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 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 uphill, 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 sec, 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 and 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’ СКАЧАТЬ