Flashman at the Charge fp-4

by George MacDonald Fraser

  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 curious 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 battlefield, 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 gr
ave—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.

  * * *

  The journey from Yalta through the woody hills to Kertch was not noteworthy; once you've seen a corner of the Crimea you've seen it all, and it's not really Russia. From Kertch, where a singularly surly and uncommunicative French-speaking civilian took me in charge (with a couple of dragoons to remind me what I was), we went by sloop across the Azov Sea to Taganrog, a dirty little port, and joined the party of an imperial courier whose journey lay the same way as ours. Ah-ha, thinks I, we'll travel in style, which shows how mistaken one can be.

  We travelled in two telegues, which are just boxes on wheels, with a plank at the front for the driver, and straw or cushions for the passengers. The courier was evidently in no hurry, for we crawled along at an abominably slow pace, although telegues can travel at a tremendous clip when they want to, with a bell clanging in front, and everyone scattering out of their way. It always puzzled me, when I later saw the shocking condition of Russian roads, with their ruts and pot-holes, how the highways over which the telegues travelled were always smooth and level. The secret- was this: telegues were used only by couriers and officials of importance, and before they came to a stretch of road, every peasant in the area was turned out to sand and level it.

  So as we lumbered along, the courier in state in the first telegue, and Flashy with his escort in the second, there were always peasants standing by the roadside, men and women, in their belted smocks and ragged puttees, silent, unmoving, staring as we rolled by. This dull brooding watchfulness got on my nerves, especially at the post stations, where they used to assemble in silent groups to stare at us—they were so different from the Crim Tartars I had seen, who are lively, tall, well-made men, even if their women are seedy. The steppe Russians were much smaller, and ape-like by comparison.

  Of course, what I didn't realize then was that these people were slaves—real bound, European white slaves, which isn't easy to understand until you see it. This wasn't always so; it seems that Boris Godunov—whom most of you will know as a big fellow who takes about an hour and a half to die noisily in an opera—imposed serfdom on the Russian peasants, which meant that they became the property of the nobles and land-owners, who could buy and sell them, hire them out, starve them, lash them, imprison them, take their goods, beasts and womenfolk whenever they chose—in fact, do anything short of maiming them permanently or killing them. They did those things, too, of course, for I saw them, but it was officially unlawful.

  The, serfs were just like the nigger slaves in the States—worse off, if anything, for they didn't seem to realize they were slaves. They looked on themselves as being attached to the soil ("we belong to the master, but the land is ours", was a saying among them) and traditionally they had bits of land to work for their own benefit three days on their patch each week, three on the master's, was supposed to be the rule, but wherever I went it seemed to be six on the master's and one for themselves, if they were lucky.

  It may not seem possible to you that in Europe just forty years ago white folk could be used like this, that they could be flogged with rods and whips up to ten times a day, or knouted (which is something infinitely worse), or banished to Siberia for years at their landlord's whim; all he had to do was pay the cost of their transportation. They could be made to wear spiked collars, the women could be kept in harems, the men could be drafted off to the army so that the owners could steal their wives without embarrassment, their children could be sold off- and in return for this they were meant to be grateful to their lords, and literally crawl in front of them, calling them "father", touching their heads on the ground, and kissing their boots. I've watched them do it—just like political candidates at home. I've seen a lot of human sorrow and misery in my time, but the lot of the Russian serf was the most appalling I've ever struck.

  Of course, it's all changed now; they freed the serfs in '61, just a few years after I was there, and now, I'm told, they are worse off than ever. Russia depended on slavery, you see, and when they freed them they upset the balance, and there was tremendous starvation and the economy went to blazes—well, in the old days the landlords had at least kept the serfs alive, for their own benefit, but after emancipation, why should they? And it was all nonsense, anyway; the Russians will always be slaves—so will most of the rest of mankind, of course, but it tends to be more obvious among the Ruskis.

  For one thing, they look so damned slavish. I remember the first time I really noticed serfs, the first day's drive out of Taganrog. It was at a little village post-station, where some official was thrashing a peasant—don't know why—and this dull clown was just standing and letting himself be caned by a fellow half his size, hardly even wincing under the blows. There was a little crowd of serfs looking on, ugly, dirty-looking rascals in hairy blue smocks and rough trousers, with their women and a few ragged brats—and they were just watching, like cowed, stupid brutes. And when the little official finally broke his cane, and kicked the peasant and screamed at him to be off, the fellow just lumbered away, with the others trailing after him. It was as though they had no feeling whatever.

  Oh, it was a cheery place, all right, this great empire of Russia as I first saw it in the autumn of '54—a great ill-worked wilderness ruled by a small landed aristocracy with their feet on the necks of a huge human-animal population, with Cossack devils keeping order when required. It was a brutal, backward place, for the rulers were ever fearful of the serfs, and held back everything educational or progressive—even the railway was discouraged, in case it should prove to be revolutionary—and with discontent every-where, especially among those serfs who had managed to better themselves a little, and murmurings of revolt, the iron hand of government was pressing ever harder. The "white terror", as they called the secret police, were everywhere; the whole population was on their books, and everyone had to have his "billet", his "ticket to live"—without it you were nobody, you did not exist. Even the nobility feared the police, and it was from a landlord that I heard the Russian saying about being in jail -

  "Only there shall we sleep sound, for only there are we safe. "21

  The land we travelled through was
a fit place for such people—indeed, you have to see it to understand why they are what they are. I've seen big countries before—the American plains on the old wagon-trails west of St Louis, with the whispering grasses waving away and away to the very edge of the world, or the Saskatchewan prairies in grasshopper time, dun and empty under the biggest sky on earth. But Russia is bigger: there is no sky, only empty space overhead, and no horizon, only a distant haze, and endless miles of sun-scorched rank grass and emptiness. The few miserable hamlets, each with its rickety church, only seemed to emphasize the loneliness of that huge plain, imprisoning by its very emptiness—there are no hills for a man to climb into or to catch his imagination, nowhere to go: no wonder it binds its people to it.

  It appalled me, as we rolled along, with nothing to do but strain your eyes for the next village, soaked by the rain or sweating in the sun, or sometimes huddling against the first wintry gusts that swept the steppes—they seemed to have all weathers together, and all bad. For amusement, of course, you could try to determine which stink was more offensive—the garlic chewed by the driver or the grease of his axles—or watch the shuttlecocks of the wind-witch plant being blown to and fro. I've known dreary, depressing journeys, but that was the limit; I'd sooner walk throug Wales.

  The truth is, I was beginning to find Russia a frightening place, with its brooding, brutish people and countryside to match; one began to lose the sense of space and time. The only reliefs were provided by our halts at the way-stations—poor, flea-ridden places with atrocious accommodation and worse food. You'd been able to get decent beef in the Crimea for a penny a pound, but here it was stchee and borsch, which are cabbage soups, horse-meat porridge, and sweet flour tarts, which were the only palatable things available. That, and their tea, kept me alive; the tea is good, provided you can get "caravan tea", which is Chinese, and the best. The wine they may put back in the moujiks*(*Peasants.) for me.