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 my boy, I kept thinking; you’re going to live. That being the case, head up, look alive and keep your eyes open.

      Presently in came a little dapper chap in a fine white uniform, black boots, and a helmet with a crowned eagle. “Lanskey,” says he, in good French – which most educated Russians spoke, by the way – “Major, Cuirassiers of the Guard. Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?”

      “Flashman,” says I, “Colonel, 17th Lancers.”

      “Enchanted,” says he, bowing. “May I request that you accompany me to General Liprandi, who is most anxious to make the acquaintance of such a distinguished and gallant officer?”

      Well, he couldn’t have said fairer; I bucked up at once, and he led me out, through a curious throng of officers and staff hangers-on, into a great tent where about a dozen senior officers were waiting, with a genial-looking, dark-whiskered fellow in a splendid sable coat, whom I took to be Liprandi, seated behind a table. They stopped talking at once; a dozen pairs of eager eyes fixed on me as Lanskey presented me, and I stood up tall, ragged and muck-smeared though I was, and just stared over Liprandi’s head, clicking my heels.

      He came round the table, right up to me, and said, also in excellent French: “Your pardon, colonel. Permit me.” And to my astonishment he stuck his nose up close to my lips, sniffing.

      “What the devil?” cries I, stepping back.

      “A thousand pardons, sir,” says he. “It is true, gentlemen,” turning to his staff. “Not a suspicion of liquor.” And they all began to buzz again, staring at me.

      “You are perfectly sober,” says Liprandi. “And so, as I have ascertained, are your troopers who have been taken prisoner. I confess, I am astonished.²⁰ Will you perhaps enlighten us, colonel, what was the explanation of that … that extraordinary action by your light cavalry an hour ago? Believe me,” he went on, “I seek no military intelligence from you – no advantage of information. But it is beyond precedent – beyond understanding. Why, in God’s name, did you do it?”

      Now, I didn’t know, at that time, precisely what we had done. I guessed we must have lost three-quarters of the Light Brigade, by a hideous mistake, but I couldn’t know that I’d just taken part in the most famous cavalry action ever fought, one that was to sound round the world, and that even eye-witnesses could scarcely believe. The Russians were amazed; it seemed to them we must have been drunk, or drugged, or mad – they weren’t to guess that it had been a ghastly accident. And I wasn’t going to enlighten them. So I said:

      “Ah, well, you know, it was just to teach you fellows to keep your distance.”

      At this they exclaimed, and shook their heads and swore, and Liprandi looked bewildered, and kept muttering: “Five hundred sabres! To what end?”, and they crowded round, plying me with questions – all very friendly, mind, so that I began to get my bounce back, and played it off as though it were just another day’s work. What they couldn’t fathom was how we’d held together all the way to the guns, and hadn’t broken or turned back, even with four saddles empty out of five, so I just told ’em, “We’re British cavalry,” simple as that, and looked them in the eye. It was true, too, even if no one had less right to say it than I.

      At that they stamped and swore again, incredulously, and one huge chap with a beard began to weep, and insisted on embracing me, stinking of garlic as he was, and Liprandi called for brandy, and demanded of me what we, in English, called our light cavalry, and when I told him they all raised their glasses and shouted together: “Thee Light Brigedde!” and dashed down their glasses and ground them underfoot, and embraced me again, laughing and shouting and patting me on the head, while I, the unworthy recipient, looked pretty bluff and offhand and said, no, dammit all, it was nothing, just our usual form, don’t you know. (I should have felt shame, doubtless, at the thought that I, old windy Harry, was getting the plaudits and the glory, but you know me. Anyway, I’d been there, hadn’t I, all the way; should I be disqualified, just because I was babbling scared?)

      After that it was all booze and good fellowship, and when I’d been washed and given a change of clothes Liprandi gave me a slap-up dinner with his staff, and the champagne flowed – French, you may be certain; these Russians know how to go to war – and they were all full of attention and admiration and a thousand questions, but every now and then they would fall silent and look at me in that strange way that every survivor of the charge has come to recognize: respectfully, and almost with reverence, but with a hint of suspicion, as though you weren’t quite canny.

      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 battle-field, 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 СКАЧАТЬ