Chapter Fifteen.
Balaclava
The dawn of October 25th broke dull and chill. Banks of fog hung over the heights, and the “Valley of the Shadow of Death” lay hidden in mist, as if cloaked already with a funeral pall. Blades of grass and leaves drooped with the added weight of the moisture, and Phil and Tony, crouching in their vineyard, shivered and longed for the sun to rise and bring warmth and cheerfulness.
A gentle breeze was blowing, and, freshening, it soon cleared the fog away, while the mist in the valley disappeared mysteriously a little later. It had scarcely done so when the boom of guns on the Russian side of the heights which the two friends had crossed during the night broke on their ears, while flashes from four points on the summit, and still louder reports, showed that the Turkish batteries, between which they had passed, were hotly engaged.
Situated as they were, close to the end of the Causeway heights, along which ran the Woronzoff road, Phil and his friend were in an excellent position to view a large portion of the historical battle which was now commencing. Facing across the valley, with the Chersonese height on their left, they looked towards the river Tchernaya, and a group of low hills, known as the Fedioukine heights, already manned by Russian guns and infantry. And now they gazed upon a wonderful sight. A Russian army of 25,000 infantry, 34 squadrons of cavalry, and 78 guns was commencing its march, intending to cross the Causeway heights, descend into the valley south of that ridge, and capture the harbour of Balaclava and all our stores of food and military equipment. And between them and their goal were interposed 4 Turkish batteries with 9 guns in all, the foremost being two miles in advance of its nearest infantry support, which consisted of some 500 of the 93rd Highlanders under command of the famous Sir Colin Campbell, a few Turks, and a battery of horse artillery. In addition, some 600 horsemen, belonging to Scarlett’s Heavy Brigade, lay in the valley south of the Causeway heights, while 600 sabres, composing the Light Brigade, sat on their horses at the opening of the Tchernaya valley – the valley now better known as that of the Shadow of Death, and within a short mile of Phil and Tony.
“What can be happening?” asked Phil, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. “The guns we hear must be those belonging to the army that marched past us last night, and the cavalry are certainly the same who sang while they filed by in the darkness. What does it all mean, Tony? There must be some huge movement afoot, for I have never seen so many men marching together, save when the Allies advanced on the Alma.”
“And now it’s the Russians advancing towards the camp of the Allies,” Tony answered thoughtfully. “What’s their game? you’re asking, Phil. Why shouldn’t it be Balaclava? The harbour is just chock-full of British shipping, and, if that was captured, where should we be without our stores of grub and ammunition? Nowhere. That’s their plan, I can tell you. Depend upon it, that is what they’re up to; but you’ll see how it will end. I give them a couple of hours to play about in, and after that our chaps will drive ’em off the field.”
“Then I hope we shall have a chance of joining friends soon, Tony, for to be compelled to sit here and watch the battle would be harder luck than we bargained for. But look at the Russian army. What a grand sight it makes!”
And indeed the greatest enemy of Russia, with mind morbidly awry with jealousy and dislike, could not look upon that advancing army and fail to admire.
Steadily, and with a swing which told of long practice in marching, the infantry advanced in thick columns, rifles at the slope and caps well set back upon their heads. And between them and on either flank rumbled heavy cannon, the drivers holding in their horses as yet, while they turned eager eyes to the left to watch their more fortunate companions who at the moment were engaging the Turkish redoubts. Beyond the guns, and away in front of all, rode the huge force of cavalry, squadron upon squadron, riding knee to knee and listening to the music of the guns and the jingle of their own equipment.
Amidst the cavalry the flash of polished brass would occasionally be seen, while sometimes, as the squadrons moved apart for the moment, a battery of small field-guns came to view, the bright metal sparkling in the sun. But though a casual glance might suggest the idea that these were merely toys, given to the cavalry to play with, yet the day was not to pass before the men who manned these tiny field-guns were to show that, protected by horsemen and capable of an extremely rapid advance and retreat, these same batteries became a formidable item when fired at moderately-close range.
“Yes, they make a very fine sight,” Phil admitted, to himself again, “and I only wish I thought that we could beat them as easily as Tony suggests. I wonder what our troops are doing!”
Turning his eyes to the left he swept them along the Chersonese heights, and saw a long line of infantry there hurrying towards Balaclava, while on an eminence to the left a brilliantly-dressed group suddenly appeared, and, lifting telescopes, fixed them upon the Russians. It was Lord Raglan and his staff.
Lowering his eyes still more, Phil swept them along the valley, and soon hit upon the Heavy Brigade, looking, even at that distance, a most formidable body of men, while their horses, laden with cavalry saddles of great weight and a considerable amount of kit, seemed huge when compared to the Cossack animals.
Passing from Scarlett’s famous “Heavies”, Phil’s eyes then lit upon the 600 troopers of the Light Brigade. Bright, gallant fellows they looked as they sat there jauntily upon their saddles and slowly rode up the valley. And little did Phil and Tony, and for the matter of that hundreds more who looked upon them in the early hours of that morning, imagine that, long ere the sun set again and the grey mist fell upon hill and valley, more than half of those fine horsemen would be silent and still for ever.
Slowly, and as if careless of the huge mass of the enemy, they rode up the valley till the mile which separated them from Phil and Tony was considerably decreased.
There were friends close at hand, and, saddling up hurriedly, the two prepared to gallop across to them. But now a turn in the fortune of battle changed their plans, for, gallantly clinging to their position, the Turks holding the battery on the extreme left nearest the Russians had been decimated by a storm of shell, while, before they could think of retiring, 11,000 grey-coated infantry came rushing up at them. What could a mere handful of men do in the circumstances? They broke and fled, and, seeing this, their comrades in the other redoubts also took to their heels. Instantly a cloud of Russian horse burst from their ranks, and, sweeping into the plain, made short work of the flying gunners.
Phil and Tony looked on, disconcerted, for to ride across to the Light Brigade now would mean almost certain destruction.
“Done again by those Cossacks!” grumbled Tony, who took all the enemy’s horsemen to be Cossacks. “Done brown this time, Phil!”
“We’ll have to wait, that’s all,” said Phil, with a sigh of resignation. “We are safe here, and it won’t be long before those fellows ride back. See! they are already riding up the heights on our right after the Turks who bolted into the other valley.”
This was the case, and to follow the movement we must for the moment leave the valley into which Phil looked, and ride with the Russian horsemen over the Causeway heights.
Scarcely heard upon the springy turf, the horses’ feet strike hard and ring with a sound of iron upon the beaten path, and then the thunder of a thousand hoofs dies down again as if by magic, and he who rides with the fiery Cossack horsemen hears only the dull stamp upon the yielding grass, and the clatter and jangle of sabres and accoutrements. And when the summit is topped, another valley comes into view, running almost parallel with that just left behind, and merely separated from it by the Causeway heights, the slopes of which gently fall in rolling stretches of green till the bottom is reached. From there the grass runs on, undulating in big waves, sometimes falling and sometimes rising, till at last an upward sweep brings the rider to a crest from which the narrow basin of Balaclava can be seen.
Yes, there it is, a fairy pool set in this wide stretch of green, and bearing upon its flashing surface a host of vessels, anchored and crowded close together. There, too, is its narrow entrance, scarcely wide enough to pass in two vessels side by side, and there, close beside its shores, is an array of huts already filled with stores, while outside, boxes of biscuit and barrels of salt pork are piled in huge stacks which overtop and completely swamp the dwellings.
And where is the defending force? Where are the men told off to protect this most important harbour and its valuable contents? The rider stares and gasps with astonishment when all he sees is a handful of kilted men standing to arms upon the sloping grass leading to the harbour. Long ago their paucity of numbers was known to the enemy, and now the Russian commander sends his Cossacks against them, hoping to sweep them aside and capture the harbour.
Rallying to their comrades, a thousand lances swept down against the thin line of 93rd Highlanders. It was a sufficiently imposing array to have scattered a stronger body of troops, but the brawny kilted warriors were maddened by the sight of the unhappy Turks being cut down in their flight, and moreover, at that moment a ludicrous affair set them roaring with laughter. They had received as supports some Turkish troops, and these, having no stomach for a cavalry encounter, fled from the ranks.
“Let ’em go,” muttered one Highlander, with a laugh. “We come out here to fight for those chaps, and see how they help us. We’ll turn the cowards into servants.”
But one at least was roused to indignation. One of the women of the regiment struggled amongst the Turks, belabouring them with a club, and, catching one big fellow at this moment, thrashed him soundly, ordering him between every stroke, and in shrill falsetto, to return to the fighting-line.
Roars of laughter and cheers ascended from the thin line of Highlanders, and laughing still they were, and bandying jokes with one another, when the Russians swept down upon them.
“Back, lads! back!” shouted Sir Colin, waving his sword, and having to do his utmost to keep his eager men from rushing down upon the enemy. Then came the sharp command to fire, and, a second discharge following, the Russians broke and fled.
And meanwhile the widely-separated regiments composing the heavy brigade of cavalry were quietly riding along the valley, keeping the Causeway heights on their left. Suddenly Scarlett, who was in advance with 300 of the Greys and Inniskillings, saw a perfect forest of lances upon the summit of the heights, and not more than 600 yards away. Three thousand Russian cavalry had just come into view, and, seeing the British horse, their trumpets rang out shrill, and like an avalanche they dashed down the slopes. Scarlett’s decision was taken in a moment. “In any case it must mean death and destruction,” he thought. “Better to meet the enemy face to face than ride across their front and be cut to pieces.”
“Left wheel into line,” the gallant old fellow shouted, and as calmly as if manoeuvring at home the squadrons took up their new position. And then – think of the audacity and coolness of the action – they were halted, while the officers, facing round, dressed the line, which had been somewhat broken by rough ground. And a stubborn line it proved to dress, for not a man but leaned forward in his saddle, cursing the delay, and eager to fly forward. Hoarse growls arose from the ranks, and troopers snatched angrily at their bridles, pulling their horses back upon their haunches, well knowing all the while that it was themselves and not the willing animals they bestrode that needed curbing at that moment.
“Had not Greys and Inniskillings led the field, charging side by side at Waterloo?” each man asked himself. “Yes, their ancestors were on that glorious battle-ground; and were they, their descendants, to be kept back now? 300 against 3000 charging down upon them. What mattered the odds?”
Well was it that Scarlett delayed no longer, for his men were out of hand. “Charge!” he roared, his eyes blazing with excitement.
His trumpeter sounded the call, and away went the gallant band, their fine old colonel fifty yards in advance of them, mounted on a remarkably big horse.
And the Russians, seeing this spectacle, halted. Three thousand of them halted and pondered – almost wavered with doubt.
Crash! The gallant old colonel had struck the mass and cleft into its very heart, and following him, with a fierce shout of exultation, 300 men rushed in, and were instantly lost to view, nothing but plunging horses and flashing swords being visible. Truly it was a marvellous sight, and the 93rd, together with the First and Fourth Divisions, who were marching down in support, held their breath and halted to see what next would happen. They had not long to wait. Gathering pace as they advanced, the 4th Dragoons, who were some way in rear of Scarlett’s 300, thundered down upon the Russian flank, and with never a pause swept right through the mass of cavalry from flank to flank, leaving a lane of wounded and killed and frantically struggling horses in its path.
Ah! it was grand work that Britain’s sons were doing for their Queen that day, but more was yet to follow, for with hoarse shouts and the fierce lust for battle in their eyes, the Royals, the 5th Dragoons, and another squadron of Inniskillings burst upon the Russians, cut their way to join their gallant colonel, and, crumpling the enemy on every side, finally put them to flight. Three thousand flying for their lives from a sixth of their numbers! Truly it was a great day for Britain, and at the final act a perfect torrent of hoarse cheers burst from the onlookers, head-gear was tossed into the air, and men turned and shook each other heartily by the hand, blessing the fact that these fine cavalry fellows were their brothers, and that they had the fortune to be their countrymen.
And now let us return to the valley on the right slope of which Phil and Tony lay in hiding. Unconscious of what had happened, and yet aware by the rattle of distant musketry and the heavy booming of guns that a battle of large proportions was in progress, they itched to be moving so as to rejoin the battalion of Grenadier Guards and take their share in the fight.
“Bother those fellows! When will they clear off and give us a chance?” exclaimed Phil impatiently, anathematising the Cossack skirmishers who still galloped about on the plain beneath in search of more fugitives.
“Why do not our horse attack them? The Light Brigade might easily sweep the whole lot up and give us the opportunity of joining them as they rode by. And we’d take it, Tony,” he added enthusiastically. “We have some scores to settle, and once the chance comes we’ll have a smack at those Cossacks.”
“Never fear, Phil. Take it easy, old horse. The day is only just beginning, and our chance will come. Do yer think all them cavalry of ours will sit still and do nothing? Bet yer life they’ll be sweeping up here soon. Ah! Glad we stuck here so long. Look at them fellers returning.”
Tony pointed to a horde of mounted Russians, the flower of their cavalry, which at this moment swarmed in disorder over the Causeway heights, and swept down into the Tchernaya valley, still too much unnerved to draw rein after their defeat by the Heavy Brigade.
“That looks well,” muttered Phil. “We saw those fellows ride over half an hour ago as cocksure of victory as possible. They’ve evidently had rough handling. Why on earth does not the commander of our Light Brigade charge them? He could take them in flank, and, broken as they are, he could cut them to pieces. Charge! Why don’t you charge?” he shouted excitedly, standing up and raising his voice to the highest pitch as though it could possibly reach right across to the Light Brigade.
“Come down,” cried Tony fiercely, dragging his friend to the ground. “I’m ashamed of yer, young ’un. You’ll be giving the whole show away, and one of them Cossack chaps will be riding for us. Wait and we’ll have a go at ’em yet. Yah! why don’t yer charge?” he said bitterly, shaking his fist at the distant British cavalry.
But though the Light Brigade were ready enough for anything, as was yet to be shown, their colonel still held them back. Posted as they were, at the mouth of the valley and on some rising ground, they too had witnessed every incident of the battle. They had seen the gallant charge of the ‘Heavies’, and they bit their lips and swore beneath their breath, itching to be let loose, and show their comrades that they too could ride straight, ay, and fight too, till death settled their account if need be. As the Russian cavalry came flying in clouds over the Causeway heights, their eagerness made them almost unmanageable, and loud growls of anger and vexation came from the ranks. But Lord Cardigan, who was in command, had orders to defend his position, and to strike at anything that came within distance of him. Undoubtedly this was the opportunity he should have taken, but he chose to forego it, and thereby allowed the Russians to escape, while his men looked on and fumed with rage and disappointment, and Tony and Phil hid in the vineyard and thought all manner of awful things.
But now the enemy commenced to remove the guns from the captured Turkish redoubt, and an order reached Lord Lucan – who commanded the combined brigades of cavalry, heavy and light – to recapture the Causeway heights. Lord Raglan had, however, omitted to provide the necessary infantry supports, and in consequence the movement was delayed. Then a second and more peremptory order was sent to Lord Lucan, by means of Nolan, a noted cavalry officer, who believed that all things were possible with that arm of the service.
Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front, it ran, and try to prevent the enemy carrying away the guns.
“To the front? What front? Surely not right up the valley and into the very jaws of the Russian army!” everyone will mutter.
Lord Lucan also was bewildered. Long ago the captured Turkish redoubts had sunk into insignificance, and the guns now most in evidence were those right up the valley. That too was “front” to Lord Lucan. Then what could be the meaning of this message? “Attack what? What guns are we to attack?” he asked anxiously, fixing his eyes upon the batteries on the Causeway heights, and then upon those at the tip of the valley.
“There,” replied Captain Nolan, with something akin to a sneer, and in tones which angered Lord Lucan. “There, my lord, is your enemy, and there your guns.” And he pointed away up the valley to the Russian batteries occupying a commanding position nearly two miles away.
It was a monstrous error, for how could horsemen hope to live and be effective after such a ride, when cannon fired directly into their front, while the heights on either side, converging to the apex occupied by the battery, were lined by more guns and by infantry in huge numbers. On whose shoulders rests the onus of the terrible error it is almost impossible to state. Had less ambiguous orders been issued it would never have occurred, and a deed of daring, unparalleled in war, would never have been recorded in the annals of heroic struggles to which England is ever adding.
Lord Lucan transmitted the order to Lord Cardigan in person. The latter saluted, and pointed out the desperate nature of the undertaking, but being told that there was no choice but to obey, turned and gave the command, “The brigade will advance!”
“By George! They are off,” cried Phil, who had been watching the Light Brigade intently. “Get ready, Tony. You were right; our chance has come at last.”
Both tightened their girths and prepared to dash out, for the direction the cavalry were taking would bring them close at hand.
“It’s a charge right enough,” cried Tony excitedly, “and I’m going to be one of ’em! Come out!” and with a whirr he dragged his sabre out of the sheath.
“Good heavens! look at what is happening!” cried Phil aghast. For the Light Brigade had suddenly swerved away from the Causeway heights. “I thought they were to attack the Turkish redoubts, but they are heading right up to the centre of the Russian army. It is madness! sheer suicide!”
At this moment they saw a horseman, the unhappy Nolan, gallop transversely across the now fast-galloping Light Brigade. He had discovered the terrible mistake, and attempted to set it right, but a shell from the battery in front burst with a roar in front of him, and killed him instantly.
“Now for it, Tony,” shouted Phil, kicking the ribs of his pony. “We’ll join our friends at all costs, and see more fighting before we die.”
“Hurrah! I’m with yer, young ’un! Who-hoop! at ’em for all we’re worth!”
Fortunately both ponies were fast and sturdy animals, and, still move fortunately, Phil and Tony had had good practice on horseback when with the menagerie. They thrashed the animals with the flat of their sabres, and, dashing down the hill, fell in beside the 4th light Dragoons, who, with the 11th and 8th Hussars, formed the second attacking line, the first being composed of the 17th Lancers and the 13th Light Dragoons.
Faster grew the pace, and still faster. Men sat close down on their saddles, and jerking their sword lanyards higher up their wrists, clutched the hilts, and stared straight before them with a look of enthusiasm in their eyes. The blood of the British cavalry was up, for as yet they rode silently, a warning sign to those whom they might come against, for your Englishman does not shriek aloud. He says things beneath his breath till the moment comes, and then what a shout he gives!
And as they charged, from either side and from the front, flame and smoke belched out, and the valley echoed with the sound of exploding cannon. Shells shrieked overhead, rolled like huge cricket-balls along the turf, and burst in the midst of the gallant horsemen, sweeping scores to the ground. And yet they did not flinch. Instead they dug their spurs still deeper, till they were actually racing for the Russian enemy.
What a sight! A green-clad valley, cloaked in eddying smoke, which was rent asunder every second by a blinding flash; and through it, all that remained of that galloping 600 now clearly visible, and a moment later plunging deep into the reek and smoke of the cannon.
Suddenly the guns in front ceased to fire. The first line, or rather what was left of it, rode over them and dashed pell-mell into the cavalry behind, breaking them and scattering them like chaff. And now came the moment for the second line, and for Phil and his friend. It was indeed a race, men and officers doing their utmost to outdistance the others. Long ago Phil had lost sight of his companion in the smoke, but now a riderless horse, frenzied by fear, came up and thundered along on either side of him. Suddenly a ringing “Tally-ho!” came from some officer in front, and with a roar of furious excitement the line rode over the smoking guns and dashed full into a huge mass of Russian cavalry.
Phil found himself still with the riderless horses alongside, amidst the men of the 11th Hussars. Standing in his stirrups, he leant over and cut savagely at the grey-coats which seemed to rise up on either side of him, while a loud hissing sound, produced by the excited Russians, filled the air around. There was a rush and a crash, and the horse on his right was swept away. He scarcely noticed it, but, seeing a comrade at that moment fall in front of him, he pulled his pony in with a jerk, and made such good play with his weapon that for a moment he kept the long Cossack lances from the fallen man.
Whack! A tremendous blow on his shoulder sent him flying from his saddle to the ground, where, looking up, he was just in time to see Tony standing in his stirrups with sabre raised on high. Down it came on the head of the man who had just struck him from his pony, and with a groan the Russian flopped upon his horse’s neck.
“Up! Up yer get!” shouted Tony, laying about him with a will. “Full yourself together, old man.”
Phil sprang to his feet, and, holding his sabre in his mouth, lifted the prostrate form of the trooper.
“Hold on here, Tony,” he cried. “That’s it. Now wait a minute. Those horsemen have cleared away.”
Rent asunder by the terrible British horse, the Russians had in fact opened out and retired, disclosing the bulk of their army forming into square close at hand. Phil took advantage of the lull.
A riderless horse stood close at hand, and in a few seconds he was in the saddle. Then he sheathed his sabre, and, riding up to Tony, said:
“Now, hand him up here. He’s stunned by the fall.”
“And what about getting back, mate?” asked Tony, still holding the man. “It’ll spoil yer chance. They are certain to come after us.”
“I’ll run the risk of that. Now, up with him, Tony,” answered Phil abruptly.
“Look here, old pal, this is my job,” said Tony stubbornly. “I owe yer a score, and I’ll take this fellow for yer.”
It was a generous impulse which prompted the gallant fellow, for to hamper one’s retreat with the body of a comrade was practically certain to lead to a fatal result. But Phil ended the matter promptly. His eyes gleamed savagely, and though, when all was over, he thanked Tony with tears in his eyes, yet now that his wishes were opposed, and he had set his heart on the matter, his temper got the better of him.
“Hand him over,” he hissed angrily. “Come, there is no time to waste; the men are falling-in again.”
Tony looked as though he could have wept, but he helped to pull the trooper up, and, having seen him into Phil’s arms, fell in behind, determined to bring his friend through or perish in the attempt.
“Rally, men! rally!” the officers were shouting, and at the sound the troopers came hurrying up. There was a short pause to allow stragglers to regain the ranks, and then, setting their heads down the valley, the remnant of that gallant 600 retreated at full gallop.
Bang! bang! The guns were blazing at them again; from behind and on either side grape and shell came shrieking at them. Then suddenly came the gleam of lances in front, and there stood a body of cavalry prepared to hedge them in and make them prisoners. As well set a mouse to catch a lion! These were the men who had ridden into the very “jaws of death”, into “the gates of hell”; and was one single regiment of cavalry to bar their retreat when they had fearlessly attacked an immense army? Ridiculous! And bracing themselves once more, the British horsemen swept them on either side as if with a broom, and torn, shattered, bleeding, and exhausted, returned, still exulting, to their friends.
Heroes indeed! Well has it been said of them, “Honour the Light Brigade, noble six hundred!”