Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 3: Flashman at the Charge, Flashman in the Great Game, Flashman and the Angel of the Lord. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ the word, to give the word that started the whole march, for Raglan sent me and Willy to gallop first to the rear guard and then to the advance guard with the order to march. In fact, I let Willy deliver the second message, for the advance guard was led by none other than Cardigan, and it was more than I could bear to look at the swine. We cantered through the army, and the fleeting pictures are in my mind still – the little French canteen tarts sitting laughing on the gun limbers, the scarlet stillness of the Guards, rank on rank, the bearded French faces with their kepis, and Bosquet balancing his belly above a horse too small for him, the sing-song chatter of the Highlanders in their dark green tartans, the sombre jackets of the Light Division, the red yokel faces burning in the heat, the smell of sweat and oil and hot serge, the creak of leather and the jingle of bits, the glittering points of the lances where the 17th sat waiting – and Willy burst out in excitement: “Our regiment, Harry!’ See how grand they look! What noble fellows they are!” – Billy Russell sitting athwart his mule and shouting “What is it, Flash? Are we off at last?”, and I turned away to talk to him while Willy galloped ahead to where the long pink and blue line of the 11th marked the van of the army.

      “I haven’t seen our friends so close before,” says Billy. “Look yonder.” And following his pointing finger, far out to the left flank, with the sun behind them, I saw the long silent line of horsemen on the crest, the lances like twigs in the hands of pygmies.

      “Cossacks,” says Billy. We’d seen ’em before, of course, the first night, scouting our landing, and I’d thought then, it’s well seen you ain’t Ghazis, my lads, or you’d pitch our whole force back into the sea before we’re right ashore. And as the advance was sounded, and the whole great army lumbered forward into the heat haze, with a band lilting “Garryowen”, and the chargers of the 17th snorting and fidgeting at the sound, I saw to my horror that Willy, having delivered his message, was not riding back towards me, but was moving off at a smart gallop towards the left flank.

      I cut out at once, to head him off, but he was light and his horse was fast, and he was a good three hundred yards clear of the left flank before I came up with him. He was cantering on, his eyes fixed on the distant ridge – and it was none so distant now; as I came up roaring at him, he turned and pointed: “Look, Harry – the enemy!”

      “You little duffer, what are you about?” cries I. “D’you want to get your head blown off?”

      “They are some way off,” says he, laughing, and indeed they were – but close enough to be able to see the blue and white stripes of the lance, and make out the shaggy fur caps. They sat immovable while we stared at them, and I felt the sweat turn icy on my spine in spite of the heat. These were the famous savages of Tartary, watching, waiting – and God knew how many of them there might be, in great hordes advancing on our pathetic little army, as it tootled along with its gay colours by the sea. I pulled Willy’s bridle round.

      “Out of this, my lad,” says I, “and don’t stray again without my leave, d’ye hear?”

      “Why, it is safe enough. None of them is advancing, or even looking like it. What a bore it is! If this were – oh, the Middle Ages, one of them would ride out and challenge us, and we could have a set-to while the army watched!” He was actually sitting there, with his eyes shining, and his hand twitching at his sabre-hilt, wanting a fight! A fine credit to me he was, you’ll agree. And before I could rebuke him, there was the boom of gunfire, beyond the ridge, and boom-boom-boom, and the whistle of shot ahead, and a little cloud of pink-panted Hussars broke away and went dashing over towards the ridge, sabres out. There were cries and orders, and a troop of horse artillery came thundering out towards us, and I had to shout at Willy to get him trotting back towards the army, while the horse artillery unlimbered, and wheeled their pieces, and crashed their reply to the Russian guns.

      He wanted to stay, but I wouldn’t have it. “Gallopers can get killed,” says I, “but not sitting with their mouths open staring at a peep-show.” To tell truth, the sound of those bloody guns had set my innards quaking again, in the old style. “Now – gallop!” says I.

      “Oh, very well,” says he. “But you need not be so careful of me, you know – I don’t mean to go astray just yet.” And seeing my expression, he burst out laughing: “My word, what a cautious old stick you are, Harry – you are getting as bad as Dr Winter!”

      And I wish I were with Dr Winter this minute, thinks I, whatever the old whoreson’s doing. But I was to remember what Willy had said – and in the next day or so, too, when the army had rolled on down the coast, choking with heat by day and shivering by the fires at night, and we had come at last to the long slope that runs down to a red-banked river with great bluffs and gullies beyond. Just a little Russian creek, and today in any English parish church you may see its name on stone memorials, on old tattered flags in cathedrals, in the metalwork of badges, and on the nameplates of grimy back streets beside the factories. Alma.

      You have seen the fine oil-paintings, I dare say – the perfect lines of guardsmen and Highlanders fronting up the hill towards the Russian batteries, with here and there a chap lying looking thoughtful with his hat on the ground beside him, and in the distance fine silvery clouds of cannon smoke, and the colours to the fore, and fellows in cocked hats waving their swords. I dare say some people saw and remember the Battle of the Alma like that, but Flashy is not among them. And I was in the middle of it, too, all on account of a commander who hadn’t the sense to realize that generals ought to stay in the rear, directing matters.

      It was bloody lunacy, from the start, and bloody carnage, too. You may know what the position was – the Russians, forty thousand strong, on the bluffs south of the Alma, with artillery positions dug on the forward slopes above the river, and our chaps, with the Frogs on the right, advancing over the river and up the slopes to drive the Ruskis out. If Menschikoff had known his work, or our troops had had less blind courage, they’d have massacred the whole allied army there and then. But the Russians fought as badly and stupidly as they nearly always do, and by sheer blind luck on Raglan’s part, and idiot bravery among our fellows, the thing went otherwise.

      You may read detailed accounts of the slaughter, if you wish, in any military history, but you may take my word for it that the battle was for all practical purposes divided into four parts, as follows. One, Flashy observes preliminary bombardment from his post in the middle of Raglan’s staff, consoling himself that there are about twenty thousand other fellows between him and the enemy. Two, Flashy is engaged in what seem like hours of frantic galloping behind the lines of the Frog battalions on the right, keeping as far from the firing as he decently can, and inquiring on Lord Raglan’s behalf why the hell the Frogs are not driving the seaward flank of the Russian position before them? Three, Flashy is involved in the battle with Lord Raglan. Four, Flashy reaps the fruits of allied victory, and bitter they were.

      It was supposed to begin, you see, with the Frogs turning the Ruskis’ flank, and then our chaps would roll over the river and finish the job. So for hours we sat there, sweating in the heat, and watching the powder-puff clouds of smoke popping out of the Russian batteries, and peppering our men in the left and centre. But the Frogs made nothing of their part of the business, and Nolan and I were to and fro like shuttlecocks to St Arnaud; he was looking like death, and jabbering like fury, while a bare half-mile away his little blue-coats were swarming up the ridges, and being battered, and the smoke was rolling back over the river in long grey wreaths.

      “Tell milor it will take a little longer,” he kept saying, and back we would gallop to Raglan. “We shall never beat the French at this rate,” says he, and when he was reminded that the enemy were the Russians, not the French, he would correct himself hurriedly, and glance round to see that no Frog gallopers were near to overhear. And at last, seeing our silent columns being pounded by the Russian shot as they lay waiting for the advance, he gave the word, and the long red lines began rolling down the slope to the river.

      There СКАЧАТЬ