Bangs, thumps, yells and ringing sword-swipes reached up to the ridge as the next two regiments swept into the fight. One after another the 4th and 5th Dragoon Guards drove into the Russians’ flanks. A strange, low, moaning cheer filled the valley as the Irish 5th crashed home, many simply punching the Russian horsemen with the steel hilts of their sabres.
One trooper barged his horse so hard into an enemy hussar that he overbalanced with the shock of the collision, whilst swiping wildly with his sabre. The blow was badly aimed, for his frightened, bruised horse had jerked him off target. The blade twinkled and fell, but it skidded off the Russian’s sleeve, doing no more damage than cutting his reins and leaving the attacker sprawling over his horse’s neck.
The rest of the duel owed nothing to the fencing master. The dragoon dropped his sword, caught hold of his enemy’s coat and bridle to stop himself from falling under the stamping hooves, then slowly clawed and grabbed himself upright. The Irishman grasped and pinioned the Russian, preventing him from getting to his pistols whilst both the horses bumped together, harnessed by their riders’ embrace. Finally, he drew his head back, smashing the Russian on the bridge of the nose with his forehead—a blow perfected in brawls from the Curragh to Kandahar.
Like a great, shivering jelly, the Russian host started to give way. Even though their attackers were less than half their number, the British were starting to get the better of them. Then the last cheering, shouting regiment thrust home, the Royals’ helmets and swords flashing in the morning sun as they drove into the Russians’ flank. Morgan saw one hussar drop his reins and sword to shield his head, before both hands were severed by a sweeping, slicing blow.
Harder and harder the red regiments pushed, joined now by the petulant crack of shellfire. Slowly, gradually at first and then ever more quickly the enemy broke and cantered away towards the shelter of the ridge. The Heavies pursued for a short way, swords falling briskly, pistols cracking, before Scarlett pulled them up, giving the artillery all the space they needed to send them on their way.
‘Look at the bastards go, sir,’ Sergeant Ormond’s voice was thick with excitement.
Along the ridge almost two thousand cavalry fled, their horses’ tails streaming like flags of surrender. The riders hunched over their reins, swords trailing from their wrist knots, pistols and carbines abandoned. They disappeared across the ridge so much faster than they had appeared.
‘They’re running all right, but why doesn’t Lord Cardigan and the Light Brigade finish the job?’ From Kadikoi, Morgan could just see the commander and the Staff of the flower of Britain’s army in the Crimea—the Light Cavalry Brigade—sitting high on the Causeway Heights. From that point, Morgan guessed, Cardigan would have been able to see the Russian cavalry fleeing, almost broken into the North Valley with their backs to his Brigade. There they sat, hardly touched by war, Cardigan’s regiments now with the chance to turn a defeat into an utter rout. But no, feuds, stupidity and arrogance—at which Morgan and his lads could only guess—robbed the Allies of a quick, decisive victory.
Where the ground was pocked and churned by hooves and shells lay the fruits of the Heavy Brigade’s work. Flies buzzed over spurred and booted bundles: a few moaned and moved, whilst a score of horses limped or stood stock still, cropping the meagre grass, waiting faithfully for their silent masters’ commands.
***
‘Those Heavies will be pleased with themselves, won’t they?’ Mrs Martin mirrored her Tom’s sense of rivalry, but the other two women could barely tell the difference between the mounted regiments, let alone the Brigades.
They’d seen a trickle of their own wounded dragoon’s and a handful of ragged Russian prisoners being shooed towards the Heavy Brigade camp next door, but of the Light Brigade there was no news. Betty could identify the various regimental bugle calls in the distance, but it was hard to see anything from the slopes below the Causeway Ridge.
‘Ladies, I’ve had enough. First heathen Turks come romping through ‘ere, now the bloody—oh, do excuse me—the wretched Heavy Brigade take all the glory to themselves. Still, Tom says Lord Cardigan knows his job and if there’s real work to do then the Light Brigade will do it. Copper to a guinea our boys will be at the Muscovites soon enough. If that’s the case I want to see it and the surgeon will want us to hand, any road. What say you that we ride off and find the Eighth?’ In her enthusiasm Betty Martin hadn’t noticed that if nurses were needed then her precious Tom would be in greater danger.
‘I don’t know, Mrs Martin. We ought to be getting back to our own lot up yonder, the surgeon will be asking after us and his medicines.’ Mrs Polley’s face was no prettier when creased by responsibility.
‘No, come on, now. We’ve missed one good do, we can’t have the regiment saying that Victoria Polley and Mary Keenan were shy, can we?’ As usual, Mary’s view prevailed. Led by Betty on her pony the hospital wagon and its ill-matched Amazons set off up the low ridge.
And there they sat for two or more hours. The guns thundered on, some Guardsmen and Rifles hung disconsolately around a nearby empty redoubt occasionally trying their hands with long-distance rifle shots at the Russians but nothing conclusive happened. Meanwhile, both of the cavalry Brigades manoeuvred back and forth over the ridge, the Heavies looking almost as good as new and the Light untouched.
‘Russ has got very bold all of a sudden, hasn’t he?’ Mary shaded her eyes against the morning’s gentle sun. ‘Why doesn’t Himself do something about it?’
From the handful of trees where they had placed their wagon, the women could see right down the north part of the valley and along the line of redoubts. On the other side of the saucer of ground, hills rose gently up to what was called the Fedioukine Heights and on these they could see Russian guns and horses. Below them a dark mass of riders swirled and eddied at the far end of the chalky, tree-studded valley whilst the further redoubts were now firmly in the hands of Russian infantry. Whilst all this was going on, about a quarter of a mile behind the women the Light Brigade had trotted into the north valley to be greeted by long shots from the enemy guns. Then, to prevent any casualties, they had immediately withdrawn and now stood by their horses under the distant eyes of the commander-in-chief on the ridge above.
‘Bold’s not the word, cheeky more like. Everywhere’s crawling with them, but they won’t dare venture towards Balaklava again, mark my words.’ Betty’s opinion had to be worth more than the other girls’—she was an NCO’s wife after all.
‘If Mr Raglan wants them forts back, though, they’ll have to attack from the other side of the ridge...’ Betty stabbed her finger to the south, though the lie of the ground made it invisible to them, ‘...they’ll get support from our guns there. It’s no good the Light Brigade hanging about here, there’s Russians on all three sides and more guns than a Turk’s got lice.’
‘Ah, now we shall see something, Mrs Keenan.’ Betty Martin had realized that the group in the distance were the Staff around Lord Lucan at the head of the Cavalry Division. Arms and telescopes were being waved frantically and she recognized the bugle notes that called all commanders together to receive orders.
‘Aye, d’you suppose that that’s your head man in the red pants?’ Mary had spotted Cardigan in his 11th Hussar uniform as he trotted forward to speak to the officers commanding the five Light Brigade regiments.
‘It is, he must be about to move the Brigade back into the south valley.’ Betty had seen that the only sensible, sheltered route for Cardigan’s troops lay back over the ridge into the south valley where they would be screened from the host of enemy guns and horse.
‘Why then, Mrs Martin, are they starting to deploy into line?’ Mrs Polley was at a loss.
‘I cannot say, Mrs Polley, you are correct, though, for they seem to be facing quite the wrong way.’
Betty Martin was certainly right. Just out of gunshot, the first line of the Light Brigade—11th Hussars, 17th Lancers and 13th Light Dragoons—were turning, moving to get
into a long, thin line abreast of each other. Dust spiralled under the hundreds of trotting, stamping hooves almost hiding the fur busbies and cherry overalls of the 11th, the waving red and white lance pennons of the 17th and the sombre blue jackets and black shakoes of the 13th. To their rear the other two regiments, the 4th Light Dragoons and Tom Martin’s own 8th Hussars were forming into a second, supporting line.
‘Aye, but don’t worry, they’ll just be sorting theirs’ en out before hopping off over the ridge.’ But all the confidence had drained from Mrs Martin’s voice.
‘You must he right, Mrs Martin, but those guns over yonder will get them unless they wheel away sharply.’ Mary pointed towards the closest Russian battery up on the Fedioukine hills opposite them. They had seen the enemy’s horses dragging the winking brass guns into position, now they menaced the whole of the north valley and, unless the Light Cavalry Brigade turned away quickly over the ridge where the women sat, they would soon have a target.
But there was no sign of this. Now the whole Brigade—nearly seven hundred horsemen—had closed up making a bold, confident sight as they formed first into two lines, then three as the 17th Lancers fell back. Bugles sounded, ranks were dressed as peace-time perfect as possible and then one of those strange silences fell upon the field. It was quiet enough for the women to half-hear shouted commands and then the steely shriek of hundreds of sabres being drawn.
‘Why are they getting their swords out, Mrs Martin?’
‘Well, Mrs Polley, I expect that they’re just getting ready for anything that might lie over the ridge. We’ll get a good view of ‘em in a minute when they wheel past us. Yes, there it is: d’you hear that, it’s the ‘Walk-march’.’ Betty’s ear recognized the initial call to the Brigade and then the repeated bugle commands down the regiments.
The horsemen jibbed forward. Angry shouts were clear to the women as the NCOs—never happy—tried to get them just-so, facing straight down the north valley. Then came the next call, ‘Trot-march’. Raggedly, the pace increased across the regiments, the front of the Brigade coming almost level with the women as they watched.
‘They’ll turn now, girls, you see if they don’t...’ but Betty’s confidence had gone, ‘...we’ll get a grand sight of Tom and the Eighth, they’ll be closest to us.’
Then the guns started. The battery on the Fedioukine fired, a rifle regiment volleyed from the other flank along the Causeway Heights, and guns belched from the captured Redoubts. Smoke tongued and fanned across the valley, a breathless cheer echoed from the five regiments and the horses picked up speed.
‘Mother of God, they’re not going to turn at all...’ Mary said what they were all thinking but had been too amazed to say, ‘...they’re goin’ straight down the goddamn valley—why?’
A single rider dashed from the lines of horses, spurring hard towards Cardigan and his bugler in front of the Brigade. One of the first shells exploded right above him though, the splinters lancing into his soft flesh. The women watched—horrified—as his dead body rode on until his thigh muscles gave way and he toppled from the saddle.
‘They must have seen something down there at the bottom of the valley, but I’m damned if I know what it is...’ Mrs Polley could see no more in the gathering smoke and dust than anyone else. ‘The officers must know what they were doing, mustn’t they?’ The hooves drummed harder, the ‘Charge’ was quite distinct and the last clear detail that the women saw were dipping pennons as the lances came down for the kill.
***
‘Quick, you two, over here, it’s our Tom.’ Mrs Betty Martin, her cheeks wet with tears, waved wildly to Mary and Mrs Polley.
It had all been over in minutes. From their position on the ridge the women had seen almost nothing as the Light Brigade had charged home. From the Brigade’s left, right and front artillery and riflemen had fired incessantly as Mrs Martin had rung her hands so anxiously. During lulls in the gunfire the trio had heard yelling and the clash of steel on steel. Just visible to them along the ridgeline were a regiment of the enemy’s Rifles who cheered even as they fired and loaded.
Then, as quickly as the noise reached a crescendo it died. The guns ceased as if they had nothing more to fire at.
‘Where has the Brigade gone, Mrs Martin?’ Mrs Polley asked Betty the very question she dreaded. As the firing had died away they had expected to see the regiments come wheeling back out of the smoke, enemies vanquished. But from where they sat all the women could see were odd pairs of men, some galloping hard, some trotting—clearly wounded—and a handful on foot heading back up the valley away from danger.
‘The good Lord knows, Mrs Polley...’ A determined fatalism had crept into Mrs Martin’s voice, ‘...but I’m not sitting here if we can be of help. Come on, we must find the Eighth and the doctor.’
Betty and her pony led the rattling wagon off down the dusty, bush-studded slope. Soon, knots of horsemen came walking and stumbling past them. Two Lancers dismounted when they came to the women. Both men, sensing that they were now out of danger, took cloth from their saddlebags and began to dab at their horses’ wounds. One of the roans snorted and threw up its head whilst its rider tried to sooth it. The other stood quite still, just trembling, as the bloody lint was wiped down a bullet gash in its shoulder.
‘Lads, where are the Eighth, were they engaged?’ Mrs Martin spoke quite firmly.
‘They were, missus. They came in behind us once we’d made the serfs run for it. We saw a few of ‘em trying to get out the way of some Cossacks that we’d just had to see off. There’s a few back there.’ He pointed showily, making quite sure that Betty could see the blood on his white, leather gauntlet.
‘Did they do well, were many hurt?’
‘Don’t know, love, but their surgeon was hard behind our own. Is your man with them?’ The troopers both looked up from their horses.
‘Aye, Farrier-Corporal Tom Martin, d’you know him, is he all right?’
‘No, I don’t, but I hope he’s not hurt. God bless you, missus.’ The lancers walked off, leading their damaged mounts as gently as they could. Betty dug her heels in hard.
The stream of survivors increased. Mary noticed how most of the men were unwounded but so few now had horses. All looked ashen, shocked—busbies and shakoes abandoned and most had lost their swords. A couple were still in the saddle, but most horses were bleeding from wounds or limping badly.
‘Mrs Martin, Tom’s over by those trees, an orderly’s with him.’ A clutch of uninjured 8th Hussars, came trotting down the gentle, grassy slope, the Sergeant reining his horse in to speak to her.
‘Is he badly, Sergeant Lloyd?’ Betty bobbed a greeting but her lips were shaking, her dread almost overwhelming her good manners.
‘He’s still with us, but he was pulled from his saddle and they say two of the rogues cut him badly. Forgive me, but we must get on.’ No victor’s smile came from Sergeant Lloyd, just concern. As he cantered to catch up with his men, Mary noticed how the seam of his short blue jacket had split down the back of his sword arm.
‘Oh, dear God above!’ Betty wailed, all decorum gone. Forgetting her companions, she kicked hard at her horse forcing him into a trot over the banks and furrows.
By the time Mary and Mrs Polley drew up in the wagon, Betty already had Tom in her arms. His head lolled in her lap, eyes closed, a great slick of blood oozing from a swelling on top of his head, matting his hair. Another gash had taken away his earlobe and opened a cut along his jaw. He moved—just—and babbled something from his semi-consciousness.
‘I know, my love, I know, we’ll soon have you right.’ Betty pressed her cheek against his forehead, petting and shushing him, oblivious to the great smear of Tom’s blood on her face and the gore that spattered her bodice.
‘Ladies, look lively, will you? Let’s get him into the wagon and up to Mr Noakes, it’s not far.’ One of the 8th’s hospital orderlies felt for the farrier’s pulse with one hand, pointing back down the valley towards their own surgeon.
The 95th wives had been hardened at the Alma. The cavalry battle, though, had left many with brutal, scything wounds that bled horribly. The surgeon had his own wagon and apothecary’s chest with him and was busily sewing a flap of skin back onto the shoulder of a young lance-corporal. The man sat on a stool, jaw clamped, fists locked together and eyes screwed shut as the suture needle pricked either side of the wound before the thread was drawn through and tied off. Fourteen times the surgeon tacked the skin, a neat crescent of black stitches reaching down towards a tattoo of an arrow-pierced heart. Each time his orderly snipped the thread and dabbed the wound with spirits.
‘How came you by this, Corporal Shutt?’
‘I cut at a Cossack’s head, sir, he parried, I came back on guard and then the damn fool, instead o’ cutting back at my head like he ought, sliced me across the shoulder, fuckin’ idiot.’ The young corporal disapproved of any move that had not been taught in the Depot.
As the surgeon finished his embroidery Tom Martin was lifted down from Mary’s wagon. The orderly and Betty moved his softly moaning body off the tailgate, supporting him under knee and shoulder, daubing themselves liberally in the process.
‘Right, get him over here onto the table. Penrose, get a mirror.’
The surgeon had only one assistant left. ‘Ladies, have you done any nursing?’
‘Sir, we’re 95th wives and were at the Alma and have been at the siege daily. Mr Fergusson’s our surgeon.’ Mary’s confidence was obvious.
‘Fergusson, yes, a fine man and if you were at the Alma you’ll shift very well. Place the man on his belly...does anyone know who he is?’ The doctor thought he knew everyone of his regimental flock, but the blood and pallor made the man unrecognizable.
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