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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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 was better than our own medical folk could have arranged at Balaclava.
Would you believe it, when I came in they raised a cheer? The pale faces lit up, those that could struggled upright in bed, and their non-com, who wasn’t wounded, threw me a salute.
“Ryan, 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’