Flashman at the Charge fp-4

by George MacDonald Fraser

  "Where is Sir Colin?" cries I, dismounting, and they pointed to where he was pacing down between the ranks in my direction. I went forward, and delivered my message.

  "Oot o' date," says he, when he had read it. "Ye don't look weel, Flashman. Bide a minute. I've a note here for Lord Raglan." And he turned to one of his officers, but at that moment the shouting across the plain redoubled, there was the thunderous plumping of shot falling just beyond the Highland position, and Campbell paused to look across the plain towards the Causeway Heights.

  "Aye," says he, "there it is."

  I looked towards the Heights, and my heart came up into my throat.

  Our cavalry was now away to the left, at the Sevastopol end of the plain, but on the Heights to the right, near the captured redoubts, the whole ridge seemed to have come alive. Even as we watched, the movement resolved itself into a great mass of cavalry—Russian cavalry, wheeling silently down the side of the Heights in our direction. They've told me since that there were only four squadrons, but they looked more like four brigades, blue uniforms and grey, with their sabres out, preparing to descend the long slope from the Heights that ran down towards our position.

  It was plain as a pikestaff what they were after, and if I could have sprouted wings in that moment I'd have been fluttering towards the sea like a damned gull. Directly behind us the road to Balaclava lay open; our own cavalry were out of the hunt, too far off to the left; there was nothing between that horde of Russians and the Balaclava base—the supply line of the whole British army—but Campbell's few hundred Highlanders, a rabble of Turks on our flank, and Flashy, full of wind and horror.

  Campbell stared for a moment, that granite face of his set; then he pulled at his dreary moustache and roared an order. The ranks opened and moved and closed again, and now across our ridge there was a double line of Highlanders, perhaps a furlong from end to end, kneeling down a yard or so on the seaward side of the crest. Campbell looked along them from our stance at the right-hand extremity of the line, bidding the officers dress them. While they were doing it, there was a tremendous caterwauling from the distant flank, and there were the Turks, all order gone, breaking away from their positions in the face of the impending Russian charge, flinging down their arms and tearing headlong for the sea road behind us.

  "Dross," says Campbell.

  I was watching the Turks, and suddenly, to their rear, riding towards us, and then checking and wheeling away southward, I recognized the fair hair and riding fig of Fanny Duberly. She was flying along as she passed our far flank, going like a little jockey—she could ride, that girl.

  "Damn all society women," says Campbell. And it occurred to me, even through the misery of my stomach and my rising fear, that Balaclava Plain that morning was more like the Row—Fanny Duberly out riding, and Cardigan ambling about haw-hawing.

  I looked towards the Russians; they were rumbling down the slope now, a bare half-mile away; Campbell shouted again, and the long scarlet double rank moved forward a few paces, with a great swishing of their kilts and clatter of gear, and halted on the crest, the front rank kneeling and the second standing behind them. Campbell glanced across at the advancing mass of the Russian horse, measuring the distance.

  "Ninety-third!" he shouted. "There is no retreat from here! Ye must stand!"

  He had no need to tell me; I couldn't have moved if I had wanted to. I could only gape at that wall of horsemen, galloping now, and then back at the two frail, scarlet lines that in a moment must be swept away into bloody rabble with the hooves smashing down on them and the sabres swinging; it was the finish, I knew, and nothing to do but wait trembling for it to happen. I found myself staring at the nearest kneeling Highlander, a huge, swarthy fellow with his teeth bared under a black moustache; I remember noticing the hair matting the back of his right hand as it gripped his musket. Beyond him there was a boy, gazing at the advancing squadrons with his mouth open; his lip was trembling.

  "Haud yer fire until I give the wurr-rd!" says Campbell, and then quite deliberately he stepped a little out before the front rank and drew his broadsword, laying the great glittering blade across his chest. Christ, I thought, that's a futile thing to do—the ground was trembling under our feet now, and the great quadruple rank of horsemen was a bare two hundred yards away, sweeping down at the charge, sabres gleaming, yelling and shouting as they bore down on us, a sea of flaring horse heads and bearded faces above them.

  "Present!" shouts Campbell, and moved past me in behind the front rank. He stopped behind the boy with the trembling lip. "Ye never saw the like o' that comin' doon the Gallowgate," says he. "Steady now, Ninety-third! Wait for my command!"

  They were a hundred yards away now, that thundering tide of men and horses, the hooves crashing like artillery on the turf. The double bank of muskets with their fixed bayonets covered them; the locks were back, the fingers hanging on the triggers; Campbell was smiling sourly beneath his moustache, the madman; he glanced to his left along the silent lines—give the word, damn you, you damned old fool, I wanted to shout, for they were a bare fifty yards off, in a split second they would be into us, he had left it too late -

  "Fire!" he bellowed, and like one huge bark of thunder the front-rank volley crashed out, the smoke billowed back in our faces, and beyond it the foremost horsemen seemed to surge up in a great wave; there was a split-second of screaming confusion, with beasts plunging and rearing, a hideous chorus of yells from the riders, and the great line crashed down on the turf before us, the men behind careering into the fallen horses and riders, trying to jump them or pull clear, trampling them, hurtling over them in a smashing tangle of limbs and bodies.

  "Fire!" roars Campbell above the din, and the pieces of the standing rank crashed together into the press; it seemed to shudder at the impact, and behind it the Russian ranks wheeled and stumbled in confusion, men screaming and going down, horses lashing out blindly, sabres gleaming and flying. As the smoke cleared there was a great tangled bloody bank of stricken men and beasts wallowing within a few yards of the kneeling Highlanders—they'll tell you, some of our historians, that Campbell fired before they reached close range, but here's one who can testify that one Russian, with a fur-crested helmet and pale blue tunic rolled right to within a foot of us; the swarthy Highlander nearest me didn't have to advance a step to plunge his bayonet into the Russian's body.

  A great yell went up from the Ninety-third; the front rank seemed to leap forward, but Campbell was before them, bawling them back. "Damn your eagerness!" cries he. "Stand fast! Reload!"

  They dropped back, snarling like dogs, and Campbell turned and calmly surveyed the wreckage of the Russian ranks. There were beasts thrashing about everywhere and men crawling blindly away, the din of screaming and groaning was fearful, and a great reek that you could literally see was steaming up from them. Behind, the greater part of the Russian squadrons was turning, reforming, and for a moment I thought they were coming again, but they moved off back towards the Heights, closing their ranks as they went.

  "Good," says Campbell, and his sword grated back into its scabbard.

  "Ye niver saw a sight like that goin' back up the Gallowgate, Sir Colin," pipes a voice from somewhere, and they began to laugh and cheer, and yell their heathenish slogans, shaking their muskets, and Campbell grinned and pulled at his moustache again. He saw me—I hadn't stirred a yard since the charge began, I'd been so petrified—and walked across.

  "I'll add a line to my message for Lord Raglan," says he, and looks at me. "Ye've mair colour in yer cheeks now, Flashman. Field exercises wi' the Ninety-third must agree wi' ye."

  And so, with those kilted devils still holding their ranks, and the Russians dying and moaning before them, I waited while he dictated his message to one of his aides. Now that the terror was past, my belly was aching horribly and I felt thoroughly ill again, but not so ill that I wasn't able to note (and admire) the carriage of the retreating Russian cavalry. In charging, I had noticed how they had opened the
ir ranks at the canter and then closed them at the gallop, which isn't easy; now they were doing the same thing as they retired towards the Heights, and I thought, these fellows ain't so slovenly as we thought. I remember thinking they'd perhaps startle Jim the Bear and his Light Brigade—but most of all, from that moment of aftermath, I can still see vividly that tangled pile of Russian dead, and sprawled out before them the body of an officer, a big grey-bearded man with the front of his blue tunic soaked in blood, lying on his back with one knee bent up, and his horse standing above him, nuzzling at the dead face.

  Campbell put a folded paper into my hand and stood, shading his eyes with a hand under his bonnet-rim, as he watched the Russian horse canter up the Causeway Heights.

  "Poor management," says he. "They'll no' come this way again. In the meantime, I've said to Lord Raglan that in my opeenion the main Russian advance will now be directed north of the Causeway, and will doubtless be wi' artillery and horse against our cavalry. What it is doin' sittin' yonder, I cannae—but, hollo! Is that Scarlett movin'? Hand me that glass, Cattenach. See yonder."

  The Russian cavalry were now topping the Causeway ridge, vanishing from our view, but on the plain farther left, perhaps half a mile from us, there was movement in the ranks of our Heavy Brigade: a sudden uniform twinkle of metal as the squadrons nearest to us turned.

  "They're coming this way," says someone, and Campbell snapped his glass shut.

  "Behind the fair," says he, glumly—I never saw him impatient yet. Where other men would get angry and swear, Campbell simply got more melancholy. "Flashman—on your way to Lord Raglan, I'll be obliged if you'll present my compliments to General Scarlett, or Lord Lucan, whichever comes first in your road, and tell them that in my opeenion they'll do well to hold the ground they have, and prepare for acteevity on the northern flank. Away wi' ye, sir."

  I needed no urging. The farther I could get from that plain, the better I'd be suited, for I was certain Campbell was right. Having captured the eastern end of the Causeway Heights, and run their cavalry over the central ridge facing us, it was beyond doubt that the Russians would be moving up the valley north of the Heights, advancing on the plateau position which we occupied before Sevastopol. God knew what Raglan proposed to do about that, but in the meantime he was holding our cavalry on the southern plain—to no good purpose. They hadn't budged an inch to take the retreating Russian cavalry in flank, as they might have done, and now, after the need for their support had passed, the Heavies were moving down slowly towards Campbell's position.

  I rode through their ranks—Dragoon Guards and a few Skins, riding in open order, eyeing me curiously as I galloped through—"That's Flashman, ain't it?" cries someone, but I didn't pause. Ahead of me I could see the little knot of coloured figures, red and blue, of Scarlett and his staff; as I reined up, they were cheering and laughing, and old Scarlett waved his hat to me.

  "Ho-ho, Flashman!" cries he. "Were you down there with the Sawnies? Capital work, what? That's a bloody nose for Ivan, I say. Ain't it, though, Elliot? Dam' fine, dam' fine! And where are you off to, Flashman, my son?"

  "Message to Lord Raglan, sir," says I. "But Sir Colin Campbell also presents his compliments, and advises that you should move no nearer to Balaclava at present."

  "Does he, though? Beatson, halt the Dragoons, will you? Now then, why not? Lord Lucan has ordered us to support the Turks, you know, in case of Russian movement towards Balaclava."

  "Sir Colin expects no further movement there, sir. He bids you look to your northern flank," and I pointed to the Causeway Heights, only a few hundred yards away. "Anyway, sir, there are no longer any Turks to support. Most of 'em are probably on the beach by now."

  "That's true, bigod!" Scarlett exploded in laughter. He was a fat, cheery old Falstaff, mopping his bald head with a hideously-coloured scarf, and then dabbing the sweat from his red cheeks. "What d'ye think, Elliot? No point in goin' down to Campbell that I can see; he and his red-shanks don't need support, that's certain."

  "True, sir. But there is no sign of Russian movement to our north, as yet."

  "No," said Scarlett, "that's so. But I trust Campbell's judgment, ye know; clever fella. If he smells Ruskis to our north, beyond the Heights, well, I dunno. I trust an old hound any day, what?" He sniffed and mopped himself again, tugging at his puffy white whiskers. "Tell you what, Elliot, I think we'll just hold on here, and see what breaks cover, hey? What d'ye say to that, Beatson? Flashman? No harm in waitin', is there?"

  He could dig trenches for all I cared; I was already measuring the remaining distance across the plain westward; once in the gullies I'd be out of harm's way, and could pick my way to Raglan's headquarters at my leisure. North of us, the ground sloping up to the Heights through an old vineyard was empty; so was the crest beyond, but the thump of cannon from behind it seemed to be growing closer to my nervous imagination. There was an incessant whine and thump of shot; Beatson was scanning the ridge anxiously through his glass.

  "Campbell's right, sir," says he. "They must be up there in the north valley in strength."

  "How d'ye know?" says Scarlett, goggling.

  "The firing, sir. Listen to it—that's not just cannon. There—you hear? That's Whistling Dick! If they have mortars with 'em, they're not skirmishing!"

  "By God!" says Scarlett. "Well I'm damned! I can't tell one from another, but if you say so, Beatson, I -"

  "Look yonder!" It was one of his young gallopers, up in his stirrups with excitement, pointing. "The ridge, sir! Look at 'em come!"

  We looked, and for the second time that day I forgot my gurgling aching belly in a freezing wave of fear. Slowly topping the crest, in a great wave of colour and dancing steel, was a long rank of Russian horsemen, and behind them another, and then another, moving at a walk. They came over the ridge as if they were in review, extended line after line, and then slowly closed up, halting on the near slope of the ridge, looking down at us. God knows how far their line ran from flank to flank, but there were thousands of them, hanging over us like an ocean roller frozen in the act of breaking, a huge body of blue and silver hussars on the left, and to the right the grey and white of their dragoons.

  "By God!" cries Scarlett. "By God! Those are Russians—damn 'em!"

  "Left about!" Beatson was yelling. "Greys, stand fast! Cunningham, close 'em up! Inniskillings—close order!

  Connor, Flynn, keep 'em there! Curzon, get those squadrons of the Fifth up here, lively now!"

  Scarlett was sitting gaping at the ridge, damning his eyes and the Russians alternately until Beatson jerked at his sleeve.

  "Sir! We must prepare to receive them! When they take the brake off they'll roll down -"

  "Receive 'em?" says Scarlett, coming back to earth. "What's that, Beatson? Damned if I do!" He reared up in his stirrups, glaring along to the left, where the Greys' advanced squadrons were being dressed to face the Russian force. "What? What? Connor, what are you about there?" He was gesticulating to the right now, waving his hat. "Keep your damned Irishmen steady there! Wild devils, those! Where's Curzon, hey?"

  "Sir, they have the slope of us!" Beatson was gripping Scarlett by the sleeve, rattling urgently in his ear. "They outflank us, too—I reckon that line's three times the length of ours, and when they charge they can sweep round and take us flank, both sides, and front! They'll swallow us, sir, if we break—we must try to hold fast!"

  "Hold fast nothin'!" says Scarlett, grinning all over his great red cheeks. "I didn't come all this way to have some dam' Cossack open the ball! Look at 'em, there, the saucy bastards! What? What? Well, they're there, and we're here, and I'm goin' to chase the scoundrels all the way to Moscow! What, Elliot? Here, you, Flashman, come to my side, sir!"

  You may gather my emotions .at hearing this; I won't attempt to describe them. I stared at this purpling old lunatic in bewilderment, and tried to say something about my message to Raglan, but the impetuous buffoon grabbed at my bridle and hauled me along as he took post in front of his squad
rons.

  "You shall tell Lord Raglan presently that I have engaged a force of enemy cavalry on my front an' dispersed 'em!" bawls he. "Beatson, Elliot, see those lines dressed! Where are the Royals, hey? Steady, there, Greys! Steady now! Inniskillings, look to that dressing, Flynn! Keep close to me, Flashman, d'ye hear? Like enough I'll have somethin' to add to his lordship. Where the devil's Curzon, then? Damn the boy, if it's not women it's somethin' else! Trumpeter, where are you? Come to my left side! Got your tootler, have you? Capital, splendid!"

  It was unbelievable, this roaring fat old man, waving his hat like some buffer at a cricket match, while Beatson tried to shout sense into him.

  "You cannot move from here, sir! It is all uphill! We must hold our ground—there's no other hope!" He pointed up hill frantically. "Look, they're moving, sir! We must hold fast!"

  And sure enough, up on the Heights a quarter of a mile away, the great Russian line was beginning to advance, shoulder to shoulder, blue and silver and grey, with their sabres at the present; it was a sight to send you squealing for cover, but there I was, trapped at this idiot's elbow, with the squadrons of the Greys hemming us in behind.

  "You cannot advance, sir!" shouts Beatson again.

  "Can't I, by God!" roars Scarlett, throwing away his hat. "You just watch me!" He lugged out his sabre and waved it. "Ready, Greys? Ready, old Skins? Remember Waterloo, you fellas, what? Trumpeter—sound the … the thing, whatever it is! Oh, the devil! Come on, Flashman! Tally-ho!"