
"Be silent!" snaps he, and he must have been in a highly nervous condition himself, otherwise he would never have added, in a hoarse whisper:
"Can you not contain yourself, you disgusting fellow?"
"My lord," whispers I, "I cannot help it—it is the feverish wind, you see -" and I interrupted myself yet again, thunderously. He let out a fearful oath, under his breath, and wheeled his charger, his hand raised; he croaked out "Bwigade will advance—first squadron, 17th—walk-march—twot!" and behind us the squadrons stirred and moved forward, seven hundred cavalry, one of them palsied with fear but in spite of that feeling a mighty relief internally—it was what I had needed all day, of course, like those sheep that stuff themselves on some windy weed, and have to be pierced to get them right again.
And that was how it began. Ahead of me I could see the short turf of the valley turning to plough, and beyond that the haze at the valley end, a mile and more away, and only a few hundred yards off, on either side, the enclosing slopes, with the small figures of Russian infantry clearly visible. You could even see their artillerymen wheeling the guns round, and scurrying among the limbers—we were well within range, but they were watching, waiting to see what we would do next. I forced myself to look straight ahead down the valley; there were guns there in plenty, and squadrons of Cossacks flanking them; their lance points and sabres caught the sun and threw it back in a thousand sudden gleams of light. Would they try a charge when we wheeled right towards the redoubts? Would Cardigan deploy the 4th Lights? Would he put the 17th forward as a screen when we made our flank movement? If I stuck close by him, would I be all right? Oh, God, how had I landed in this fix again—three times in a day? It wasn't fair—it was unnatural, and then my innards spoke again, resoundingly, and perhaps the Russian gunners heard it, for far down the Causeway on the right a plume of smoke blossomed out as though in reply, there was the crash of the discharge and the shot went screaming overhead, and then from all along the Causeway burst out a positive salvo of firing; there was an orange flash and a huge bang a hundred paces ahead, and a fount of earth was hurled up and came pattering down before us, while behind there was the crash of exploding shells, and a new barrage opening up from the hills on the left.
Suddenly it was, as Lord Tennyson tells us, like the very jaws of hell; I realized that, without noticing, I had started to canter, babbling gently to myself, and in front Cardigan was cantering too, but not as fast as I was (one celebrated account remarks that, "In his eagerness to be first at grips with the foe, Flashman was seen to forge ahead; ah, we can guess the fierce spirit that burned in that manly breast"—I don't know about that, but I'm here to inform you that it was nothing to the fierce spirit that burned in my manly bowels). There was a crash-crash-crash of flaming bursts across the front, and the sc
ream of shell splinters whistling by; Cardigan shouted "Steady!", but his own charger was pacing away now, and behind me the clatter and jingle was being drowned by the rising drum of hooves, from a slow canter to a fast one, and then to a slow gallop, and I tried to rein in that little mare, smothering my own panic, and snarling fiercely to myself: "Wheel, wheel, for God's sake! Why doesn't the stupid bastard wheel?" For we were level with the first Russian redoubt; their guns were levelled straight at us, not four hundred yards away, the ground ahead was being torn up by shot, and then from behind me there was a frantic shout.
I turned in the saddle, and there was Nolan, his sabre out, charging across behind me, shouting hoarsely, "Wheel, my lord! Not that way! Wheel—to the redoubts!" His voice was all but drowned in the tumult of explosion, and then he was streaking past Cardigan, reining his beast back on its haunches, his face livid as he turned to face the brigade. He flourished his sabre, and shouted again, and a shell seemed to explode dead in front of Cardigan's horse; for a moment I lost Nolan in the smoke, and then I saw him, face contorted in agony, his tunic torn open and gushing blood from shoulder to waist. He shrieked horribly, and his horse came bounding back towards us, swerving past Cardigan with Lew toppling forward on to the neck of his mount. As I stared back, horrified, I saw him careering into the gap between the Lancers and the 13th Light, and then they had swallowed him, and the squadrons came surging down towards me.
I turned to look for Cardigan; he was thirty yards ahead, tugging like damnation to hold his charger in, with the shot crashing all about him. "Stop!" I screamed. "Stop! For Christ's sake, man, rein in!" For now I saw what Lew had seen—the fool was never going to wheel, he was taking the Light Brigade straight into the heart of the Russian army, towards those massive batteries at the valley foot, that were already belching at us, while the cannon on either side were raking us from the flanks, trapping us in a terrible enfilade that must smash the whole command to pieces.
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