Scarlet Shadows

by Elizabeth Darrell

  Movement caught his eye on the slope to the rear, a staff officer slithering and sliding with the utmost speed down the very steep incline who could only be Captain Nolan, for no one but an exceptional horseman would be daring enough to attempt the descent. Hugo knew him as a passionate advocate of cavalry reform but thought his ideas just a little too advanced to be sound. Always an excitable and impetuous fellow, he now rode like one demented. A staff officer risking a crashing fall down a hillside could only be carrying an urgent order. Did it connect with the last one, and would it bring some action from their divisional commander?

  From where he sat in the middle of the Light Brigade Hugo could not see what was happening to his right, but the cavalrymen who had been despondent and weary were drawing themselves up in the saddle and a buzz of conjecture was running through the ranks.

  “What is it, Clive?” Hugo called across to Captain Foster, who was on the right of the regiment and in a better position to see.

  “No idea” was the laconic reply. “There is a lot of damned arm waving from Nolan which seems to impress no one very much. Oh, a moment,” he corrected himself. “They are coming across to our noble Lord Cardigan. What do you say, Hugo? Are we off at last?” There was a tinge of excitement in his voice that Hugo quickly suppressed.

  “Off back to camp. He brings the order to retire, no doubt.”

  Hugo watched the staff officers in white-plumed cocked hats move along past the busbies, shakos and lance caps of the Light Cavalry regiments until they halted before Lord Cardigan. For an order to stand down there was a great deal of discussion going on, and a sudden feeling of expectation began to grow inside him as he saw nods in the direction of the enemy. Was a body of cavalry approaching over the hills? Had they received intelligence of an advance about to take place? Were they, at last, to prove their worth and live up to their badly shaken reputation?

  There was an air of tense expectancy now where there had been despair; something was afoot. Every bone felt it, and men had sloughed off their weariness, hunger and sickness. The mood transferred itself to the horses, who threw their heads about to set their bits clanking and stamped with hooves fidgeting to be on the move. Their riders spoke to them in soft-voiced reassurance.

  Lord Cardigan left the group and faced his brigade, passing on the orders he had been given with no sign of emotion on his face.

  “The Brigade will advance. First squadron of the 17th Lancers to direct.”

  He turned his horse in perfect style and walked out to take up his position some way out in front of the men, who could never be too glitteringly regimental for his taste.

  Hugo was thunderstruck. He did not believe what he had heard. There was only one direction in which they could advance, and that was down the valley to the great row of gaping cannon mouths backed by a solid wall of three thousand Cossacks. They were being ordered to charge huge tubes of metal on wheels that belched shot and shell sufficient to blow up everything within range. They were being ordered to fight twelve-pounder guns with swords and human flesh. They were being ordered to make the supreme but senseless sacrifice for their country. He and six hundred and seventy-two other men were being ordered to commit suicide.

  Nevertheless, one by one the officers gave their separate commands, voices betraying no trace of reaction in having to tell their men that life over for them from this moment on. Hugo turned to address his troop and spotted Stokes, mounted on a broken-down pony, at the end of the rear rank. The man sent a visual appeal to his officer to allow him to remain with his comrades, and Hugo passed him over.

  “‘A’ Troop of the Hussars will advance on command,” he said calmly, seeing in that moment the faces of men he had known for years and who had served him well. They looked dazed and uncomprehending — but there was not one who let fear distort his features.

  Turning back, Hugo swept the valley with his glance once more. On the heights on both sides were the guns of Russian artillery regiments, angled downward to rake the grass of that sleepy vale with every kind of deadly shot. Before they had covered a quarter of the distance they would be brought down by this crossfire, but any who survived would then be within point-blank range of the block of guns at the end. Even if, by some chance, a few managed to ride beyond the cannon and kill the gunners, they could not carry away the guns. There were Cossacks and Lancers waiting with pointed steel. His reason and professional pride cried out within him at what they were about to do. England would surely be sorrowing over this October morning for years to come.

  The officers had finished shouting their commands, and to Hugo, sitting in his saddle was like being poised on a compressed spring that was about to be released. The mid-morning peace was suddenly cut by the sharp metallic scrape of steel as swords were drawn from scabbards, each one held securely by a sword knot around the wrist. Then borne on the quietness came Lord Cardigan’s command.

  “Sound the advance!”

  Instinctively Hugo looked ahead and to his right, and Charles turned his head fractionally to lock his eyes to those of the man he had denied as his brother. There was no flash of understanding in that last moment; just an unmistakable challenge that said, This is your moment for a sword thrust in my back.

  The shock had hardly registered when the ranks began to move forward in perfect alignment, as at a military review. Hugo’s ears were full of jangling harness, the squeak of leather and the snort of horses moving after such a long spell of inactivity. He heard the grunting of men as they shifted in their saddles and the nervous cough of a sick trooper in the rear rank. Cutting across these regimental noises, the bees rose humming in great clouds from beneath their feet, and somewhere high above a bird was singing its heart out.

  He felt peculiarly alone as he rode two lengths ahead of his men and some distance behind the regiment in front — surrounded, yet isolated. A quick glance along to the left showed him Jack Markham riding steadily, looking neither right nor left, lost in his own thoughts. He had been a good friend.

  They broke into a trot, keeping perfect formation, as they had been trained to do. Up on the hills to his left the sun caught some bright object and flashed a blinding light in his eyes for a moment. The sound of hooves had increased to an awesome rumble. They were well out into the valley — a colorful moving mass in the cup of Nature’s hand. Hugo’s breath quickened, and sweat began to dampen his armpits and groin. They were level with the batteries on the heights. Why did they not fire?

  He turned his glance up to where the dark shadow of troops broke the azure skyline on each side and wondered on their inactivity. Then he looked again between the bobbing ranks ahead at the mass of guns they were approaching and knew the answer. This charge was so supreme in its daring, so inexplicable in its madness the Russians could not believe what they saw. The gunners were stunned into immobility.

  They were almost half way to their objective when suddenly Captain Nolan, who had brought the order, galloped out from the ranks, waving his sword and shouting like a maniac at Lord Cardigan trotting so superbly at the head of his brigade. Hugo was disgusted with the man. They all felt as he did, but it did not do to put on a show of adolescent hysteria in an anxiety to increase the pace. They had a long way to go, and the horses must not be winded too soon.

  At that minute the sky seemed to split open as the guns on the hills opened fire, and Captain Nolan let out a scream that sounded like something beyond the grave. His horse swayed and crashed back through the front ranks in a frenzy. Nolan’s body remained in the saddle after death, and Hugo winced as the corpse galloped past him, burst open to the heart and crimson with blood. Hardly had he registered that sight than he realized the row of backs before him had gaps in it, and Monty’s feet had begun to dance away from motionless bundles on the ground. Dear God, they are going down in threes and fours!

  The air that had seemed so full of autumn was now a purgatory of whistling shells that shattered men in seconds; a hell where screams and cries beat on his ears with hollow
echoes that increased in volume; a charnel house where death and torment attacked from both sides with red-hot metal.

  His nostrils were full of the reek of acrid smoke, singeing flesh, blood and sweat. He was riding over burst horses and broken men. Monty was urging forward, not liking the loneliness of command, seeking to join the comfort of a crowd, and Hugo held him back with a steel hand. The clear blue day was lost in a haze of smoke; the guns could no longer be seen. A voice somewhere, probably that of fear, had given the order to gallop, and he was now racing along enclosed by lathered horses with fear-rolled eyes and foaming mouths.

  The thunder of hooves was a roaring background to the fusillade of round shot and explosive shells that rained down on them from both sides, flying out of the gray pall to take off a man’s head as if it were butter or rip open a horse to release a mess of blood and entrails. Hugo saw it with abstracted eyes. Horror supreme leaves one immune.

  The madness of battle had taken over. The ranks behind him were pressing on, urging those ahead to go faster. Men with tears of rage running down their cheeks pulled alongside, and he had to order them back. As gaps appeared in the neat rows he roared at his men to close in — they must charge as a solid body to have any effect — but the tumult was so great his voice could hardly be heard above it. Riderless horses were trying to force their way between the mounted men in their frenzy to stay in a situation they knew.

  “Close up, close up,” he yelled. “Keep in formation.”

  A low whistle sped at him, and his busby was wrenched from his head, the chain strap tearing at his chin. A swift glance to his left revealed the round ball bouncing over the grass to take off the leg of a black horse who collapsed and sent Jack Markham headlong.

  God have mercy on him. The thought vanished in a sharp gasp as a burning pain in his shoulder made his left hand tighten on the reins and sent splatters of blood across his body. There was no time to see the wound, for a brilliant light flooded over him as he shot out into the sunlight once more.

  Dazzled by the sudden brightness, he didn’t realize for several seconds that they were close on top of the guns, and the full enormity of this charge was apparent. Wicked elongated barrels yawned in between a mass of mounted soldiers who watched them rush to certain slaughter. He could see the pale blurs of gunners’ faces and behind them the solid block of horses and uniforms brightened by the glitter of steel and fluttering lance pennants. Sick at heart, he saw their own ranks had been ravaged to half their original number and shouted hoarsely to his own troop behind him.

  “Keep steady, men, and strike at their throats.”

  He was no longer aware of noise. When the battery opened fire it was a silent affair; blossoming barrels, tongues of orange flame and thick black smoke that swirled around him. The row of broad blue backs ahead of him disintegrated into flying fragments of unrecognizable form, and Monty rushed on through a shower of blood-rain. A Lancer officer loomed up before him, his mouth open in a shriek of agony, but Hugo heard nothing from that blood-covered skull. He swerved to avoid a runaway horse dragging a dead Hussar whose foot was caught in the stirrup. The man had only one arm.

  The silence in Hugo’s head was complete; his ears refused to take any more sound. Thirty feet away from the guns, the smoke and flames belched again. Monty threw up his head, checked his stride, stumbled, staggered and crashed into the wheel of one of the guns, twisting high in the air and throwing his rider head over heels past the gunners.

  The pain in Hugo’s left arm as he hit the ground made him cry out, but he was scrambling to his feet and setting about him with his sword before the artillerymen had made a move. They went down still showing their astonishment at what the Light Brigade had just done.

  “Hugo, over here,” cried an anguished voice, and he turned to see Cornet McKay holding a riderless horse. As he ran for it he realized his left arm was growing numb and the pain in his shoulder was biting deeper into his chest. Mounting was not easy, as the horse kept turning away, but he dragged himself into the saddle and pulled the horse around just in time to see the boy’s chest laid open to the bone by a Cossack sword. The young officer’s face crumpled with disbelief before he tumbled from the saddle, and Hugo slashed at the Russian with personal hatred until he was a mass of blood.

  Looking away, he saw that he and the other survivors had passed the guns and now confronted the huge body of cavalry. Formation had broken, and steel was clashing against steel in a mêlée of mounted men. To his left, two of his regiment were being surrounded by Russian Lancers intent on spearing them to death. He set his horse at the group at full gallop, crashing through the enemy and scattering them with his sword and the impetus of his charge.

  Three seconds later, the beast beneath him gave a shriek and fell sideways, pinning Hugo’s leg beneath its brown flanks and giving him no escape from the Lancer who trotted up and thrust his long weapon deep into his victim’s chest. Hugo was overwhelmed with pain. Everything began to blur into unconsciousness even while he fought it with all his will.

  *

  When he came to, the scene had altered. It was all over. Englishmen were staggering past him through the pale smoke, uniforms torn and bloody, eyes searching painfully for a horse or sturdy comrade for support. Others were lying forward over the necks of their mounts, covered in wounds and staying in the saddle by sheer force of habit. The ground was covered with moaning bundles of tattered uniforms who were trying to crawl to safety with legs open to the shin bone or a mere stump of a limb. Horses limped forward, valiantly supporting the weight of soldiers who clutched the stirrup iron with desperate hands. They were all retreating.

  Raising his head, Hugo saw parties of Russian Lancers trotting among the wounded who begged for water, replying by spearing them to death. Gathering his strength, he clawed at the grass, clutching great tufts of it to aid his effort to pull himself free of the dead horse. The numbness had gone from his arm and was instantly replaced by screaming pain when he put pressure on it. Gasping and struggling, he watched the Lancers drawing closer. I must return.

  Groping his way to his feet, he heard his breath rattling in his throat and saw blood from the lance wound in his chest. Walking was impossible pain, but every step took him further from the guns and nearer his own lines. He refused to think of the mile and a half he must cover. He was not alone. Through the obscurity he saw the remnants of the proud Light Brigade drag-footing their way back, each man an island of agony and endeavor.

  He came upon a horse standing quietly beside its dead master, halted by the rigid death grip on the reins. I must return. Unable to bend, he cut the reins with his sword and leaned thankfully against the sweat-glistened flanks, gathering his strength to mount. There was a mile and a half to go, and the guns from all three sides were still firing upon those who were dragging, clawing and crawling back along the valley, showing no mercy for the wounded and dying.

  The struggle into the saddle brought a fresh burst of blood to soak the front of his gold-laced jacket. Overwhelmed by weakness, he lay across the horse’s neck watching the grass sliding past his feet. It was covered with spent balls and shell fragments; pieces of torn cloth with the badges of fine regiments attached; broken swords; photographs and treasured letters; hard biscuit carried in a pocket against hunger; lance caps with their unique square tops; Light Dragoon shakos; Hussar busbies; and severed men who had worn them with honor.

  The visions blurred as something exploded just ahead of him, and a man who had been stumbling along fell on his face with a scream. Choked with smoke, Hugo slid to the ground to look down at one of his own troop. It was Pitchley, whose wife had thrown herself beneath their horses at Portsmouth, and Hugo knew he must help the man for the sake of that desperate girl.

  “Take the horse, Pitchley,” he croaked. “I have both my feet.”

  The boy could not speak but took the hand he was offered and somehow hooked himself securely over the saddle as the horse trotted off into the drifting grayness. Hugo watche
d his support go, knowing he must walk back, then turned, in hope, at the sound of hooves. The Cossack was racing at him with sword arm raised, like the Devil venturing forth from the fires of hell, and he could only thrust feebly at the rider’s leg as the blade slashed down upon his head turning him upside down in a blood-red darkness.

  I must return. I must return. The words were on his lips when his senses brought him back to a world of red mists. Return where? It did not seem possible for anyone to feel such agony and remain alive. His face was masked with blood — the Russian sword had smashed into his skull with great force — and his left eye was closed or blinded. The left cheek was a raging fire. I must return. Fevered though his thoughts were, that fact stood out clearly. The reason eluded him, but his body obeyed the impulse.

  He began crawling on his knees and one hand. If he concentrated on a foot at a time he could make it. Never think of a mile and a half. Just a foot at a time. Through his blurred right eye he could see shadows moving slowly in the same direction — shadows that sobbed and gasped — and he knew he was among friends.

  Three feet. That is one whole yard. Just one thousand seven hundred and fifty-nine more. No, never think of a mile and a half — just a foot at a time. Eight feet. That is as high as a doorway at Wychbourne. Twelve feet. If Charles stood on my shoulders we would reach that far. Twenty- two feet. He could think of nothing to compare with that and thought of the agony of his body instead. Taking in great sobbing breaths, he lay on his face, feeling the warmth of the grass on his right cheek. He wanted to feel it for all time, but there was an urgency in him now. Six more feet. I must be nearly there. No, there is a mile and a half. God give me strength. A mile and a half.

  The smoke was thinning. Up ahead was the sunlight. Every movement burst his chest further open, and his head seemed split in half. Blood was clotting in his mouth and running down his throat in a thick slimy stream. Get into the sunlight. I must reach the sunlight. Flat on his side now, he stretched out the fingers of his one useful arm in an effort to reach the brightness on the grass and brought up his knees to push himself forward. The smoke began to wisp away, leaving the valley stretching ahead beneath the October warmth.