One of the Six Hundred: A Novel
proper person, we shall devil those drumsticks, and polish off that
cooper of sherry in the evening."
Poor Jack!
We were soon in our saddles, with pistols loaded and lances slung. All
were eager for the fray; and just as the sun arose General Bosquet, with
a few pieces of artillery and two hundred Chasseurs d'Afrique, arrived
to join us.
The surface of the valley into which the cavalry division advanced was
undulating, and numerous green grassy hillocks served to conceal the
movements of the various bodies of troops from each other. Above those
hillocks we could see the light smoke of the distant conflict curling,
as the Russians attacked and took in rapid succession the four redoubts,
turning the guns of each, as they captured it, on the fugitive Turks,
who fled in masses, and were decimated by round-shot and grape from
their own guns, which, in their haste to escape, they forgot to spike.
The last redoubt was speedily abandoned by the brutal Colonel Hadjie
Mehmet, who, bareheaded and without his sabre, was seen galloping
ignominiously over his own men, as they rushed like a flock of sheep
towards the steady line of the 93rd Highlanders, and there, by
superhuman exertions, Sir Colin Campbell formed them in a confused body
on his flank. But before this bourn was reached a Russian bullet had
sent the soul of Hadjie Mehmet in search of the wonders of Paradise.
In fierce pursuit the Russian horse came dashing on, their polished
lance-heads and black leather helmets shining in the sun, and, like
successive human waves, squadron after squadron came in view. Pausing
for a moment on the crest of a ridge, they looked with wonder--it might
be scorn--upon the thin red line of Scotsmen, whom, as Campbell said, in
his quaint way, he "did not think it worth while to form four deep or in
square."
On came the Russians, with levelled lances and uplifted swords--on and
on at a gallop, and from thence to racing speed--down like thunder
rolling through the murky air. This sight proved too much for the
red-capped Turks. Once more their line of red breeches was turned to
the enemy, as they fled _en masse_; but calmly, steadily, and sternly,
like their native rocks, stood the men of the slender Scottish line.
A command is given. Now the Minie rifles are levelled from the
shoulder, the plumed bonnets seem to droop a little to the right as each
man takes his aim, the withering volley rolls along from flank to flank,
and, as the smoke rises, we see a confused heap of men rolling wildly
over each other, while swords, lances, and caps are scattered far and
near. Beyond these are the retreating squadrons--fugitives, and in utter
rout!
The cowardly Turks were objects of intense derision to our seamen, and
even to the little middies and soldiers' wives. Many of the latter
kicked and cuffed the "Bono Johnnies" without mercy for their shameless
abandonment of the Highlanders, and for plundering our cavalry camp,
where they gobbled up the porridge which the Scots Greys had been
cooking for breakfast when the alarm sounded.
Many other regiments of cuirassiers and lancers now joined the baffled
horse, as they re-formed on the slope of a hill, from whence, for the
first time to-day, they saw us, the heavy and light divisions of
cavalry, drawn up in the small valley a little to the left of the
Highlanders, and having had enough of them, with us they now resolved
upon a trial of strength.
By many thousands they outnumbered us; but we knew that we were unaided;
that upon our own bravery, discipline, and hardihood depended the honour
and the fortune of the day; and all the many staff officers and other
spectators, who had come from the French camp and the harbour to witness
the result, knew this too, and looked silently and breathlessly on.
In two long, compact, and glittering lines, the Russian horse once more
came on. Among them were some cuirassier regiments of the Imperial
Guard, with magnificent helmets, adorned with silver eagles. But now,
without waiting for orders, the two advanced corps of our cavalry--the
Scots Greys and the Inniskillin Dragoons, galloped forward to meet them,
one in heart, in ardour, and in purpose, as when those two noble
regiments had ridden side by side, in the same brigade, in the
Septennial War, a century before, and on the plains of Waterloo.
Overlapped by the vast extent of the first Russian line, we thought they
would be literally swallowed up and exterminated. A ray of light seemed
to pass along the ranks, as all their sword blades flashed in the
sunshine; and then came the shock of battle.
The Scots on the left, the Irish dragoons on the right, broke through
the Russians, cutting and treading them down; then both regiments
actually disappeared! We held our breath; but anon a shout escaped us,
as we saw them on the crest of an eminence beyond, cutting through the
second Russian line!
All was then a wild and mingled chaos of uniforms, scarlet, blue, and
green; of flashing swords and brandished lances, of floating plumes and
swaying standards; of shrieking men, and horses kicking, plunging, and
rolling on the turf; and many an episode of chivalry and hand-to-hand
combat was there.
Then we heard the shrill trumpets above that infernal din, where no
commands would have availed. The tall black bearskins of the Scots, and
the brass helmets of the Irish dragoons, began to reappear; and, soon
emerging from that human sea of glory and honour, we saw our gallant
Heavies once more reforming in compact line, and retiring at a hand
gallop, after having taught the thick-skulled Muscovites the strength of
a Briton's arm, and the temper of our Sheffield steel.
Conspicuous by their colour, we could see that many of the Scots Greys'
horses were covered with blood.
And now came our part in this terrible drama--the disaster of the day!
*CHAPTER LI.*
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league, onward,
Into the Valley of Death,
Rode the Six Hundred!
TENNYSON.
Recoiling before the glorious charges of our Heavy Brigade, the Russian
horse and foot had retired into a narrow gorge at the head of the long
green valley. There thirty pieces of cannon were in position, and in
rear of them were formed six solid columns of cavalry and six of
infantry, while other dense masses occupied the slopes beyond.
Notwithstanding this formidable array, in an almost unassailable
position, a message was received by Lord Lucan from Captain Lewis Edward
Nolan, of the 15th Hussars, undoubtedly one of the bravest of the brave,
to the effect that the Light Brigade was to carry those thirty pieces of
cannon. Another account says that he simply pointed to the guns with his
sword, and said, "We should take them," and that the motion was taken
for an order.
Ere many minutes were passed, poor Nolan paid the full penalty of this
misconception or error in judgment--if error it was.
Perilous, rash, and desperate though the attempt, Lord Lucan reluctantly
ordered the Earl of Cardigan to advance with his brigade, and cheerfully
we obeyed the startling order.
We numbered only six hundred and seven horsemen, officers included.
Each officer took up the words in succession--"The brigade will advance.
First squadron, march, trot, gallop!" And then for the first time, as I
led my squadron on, did I become aware how thirsty we unconsciously
become when under fire. My lips were quite baked, yet the morning air
was moist and cool. We had before us a mile and a half to gallop over,
level and open ground, encumbered here and there by the dead and wounded
men and horses of the previous encounter; but these we swept over in our
advance towards where the black and grim artillery stood, with round and
gaping muzzles, before the solid array of Russian horse and foot--those
dark columns in long grey capotes, all cross-belted, with fixed bayonets
glittering in the sun; those darker and less distinct clouds of
horsemen, whose forest of lances, sword-blades, and brighter
appointments glittered and flashed from among their umbered masses.
On and on we rode, and faces flushed red, and hearts beat wildly--while
the Earl, brave as every English gentleman should be, with all his
faults of temper--led us on with brandished sword. Every hand was firm
on the bridle, every grasp was firm on the sword, every knee was pressed
to the saddle-laps, every rowel was tinged with blood; so, holster to
holster and boot to boot, the squadrons were pressing on.
"CHARGE!" escaped me, almost before the time, and then the maddened
horses rushed on at full racing speed, with long, invigorating strides.
Our lances were all unslung, and in the rest, the banneroles fluttering
before the horses' heads and outstretched necks, from which the manes
were floating backward like smoke.
We were soon within the line of fire. Like the thunder of heaven the
park of artillery shook the air, as cannon, mortars, and rifles opened
like a fiery hell on front and flanks at once. An iron shower of round
shot and grape, shells, and rockets, with a tempest of conical rifle
bullets, whizzed past our ears, or tore through horses and men, and down
they went on right and left at every stride.
Struck on the breast by a shell, the gallant Nolan fell back on his
saddle, with a wild and harrowing cry, as his horse swept round, and
bore his body to the rear, with his feet still in the stirrups,
vindicating, even in death, his reputation as one of England's noblest
horsemen.
Man after man, horse after horse, are now going down, thick and fast,
and shrieks, and prayers, and curses rise together to Heaven; but the
rest close in from the flank, and firmer, denser, wilder, and more
resolute than ever we ride the race of death!
On, and on yet, steeds snorting, lances rising and falling, pennons
fluttering, and sabres flashing in the sunshine.
"Steady, lads, steady!" cried Lionel Beverley, as another shower of
grape tore through the squadrons, and many more went down, though some
of the horses remained riderless in the rank, and galloped mechanically
on. For a moment, amid the confusion, I saw the colonel for the last
time, as he led us--that noble heart, that polished gentleman and
gallant lancer. He was deadly pale, for he was mortally wounded in the
left side. His life-blood was ebbing; but his sword was still uplifted,
and a light was flashing in his eyes, which already could see "the
glories and the terrors of the unknown world."
"Close up, gentlemen and comrades! Keep your horses well in hand; but
spur on--charge, and charge home! Hurrah!"
A ball hummed past--a twenty-four pound shot, apparently--and where was
Lionel Beverley?
Doubled up, a dead and ghastly heap, under a dying and mangled charger!
The next who fell was my friend Wilford. If he was somewhat of a dandy
in England, there was no want of pluck in him here. Leading his troop,
he fell close by me, and I leaped my horse over him as he rolled past,
churning a mouthful of grass and earth, his features awfully convulsed,
and his limbs trembling in their death agony. Poor Fred Wilford!
On and on yet! Many a familiar face is gone now; the gaps are fearful,
and men who were on the flanks now find themselves in the centre. Yet,
withal, it is impossible not to feel how--
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
On we still gallop towards that mouth of fire--on, and fearlessly. The
best blood of the three kingdoms is in our ranks, all well and nobly
mounted, the flower of our gallant cavalry--on yet like a whirlwind, the
hearty British "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" ringing in our ears; the
heart's blood seems mounting to the brain; and _now_ we are upon