by A L Berridge
‘Present arms!’ and up with the rifle snug to his cheek, ready to fire at the word. But they were fast, these cavalry, and Mackenzie was not so very sure of the range. Infantry he’d faced, but this was new, horses galloping right at them with great big hooves and men with swords astride them.
There was shouting to left of him, Turks breaking and running in panic, belting down the hill to the camp and safety. Laughter in the ranks, and he turned to see one poor devil caught in the old wife’s washing, and her belabouring him with a dolly stick, yelling him to go back to the lines. Maybe they ought to have the women beside them instead.
Campbell’s voice turned him, calm as a loch in June. ‘Now remember, men, there is no retreat from here. You must die where you stand.’
Die. Everything ending and the world going on without him. A voice growled, ‘Aye, aye, Sir Colin, we’ll do that,’ and others echoed it, his own among them, ‘Aye, we’ll do that.’ Campbell meant what he said, but they were Highlanders and so did they.
He planted his feet firmer into the earth. The stock was warm against his cheek, heated by his own blood. His finger was tight to the trigger, flesh and metal curled together for what they knew was to be done. Nearer and nearer rode the Russians, and ‘Fire!’ came the order, his finger squeezed, the barrel tried to buck, but he held it steady and the shot flew clean. There didn’t seem to be many down, he could see no empty saddles, but his hands were busy with other things. Butt to ground, cartridge out, bite, spit, over barrel and shake. Some fool was shouting ‘Reload!’ but that would be the Guards, poor creatures of ceremony that they were, he was already ball in and ramming, home and return. He was front rank, side nail to the right hip for the half-cock and hope the man behind remembered to place his higher. He did and they all did, not a tangle in the line as the caps went on.
He looked up for the range, but the Russians were wavering, the rush gone out of them, and a blast from the Highlanders’ own battery shaking them further still. The fighting joy swept savage through their lines, and even Farquhar was crying ‘Cruachan!’ in honour of their chieftain as they edged forward, forward to the bayonet and the real attack.
‘Ninety-third, ninety-third!’ roared Campbell. ‘Damn all that eagerness!’ His sword swept imperatively, and Mackenzie stepped back with the others, rifle again to the shoulder. He saw it then, what their chieftain had known, the cavalry weren’t wavering but wheeling, turning to take the Highlanders’ weak right flank. In front of him Campbell said to his aide, ‘Shadwell, that man knows his business.’
So did Sir Colin. A single shout, and their grenadier company turned on the flank, bending the line so they could all fire to the east. Again ‘Fire!’ the blast and cloud of smoke, and as it drifted and cleared Mackenzie looked up from the reload to see the Russians wheeling still further, riding away and back to the safety of their own lines. Behind him he heard the old wife still yelling ‘Get out of it, you thieving cowardly bastards!’ and the thwack of her stick on the shoulders of some hapless Turk.
Then the cheering started, a great roar that rose and spread along their line. Bonnets were sent flying, Macpherson shook his at the backs of the retreating Russians, and Farquhar, miserable croaker Farquhar, stuck his on his bayonet and waved it like a flag. Mackenzie lowered his rifle with hands that were still steady, and allowed himself a quiet smile of satisfaction.
‘Will ye look at the look-ons,’ said old Lennox, smacking his scrawny shank with enjoyment. ‘D’ye think they were meaning to help us? Why, they’re slower than snails!’
Mackenzie looked out to see the Heavy Brigade approaching from the fork in the valleys. But they were not headed for Kadikoi, or at least not now, they were turning for the Heights, and as he lifted his eyes he saw why. Horsemen were gathered on the ridge, a great body of them forming a thick, thick line. They looked the same kind of devils they’d seen off themselves, only many more of them, two thousand, maybe three.
The wee squadrons of maybe three hundred Heavy Brigade were turning to bring them to battle. Their progress was slow as they struggled through the vineyards, but there was another obstacle before them, and Mackenzie swallowed uneasily at the sight of little white triangles in regular straight lines. Two forces of cavalry were looking to collide, and full in their path lay the camp of the Light Brigade.
Sally saw them too. Russian cavalry, thousands of them, and on the ridge facing down to their own camp. She turned her head to the sounds of crashing and trampling in the vineyard, and here came the Heavies, their scarlet coats and brass helmets flashing bravely in the green vines. She looked back at the Russians beginning to move down the slope, and felt herself take a step backward, then another, until her heel hit a tent peg and stopped.
‘Ah, Jesus,’ said a tall big-boned woman by the 8th Hussars’ tents. ‘They’re going to fight a battle right over us. Ah, Jesus.’
The first Heavies were thrusting into view, broken lines of cavalry struggling to re-form in a chaos of tents and washing and cooking fires, and Sally heard a rip as a tent went down. Her head cleared, she picked up her haversack, and moved back to the safety of the forge cart. No horseman on either side would try to ride over that.
Trumpets sounded shrilly as the Heavies came on. Their horses stumbled against picket ropes and dragged down tents, they crushed pans and kettles and bumped over a washing tub with a great whoosh of water, but still they came on, and when an officer trotted past Sally he actually touched his hat. Half-dazed, she curtseyed after him.
She watched them through the camp to the foot of the slopes, and saw with relief the Russians had stopped. They were waiting on the Heights, staring incredulously at the British thrashing about below them as General Scarlett tried to form his regiments into proper line. It was madness, and Sally’s hand crept over her mouth at the sight of officers calmly turning their backs to the enemy in order to finish their dressing. Staff officers were joining them now, Lord Lucan himself screaming with impatience, but still Scarlett took his time. Above and beyond them Sally saw the Russians re-forming, sending out thick curving arms on either side like the claws of a giant crab. If the Heavies didn’t move soon, the Russians would, and the fight would be right in front of their camp.
But at last the trumpet, and not the ‘Walk-march’, Scarlett was going straight for the ‘Charge’. She watched in disbelief as he started up the slope with his aides, four men alone charging uphill and crashing right into the centre of the Russian mass. After him surged his first troops, hurtling at the enemy with a roar of sound that must have reached to Balaklava, a hubbub of trumpets shrilling, men shouting, steel clashing, and under it all the battle-cry that hadn’t been heard since the Battle of Waterloo, the fierce low moan of the Scots Greys. Others followed them, the whole Heavy Brigade piling uphill, and to Sally’s amazement the Russians were wavering under the onslaught. Three hundred men were holding off three thousand, and for now at least the camp was still behind British lines.
She allowed herself to relax a little, and moved away from the cart. A staff officer was trotting back from the slopes, and this time she didn’t hesitate to curtsey. It was only a quick bob, her head came up as he passed, but she saw in front of her a black horse with a green saddlecloth, and above it a man in a cocked hat whose face she had seen before.
He was past without noticing her, and she stood for a second in the confusion of shock. He was here, right in the battle with God knows what plan, and no one and nothing to stop him. She looked frantically about her, but the Heavies were all on the slopes, the camp emptying again, and she saw no one but other women and a couple of looting Turks fleeing with armfuls of pots and pans. There was only herself.
She turned and ran. Not to Kadikoi and safety, she had to get to Ryder and warn the Brigade. The 93rd had held, the Heavies were engaged, but the Lights were still vulnerable to any order this traitor might give. She tore through the camp, dodging the tents and fires and picket ropes, running past the tumult of battle and plunging into the ch
aos of the trampled vines. The haversack banged against her back, the dress tangled in her legs, she stumbled and tripped and ran on.
She must be ahead of him, no horse could cross the camps and vineyards as quickly as she was doing it on foot, but the plain cleared as she neared the end of the Heights, and from here he could be at the Light Brigade in minutes. Her imagination conjured hooves behind her, a horseman following, then she turned her head and saw him, just yards away and staring, then his hand moved, something flashed, and the shot rang in her ears as the punch hit her shoulder, whirling her round and slamming her down. Pain crashed in her head and swirled in her thought like thick mist.
She fought it, and opened her eyes. He was turning, riding away, but not for the Light Brigade, he was crossing the plain to the Sapoune Ridge and Raglan’s own base. She tried to roll over, to get up and keep running, but the movement chopped like an axe in her head, and for a little while everything dimmed into black.
Hooves roused her. Horsemen were coming, and the part of her mind that still worked knew she was lying right in their path. With thought came memory, and she turned in sudden terror to the head of the valley, but saw with shattering relief that the Light Brigade were still there. The horsemen approaching looked like Heavy Brigade, they must have won their action and were returning to join the Lights.
She crawled to the verge before the first horse reached her, and crouched at the base of the slopes to be sick. The pain wasn’t so bad now, there was only a graze on her temple, and she supposed she must have hit a rock when she fell. Her arm throbbed a little, but that didn’t look bad either, the ball couldn’t have done more than skim her. She could move, she could still warn Ryder. She wiped her sleeve over her face, picked up her haversack, and forced herself to go on. The Heavies all passed her, her legs were shaky, she felt dizzy and sick, but she made herself keep going and those little figures of the distant Brigade grew larger and clearer all the time.
But something else was clearer too, and movement to her left took shape as a horseman plunged down the side of the Sapoune, heading like herself towards the Light Brigade. He was a wonderful horseman to tackle such a drop, but what else was he? She stared until her eyes hurt, but the horse was brown and the saddlecloth tiger-skin, and as he descended further she recognized Captain Nolan. Everyone knew him, and the paper he was brandishing must be a genuine order from Lord Raglan himself. Nothing that treacherous staff officer did could matter now, and the Light Brigade was safe.
She stopped and took a long, shuddering breath of relief. In front of her Captain Nolan reached the valley floor and galloped furiously on towards the cavalry, waving his piece of paper like a flag.
16
25 October 1854, 11.00 a.m. to noon
It was quiet at the head of the valley. The cannon in the redoubts were silenced, the patter of musketry had long ceased, and even the charge of the Heavy Brigade had been little more than a distant roar. Ryder stretched to ease his aching back and wondered if their own turn was ever going to come.
No one felt like talking. Oliver sat with his arms clasped round his knees, gazing into the South Valley to watch the return of the Heavies. Jordan was trying to light a pipe with damp matches, a constant scrape, scrape, then a rattle in the tin as he dug out another. Fisk was glugging back the last of his water, smacking his lips on the last drops and laying down the barrel with a deep sigh. Bolton was feeding his horse a handful of crushed biscuit, murmuring lovingly, ‘All you need’s a good gallop, isn’t it, Bobbin? A nice long gallop.’
Most of their officers were still dutifully in the saddle. Marsh was fidgeting, checking his pistol, his scabbard, his horse’s bit. Hoare had his sabretache out and was scribbling what looked like a letter. Grainger looked at his pocket watch, then shut it with a soft, firm click. Jarvis stood in parade position by his horse’s head, everything regulation but for the eyes that looked only at Ryder, and the mouth that curved upward in a knowing smile. Ryder looked away, and cursed himself for doing it.
Hooves and clatter, the Heavy Brigade trotting back up to re-form. ‘Hullo, look-ons,’ called a red-coated Inniskilling, ostentatiously brandishing his bloodied sabre. ‘Did you get a good view?’
‘It’s not fair,’ muttered Oliver. His head was down, and his fair hair flopping over his face. ‘When is it our turn – when?’
The same question Ryder had been asking, the one every man in the Brigade was thinking. Then he heard it, a rattle of hooves on the escarpment, a galloper coming from Raglan. Nolan was waving a paper in triumph, and that could only mean one thing.
‘Now, Poll,’ he said with sudden confidence. He stood up to watch the horseman galloping nearer and nearer, waving their fate in his hand. ‘We’re going in now.’
Oliver stood with fearful hope as Nolan crossed their ranks. He paused by Captain Morris of the Lancers, yelled ‘You’ll see, you’ll see!’ and galloped on. He was laughing with excitement, and Oliver felt it stirring inside himself. Three orders of nothing had flattened his enthusiasm, but now it was up and quivering, straining to be off like Nolan as he galloped the last yards, reined to a stop in front of Lucan and held out the paper with a flourish.
‘It’s not withdrawal,’ said Fisk, lumbering to his feet. ‘There’d be no bleeding hurry about that.’
The others were getting up too, brushing down their overalls, standing by their horses, all with their heads still turned towards Nolan and Lucan. Lucan was getting agitated and raising his voice.
‘They’ll want us to retake the redoubts,’ said Jordan sagely. ‘Look, our infantry’s arriving down the Col; if you crane to the right you can just see them.’
Oliver gazed at the panorama in front of him. Roughly ploughed ground stretched to the rising slopes of the Causeway Heights, where it parted into two wide valleys. The first two redoubts were on little hills at the bottom of the South Valley, too far down to see from here. Numbers 3 and 4 were part of the ridge itself, but only the nearer Number 4 was visible and it seemed to be abandoned. Numbers 5 and 6 were unfinished anyway, but Jordan was right, little red figures of skirmishers were advancing towards them, and there would surely be more behind.
He turned his head left to look at the North Valley and the Woronzoff Road threading down it like a grey ribbon. There’d been Russian movement there all right, he’d sat and watched their cavalry cross it to climb the Heights and assault the Heavy Brigade on the other side. Like everyone else, he’d sat and watched them fall back, while Captain Morris pleaded fruitlessly with Cardigan to let them pursue. The road seemed empty now, though the Fedoukhine Hills were thick with grey and the sun flicked bright on the barrels of bronze cannon. Far in the distance down the bottom of the valley were more of them, a whole battery of perhaps twelve guns manned by a regiment of Don Cossacks. No. They wouldn’t be going that way.
Lucan was shouting, and his words drifted back in the stagnant air. ‘Attack, sir? Attack what? What guns, sir?’
Incredibly Nolan shouted back. An ADC yelling at a general! He seemed jolly wild about something, flinging his arm out back across the valley and crying, ‘There, my lord, is your enemy. There are your guns!’
It made no sense to Oliver, but it obviously did to Lucan and everything went very quiet. A moment of mumbling, then Lucan trotted over to Cardigan, and Nolan turned for the 17th Lancers and Captain Morris.
‘What?’ said Oliver, confused. ‘What are we doing?’
‘The man said “attack”, Polly,’ said Ryder. He seemed so relaxed, his eyes full of laughter and his mouth twisted in that mocking smile. ‘We’ll doubtless find out where in a minute.’
Attack. This was it, then, the moment at last. He’d run under fire and felt rather brave about it, but this was the real thing, what he’d been trained for all this time. He wiped his sweaty palm on his overalls and took firm hold of Misty’s reins. ‘I’m ready.’
‘Are you, Poll?’ said Ryder. He’d been wrong about the laughter, there was something in his eyes that seemed
inexpressibly sad. ‘I think I am too.’
The trumpet was calling ‘Mount!’, Trumpet-Major Joy blowing like a picture in a history book about Waterloo. For a second Oliver saw all of them like that, coloured drawings in a book studied by children. Then his foot was in the stirrup, up and over, down.
Captain Oldham took his place in the front rank, while the NCOs ordered the line. There was all the usual muttering and shuffling, the usual sense of miracle when they were dressed at last into long ranks two riders deep, and broken only by the gap between their two squadrons. The 17th Lancers were on their left, but beyond them the 11th Hussars were bunched more raggedly and Oliver heard the order ‘The 11th to fall back and form a second line!’ They were the first line, themselves and the Lancers, they were going to ride in front.
He grinned in delight. ‘So much for Cardigan’s favourites!’
‘So much,’ said Ryder. His voice had no expression.
Lord George Paget was falling back, presumably to command the support line of 8th Hussars and 4th Light Dragoons. Cardigan called after him in a voice as high and nervous as the neigh of a horse, ‘I expect your best support, Lord George. Mind that, your best support.’ Paget inclined his head and said, ‘You shall have it, my lord.’ He sounded very sombre, but Oliver saw with glee that in his casually drooping left hand he held a newly lit cheroot.
The Heavies were drawing up too, but they were right at the back and Oliver didn’t grudge it them. He said, ‘They can mop up anything we leave behind, can’t they? They can watch while we show how it’s done.’