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 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!"