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 was feeling as lonely as the policeman at Herne Bay¹⁴ when I loafed into Billy Russell’s tent, and found him scribbling away by a storm lantern, with Lew Nolan perched on an ammunition box, holding forth as usual.

      “Two brigades of cavalry!” Nolan was saying. “Two brigades, enough to have pursued and routed the whole pack of ’em! And what do they do? Sit on their backsides, because Lucan’s too damned scared to order a bag of oats without a written order from Raglan. Lord Lucan? Bah! Lord bloody Look-on, more like.”

      “Hm’m,” says Billy, writing away, and glanced up. “Here, Flash – you’ll know. Were the Highlanders first into the redoubt? I say yes, but Lew says not.¹⁵ Stevens ain’t sure, and I can’t find Campbell anywhere. What d’ye say?”

      I said I didn’t know, and Nolan cried what the devil did it matter, anyway, they were only infantry. Billy, seeing he would get no peace from him, threw down his pen, yawned, and says to me:

      “You look well used up, Flash. Are you all right? What’s the matter, old fellow?”

      I told him Willy was lost, and he said aye, that was a pity, a nice lad, and I told him what Raglan had said to me, and at this Nolan forgot his horses for a minute, and burst out:

      “By God, isn’t that of a piece? He’s lost the best part of five brigades, and he rounds on one unfortunate galloper because some silly little ass who shouldn’t have been here at all, at all, gets himself blown up by the Russians! If he was so blasted concerned for him, what did he let him near the field for in the first place? And if you was to wet-nurse him, why did he have you galloping your arse off all day? The man’s a fool! Aye, and a bad general, what’s worse – there’s a Russian army clear away, thanks to him and those idle Frogs, and we could have cut ’em to bits on this very spot! I tell you, Billy, this fellow’ll have to go.”

      “Come, Lew, he’s won his fight,” says Russell, stroking his beard. “It’s too bad he’s set on you, Flash – but I’d lose no sleep over it. Depend upon it, he’s only voicing his own fears of what may be said to him – but he’s a decent old stick, and bears no grudges. He’ll have forgotten about it in a day or so.”

      “You think so?” says I, brightening.

      “I should hope so!” cries Nolan. “Mother of God, if he hasn’t more to think about, he should have. Here’s him and Lucan between ’em have let a great chance slip, but by the time Billy here has finished tellin’ the British public about how the matchless Guards and stern Caledonians swept the Muscovite horde aside on their bayonet points –”

      “I like that,” says Billy, winking at me. “I like it, Lew; go on, you’re inspiring.”

      “Ah, bah, the old fool’ll be thinking he’s another Wellington,” says Lew. “Aye, you can laugh, Russell – tell your readers what I’ve said about Lucan, though – I dare ye! That’d startle ’em!”

      This talk cheered me up, for after all, it was what Russell thought – and wrote – that counted, and he never even mentioned Willy’s death in his despatches to The Times. I heard that Raglan later referred to it, at a meeting with his generals, and Cardigan, the dirty swine, said privately that he wondered why the Prince’s safety had been entrusted to a common galloper. But Lucan took the other side, and said only a fool would blame me for the death of another staff officer, and de Lacy Evans said Raglan should think himself lucky it was Willy he had lost and not me. Sound chaps, some of those generals.

      And Nolan was right – Raglan and everyone else had enough to occupy them, after the Alma. The clever men were for driving on hard to Sevastopol, a bare twenty miles away, and with our cavalry in good fettle we could obviously have taken it. But the Frogs were too tired, or too sick, or too Froggy, if you ask me, and days were wasted, and the Ruskis managed to bolt the door in time.

      What was worse, the carnage at Alma, and the cholera, had thinned the army horribly, there was no proper transport, and by the time we had lumbered on to Sevastopol peninsula we couldn’t have robbed a hen-roost. But the siege had to be laid, and Raglan, looking wearier all the time, was thrashing himself to be cheerful and enthusiastic, with his army wasting, and winter coming, and the Frogs groaning at him. Oh, he was brave and determined and ready to take on all the odds – the worst kind of general imaginable. Give me a clever coward every time (which, of course, is why I’m such a dam’ fine general myself).

      So the siege was laid, the French and ourselves sitting down on the muddy, rain-sodden gullied plateau before Sevastopol, the dismalest place on earth, with no proper quarters but a few poor huts and tents, and everything to be carted up from Balaclava on the coast eight miles away. Soon the camp, and the road to it, was a stinking quagmire; everyone looked and felt filthy, the rations were poor, the work of preparing the siege was cruel hard (for the men, anyway), and all the bounce there had been in the army after Alma evaporated in the dank, feverish rain by day and the biting cold by night. Soon half of us were lousy, and the other half had fever or dysentery or cholera or all three – as some wag said, who’d holiday at Brighton if he could come to sunny Sevastopol instead?

      I didn’t take any part in the siege operations myself, not because I was out of favour with Raglan, but for the excellent reason that like so many of the army I spent several weeks on the flat of my back with what was thought at first to be cholera, but was in fact a foul case of dysentery and wind, brought on by my own hoggish excesses. On the march south after the Alma I had been galloping a message from Airey to our advance guard, and had come on a bunch of our cavalry who had bushwhacked a Russian baggage train and were busily looting it.¹⁶ Like a good officer, I joined in, and bagged as much champagne as I could carry, and a couple of fur cloaks as well. The cloaks were splendid, but the champagne must have carried the germ of the Siberian pox or something, for within a day I was blown up like a sheep on weeds, and spewing and skittering damnably. They sent me down to a seedy little house in Balaclava, not far from where Billy Russell was established, and there I lay sweating and rumbling, and wishing I were dead. Part of it I don’t remember, so I suppose I must have been delirious, but my orderly looked after me well, and since I still had all the late Willy’s gear and provisions – not that I ate much, until the last week – I did tolerably well. Better at least than any other sick man in the army; they were being carted down to Balaclava in droves, rotten with cholera and fever, lying in the streets as often as not.

      Lew Nolan came down to see me when I was mending, and gave me all the gossip – about how my old friend Fan Duberly was on hand, living on a ship in the bay, and how Cardigan’s yacht had arrived, and his noble lordship, pleading a weak chest, had deserted his Light Brigade for the comforts of life aboard, where he slept soft and stuffed his guts with the best. There were rumours, too, Lew told me, of Russian troops moving up in huge strength from the east, and he thought that if Raglan didn’t look alive, he’d find himself bottled up in the Sevastopol peninsula. But most of Lew’s talk was a great harangue against Lucan and Cardigan; to him, they were the clowns who had mishandled our cavalry so damnably and were preventing it earning the laurels which Lew thought it deserved. He was a dead bore on the subject, but I’ll not say he was wrong – we were both to find out all about that shortly.

      For now, although I couldn’t guess it, as I lay pampering myself with a little preserved jellied chicken and Rhine wine – of which Willy’s store-chest yielded a fine abundance – that terrible day was approaching, that awful thunderclap of a day when the world turned upside down in a welter of powder-smoke and cannon-shot and steel, which no one who lived through it will ever forget. Myself least of all. I never thought that anything could make Alma or the Kabul retreat seem like a charabanc picnic, but that day did, and I was through it, dawn to dusk, as no other man was. It was sheer bad luck that it was the very day I returned to duty. Damn that Russian champagne; СКАЧАТЬ