by A L Berridge
Ryder looked at him, and something thumped in Oliver’s stomach like a fist. ‘Listen, Polly,’ he said, and his voice was so normal that for a moment everything was all right. ‘This is going to be bad, but it won’t always be. When you’re back here safe – and you will be – then don’t think war has to be like this, don’t be afraid to face it again. I want you to promise me you won’t.’
He wanted to laugh, to think of a good rejoinder as Jordan always did. He looked down the line for Jordan, for Bolton and Fisk, but they were all facing front and wearing the same awful taut expression as Ryder. Bolton was praying, his lips moving in familiar words, ‘Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name …’
‘Harry,’ he said. ‘What … ?’
Ryder’s hand reached out and squeezed his arm. ‘Promise me.’
‘Of course,’ he said, bewildered. ‘Of course, if you want.’
Ryder smiled. His hand relaxed and let go, they were apart again, the regulation six inches from knee to knee.
‘… as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread …’
‘Draw swords!’
At last, and it slid out beautifully, up and to slope against his shoulder. But Ryder was reaching over again, saying, ‘Give me your handkerchief.’
‘What?’
‘Give it me!’
‘… as we forgive those who trespass against us.’
He watched Ryder twist the handkerchief into a rope, run it through the hilt of his sabre and tie it to his wrist. ‘I’m not going to drop it.’
‘Not now you’re not,’ said Ryder. He dragged out his own handkerchief and gripped one end in his teeth as he did the same to himself.
‘And deliver us from evil …’
‘The Brigade will advance!’ roared Cardigan. His voice was hoarse and his face red, but he seemed awfully calm and solid. ‘First squadron of the 17th Lancers to direct!’
Oliver looked resentfully to his left, but couldn’t help admiring the look of their neighbours. Their lances were at the ‘carry’, the little red and white pennants fluttering behind them like knights at Agincourt. They were commanded by a mere captain too, all their senior officers sick or dead of cholera, they were as young and orphaned as the 13th, and they were all in it together.
‘… the Power and the Glory, for ever and ever, Amen.’
The bugles were sounding, Trumpeters Brittain and Joy both together, and Amen, he thought to himself. The Power and the Glory, Amen. Forward they went, while the poor old 11th waited sullenly for the regulation two horse-lengths before they fell in behind. At the back would be Paget’s support line, then behind him the Heavies, but Oliver was looking to his front and glory.
The ploughed land was bumpy beneath their horses’ hooves as they stood in the stirrups for the trot. They weren’t going to the South Valley. Cardigan kept them straight, and the rise of the Heights was facing them as they picked their way over the muddy ruts. It would be steep going to get to the redoubts uphill, but the Heavies had tackled worse, he’d seen them do it. They neared the slope, but still didn’t seem to be wheeling, and he glanced at the Lancers to check direction.
But something was happening there, a flash of tiger-skin cloth as Captain Nolan leaped forward and away from his place by Captain Morris. ‘No, no, Nolan, that won’t do!’ shouted Morris. ‘We’ve a long way to go, we must be steady!’
Nolan was anything but steady as he swerved diagonally across their front, sword waving frantically, face white and staring like a man in a nightmare. He was charging right for Cardigan, actually overtaking the leader of the Brigade, and his voice carried back to them as an anguished cry of ‘Threes riiiiight!’ That was right, the right order, but the words were half lost in the roar of cannon from the Russian battery on their left. Boom and crump as a shell exploded to their front, black fragments hurtling back at them like demented birds. Nolan’s voice rose to a shriek and the sword fell from his hand, but his horse wheeled round, carrying its rider back towards their own line. He was dead, he must be, the gold braid of his chest torn into a gaping red hole, but the arm was still up and the scream still sounding and echoing in the valley, horrible and unearthly. The horse vanished between their two squadrons, but the sound and terror stayed with Oliver and again a cannon went boom. Cries and neighing horses in among the Lancers, and bodies thudded hard to the ground.
It was madness, madness, why weren’t they turning? They were in range of the Russian guns, if they went any further they’d be in range of the ones at the end too. Why didn’t they turn for the Heights before they were blown to bits? He looked wildly at the Lancers for direction, at Cardigan in front, at their own Captain Oldham, then he turned to look at Ryder and understood.
They were meant to go this way. They were heading straight down the North Valley towards the battery at the end, charging artillery from the front with cannon to either side. No one was arguing, these were the orders and they were all going to die.
His knees spasmed and dug in, Misty lurched forward, but Ryder’s arm was there again, pressing him back. ‘Steady, Poll. We’ve still a good mile to go.’
Boom but no crump, a shell exploding in men and not earth. Men yelling, horses whinnying in terror, a lance falling across their line and cracking under Misty’s hoof. Clouds of dark smoke billowed over from their left, and he was almost glad of it, he couldn’t see the carnage in the Lancers or those terrifying black muzzles still silent in the distance. Dear God, another mile of this? He looked desperately down their line for Captain Marsh, saw him riding square and steady with perfectly straight back, then something sprayed between them, case shot tearing into their ranks, and Marsh was reeling, one white eyeball staring in ragged redness, he crashed over the saddle and was gone.
A splinter seared over his knuckles, a bloodied streak torn in his glove, a reminder of what was real. Their line was shifting and widening to let the dead men fall out of it, then closing back together without so much as an order, closing together and trotting on. They were still going on, and so, to his astonishment, was he. He was trotting as steadily as any of them, facing front and keeping his sword steady at the slope. What else was there to do?
Then realization sang through him, and in the choking grey smoke he saw with sudden clarity where he was and what he was doing. He was one man of a regiment, a trained light dragoon, and he was charging the enemy. It didn’t matter what happened afterwards, all he had to do was charge.
And in front of them the great guns roared. Every muzzle belched orange fire, hurling roundshot and shell, every gun pounding into their thin blue line. Bolton was snatched away beside him, gone and blown backwards, his mare’s saddle ripped away with the skin of her back. Just charge, he thought and rode on. The ploughed earth vanished, level turf stretched before them, and around him rose the wonderful thumping of hooves. Muskets banged to their right, men screamed and horses crashed, another great volley boomed out ahead, but through it all the hooves thundered on, faster and faster, his own lost in the rumble of hundreds as he rode on and charged with the Light Brigade.
Ryder was swearing as he rode. He cursed the guns and the Russians and riderless horses, he cursed the smoke and streaks of flame, the shells and the musket balls, he cursed that bastard Cardigan for refusing to let them ride above a canter or overtake his glorious self. Be damned to arriving on a blown horse, if they didn’t go faster they’d never arrive at all. He stuck down his head and rode on.
The Heights exploded on his right, another bloody battery on the other side. Jordan’s mount crushed against him to escape the blast, but as Ryder wheeled back Oliver smashed into his other flank, driven by the press of Bolton’s horse as she struggled to find sanctuary in the familiarity of the ranks. ‘Beat her back, Polly!’ he yelled against the roar. ‘Drive her off!’ Jordan’s leg crunched sickeningly against his own, and he jabbed out furiously with his elbow, screaming, ‘Keep her back, Billy, you’ll have us both down!’ Dust flew in his face, Jordan’s horse
reared, then the pressure slackened and they were riding on in a moment’s silence of the guns. They must have passed the range of the battery on their left.
The guns in front blazed again, those bastards were reloading every thirty seconds. He dug in his spurs to drive forward, dozens doing the same, they’d got to go faster or die. A shell whistled overhead, but he heard the crash behind as it exploded in the 11th Hussars. A trumpet was sounding too, the ‘Gallop’ at last, but most were already doing it, and the Lancers pressing right up to the ‘Charge’. ‘Here!’ shouted Fisk. ‘Come on, don’t let those buggers get ahead of us!’ He was grinning wildly and brandishing his sword.
A ball smashed in from the right, bowling through their second rank and exploding in a mass of red and black, blood-spray and fragments, a horse trampling its own entrails as it tried to run. Horses in the first rank bolted in terror, Captain Oldham himself jolting suddenly in front of their line as if to lead a charge. The nearest men followed, whooping with enthusiasm, Jordan leaped after them, and then the front battery fired.
The first shell burst under Oldham’s white mare. The black cloud engulfed all of them, every man who’d followed, every horse down, and Oldham’s had lost both hind legs. The captain rolled over and leaped up, but a ball cracked in from the right and he crashed on his face, sword still clutched in his outstretched hand. Jordan was rolling too, arms over his face, screaming, ‘Don’t ride on me, don’t ride on me!’ Impossible to stop, Ryder swerved to avoid him and galloped on. A riderless horse pushed into the vacant space on his right, and beyond it he saw Jarvis, untouched and unhurt, riding on.
But they were riding into blackness now, smoke from the front battery swirling and blinding them. Even the muzzles of the facing guns were visible only in thick streaks of flame as one by one they bellowed into hellish life. No more volleys now, the shots were banging in succession as the gunners fired at will, but the black spray that flew out at them was deadlier than the balls had been. The bastards were firing canister, a thousand fragments of shot scything through their close-packed ranks. Screams lost meaning, mere high notes in the boom and roar, all that was real were the reins in his left hand, the hilt in his right, and the flanks of his horse between his thighs. The air was full of iron.
Oliver cried out, his head slamming round to Ryder as if from a giant slap, but it was the man beyond who was hit, a huge torso astride a bay mare and above it the remnants of half a head. Blood-spray drenched them all, blood and brains and a fragment of bone that stuck in his cheek like a dart, and it was only as the corpse rolled down and away that Ryder’s mind seized the name. Fisk, he thought. That was Albie Fisk.
But a ball or shell, it had to be to take a man’s head off, and even as Ryder wiped the filth from his face he saw with sudden clarity what that meant. Ball and canister, the enemy were firing double-shotted, the dangerous last resort of the desperate. The Russians were scared. They weren’t seeing them as targets, they were seeing a terrifying charge of deadly steel rushing towards them, and by God they were right. This wasn’t about dying, it was about bloody killing, and the realization spun his thought into hardness like steel.
The confusion vanished. He saw the right-hand battery had stopped, afraid of hitting their comrades in front, and knew they had only the one in front to beat. He could see the gun barrels and knew they were riding right in the interval of two great cannon. An officer yelled ‘Close up! Incline left!’ but when Oliver moved to do it Ryder snatched his sleeve and yelled, ‘No, you don’t, Poll, stay right on this line!’ Oliver looked ahead, looked back, then smiled with understanding, and Ryder smiled back. They knew where they were going, they knew what they were going to do, they were head down and racing together, teeth clenched as they dug in their spurs and rode on through the iron hail.
And here it was at last, death and the end and the trumpet sounding ‘Charge!’ Air rushed under him as he stood to the crouch, arm thrusting forward, sword to ‘Engage’, green ground blurring beneath the pounding hooves. ‘Come on, Deaths!’ called the Lancers, but death was for the Russians and Ryder held it on the tip of his sword.
Through the smoke, right into it, then there were the guns, and there the men who served them, frantic dark green figures struggling like demons to reload in time. A portfire sparkled in a gunner’s hand, a hoarse yell of ‘Strelai!’ and then fire smashed into them, scorching his side with the blast of it, sweeping away the riderless horse next to him and hurling death into the line behind. But they were all but there, Ryder kept his eyes on the gap between the muzzles and charged right at it. The gun to his left was still loading, men screaming and working with pantomime haste, a gunner waiting with burning fuse, but too late, he was already up to it, boot grazing the burning muzzle, he was through and slashing down at the portfire, hand, wrist and all, chopping through the whole thing as he screamed in the terrified face ‘Too fucking late!’
It was their turn now. Gunners broke and ran as the line crashed into them, dropping spongestaffs and prickers, roundshot and charges, dropping everything to run like rabbits or cower under the guns, anywhere away from the maddened cavalry leaping at them out of their own smoke. The Lancers were on them, skewering them in the backs, tossing them aside and charging on. Oliver was on them, through the gap and slashing out with the pent-up fury of that long and desperate charge. Jarvis was on them, roaring like a bull as he thrust down with his sword, Grainger was on them, drill-perfect with his cuts and thrusts, young Hoare was on them, hacking out wildly, his freckled face pale beneath the spatters of blood.
And Ryder was on them, wheeling round and round to reach more of them, sword whining through the air with the force of his blows. Hit them, hit them with everything, edge, point, even the hilt with the power of his fist behind it. A grey coat, stab it, a face above one, slash it, a Russian, kill it, kill it and move on. A gunner whacked at his arm with a rammer, but he reared his horse and smote left-right down to cleave the shapka to the skull. The smoke stung his eyes, the powder-smell burned his throat, the twisting and turning tore his back, but he’d ridden through hell to get here and all he felt was savage joy.
But the bastards wouldn’t stand. They were turning and running in almost superstitious panic, and some of it justified. One gunner covered his face and screamed like a woman, and when Ryder looked behind he saw a dragoon bearing down through the smoke with the top of his head gone, and his pale blue face streaked with drying blood. Moody was dead in the saddle, but his horse had brought him all the way.
But Ryder was alive and he wanted a fight, not a rout. He wheeled into pursuit, and saw others doing the same, Light Dragoons and Lancers all racing the retreating gunners to the back of the battery, Cornet Hoare even yelling ‘Charge!’ Ammunition wagons loomed up on the right, a tangle of hastily abandoned limber, he swerved left to avoid them, and reined to an abrupt halt. The smoke was thinner here, he could see open plain beyond, and trotting towards them was a thick mass of horsemen bristling with lances. Cossacks.
Here was their real enemy. Here were the oilskin-covered fur hats, the belted coats and savage faces they’d seen only from a distance, here were the bastards who’d mocked them with their refusal to fight. Well, they would fight now. He didn’t wait for an order, no one did, they rose as one man in the saddle, levelled their swords, and charged.
A charge as it ought to be, no smoke, no cannon, only level turf sloping gently downhill to an already wavering enemy. The Cossacks were brave fighters, but they couldn’t have ever seen a charge like the Light Brigade’s, they were incredulous and in shock, and the rear ranks were already backing away when the dark blue line smashed into their front.
And this was it, this was how it should be, cavalry against cavalry not against iron and fire. He batted away the first lance like paper, back with his edge across the open throat, then drove forward for the next. Lances were no good in a mêlée, little more than sticks to be parried aside before striking home. He was cleaving through them, the bastards falling
back and back, Who’s the cowards now? They were scared of a few Lancers and Light Dragoons, but the second line was pouring in, Paget’s support line already at the guns, and behind them would be the whole damned Heavy Brigade. He slashed at the next face, watched it leaping back out of reach, and knew they could drive the whole lot back to the Chernaya.
Forward they rode, all of them pushing together. That was Oliver next to him, but what his headmaster would think of that furious face and savagely slashing arm Ryder couldn’t imagine. On his other side was Prosser, stupid Jake Prosser, but he’d got brain enough for this, he was stabbing at the Cossacks’ faces and yelling ‘Go to hell, go to hell, go to hell!’ They were retreating, damn them, not enough to go round, and when Ryder lunged across to reach one already wheeling Jarvis roared ‘Mine!’ and swung his sword at the man like an axe.
He swerved past to clear ground, nothing ahead of him but the back end of horses, and nothing around him but Light Brigade blue. He reined Tally to a halt and forced himself steady, clearing the smoke and the anger with long, slow breaths from the depth of his lungs.
‘I say, chaps,’ said Hoare’s voice, with an oddly high note in it. ‘Where is everyone?’
He straightened. About the field were little knots of Lancers and 13th like themselves, but the men he was seeing would hardly make a troop, and he realized with dull shock they were all that was left of that beautiful first line. Some smoke-blackened 11th Hussars had made it this far, and he saw little bunches of 8th Hussars and 4th Light Dragoons pursuing Cossacks towards the aqueduct, but of the Heavies there was no sign.
‘Look,’ said Oliver, and he sounded more scared than in the charge. ‘Ryder, look.’
He was looking, and didn’t like it. Russian hussars were forming on their left flank, Uhlan lancers trotting down towards them from the Causeway Heights, and even the Cossacks had only withdrawn into little clumps to watch and wait from a safe distance. Those wonderful moments at the guns had felt like being an attacking army, but now they were just a small band of survivors and the Russians were closing in.