SRS, how do you suppose they kept their heads warm?

Abby, here this is for you, from the above mentioned book:
'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 those 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 bewildrement, 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...
'You cannot move from here, sir!' It is all uphill! We must hold our ground - there's no other hope!' Beatson pointed uphill frantically...
'You cannot advance, sir!' shouts Beatson again.
'Can't I, by God!' roars Scarlett, throwing away his hat.
'You just watch me!' He lugged out his sabre and waved it.
'Ready, Greys? Ready, old Skins? Remember Waterloo, you fellas, what? Trumpeter - sound the ... the thing, whatever it is! Oh, the devil! Come on, Flashman! Tally-ho!'
And he dug in his heels, gave one final yell of 'Come on, you fellas!' and set his horse at the hill like a madman. There was a huge, crashing shout from behind, the squadrons leaped forward, my horse reared, and I found myself galloping along, almost up Scarlett's dock, with Beatson at my elbow shouting, 'Oh, what the blazes - charge! Trumpeter, charge! charge! charge!'
They were all stark, raving mad, of course. When I think of them - and me, God help me - tearing up that hill, and that overwhelming force lurching down towards us, gathering speed with every step, I realize that there's no end to human folly, or human luck, either. It was ridiculous, it was nonsense, that old red-faced pantaloon, who'd never fired a shot or swung a sabre in action before, and was fit for nothing but whipping off hounds, urging his charger up that hill, with the whole Heavy Brigade at his heels, and poor old suffering Flashy jammed in between, with nothing to do but hope to God that by the time the two irresistible forces met, I'd be somewhere in the back in the mob behind.
And the brutes were enjoying it, too! Those crazy Ulstermen were whooping like Apaches, and the Greys, as they thundered forward, began to make that hideous droning noise deep in their throats.....