08 Flashman In The Great Game by George MacDonald Fraser

Author:George MacDonald Fraser
Language: eng
Format: azw
Published: 2010-10-19T23:00:00+00:00

Flashman In The Great Game

“Steady, all!” It was Wheeler, quieter now. “Riflemen - up to the parapet! Now hold your fire, until I give you the word! Steady, now!”

I peered over the parapet. Across the maidan there was silence, too, suddenly broken by the shrill note of a trumpet. There they were, looking like a rather untidy review - the ranks of red-coated infantry, in open order, just forward of the ruined buildings, and before them, within shot, the horse squadrons, half a dozen of them well spaced out. A musket cracked somewhere down the parapet, and Wheeler shouted:

“Confound it, hold that fire! D’you hear?”

We waited and watched as the squadrons formed, and the riding-master cursed under his breath.

“Sickenin’,” says he, “when you think I taught ‘em that. As usual - C Troop can’t dress! That’s Havildar Ram Hyder for you! Look at ‘em, like a bloody Paul Jones! Take a line from the right-hand troop, can’t you? Rest of’em look well enough, though, don’t they? There now, steady up. That’s better, eh?”

The man beyond him said something, and the riding-master laughed. “If they must charge us I’d like to see ‘em do it proper, for my own credit’s sake, that’s all.”

I tore my eyes away from that distant mass of men, and glanced round. The babu, flat on the ground, was turning his head to polish his spectacles; Bella Blair had her face hidden, but I noticed her fists were clenched. Wheeler had clapped his hat on, and was saying something to Moore; one of the bhistis was crawling on hands and knees along the line, holding a chaggle for the fellows to drink from.

Suddenly the distant trumpet sounded again, there was a chorus of cries from across the maidan, a volley of orders, and now the cavalry were moving, at a walk, and then at a trot, and there was a bright flicker along their lines as the sabres came out.

Oh, Christ, I thought, this is the finish. There seemed to be hordes of them, advancing steadily through the wisps of mist, the dust coming up in little clouds behind them, and the crackle of the sharpshooters started up again, the bullets whining overhead.

“Steady, all!” roars Wheeler again. “Wait for the word, remember!”

I had laid by my revolver and had my musket up on the parapet. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t swallow - I was remembering those masses of horsemen that had poured down from the Causeway Heights at Balaclava, and how disciplined fire had stopped them in their tracks - but those had been Campbell’s Highlanders shooting then, and we had nothing but a straggling line of sick crocks and civilians. They must break over us like a wave, brushing past our feeble volleys -

“Take aim!” yells Wheeler, “make every shot tell, and wait for my command!”

They were coming at the gallop now, perhaps three hundred yards off, and the sabres steady against the shoulders; they were keeping line damned well, and I heard my

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