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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 grave – 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 СКАЧАТЬ