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 squadrons.
'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!'
And he dug in his heels, gave one final yell of 'Come on, you fellas!' and set his horse at the hill like a madman. There was a huge, crashing shout from behind, the squadrons leaped forward, my horse reared, and I found myself galloping along, almost up Scarlett's dock, with Beatson at my elbow shouting, 'Oh, what the blazes —charge! Trumpeter, charge! charge! charge!'
They were all stark, raving mad, of course. When I think of them—and me, God help me—tearing up that hill, and that overwhelming force lurching down towards us, gathering speed with every step, I realize that there's no end to human folly, or human luck, either. It was ridiculous, it was nonsense, that old red-faced pantaloon, who'd never fired a shot or swung a sabre in action before, and was fit for nothing but whipping off hounds, urging his charger up that hill, with the whole Heavy Brigade at his heels, and poor old suffering Flashy jammed in between, with nothing to do but hope to God that by the time the two irresistible forces met, I'd be somewhere back in the mob behind.
And the brutes were enjoying it, too! Those crazy Ulstermen were whooping like Apaches, and the Greys, as they thundered forward, began to make that hideous droning noise deep in their throats; I let them come up on my flanks, their front rank hemming me in with glaring faces and glittering blades on either side; Scarlett was yards ahead, brandishing his sabre and shouting, the Russian mass was at the gallop, sweeping towards us like a great blue wave, and then in an instant we were surging into them, men yelling, horses screaming, steel clashing all round, and I was clinging like a limpet to my horse's right side, Cheyenne fashion, left hand in the mane and right clutching my Adams revolver. I wasn't breaking surface in that melee if I could help it. There were Greys all round me, yelling and cursing, slashing with their sabres at the hairy blue coats—'Give 'em the point! The point!' yelled a voice, and I saw a Greys trooper dashing the hilt of his sword into a bearded face and then driving his point into the falling man's body. I let fly at a Russian in the press, and the shot took him in the neck, I think; then I was dashed aside and swept away in the whirl of fighting, keeping my head ducked low, squeezing my trigger whenever I saw a blue or grey tunic, and praying feverishly that no chance slash would sweep me from the saddle.
I suppose it lasted five or ten minutes; I don't know. It seemed only a few seconds, and then the whole mass was struggling up the hill, myself roaring and blaspheming with the best of them; my revolver was empty, my hat was gone, so I dragged out my sabre, bawling with pretended fury, and seeing nothing but grey horses, gathered
