Chapter 3

      The 11th Light Dragoons at this time were newly back from India, where they had been serving since before I was born. They were a fighting regiment, and – I say it without regimental pride, for I never had any, but as a plain matter of fact – probably the finest mounted troops in England, if not in the world. Yet they had been losing officers, since coming home, hand over fist. The reason was James Brudenell, Earl of Cardigan.

      You have heard all about him, no doubt. The regimental scandals, the Charge of the Light Brigade, the vanity, stupidity, and extravagance of the man – these things are history. Like most history they have a fair basis of fact. But I knew him, probably as few other officers knew him, and in turn I found him amusing, frightening, vindictive, charming, and downright dangerous. He was God’s own original fool, there’s no doubt of that – although he was not to blame for the fiasco at Balaclava; that was Raglan and Airey between them. And he was arrogant as no other man I’ve ever met, and as sure of his own unshakeable rightness as any man could be – even when his wrong-headedness was there for all to see. That was his great point, the key to his character: he could never be wrong.

      They say that at least he was brave. He was not. He was just stupid, too stupid ever to be afraid. Fear is an emotion, and his emotions were all between his knees and his breastbone; they never touched his reason, and he had little enough of that.

      For all that, he could never be called a bad soldier. Some human faults are military virtues, like stupidity, and arrogance, and narrow-mindedness. Cardigan blended all three with a passion for detail and accuracy; he was a perfectionist, and the manual of cavalry drill was his Bible. Whatever rested between the covers of that book he could perform, or cause to be performed, with marvellous efficiency, and God help anyone who marred that performance. He would have made a first-class drill sergeant – only a man with a mind capable of such depths of folly could have led six regiments into the Valley at Balaclava.

      However, I devote some space to him because he played a not unimportant part in the career of Harry Flashman, and since it is my purpose to show how the Flashman of Tom Brown became the glorious Flashman with four inches in Who’s Who and grew markedly worse in the process, I must say that he was a good friend to me. He never understood me, of course, which is not surprising. I took good care not to let him.

      When I met him in Canterbury I had already given a good deal of thought to how I should conduct myself in the army. I was bent on as much fun and vicious amusement as I could get – my contemporaries, who praise God on Sundays and sneak off to child-brothels during the week, would denounce it piously as vicious, anyway – but I have always known how to behave to my superiors and shine in their eyes, a trait of mine which Hughes pointed out, bless him. This I had determined on, and since the little I knew of Cardigan told me that he prized smartness and show above all things, I took some pains over my arrival in Canterbury.

      I rolled up to regimental headquarters in a coach, resplendent in my new uniform, and with my horses led behind and a wagonload of gear. Cardigan didn’t see me arrive, unfortunately, but word must have been carried to him, for when I was introduced to him in his orderly room he was in good humour.

      “Haw-haw,” said he, as we shook hands. “It is Mr Fwashman. How-de-do, sir. Welcome to the wegiment. A good turn-out, Jones,” he went on to the officer at his elbow. “I delight to see a smart officer. Mr Fwashman, how tall are you?”

      “Six feet, sir,” I said, which was near enough right.

      “Haw-haw. And how heavy do you wide, sir?”

      I didn’t know, but I guessed at twelve and a half stone.

      “Heavy for a light dwagoon,” said he, shaking his head. “But there are compensations. You have a pwoper figure, Mr Fwashman, and bear yourself well. Be attentive to your duties and we shall deal very well together. Where have you hunted?”

      “In Leicestershire, my lord,” I said.

      “Couldn’t be better,” says he. “Eh, Jones? Very good, Mr Fwashman – hope to see more of you. Haw-haw.”

      Now, no one in my life that I could remember had ever been so damned civil to me, except toad-eaters like Speedicut, who didn’t count. I found myself liking his lordship, and did not realise that I was seeing him at his best. In this mood, he was a charming man enough, and looked well. He was taller than I, straight as a lance, and very slender, even to his hands. Although he was barely forty, he was already bald, with a bush of hair above either ear and magnificent whiskers. His nose was beaky and his eyes blue and prominent and unwinking – they looked out on the world with that serenity which marks the nobleman whose uttermost ancestor was born a nobleman, too. It is the look that your parvenu would give half his fortune for, that unrufflable gaze of the spoiled child of fortune who knows with unshakeable certainty that he is right and that the world is exactly ordered for his satisfaction and pleasure. It is the look that makes underlings writhe and causes revolutions. I saw it then, and it remained changeless as long as I knew him, even through the roll-call beneath Causeway Heights when the grim silence as the names were shouted out testified to the loss of five hundred of his command. “It was no fault of mine,” he said then, and he didn’t just believe it; he knew it.

      I was to see him in a different mood before the day was out, but fortunately I was not the object of his wrath; quite the reverse, in fact.

      I was shown about the camp by the officer of the day, a fair young captain, named Reynolds,³ with a brick-red face from service in India. Professionally, he was a good soldier, but quiet and no blood at all. I was fairly offhand with him, and no doubt insolent, but he took it without comment, confining himself to telling me what was what, finding me a servant, and ending at the stables where my mare – whom I had christened Judy, by the way – and charger were being housed.

      The grooms had Judy trimmed up with her best leather-work – and it was the best that the smartest saddler in London could show – and Reynolds was admiring her, when who should ride up but my lord in the devil of a temper. He reined in beside us, and pointed with a hand that shook with fury to a troop that had just come in under their sergeant, to the stable yard.

      “Captain Weynolds!” he bawled, and his face was scarlet. “Is this your twoop?”

      Reynolds said it was.

      “And do you see their sheepskins?” bawled Cardigan. These were the saddle sheepskins. “Do you see them, sir? What colour are they, I should like to know? Will you tell me, sir?”

      “White, my lord.”

      “White, you say? Are you a fool, sir? Are you colour-blind? They are not white, they are yellow – with inattention and slovenliness and neglect! They are filthy, I tell you.”

      Reynolds stood silent, and Cardigan raged on.

      “This was no doubt very well in India, where you learned what you probably call your duty. I will not have it here, do you understand, sir?” His eye rolled round the stable and rested on Judy. “Whose horse is this?” he demanded.