One of the Six Hundred: A Novel
for a little sword exercise, might be tempted to charge the Earl of
Cardigan's slender force; thus it became necessary to draw it off
without further delay, and to express his desire to that officer,
despatched General Airey, whose movements we watched with irrepressible
excitement.
"Your brigade will immediately retire, my lord, and by alternate
squadrons," said the general, reining in his horse, and saluting.
Lord Cardigan bowed, and gave the necessary orders for throwing back the
squadrons of direction.
"Right squadron and left--threes about--march--trot!"
The remainder of the 11th and 13th remained motionless in their saddles,
with swords drawn, waiting till the flank squadrons halted and fronted,
about a hundred yards in their rear, when their own turn came to retire,
and so the movement of retreating alternately in this fashion went on.
But the moment it began, General Baur's Russian brigade of horse
artillery came galloping out of the hollow, and were wheeled round and
unlimbered in battery on the ridge. The red flash of the first
field-piece made every heart bound and every pulse quicken; and ere we
had time for reflection, another and another boomed, with a cloud of
white smoke, from the green eminence. Then a gap appeared here and
there in the ranks of the 11th and 13th, as a horse, a hussar, or light
dragoon went down, and we saw them rolling in agony on the sward; but
their comrades closed in, holster to holster, and still the retreat by
alternate squadrons went coolly and quietly on. The six-pounder guns
attached to Cardigan's force had no power upon the enemy; but the
nine-pounders which accompanied our brigade slew many of the Russians at
their guns. At every boom that echoed through the still evening air,
the scared birds flew about, screaming and flapping their wings wildly,
till, at last, they actually grovelled among our horses' hoofs.
The 11th and 13th retired beyond us, and then came our turn to go threes
about, and fall back by squadrons, under cover of our artillery, whose
balls told so well that Beverley mentioned he could reckon through his
glass at least thirty-five Russian dragoons, with their horses, lying
stiff enough on the slope, where our nine-pounders had roughly loosed
their "silver cords" for ever. Prior to this, we had moved ten paces to
the left--a lucky thing for me, as a shrub which my horse had been
nibbling was torn into pieces by a five-inch shell a second or so after.
Glory apart, I was not sorry when we got the order to retire, for we
could achieve little honour here. My horse seemed sensible of our
danger, when the balls of the Russian artillery began to plough and tear
up the earth at his feet, or to hum past with a sound that made him
shrink. He kicked, lashed out behind, pawed with his forefeet, bore
with his teeth on the bit, and uttered strange snorts.
"By heaven! there is one of ours down!" exclaimed Jocelyn, my sub, in an
excited manner, as he turned in his saddle; and we saw a lancer in blue
lying on his back in our rear, his horse galloping away, and three
Russian skirmishers busy about him, while four dragoons were cantering
on to join them.
"'Tis poor Rakeleigh," said Studhome, galloping up; "a shot has just
smashed his right thigh."
"Colonel, may I try to save him--to recover his body?" I asked,
hurriedly.
"Certainly; but, Norcliff, be wary."
"Who will come with me?" cried I, wheeling round my horse.
"I, sir," replied Sergeant Dashwood.
"And I!" added Pitblado.
"And I! and I!" said others, unslinging their lances.
"Thanks, my brave lads!" cried Beverley. "Go at those devils like
bricks, and show them what true British pluck is!"
Attended by the first six who spoke, I galloped back to where the poor
fellow lay, heedless of the Russian cannon shot, and the three
skirmishers, in long grey coats and flat blue caps, who, after firing
their rifles without effect at us, scampered off to meet their troopers.
We found poor Rakeleigh quite dead, almost stripped already, and
hideously mutilated about the body. He had always been particular in
his person, and studiously fashionable in his dress. How often had we
quizzed those bandolined moustaches, now covered with froth and blood
gouts! His handsome face was terribly distorted, and his uniform was
almost gone--torn from him by those brutal Russian plunderers! Watch,
purse, and rings were also gone. We could but cut off a lock of his
rich brown hair to send to his poor mother in Athlone. He probably had
not been dead when overtaken by the Russians, as a bayonet wound was
perceptible in his breast. I had barely time to remark this, when a
shot from a Minie rifle whistled past me; and just as I sprang into my
saddle there was a shout and a crash--we were engaged in a _melee_ with
the seven Russians. Sergeant Dashwood pinned an infantry man to the
turf with his lance, and shot a trooper with the pistol which he grasped
in his bridle-hand. A gigantic Russian dragoon, with a red snub nose, a
thick black beard, and coarse green uniform, all over red braid, cut
through the shaft of Pitblado's lance, inflicting on his shoulder a
wound which many a volunteer officer would give a good round sum for the
honour of possessing; but, quick as lightning, Willie's sword was out,
and, after a few passes, he clove him through the glazed helmet down to
the nose. It was one of those tremendous strokes we read of sometimes,
but seldom see; such a stroke as that which Bruce gave Bohun, when he
"broke his good battle-axe" in front of the Scottish line. It rather
appalled our new acquaintances, who spurred away, dragging their two
infantry men with them. We then rode back to the regiment at a
hand-gallop; for we were compelled to leave the body of poor Rakeleigh.
What became of it I know not; but every vestige of it had disappeared
when we marched past that way on the morrow.
And so, as the twilight came down on land and ocean--on the plains of
the Chersonesus Taurica, and the waters of the Black Sea--ended this
"first approach to a passage at arms between Russia and the Western
Powers;" and Lord Raglan rejoiced in the steadiness and coolness
displayed by his slender force of cavalry in the now forgotten skirmish
of Bulganak, which the greater glories of the following day so
completely eclipsed.
"Poor Rakeleigh," said Beverley, as we gradually gathered at the place
where we had squatted before the alarm was given, and threw off our
accoutrements, while the grooms were unbitting our horses; "poor
lad--lying yonder to-night, mutilated and unburied--his first
engagement, too! Thank Heaven, his mother and sister don't see him as
we have done! But greater work is to come."
"Aw--the dooce, colonel!" said Berkeley, who, after the past danger, was
smoking his cigar vigorously, in a great flow, or rather revulsion, of
spirit; "what do you mean--haw--to infer?"
"That to-morrow we shall see the Russians, where their strength is all
concentrated in position on the heights of Alma!"
His words were rather prophetic; but all knew that matters must come to
the musket ere long. We passed the wine bottle from hand to hand, and
wrapped our cloaks and blankets about us preparatory to passing the
night as best we could. We were certainly less chatty and hilarious
than before, and had quite relinquished our jovial friend, _Mr. Punch_.
Doubtless each one was reflecting that poor Jack Rakeleigh's fate might
have been his own. If mine, would Louisa have shed a tear for me? The
doubt was a pang! We saw no more of General Baur, who fell back towards
the river Alma in the night; but long after we thought the affair over,
a shell, the last missile fired, came souse from a long gun into our
bivouac, and caused a new alarm.
Pitblado, after his wound was dressed, was about to feed his horse, and
placed the corn in a tin platter on the ground. While grooming the
charger, he saw a large raven come to feed at the corn. Twice he threw
a stone at it in vain--the greedy bird continued its repast obstinately.
On the third occasion, armed with another stone, he ran towards it, on
which the raven flew into a tree, where he croaked as angrily as if he
had Elijah to feed as well as himself. At that moment a shell--a
five-inch one---came whistling from the other side of the stream, and
exploded on the very place Pitblado had left, disembowelling and killing
his horse; so, in this instance, a raven was not the precursor of evil
fortune, or, as Willie said, sadly, while contemplating his dying
charger, "one hoodiecrow didna bode an ill wind."
At a future period I was fated to see more of the gallant Schleswiger
who commanded the Russian reconnaissance at Bulganak; but there is an
anecdote connected with his origin, and how he became a soldier, so
creditable to human nature, and that which is dying fast among us,
genuine love of home, that I may be pardoned relating it here, just as
Beverley told it in our bivouac--especially as it is only to be found in
the old _Utrecht Gazette_, or the scarcer memoirs of a Scottish soldier
of fortune, Count Bruce, neither of which may be within the reader's
reach. Prior to the conclusion of the dispute between Denmark and the
ducal house of Gottorp, when the Muscovite troops were in Schleswig and
Holstein, their cavalry were commanded by a general named Baur--a
soldier of fortune, who had attained his rank by merit and bravery
alone, his family and country being secrets to all save himself. His
troops occupied Husum, a small seaport at the mouth of the Hever, while
he, with his staff, lived in the old palace of the Duke Karl Peter of
Gottorp, who became Emperor of Russia, and lorded it over the people
with somewhat of a high hand. The little bailiwick was then a charming
place. The green meadows were fertile and rich, and spotted by golden
buttercups; the uplands were well tilled, and covered with wavy corn, or
deep rich clover; the farmhouses, of red brick and bright, yellow
thatch, were wondrously clean and pretty, their quaint porches covered
with flowing trailers, and borders gay with gorgeous hollyhocks.
The windmills whirled gaily in the breeze, and the laden boats, their
brown sails shining in the sun, floated lazily down the clear waters of
the river towards the calm and dark blue sea that stretched in the
distance far away--that sea where, as the Schleswigers aver, Waldemar
and Paine Jager, the Wild Huntsman, and Gron Jette, were never tired of
hunting and killing the mermaids, who sat on the slimy rocks, combing
their hair, and singing in the moonshine. All was peaceful, and all so
calm and rural, that the good men of Schleswig, their plump wives and
pretty daughters, trembled at the woes that might be wrought among them
by their bearded visitors from the Neva and the Wolga; and more than
ever were they alarmed on hearing that the general of the Muscovites had
sent for poor old Michel Baur, the miller by the wooden bridge, and also
for his wife, who went with many misgivings to the palace of the duke,
over which the standard with the cruel double eagle of the Czars was
flying.
"Make yourselves easy, my good people," said the Russian general,
kindly, as they entered the great hall, with eyes abashed and shrinking
hearts; "I mean only to do you a service, so this day you shall dine
with me."
Dine--dine with him--the general of the Muscovites? Did they hear
aright, or did their ears deceive them? Then he set the goodman Michel
and his goodwife Gretchen at table among the splendidly attired and
brilliantly accoutred officers of his staff--those counts and colonels
of Uhlans, hussars and cuirassiers, who gnawed their moustaches, and
raised their fierce eyebrows superciliously, with wonder and inquiry, at