And then heigh-ho, we were off on our balmy cruise across the Black Sea, a huge fleet of sixty thousand soldiers, only half of ’em rotten with sickness, British, Frogs, Turks, a few Bashi-bazooks, not enough heavy guns to fire more than a salute or two, and old General Scarlett sitting on top of a crate of hens learning, the words of command for a manoeuvring a cavalry brigade, closing his book on his finger, shutting his boozy old eyes, and shouting, ‘Walk, march, trot. Damme, what comes next?’
Flashman at the Charge, pp.59-60, Pan edition, 5th printing, 1979.
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Flashman, 
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General Scarlett, 
Crimean War.
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