by V. A. Stuart
William Beatson permitted himself a fleeting smile, “As you might expect, being the man he is, he’s doing everything in his power to prevent the enemy from entering Balaclava. He had the 93rd lying down in their ranks all last night, in greatcoats but without bivouac fires. Since dawn, he’s had them positioned in two lines at the entrance to the gorge . . . on rising ground, with a ridge behind them. An admirably chosen position. To their right, he has two Turkish battalions and some Tunisians, about a thousand men in all. The marines are on the Col behind him, with their heavy naval guns, and the invalids’ battalion is in support. Also, while I was with him, he sent a messenger to Bosquet, whose mortars cover the road, to inform him of the situation.”
“And Sir Colin himself?” Alex asked, conscious of a sudden sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.
The colonel shrugged. “When I left him, Alex, he was riding up and down in front of the 93rd and calling out to them, in that rich accent of his, ‘Remember, men, there’s no retreat from here—ye must die where ye stand if need be.’And such is the Highlanders’love and respect for him, there was not a man said him nay. They’ll die, if he tells them they must, rather than permit the enemy to pass them and as I told you, they’re well positioned and—” he broke off, smothering an exclamation, and pointed ahead of them to Canrobert’s Hill, which had just come into sight. “The Tunisians appear to be running . . . and like a rabble, not like soldiers.”
Alex slowed his horse to a trot. He saw a disorderly mob of Tunisians, led by a mounted officer, come leaping and scrambling down the slope from their redoubt. Below them, in the valley, two troops of British Horse Artillery had their guns unlimbered and were directing a spirited fire into the dark mass of Russian infantry which, tightly packed and with bayonets fixed, was advancing toward the redoubt, preceded by Cossacks and skirmishers. But the Horse Artillery were themselves under a withering fire and their six- and nine-pounders were no match for the Russian twelves.
After a while, Alex saw them receive the signal to withdraw out of range. As he watched them limber up, a Russian shell burst among them, killing a number of men and horses and, as he learned later, severely wounding their able and gallant battery commander, Captain Maude. Two squadrons of the Greys covered their withdrawal but, although both troops again unlimbered and opened fire, the Russian advance did not halt. As more Tunisian auxiliaries fled from the redoubt, some of the Cossacks leaped their wiry little horses over its ramparts and the redoubt was carried when the infantry followed them, bayoneting any who were left. Evidently the retreat had been too precipitate to allow time for the guns to be spiked for, a few minutes later, these were firing once more . . . only now their fire was directed against the second redoubt from which, after firing a ragged volley, the Tunisian gunners retreated, screaming with terror.
They flung themselves down the slope and the Cossacks pursued them with lance and pistol, riding many of them down before they had covered more than a few yards, showing them no mercy. Turning away from the unpleasant sight, Alex saw that the Light Brigade was positioned to the left, below redoubts 3 and 4.
The Heavy Brigade—towards which he and Colonel Beatson now made their way—was some distance in front of the Light, below and slightly to the right of the captured redoubt on Canrobert’s Hill. Slowly and inexorably, the Russians continued to advance, flanked by two large bodies of cavalry. They were evidently not deceived by Lucan’s attempt at a feint attack and, as the Greys and the Horse Artillery fell back to the position occupied by the Heavy Brigade, it, too, started to withdraw, menaced by the Russian cavalry.
William Beatson exclaimed, in a shocked and angry voice,“In the name of God, Alex—look at that! Lucan is falling back. He’ll lose us the Causeway Heights if the Tunisians realize what he’s doing.”
He had scarcely spoken when, as if in answer to his words, the Tunisians in all save one of the remaining redoubts—obviously believing themselves abandoned and about to be sacrificed —gave up any pretence of further resistance and beat a hasty and disorganized retreat. They flung down their arms and accoutrements as they ran and, as before, little groups of Cossacks spurred after them in relentless and vengeful pursuit, strewing the slopes and the plain below with their dead. In spite of this, a considerable number managed to reach the 93rd’s position, where they rallied uncertainly and ranged themselves on the right flank of the other Turkish battalions.
No. 4 redoubt, however, still held out, delivering a rapid and precise fire into No. 3 as the Russians entered it. From above, General Bosquets mortars put an end to the Cossacks’ slaughter and forced them to retire up the slope once more. But the respite was short lived. A bayonet charge on No. 4 redoubt sent its defenders rushing for safety and most of them deservedly reached it, although the Cossacks, braving the mortar fire from overhead, galloped after them with savage yells.
When Alex and Colonel Beatson at last reached General Scarlett and reported to him, the cavalry position had become untenable. The abandoned redoubts were all in Russian hands and only in No. 4 had the guns been spiked. Both brigades were within musket-shot of one or more of these and their gradual withdrawal had brought them into the 93rd’s line of fire. Sir Colin Campbell himself rode over and, on his advice, Lord Lucan ordered the cavalry’s withdrawal along the length of the South Valley to the slopes of the Causeway Heights. Here they would be out of the Highlanders’ line of fire and, should Sir Colin’s force fail to hold them, they could attack the Russian flank.
Strategically this was a wise move but the order, when it was received by both Heavy and Light Brigades, was misunderstood. The officers openly questioned it, their men—thirsting for action—heard it with bewildered dismay. Ever since the Russians had opened the attack they had, it seemed, done nothing but fall back ignominiously before them, with Lord Lucan apparently at pains to avoid an engagement. Were they now, they asked each other, to abandon the 93rd and Sir Colin Campbell, with a few thousand unreliable Turks and Tunisians, to certain attack and probable annihilation, at the hands of the Russian cavalry? Even Alex, although he was aware from whom the suggestion for the order had come, felt bitterness well up inside him.
At his side, William Beatson was looking anxious and Elliott was cursing angrily beneath his breath. But the order, unpopular though it was, had to be obeyed. No support was yet forthcoming from either the Duke of Cambridge’s 1st Division or Sir George Cathcart’s 4th and an A.D.C. had been sent by Lord Raglan to make it clear, both to Lord Lucan and Sir Colin Campbell, that the cavalry must wait and act in conjunction with those two divisions, now marching down from the heights. Lucan had no choice but to order the withdrawal, by alternate regiments, of both cavalry brigades. Alex was despatched by a tight-lipped Scarlett to put these instructions into effect. As he cantered towards the leading squadron of the Royals, he noticed a body of Russian cavalry, some six or seven hundred strong, starting to move in the direction of the hillock behind which the two thin lines of Highlanders crouched waiting, as yet unseen by them . . . all, did they but know it, that now stood between them and the capture of Balaclava. His angry frustration grew, as he repeated the order to withdraw to each of the regimental commanders and each, in turn, listened to him in stunned and horrified silence.
By 7:30, the inglorious retreat down the South Valley was over. Both brigades were in position; waiting despairingly for orders—any orders—which would enable them, instead of remaining uselessly immobilized, to attack the enemy.
Instead, a written order came from Lord Raglan, brought by an aide who had taken over half an hour to reach them. The British commander-in-chief had now established his general headquarters on the heights, at the Ridge, which overlooked the Plain of Balaclava, six hundred feet below. From here, he could see the entire battlefield spread out below him like a relief-map. But, as later events were so tragically to show, he apparently did not realize that those taking part in the battle were unable to see, from one side of the Causeway Heights, what was going on—a short
distance away—on the other.
From his point of vantage, Lord Raglan had observed a very large force of Russian cavalry, between three and four thousand strong, supported by artillery, enter the North Valley. He was quite unaware that this force was invisible to Lord Lucan and his staff, in the South Valley—cut off from their sight by the intervening Causeway Heights. His order, laconically phrased as: “Cavalry to take ground to left of second line of redoubts occupied by Turks,” was incomprehensible to Lucan, in command of the Cavalry Division. He complied with it angrily and with extreme reluctance since it meant, in effect, that once he had done so, the cavalry would be removed from their strategically useful position, covering Sir Colin Campbell’s flank—and if Sir Co lin’s Highlanders failed to repel the expected enemy attack, then Balaclava would be lost.
The Cavalry Division made its second withdrawal, this time toward the Sapouné Ridge and, reaching its foot, Lord Lucan turned the two brigades in line to face east, looking out along the South Valley. The men’s spirits were low, their hopes fading fast. Alex, waiting with Colonel Beatson and Lieutenant Elliott, found his thoughts constantly straying to Sir Colin Campbell and the two thin lines of red-coated Highlanders, of whose fortunes no news had yet been received. Lord Cardigan, he observed, had now made his belated appearance and taken over command of the Light Brigade but how or when he had done so, Alex could not have said. He watched the tall, brilliantly uniformed figure, on the splendid chestnut horse riding arrogantly up and down in front of the Light Cavalry, with increasing frustration. But his frustration turned to relief when a second order from Lord Raglan—brought to General Scarlett by Lord Lucan in person—commanded that eight squadrons of Heavy Dragoons were to be detached towards Balaclava to support the Turks who, the order stated, “are wavering.”
The Turks might be wavering, he thought, no one had expected them to do anything else, after their behavior in the redoubts but . . . at last the cavalry was being sent to the 93rd’s aid. He and Elliott galloped thankfully over to the regimental commanders to relay this latest and most welcome order and the men in the selected squadrons gave a subdued cheer, as they eagerly formed up, watched enviously by the rest of their comrades, who were still compelled to remain inactive.
General Scarlett’s plump, red face wore a smile as he led his eight squadrons off—two each from the 5th Dragoon Guards, the Greys, the Inniskillings and the 4th Dragoon Guards. He said, as Alex took his place behind him,“Lord Cardigan will not be pleased by this—he will think that we are stealing a march on him!”
But Colonel Beatson, Alex noticed, who was riding beside the general, was not smiling. He dropped back after a while, as they came in sight of the Cavalry Division camp, along the edge of which their route to Kadikoi lay and, when Alex greeted him, said in a low voice, “Alex, my friend, I do not like this.”
“Why not, sir?” Alex stared at him, puzzled.
William Beatson shrugged his massive shoulders. “It is an instinct, perhaps. General Scarlett is anxious, as we all are, to carry out our orders with as little delay as possible. But . . . we ride as if we were merely exercising our horses, without putting out scouts or maintaining any sort of alert. And”—he gestured to the wide, undulating ridge of the Causeway Heights, some eight hundred yards to their left—“our view is obscured, so that we do not know what is going on across there, in the North Valley.”
“But Lord Raglan must surely know, sir,” Alex protested. “He is in a position to see both the North Valley and this, is he not?”
“Lord Raglan’s orders are taking half an hour to reach us,” the Colonel pointed out. “The situation can change radically in half an hour. The Russians have a very large force of cavalry—Lancers and Hussars, as well as Cossacks—and now that we have lost the redoubts, they would meet with no opposition if they entered the North Valley. Or, for that matter, if they crossed the Woronzoff Road. Which is what I should do, were I commanding them.”
His reasoning was logical, Alex realized; and Elliott; who had joined them in time to overhear his last few words, nodded thoughtfully as he glanced over his shoulder at the Heights. “Alex and I could ride up a little way, sir,” he suggested, “and see what is to be seen, if you wish.”
“Good,” Beatson assented. “Do so at once. I will tell General Scarlett what you are about.”
The two A.D.C.s put their horses to a canter. They had covered only a few hundred yards when Elliott, who was in the lead, pulled up suddenly. “Look!” he exclaimed, a slight tremor of excitement in his voice. “There they are . . . .”
At the same moment, Alex saw first a line of lance-tips appearing over the top of the hill and then, starting to descend the southern slope of the Causeway, a massive column of Russian horsemen, swiftly followed by a second. The sight was at once imposing and alarming—although it was evident, from the way they rode and the fact that they had no scouts on either flank, that the Russians did not suspect the close proximity of the British cavalry, any more than the British suspected theirs. They trotted downhill in two lines, each four deep, the light blue uniforms and splendid horses identifying the two leading regiments as Hussars, the cream of the Russian cavalry.
The last vestige of mist had at last dispersed and the sun drew glittering reflections from weapons and accoutrements as the great mass of horsemen came steadily on. There were, as nearly as he could judge, between three and four thousand of them and Alex drew in his breath sharply. Below, even now passing through the tents and the lines of tethered horses of their camp, were a scant five hundred British cavalrymen, quite unprepared to receive an attack from so overwhelming an enemy force . . . he and Elliott, as if by common consent and without exchanging a word, swung their horses round and went galloping back in search of General Scarlett.
The general received their news with commendable calm. His round, red face lost a little of its colour but that was all and he said, his voice quite steady,“We shall have to charge them. Give the order to wheel left into line. And I want the lines exactly dressed—the Greys and the Inniskillings, in front. There is to be no undue haste.”
The dressing was meticulously carried out and, as their commander had ordered, without haste. Impeded on the left by the tent ropes, the eight squadrons wheeled into line facing the Heights, the first line composed of two squadrons of the Greys and a squadron of the Inniskillings—three hundred men in all—the second, two squadrons of the 5th Dragoon Guards and the remaining squadron of the Inniskillings. The 4th’s two squadrons were coming up, with the Royals, but they still had some distance to cover and Alex was sent to warn them of what was happening. On his return from this errand, he saw that the officers of the leading regiments had ridden out in front and, as if preparing for a peacetime review, had turned to sit their horses rigidly facing their own men. Their backs were to the enemy who, by this time had seen them and halted on the crest of the Heights, in order to change their own formation.
Lord Lucan made his appearance while the slow parade ground movement was being carried out. He dashed up to General Scarlett in a state of visible agitation and informed him that he had ordered up the rest of the division in reserve. Alex heard him say breathlessly,“You will have to charge them, General Scarlett. They must be stopped at all costs.”
“That, my lord,” Scarlett replied, in measured tones, “is what I am preparing to do. But I will have my lines properly dressed before I do it.” He raised his sword, waving it in a reproving arc at the right of the line, where the Inniskillings were attempting to press forward, and the men obediently fell back, to pick up their dressing again. William Beatson rode up and the general asked, without turning his head, “What are the enemy at now, Colonel Beatson?”
“They are drawn up in a square formation, sir . . . and halted.” Beatson’s voice was as calm as his brigade commander’s and now, Alex realized, he was smiling. He supplied a few other details and added significantly, “Their distance is about five hundred yards.”
“General Scar
lett!” Lord Lucan thundered. “Further delay is hazardous. I order you to charge the enemy!” He signaled to his trumpeter and, his voice shaking with emotion, told him to sound the charge. The clear, thin notes echoed and re-echoed back from the enclosing hills but Scarlett’s raised sword restrained them and not a man moved from the now almost perfectly aligned ranks, with the single exception of William Beatson, who had returned to the spur of rising ground from which he could observe the enemy.
“If you will allow me, my lord,” Scarlett said gruffly. “I will order my brigade to charge when I am ready.”
Lucan nodded, tight-lipped, evidently not trusting himself to speak and from behind him, Beatson’s voice called out, “The enemy is advancing, sir. They are descending the slope at a trot. Their distance is now less than five hundred yards but their advance is slow.”
“Then we still have time,” Scarlett stated, his calm still completely unruffled. He turned to Alex. “Present my compliments, if you please, to Colonel Griffiths of the Greys and ask him if he is now clear of the picket-ropes impeding his way.”
As Alex galloped across to obey his order, he saw that the great advancing mass of Russian cavalry had now halted. They had packed into a deep square and flung out two wings, to widen their front. The grey-clad horsemen sat motionless in their saddles, watching what was going on below them, their demeanor confident—as well it might be for, in previous encounters, the British cavalry had never charged them. With their vast numerical superiority, it was very evident that they did not expect the British to charge them now . . . least of all up-hill. They waited, delaying their own charge, as a cat might wait for a mouse to venture too close to it.
General Scarlett had taken up his position well in front of his first line when Alex rejoined him, with the information that the Greys were still impeded by the tent-ropes but ready.