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 was a great reek of black smoke drifting along the banks from a burning hamlet right before us, and the white discharge of the Russian batteries rolled down in great clouds to meet it. The huge wavering lines of infantry vanished into it, and through gaps we could see them plunging into the river, their pieces above their heads, while the crash-crash-crash of the Russian guns reverberated down from the bluffs, and the tiny white spots of musket-fire began to snap like fire-crackers along the lips of the Russian trenches. And then the ragged lines of our infantry appeared beyond the smoke, clambering up the foot of the bluffs, and we could see the shot ploughing through them, tearing up the ground, and our guns were thundering in reply, throwing great fountains of earth up round the Russian batteries. Willy beside me was squirming in his saddle, yelling his head off with excitement, the little fool; it made no odds, for the din was deafening.
And Raglan looked round, and seeing the boy, smiled, and beckoned to me. He had to shout. "Keep him close, Flashman!" cries he. "We are going across the river presently," which was the worst news I had heard in weeks. Our attack was coming to a standstill; as the Russian firing redoubled, you could see our men milling anywhere at the foot of the bluffs, and the ground already thick with still bodies, in little heaps where the cannon had caught them, or singly where they had gone down before the muskets.
Then Nolan comes galloping up, full of zeal and gallantry, damn him, and shouted a message from the Frogs, and I saw Raglan shake his head, and then he trotted off towards the river, with the rest of us dutifully tailing on behind. Willy had his sabre out, God knows why, for all we had to worry about just then was the Russian shot, which was bad enough. We spurred down to the river, myself keeping Willy at the tail of the group, and I saw Airey throw aside his plumed hat just as we took the water. There were bodies floating in the stream, which was churned up with mud, and the smoke was billowing down and catching at our throats, making the horses rear and plunge—I had to grip Willy's bridle to prevent his being thrown. On our left men of the 2nd Division were criowded on the bank, waiting to go forward; they were retching and coughing in the smoke, and the small shot and balls were whizzing and whining by in a hideously frightening way. I just kept my head down, praying feverishly, as is my wont, and then I saw one of the other gallopers, just ahead of me, go reeling out of his saddle with the blood spouting from his sleeve. He staggered up, clutching at my stirrup, and bawling, "I am perfectly well, my lord, I assure you!" and then he rolled away, and someone else jumped down to see to him.
Raglan halted, cool as you like, glancing right and left, and then summoned two of the gallopers and sent them pounding away along the bank to find Evans and Brown, whose divisions were being smashed to pieces at the foot of the bluffs. Then he says, "Come along, gentlemen. We shall find a vantage point," and cantered up the gully that opened up before us just there in the bluff-face. For a wonder it seemed empty, all the Ruskis being on the heights to either side, and the smoke was hanging above our heads in such clouds you couldn't see more than twenty yards up the hill. A hell of a fine position for a general to be in, you may think, and Raglan must have thought so, too, for suddenly he spurred his horse at the hill to the left, and we all ploughed up behind him, scrambling on the shale and rough tufts, through the reeking smoke, until suddenly we were through it, and on the top of a little knoll at the bluff foot.
I'll never forget that sight. Ahead and to our left rose the bluffs, bare steep hillside for five hundred feet. We could see the Russian positions clear as day, the plumes of musket smoke spouting down from the trenches, and the bearded faces behind them. Directly to our left was a huge redoubt, packed with enemy guns and infantry; there were other great batteries above and beyond. In front of the big redoubt the ground was thick with the bodies of our men, but they were still swarming up from the river, under a hail of firing. And beyond, along the bluffs, they were still advancing, a great sprawling mass of scarlet coats and white cross belts, clawing their way up, falling, scattering, reforming and pressing on. For a mile, as far as one could see, they were surging up, over that hellish slope with the dead scattered before them, towards the smoking positions of the enemy.
Better here than there, thinks I, until I realized that we were sitting up in full view, unprotected, with the Ruski infantry not a hundred yards away. We were absolutely ahead of our own infantry, thanks to that fool Raglan—and he was sitting there, with his blue coat flapping round him, and his plumed hat on his head, as calm as if it were a review, clinging to his saddle with his knees alone, while he steadied his glass with his single arm. There was so much shot whistling overhead, you couldn't be sure whether they were firing on us with intent or not.
And then right up on the crest, above the batteries, we saw the Russian infantry coming down the slope—a great brown mass, packed like sardines, rank after rank of them. They came clumping slowly, inexorably down towards the batteries, obviously intent on rolling into our infantry below. They looked unstoppable, and Raglan whistled through his teeth as he watched them.
"Too good to miss, by George!" cries he, and turning, caught my eye. "Down with you, Flashman! Guns, at once!" and you may understand that I didn't need telling twice. "Stay there!" shouts I to Willy, and then had my charger down that slope like a jackrabbit. There were gun-teams labouring and splashing up the bank, and I bawled to them to make haste to the ridge. The horses were lashed up the muddy slope, the guns swinging wildly behind them; one of our gallopers got them positioned, with the gunners hauling them round by main force, and as I came back up the hill—none too swiftly—the first salvoes were screaming away to crash into the flank of the Russian columns.
It was havoc all along the bluffs, and smoking hell on that little hill. There were infantry pouring past us now, sweating, panting, smoke-blackened faces, and bayonets thrust out ahead as they surged by and upwards towards the Russian positions. They were shrieking and bawling like madmen, heedless apparently of the bloody holes torn in their ranks by the Russian firing; I saw two of them suddenly turn into pulp as a fusillade struck them, and another lying screaming with a thigh shot away. I looked for Raglan, and saw him with a couple of gallopers preparing to descend the hill; I looked for Willy, and there he was, his hat gone, shouting like a madman at the passing infantry.
And then, by God, he whirled up his sabre, and went flying along with them, across the face of the slope towards the nearest battery. His horse stumbled and recovered, and he waved his sword and huzza'd. "Come back, you German lunatic!" I yelled, and Raglan must have heard me, for he checked his horse and turned. Even with the shot flying and the screaming and the thunder of the guns, with the fate of the battle in his hands, those ears which were normally deaf to sense caught my words. He saw me, he saw Willy, careering away along the bluffs among the infantry, and he sang out: "After him, Flashman!"
Probably, addressed to any other man in the
army, that order would have evoked an immediate response. The Eye of the Chief, and all that. But I took one look along that shell-swept slope, with the bodies thick on it, and that young idiot riding through the blood and bullets, and I thought, by God, let him go for me. I hesitated, and Raglan shouted again, angrily, so I set my charger towards him, cupping a hand behind my ear, and yelling: "What's that, my lord?" He shouted and pointed again, stabbing with his finger, and then a shot mercifully ploughed up the ground between us, and as the dirt showered over me I took the opportunity to roll nimbly out of the saddle.
I clambered up again, like a man dazed, and rot him, he was still there, and looking thoroughly agitated. "The Prince, Flashman!" he bawls, and then one of the gallopers plucked at his coat, and pointed to the right, and off they went, leaving me clutching at my horse's head, and Willy a hundred yards away, in the thick of the advancing infantry, setting his horse to the breastwork of the battery. It baulked, and he reeled in the saddle, his sabre falling, and then he pitched straight back, losing his grip, and went down before the feet of the infantry. I saw him roll a yard or two, and then he lay still, as the advance passed over him.
Christ, I thought, he's done for, and as our fellows surged into the battery, and the firing from above slackened, I picked my way cautiously along, through those dreadful heaps of dead and dying and wounded, with the stink of blood and powder everywhere, and the chorus of shrieks and moans of agony in my ears. I dropped on one knee beside the little blue-clad figure among the crimson; he was lying face down. I turned him over, and vomited. He had half a face—one glazed eye, and brow, and cheek, and on the other side, just a gory mash, with his brains running out of it.
I don't know how long I crouched there, staring at him, horror-struck. Above me, I could hear all hell of firing and shouting still going on as the battle surged up the slope, and I shook with fear at it. I wasn't going near that again, not for a pension, but as I forced myself to look at what was left of Willy, I found myself babbling aloud: "Jesus, what'll Raglan say? I've lost Willy—my God, what will they say?" And I began cursing and sobbing—not for Willy, but out of shock and for the folly and ill-luck that had brought me to this slaughterhouse and had killed this brainless brat, this pathetic princeling who thought war was great sport, and had been entrusted to my safe-keeping. By God, his death could be the ruin of me! So I swore and wept, crouched beside his corpse.
"Of all the fearful sights I have seen on this day, none has so wrung my heart as this." That's what Airey told Raglan, when he described how he had found me with Willy's body above the Alma. "Poor Flashman, I believe his heart is broken. But to see the bravest blade on your staff, an officer whose courage is a byword in the army, weeping like a child beside his fallen comrade—it is a terrible thing. He would have given his own life a hundred times, I know, to preserve that boy."
I was listening outside the tent-flap, you see, stricken dumb with manly grief. Well, I thought, that's none so bad; crying with funk and shock has its uses, provided it's mistaken for noble tears. Raglan couldn't blame me, after all; I hadn't shot the poor little fool, or been able to stop him throwing his life away. Anyway, Raglan had a victory to satisfy him, and even the loss of a royal galloper couldn't sour that, you'd think. Aye, but it could.
He was all stern reproach when finally I stood in front of him, covered in dust, played out with fear, and doing my damndest to look contrite—which wasn't difficult.
"What," says he, in a voice like a church bell, "will you tell her majesty?"
"My lord," says I. "I am sorry, but it was no fault -"
He held up his one fine hand. "Here is no question of fault, Flashman. You had a sacred duty—a trust, given into your hands by your own sovereign, to preserve that precious life. You have failed, utterly. I ask again, what will you tell the Queen?"
Only a bloody fool like Raglan would ask a question like that, but I did my best to wriggle clear.
"What could I have done, my lord? You sent me for the guns, and -"
"And you had returned. Your first thought thereafter should have been for your sacred charge. Well, sir, what have you to say? Myself, in the midst of battle, had to point to where honour should have taken you at once. And yet you paused; I saw you, and -"
"My lord!" cries I, full of indignation. "That is unjust! I did not fully understand, in the confusion, what your order was, I -"
"Did you need to understand?" says he, all quivering sorrow. "I do not question your courage, Flashman; it is not in doubt." Not with me, either, I thought. "But I cannot but charge you, heavily though it weighs on my heart to do so, with failing in that … that instinct for your first duty, which should have been not to me, or to the army even, but to that poor boy whose shattered body lies in the ambulance. His soul, we may be confident, is with God." He came up to me, and his eyes were full of tears, the maudlin old hypocrite. "I can guess at your own grief; it has moved not only Airey, but myself. And I can well believe that you wish that you, too, could have found an honourable grave on the field, as William of Celle has done. Better, perhaps, had you done so." He sighed, thinking about it, and no doubt deciding that he'd be a deal happier, when he saw the Queen again, to be able to say: "Oh, Flashy's kicked the bucket, by the way, but your precious Willy is all right." Well, fearful and miserable as I was, I wasn't that far gone, myself.
He prosed on a bit, about duty and honour and my own failure, and what a hell of a blot I'd put on my copybook. No thought, you'll notice, for the blot he'd earned, with those thousands of dead piled up above the Alma, the incompetent buffoon.
"I doubt not you will carry this burden all your life," says he, with gloomy satisfaction. "How it will be received at home—I cannot say. For the moment, we must all look to our duty in the campaign ahead. There, it may be, reparation lies." He was still thinking about Flashy filling a pit, I could see. "I pity you, Flashman, and because I pity you, I shall not send you home. You may continue on my staff, and I trust that your future conduct will enable me to think that this lapse—irreparable though its consequences are—was but one terrible error of judgment, one sudden dereliction of duty, which will never—nay, can never—be repeated. But for the moment, I cannot admit you again to that full fellowship of the spirit in which members of my staff are wont to be embraced."
Well, I could stand that. He rummaged on his table, and picked up some things. "These are the personal effects of your … your dead comrade. Take them, as havoc all and let them be an awful reminder to you of duty undone, of trust neglected, and of honour—no, I will not say aught of honour to one whose courage, at least, I believe to be beyond reproach." He looked at the things; one of them was a locket which Willy had worn round his neck. Raglan snapped it open, and gave a little gulp. He held it out to me, his face all noble and working. "Look on that fair, pure face," cries he, "and feel the remorse you deserve. More than anything I can say, it will strike to your soul—the face of a boy's sweetheart, chaste, trusting, and innocent. Think of that poor, sweet creature who, thanks to your neglect, will soon be draining the bitterest cup of sorrow."
I doubted it myself, as I looked at the locket. Last time I'd seen her, the poor sweet creature had been wearing nothing but black satin boots. Only Willy in this wide world would have thought of wearing the picture of a St. John's Wood whore round his neck; he had been truly wild about her, the randy little rascal. Well, if I'd had my way, he'd still have been thumping her every night, instead of lying on a stretcher with only half his head. But I wonder if the preaching Raglan; or any of the pious hypocrites who were his relatives, would have called him back to life on those terms? Poor little Willy.
Well, if I was in disgrace, I was also in good health, and that's what matters. I might have been one of the three thousand dead, or of the shattered wounded lying shrieking through the dusk along that awful line of bluffs. There seemed to be no medical provision—among the British, anyway—and scores of our folk just lay writhing where they fell, or died in the arms of ma
tes hauling and carrying them down to the beach hospitals. The Russian wounded lay in piles by the hundred round our bivouacs, crying and moaning all through the night—I can hear their sobbing "Pajalsta! pajalsta!" still. The camp ground was littered with spent shot and rubbish and broken gear among the pools of congealed blood—my stars, wouldn't I just like to take one of our Ministers, or street-corner orators, or blood-lusting, breakfast-scoffing papas, over such a place as the Alma hills—not to let him see, because he'd just tut-tut and look anguished and have a good pray and not care a damn—but to shoot him in the belly with a soft-nosed bullet and let him die screaming where he belonged. That's all they deserve.
Not that I cared a fig for dead or wounded that night. I had worries enough on my own account, for in brooding about the injustice of Raglan's reproaches, I convinced myself that I'd be broke in the end. The loss of that mealy little German pimp swelled out of all proportion in my imagination, with the Queen calling me a murderer and Albert accusing me of high treason, and The Times trumpeting for my impeachment. It was only when I realized that the army might have other things to think about that I cheered up.
I 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.
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