One of the Six Hundred: A Novel
touched our caps, and proceeded slowly along the eminence, towards a
quiet hollow, which Studhome and Scriven had previously inspected.
Berkeley was nervous and restless; his eyes wandered vaguely over the
moonlit scenery. I could see that he frequently passed his tongue over
his lips, as if to moisten them; he drew his gloves off and on, and
fidgeted with his stock and eyeglass a hundred times; yet he chatted
gaily enough to Scriven and the doctor, who told us that he had quite
patients enough on his list, without having them added to by fighting
duels.
"How romantic!--how terribly grand is all this prospect!" exclaimed
Hartshorn, pointing to Sebastopol.
"Aw--haw--doocid good!" drawled my antagonist; "but, Bob, my dear boy, I
am an Englishman, and England has been too well fed, too d----d cosy,
for centuries, to have much romance about her! and so--aw--aw--I have
none, thank Heaven! It is behind the age, Bob--behind the age!"
"An Englishman?" said I to Studhome. "His worthy father was an honest
Scotch tradesman, who could little have foreseen the despicable figure
his son is cutting to-night."
"I was up to the front before to-day," said Scriven, "and got a rifle
ball through my shako."
"It will serve for the--aw--aw--healthy purpose of ventilation," said
Berkeley, with a laugh--a very little one, however.
"My old quarters in Balaclava have been nicely ventilated by three
bullet-holes in the roof," said the doctor, a good-humoured, careless
young fellow.
"Bob is quartered there, on an old Turk, whose third wife is a female so
severely respectable, that she never feeds the hens without a veil on."
"Why?" asked Scriven.
"Can't you guess?" asked Berkeley.
"No."
"Because there is--aw--aw--a d----d cock among them."
This frivolous conversation was now interrupted by a hoarse voice in
front, challenging--
"Qui va la?"
"Friends!" I replied.
"_Anglaises_," added the other, and we found ourselves face to face with
a French mounted officer and a small party of workmen, with pickaxes and
shovels. In the horseman I immediately recognised Colonel Giomar, of
the French 77th Regiment, who demanded whither we were going in that
remarkable direction.
"'Tis an affair of honour, _monsieur le colonel_, and we propose to
settle it here," said I. "May we?"
"_Tres bien!_ but you have chosen a droll place and hour," replied the
colonel, a short, pot-bellied little man, in a scarlet kepi, which had a
great square peak, and who wore a frogged surtout, with a sabre in a
brass sheath.
"We cannot fight within our own lines, monsieur."
"I comprehend. You don't permit duelling in your service, I believe?"
"No."
"Indeed--singular!"
"Public opinion is against it."
"The King of France, Louis XIV., in 1700, tried to put down duelling, on
which an old field-officer said to him, '_Tudieu_, sire! you have put
down gaming and stage-playing; now you wish to make an end of duelling.
How the devil are officers and gentlemen to amuse themselves?' But,
with your permission, messieurs, I shall look and see how this affair
ends. I haven't seen one since we marched out of Cambrai."
Berkeley bowed, and gave him a ghastly smile. When viewed by the
moonlight, his face was so pale that even Scriven, his second, surveyed
him with disgust and annoyance. There was a clamorous fluttering about
my own heart. Thank that Heaven which I was about to face, my bearing
was very different from his!
We dismounted, and the soldiers of the French working-party led our
horses aside, as we had all come without grooms. The pot-bellied
Colonel Giomar seated himself on the turf, to enjoy a cigar and see the
sport; and the doctor, with professional _sang froid_, opened his case
of instruments, and drew forth lint and bandages from the pocket of the
Inverness cape which he wore over his uniform.
We now threw off our cloaks and swords. I wore an undress blue surtout;
but Berkeley was dressed in an entire suit of black--a sack-coat,
buttoned up to the neck, so that not a vestige of shirt was visible to
attract my eye, or fix an aim.
Let me hasten over what follows.
Apologies were neither asked nor offered. The affair was beyond such
amenities in the deadly game we were about to play. Twelve paces were
measured; we tossed up for the first fire, and it fell to--Berkeley!
Then I saw a smile of savage hope light up his eyes and curl his lip, as
he took his ground and carefully cocked his pistol, just feeling the
percussion-cap for a second with the fore-finger of his left hand.
Steadily I looked at him. I could see how he restrained his breathing,
lest the aim might waver; how a white glare came into his eye, as it
glanced along the barrel of the pistol, which he levelled full at my
head, in the pale moonlight.
"_Gardez la bombe!_" shouted Colonel Giomar, as he rolled away over the
turf like a butter-firkin. It was a moment of thrilling suspense, and,
bewildered by the interruption, Berkeley permitted his pistol to
explode, the ball going Heaven knows where! There was a whistling in
the air overhead, with a rushing sound and then a heavy thud, as there
lighted, almost at Berkeley's feet, a five-inch shell, shot from the
South Fort by the Russians, who must have seen our group in the
moonlight; and there it lay on the turf, half-imbedded by its own
weight, with its red fuse hissing and burning furiously.
For a moment I saw its upward glare, as it shone on the pale face of the
terrified man, who was too much paralyzed by emotion to move; but, just
as I flung myself flat on the earth to escape the explosion, there was a
blaze of yellow light, a crash as of thunder, and I felt a kind of hot
wind sweep over me. The shell had burst, and Berkeley lay a heap of
mutilated blood and bones beside it!
We rushed towards him. Both legs were broken in many places, a large
fragment was buried deep in his chest, and the man was dead!
"Poor fellow!" said I, after our first exclamations of astonishment and
commiseration had subsided.
Berkeley had long and systematically wronged me deeply; and now the
angry lust for vengeance passed away, and I felt ashamed of the
bitterness of the emotions which had inspired me but a few moments
before. I forgave him all now, and almost felt sorry for the sudden
fate that had, perhaps, saved me--I say sorry, but I could feel no more.
That fate so unlooked for and mysterious freed me from all further
trouble or responsibility. I could pardon him for all he had ever done
to me, and to his dead victim too--poor Agnes Auriol.
"_C'est la fortune de guerre, camarades_," said Colonel Giomar,
shrugging his shoulders.
Stretched on the grass, which was soaked and sodden with his yet warm
blood, there lay De Warr Berkeley, the coxcomb of Rotten Row, the
epicurean of the mess and dinner-table, the Sybarite of the clubs, the
sensualist whom poor Agnes Auriol loved--not too wisely, but too well;
the sporting man, whose splendid drag presented the gayest show, the
best company, the brightest parasols, bonnets, and fans, with the
loveliest faces and the most expensive champagnes on the Derby-day, or
the yearly inspection at Maidstone--there he lay dead, mangled, like a
very beggar's dog!
It was the fortune of war, as Giomar said; but a fortune on which he had
never calculated--his mother's pet from childhood, "clad in purple and
fine linen."
Bundled in a cloak, his remains were borne to the rear by the Frenchmen
of the 77th; and full of much thought, and with many a surmise as to how
the corps would view the story of the night, Studhome, Scriven, the
doctor and I, rode slowly back to quarters, leading with us a riderless
horse.
I entered my tent, bewildered, giddy with the startling episode in which
I had been involved. I had but one satisfaction--his blood was not on
my hands. My brain swam, my heart was beating fast, and I had an
intense thirst. A bottle of Cliquot stood near. Studhome adroitly
struck off the top with his sword, and gave me a generous draught.
Then, by the light of a stable lantern that hung glimmering on the
tent-pole, I saw the two letters I had so recently penned lying on the
top of a baggage trunk; but a third epistle, addressed to myself, was
beside them.
It was from Sir Nigel: the mail from Constantinople had come in that
afternoon. I tore my missive open, and almost the first words that met
my eyes were--
"Compose yourself, my dear boy. Louisa Loftus, the tricky jade, is now
a marchioness. I send you herewith the _Morning Post_, which details
her marriage at full length."
"Read that, Jack!" said I, in a hoarse voice, while the miserable tent
swam round and round me.
Studhome scanned the letter hurriedly.
"Oh, Jack! what do you think of all this?"
"Think!" said he with an oath. "I think Sir Walter Scott did well to
call the world 'an admirable compound of folly and knavery.'"
So all her studied silence was accounted for now!
*CHAPTER L.*
The line divides: the right half, which is
Conspicuous for madder breeches,
Presses, like flock of hunted sheep,
Towards yon tower, so grim and steep.
STONE TALK.
On that day, never to be forgotten in the annals of the British cavalry,
the 25th of October, when we fought the battle of Balaclava, no man in
all the Light Division mounted his horse with a more reckless heart than
I, and no man, perhaps, was personally more careless as to the sequel.
War and its contingent horrors were a relief, congenial to my bitterness
of spirit, and afforded me a relief from myself.
There is probably not a boy in Britain but knows how, on that terrible
day, the six hundred horsemen rode fearlessly into the Valley of Death;
yet I cannot resist the temptation to tell the gallant story once again.
We were roused early in our miserable quarters by tidings that the
Russians, in great force, were menacing Balaclava, the harbour of which
was of vital importance to the allies in their operations against
Sebastopol. Sir Colin Campbell--Lord Clyde, of glorious memory--had
been appointed governor; and to him and his Highland Brigade had this
most valuable post been intrusted by the allied generals. On this day
he was reinforced by a few marines from the fleet, and four thousand
lubberly Turks, who occupied four redoubts, which commanded the road to
the camp.
The cavalry division--led by Lord Lucan, and composed of the Scots
Greys, the Inniskillins, 1st Royal, 4th and 5th Dragoon Guards, forming
the Heavy Brigade, under General Scarlett; and the 4th and 13th Light
Dragoons, the 8th and 11th Hussars, with the 17th Lancers and ours,
forming the Light Brigade, under the Earl of Cardigan--were to form
between those Turkish redoubts and the Sutherland Highlanders, who were
encamped under the cliffs, where the marines had a battery.
It was seven in the morning, when Captain Nolan, of the 15th Hussars,
Lord Raglan's gallant aide-de-camp, dashed into our quarters on
horseback.
"Get your men into their saddles, Colonel Beverley," he exclaimed. "A
strong column of the enemy's cavalry, supported by artillery and
infantry, some twenty-three thousand of all arms, are now in the valley
before Balaclava. General Baur has already stormed one of the Turkish
redoubts, and is opening fire on the other three. The Bono Johnnies are
flying in all directions. Pass the word along for the whole line to
turn out. We must floor them instantly!"
The trumpets blew loud and shrill among the tents, just as Studhome and
I were making a hasty breakfast.
"The deuce!" said he. "So we must take a turn against those troublesome
Cossacks; but if no Russian rifle bullet hath its place allotted in my