‘That word there,’ said Lucan, pointing. ‘Is that sorrow?’
‘Follow, my lord. Follow the enemy.’
Lord Lucan stared down the South Valley again, seeing a row of cannon at the far end with cavalry massed behind it.
‘Those guns?’ he said, stroking his chin. ‘Those guns, sir?’
‘The Russian guns,’ confirmed Captain Nolan, not looking, full of impatience. We are ordered to charge them now.’
Lucan sighed and shrugged. He rode with Captain Nolan over to Lord Cardigan. Cardigan glared at both men, no love lost between any of them. The general thought Captain Nolan an insufferable popinjay who insulted his name behind his back. Cardigan hated these Indian army people anyway: the fact that Nolan had been in that service was enough to damn him in Cardigan’s eyes.
‘Well?’ Cardigan said peremptorily. ‘What now?’
Another heated exchange of words took place. Finally Cardigan raised his eyebrows, looked down the valley, seeing the same formidable array of guns which Lucan had seen. He then barked an order. Men began to mount their horses, throwing away half-eaten biscuits and cups. Captain Nolan rode over to Captain Morris of the 17th Lancers. Morris was Nolan’s close friend.
‘Are we going?’ asked Morris, excitedly.
‘At last,’ said Nolan, grinning. ‘Any chance I could join you, old chap?’
‘Help yourself,’ Morris replied, grinning back, making a space.
At this moment the Light Brigade was in two lines, with the 13th Light Hussars, the 17th Lancers and the 11th Hussars in the first line. The second line consisted of the 8th Hussars and the 4th Light Dragoons. As Mrs Durham watched, the 11th Hussars moved behind the other two in the front line, making three lines in all, with the 8th and 4th at the rear.
‘Well, they can’t take their horse artillery with ’em,’ said Captain Durham, lighting up his short stubby pipe.
‘Why not?’ asked his wife.
He pointed with the stem of the pipe. ‘See the valley? It’s farmland, a lot of it. Most of it has been ploughed and is furrowed. Iron-hard furrows in this soil, I’ll be bound. You send horses with cannon and limber over that lot and you’ll lose ’em for sure. No, the guns won’t go.’
‘You are clever, Bertie.’
‘Not really. Been through the same training as most of those chaps. Simply chose to be a storekeeper, rather than ride my backside bare through storms of bullets, that’s all. Not a hero, I’m afraid, my dear.’
‘That’s all right, Bertie. You aren’t built like one. Leave the heroing to men like Captain Morris.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he said, puffing on his pipe. ‘Chaps like Captain Nolan, eh?’
‘Oh, him,’ she said. ‘My dear, you’re more of a hero than Captain Nolan any day.’
Captain Durham filled his chest with air. ‘Am I, m’dear?’ he said. ‘Nice of you to say so.’
Trumpets were sounding below them now. Things were becoming interesting. There was now to be a second charge of the day. Mrs Durham’s excitement rose. Her cheeks started to tingle. Death or Glory. How wonderful it must feel, she thought, to be one of those men down there in the valley, ready to ride hell for leather at the enemy.
‘Oh do make a good show,’ she breathed. ‘Do, do.’
19
‘The brigade will advance. First Squadron of the 17th Lancers will direct.’
Private Feltam heard the order with a sharp thrill. The First Squadron of the 17th Lancers! That was him. They were going to charge the enemy at last. He was not quite sure which enemy that might be, but he was glad that his cousin Eggerton was not going to be the only man from their village to have had a go. He, Feltam, was to take part in a charge.
The trumpeter of the 17th Lancers sounded ‘Walk, March – Trot’.
Feltam urged his mount forward at a walk, then broke into a trot, careful to keep his place in the line. It would not do to be noticed going ahead or dropping behind. He did not want to disgrace himself now that he was having his chance. To the rear he could hear the bugles for the second and third lines.
Harnesses jingled in the morning air. Slowly the line of trotting horsemen went down the mile-wide valley like a roll of crimson surf, covering only a fifth of its width. Behind this two more gentle combers of red foam. Out in front rode the proud, haughty Brigadier-General Cardigan, last of the Brudenells, his moustaches blowing gently in the breezes.
It seemed the world was holding its breath.
When they had gone about two hundred yards, and the general had not ordered the line to turn either right or left, Feltam knew they were going the length of the valley. They were going to run the gauntlet. Feltam was not sure what was happening, but he had to put his trust in his leaders. There must be infantry to support us somewhere, he thought, looking around him, for it would be suicide to go in without support.
Perhaps the infantry were about to attack the heights on either side and occupy the attention of the troops there? And possibly there was a plan for the Heavy Brigade to ride at the guns on the western side of the valley, to silence them? Who knew what devious tactics were in the minds of the great generals, who must have been more intelligent than Feltam, or why would they have been put in charge of things?
Private Albury, to Feltam’s right, said, ‘Where the damn hell are we going?’
‘We’ll see soon enough,’ replied Feltam, not happy about the rasping tone of Albury’s cursing. ‘You just keep a gentle tongue in your throat – you may be going on your final journey in a few minutes, and you don’t want to arrive with your lips still twisted on a curse. Think on that.’
‘Nothin’ wrong with a good oath,’ muttered Albury, but he looked a little abashed by Feltam’s warning.
They went a few further yards when someone else let out an oath.
‘Keep that line, damn you!’
Lord Cardigan was reprimanding someone for being too quick, too eager to charge. By turning his head slightly, Feltam saw who it was. It was the captain who had accompanied Lord Lucan with the message to attack. This officer’s impetuosity would cost him dear, if Feltam knew anything about his brigade commander. Lord Cardigan would have the man’s ears for bridle rings after the battle was over. Feltam could see that the back of Lord Cardigan’s neck was red with anger.
At that very moment a shell burst overhead and the noise made Feltam’s head ring. His horse shied a little, but was soon calmed. The 17th’s line rippled, as if the shock wave from the explosion had travelled down its length. Lord Cardigan stiffened in his saddle, going poker-straight.
Someone, somewhere was screaming in a high-pitched voice, like a rabbit with a weasel at its throat.
‘Jesus, Lord Almighty!’ said a startled Albury, looking round. ‘What’s that?’
‘That captain who brought the order,’ answered Feltam. ‘He’s been hit.’
The captain’s horse rode across and in front of them with the screaming officer still in the saddle, his sword arm raised but his hand empty of a weapon. He seemed locked in a position which registered defiance, yet his face was twisted with the shock and pain of sudden death. Then he slipped sideways and backwards, to fall heavily on the ground, under the hooves of the oncoming 11th Hussars. Captain Morris looked back at the body, his face stricken with horror.
They were now in a sandstorm of bullets, coming from both sides of the valley. The air seemed to darken with the amount of metal fragments swirling around them. Round shot was falling amongst them, crashing through horses’ legs like balls through skittles, toppling the riders. More shells burst on them, filling the air with whining fragments of hot steel. The atmosphere was thick with metal splinters, like deadly insects. It seemed impossible to ride through that storm without being struck by something.
‘Good glory,’ cried Feltam, numb with sudden fright, ‘we’ll all be killed for certain.’
But he kept on riding, still at a trot, as did all those who remained in their saddles. Men and horses began to disappear f
rom the line, either swept away by round shot, or struck in some vital part by musket ball or splinter of shell. Others were wounded but kept their place in the line. There were grim white faces all around as, incredibly, the amount of fire began to increase with the guns and rifles in front opening up.
The air sizzled with a hot metal rainstorm.
Feltam’s horse, Dagger, was struck twice almost simultaneously, in the neck and flank. Dagger snorted in pain but did not falter in stride. Moments later Feltam experienced a red-hot agonizing pain in his left shoulder.
‘I’m hit,’ he said to Albury, but it was merely a statement of fact, not an excuse to cut and run. Discipline was immaculate. They had trained for this and Feltam knew what he had to do. He was certainly not going to drop behind now, when they were so close to their goal. How he would regret it later, to be one of those who never made it.
‘So am I,’ came the response from Albury, and Feltam looked across to see Albury’s lance arm hanging uselessly by his side, his weapon dangling from a shattered hand and dragging in the dust, making a snaking mark. ‘I an’t going back though,’ said the wounded man, with a voice full of fury.
Feltam experienced the same rage washing through himself, as he saw men he knew blown from their saddles, or their horses shot from under them. Familiar faces, acquaintances, good friends. They were all going down by the dozen now, in a blizzard of grape shot. Feltam could hear the pocking sound of small pieces of metal striking bodies, passing through soft flesh, burying themselves in muscle and bone.
The man on the other side of Feltam was Private Simms. Simms was close enough to touch Feltam and he suddenly reached out and tapped Feltam’s shoulder. ‘Tagged, old son,’ he said, giving Feltam the wistful smile of an infant who has been called in from playing games on the heath. Then letting out a soft sigh he slipped from his saddle, down into the dust.
The Russian infantry, armed with Liege rifles, were using them to good effect from the heights on either side of the mile-wide valley.
The lines of cavalry were well down now, on their way into the mouths of the guns, and still they were trotting, with the rednecked and church-steady Cardigan deliberately keeping the pace down and the lines straight.
But as they drew nearer the cannons the 17th Lancers’ fury increased and by ones and bunches they broke into a gallop, the regular drumming of their hooves turning to a sound of thunder. Cardigan glanced behind him at Feltam’s line, looking with an annoyed expression at Captain Morris who led it, but if he was not to be swallowed by his own cavalry he had to stay ahead of the horsemen. He too broke into a gallop, charging forward, the wind tearing at his headdress feather.
‘Come on, chums,’ cried Feltam, yelling to the 11th Hussars, who were about four hundred yards behind. ‘Come on, then. Let’s get into ’em!’
He was exhilarated now, all pain forgotten. He could see the mouths of the cannons, blaring grape shot. The air was full of metal wasps. But with the wind rushing past his ears, he lowered his lance. It was all blood and fury now! This was the stuff! All he wanted to do was prick one of those bloody gunners with the point of his lance. Right at that moment he hated the beggars, for cutting down his friends like wheat, for standing smugly behind their cannons and destroying the 17th Lancers as if they meant nothing to anyone.
‘Up, up, 13th,’ came a cry from Feltam’s right. ‘Don’t let those bastards of the 17th get there first!’
Albury cried, ‘Don’t let ’em catch us, Feltam!’
The enemy was the enemy and there was a job to be done by all, but it would have been disastrous to let the light dragoons draw in front of the lancers. Feltam and Albury had to be there first. It was a matter of honour.
Feltam increased Dagger’s pace and the wounded animal responded magnificently. Just then Feltam was hit in two more places, in the left elbow and the chest. He knew he had been struck but it was something only at the back of his mind. First and foremost he had to pass through those guns. He could worry about wounds later. He began yelling and cheering as they came up on the Russians, the flank fire from the heights having ceased now for fear they would hit their own troops.
The guns in front blazed for the last time, booming along the line, their flashes like the quick opening and shutting of a row of furnace doors. A wave of hot air riffled through Feltam’s uniform, warming his face and hands. Men and horses went down on all sides. There were curses and prayers in the air. Albury cried out, ‘The paths of glory – Feltam . . .’ and then he was gone. Others went down in the grape shot in packs, falling in heaps of twisted legs and arms.
Feltam’s eyes were on those behind the guns, the previously self-satisfied figures behind that row of brass cannon, who were beginning to twitch and run now.
‘Yes, yes, you beggars,’ he yelled at them, as the gunners finally turned and broke away. ‘Thought you were safe! I’ll prick you, by damn. I’ll puncture your backsides!’
Ignoring his own priggishness about oaths, he let them have a mouthful of curses, he hated them so much at that moment. And he had never felt such triumph as he surged past the first line of guns, his lance directed at the chest of an infantry soldier. The man tossed away his rifle and threw up his arms, but Feltam’s lance pieced his heart and rolled him aside.
Then Feltam’s neck jerked sideways as he himself was lanced by a Cossack coming in from the side. He swung his own lance round like a staff and struck the rider on the side of the head knocking him off balance in his saddle. A friendly dragoon shot the Cossack in the back, then hacked him off his horse with his sword.
A second Cossack attacked Feltam from the front. Feltam desperately parried the man’s lance with his own, but unfortunately drove it down so that it lodged in Dagger’s chest. Dagger reared in agony, kicking out with his front hooves and driving off the Cossack’s mount. The poor animal now had the broken point of a lance buried in his chest and he was wheezing heavily.
Feltam patted Dagger’s head, emotion welling in his breast at the thought of his charger’s pain.
‘Sorry old boy,’ he said. ‘We’ll get you back now.’
Apart from being severely wounded, Dagger was blown with the ride, and he began to totter a little in his stride.
Captain Morris was rallying the 17th now, and the swords were out, hissing down on the heads of the hated Russian gunners. Morris called to Feltam, but the private’s horse was now all in. Dagger sank to his knees with a groan and Feltam had to dismount. Another lancer was walking away from the fight, carrying his saddle, and he said to Feltam, ‘You’d best keep your tack, chum. You can come by a horse easy enough.’
Feltam saw Morris and about ten others go charging at some startled Russian cavalry, who in turn tried to force their way back through the massed Russian troops in the rear, to avoid the blood-spattered and furious bands of lancers.
Dagger died with a rattle in his throat, but Feltam could not get the saddle off his back, since the weight of the horse was too much for him to lift and pull it out from under. Two Russian hussars came at him then, one on either side. Feltam drew his sword and whirled it about him, keeping them back long enough to be able to slice one through his boot.
This man rode off with his foot dangling. The other hussar came in close enough for Feltam to jump up at him and drag him from the saddle. The lancer then drove his sword through the man’s chest, pinning him to the ground.
Feltam was feeling dizzy now. Surprisingly his multiple wounds were not bothering him that much, but he was losing blood. Looking round he saw Lord Cardigan riding back towards the British lines, still poker-straight in his saddle, looking as if he were hacking in Hyde Park. The general had obviously had enough of things amongst the guns, felt he had done his duty, and was now on the way back. Feltam had some thoughts about leaders staying with their men and actually doing some leading, but these were soon pushed aside by the precariousness of his position. He was still on foot and quite vulnerable.
The dead Russian’s charger was stan
ding quietly nearby, the reins draping on the ground. Feltam mounted this horse and brought it under control, before riding towards Sergeant-Major Stannard, who was beset by a group of Cossacks. Stannard looked badly wounded. Feltam waded into the Cossacks, his sword swishing, and grabbed the Sergeant-Major’s bridle with his free hand, then led him away at a canter. Fortunately none of the Russians followed.
‘You all right, sir?’ he cried. ‘Can you make it back?’
The sergeant-major’s heavy-lidded eyes regarded him.
‘Thank you, Feltam. I’ll be all right. Let go the bridle. Look to yourself, trooper.’
Feltam did as he was told and the pair of them began to return at a slow pace down the valley. They were well over on the right, facing their own lines. It was certain they would be shot at by the infantry lining that side of the valley, but then Feltam saw the French cavalry, the Chasseurs d’Afrique, coming charging up that side. Feltam could see them in their distinctive red and blue, as the Chasseurs attacked the guns and infantry on the slopes of the Fedioukine Hills.
‘Hurrah for the Froggies,’ he said. ‘Sarn-Major, they’ve cut us a path back through.’
‘Do not be disrespectful to our French allies,’ grumbled the sergeant-major. ‘They are not what they eat.’
‘No, sir,’ answered Feltam, cheerfully. ‘But they’ve done us a good turn, anyway. Look at them burn into those Russians. Better late than never, eh?’
The bowed figure of the sergeant-major, racked with pain, agreed with the private.
The Heavy Brigade had also followed the Light Brigade up the valley, but well behind, fatigued as they were by their earlier encounter with the enemy. When Feltam was halfway back down, giddiness overcame him and he passed out in the unfamiliar saddle of the Russian hussar’s horse. When he came to he found his cousin Eggerton by his side, leading his horse back to safety. He wondered where Eggerton had come from and his first thought was for the sergeant-major.
The Valley of Death Page 20