by V. A. Stuart
“Thank you, Alex.” His smile, despite the heavy white moustache and bristling brows, was suddenly absurdly boyish. Then he turned in his saddle and said to his trumpeter,“Sound the charge!”
The instant it was sounded, he set spurs to his horse and Alex, aware then of a sense of wild exhilaration that exceeded any other that he had ever experienced, spurred after him. For a fleeting moment, he thought of Emmy—saw her face before him, as if it were a vision from the past but it swiftly vanished and, strangely immune to a consciousness of fear, he galloped on at General Scarlett’s heels, seeing only the dark mass of the enemy in front of him.
Elliott rode beside him, his face pale and taut beneath the conspicuous cocked hat which, only that morning, Scarlett had ordered him to don; a few paces in the rear, the brigade trumpeter and the huge, phlegmatic Shegog thundered after them. Glancing back, Alex saw the scarlet-clad ranks of the leading squadrons break into a trot, as their regimental trumpeters repeated the call to charge—and they kept their splendid alignment as their pace quickened, although the Greys, as he had feared they must, experienced some difficulty in doing so until they were clear of the tents. The Inniskillings—beside whom they had charged under Lord Uxbridge at Waterloo—waited for them until, their traditional friendship thus acknowledged, they could ride knee to knee once more. Then they broke into a canter and finally, as the whole line gained momentum, into a gallop. But, due to the Greys’ difficulties with the tent and picket-ropes, which had unhorsed a few of them, the front line was now fifty yards to their rear and Alex motioned to Elliott to warn their commander of this. His fellow A.D. C. drew level with General Scarlett, shouting to make himself heard about the thunder of galloping hoofs but Scarlett ignored him. Waving his sword above his head, he did not look round and made no attempt to slacken speed.
Elliott dropped back and now, surprisingly, Alex saw the tension go out of his face and its pallor vanish . . .not realizing that his own lips were twisted into an exultant grin, as boyish as their commander’s had been, a few minutes before. He did not think of death, although to Lord Raglan and his staff, watching them from six hundred feet above their heads, it seemed that General Scarlett and the four members of his staff who followed him were riding to certain death, fifty yards ahead of the Greys and Innis-killings.
Alex, in that hectic moment, with the drumming hoofbeats loud in his ears, did not even think—as, in the past, he had often thought—of his horror of being seriously wounded or maimed, and he had no thought of personal glory, no dream of heroism. Rather, in common with the rest of the men charging behind him, he thought of wiping out the bitter memories of the humiliation they had endured in their retreat, earlier that morning. He thought of the Cossacks’ butchery of the wretched Tunisians, fleeing in terror from the captured redoubts; and, because just then it seemed to him evident that, as the result of that same ignoble retreat by the Cavalry Division, Sir Colin Campbell and his gallant 93rd must have suffered a similar fate . . . he thought of revenge.
And then, as they reached the great packed, motionless square of Russian horsemen and hurled themselves against it, he thought of nothing, save the primitive urge to hack his way into its heart and destroy it. A single Russian officer, sitting his horse in advance of the front line, lunged at General Scarlett with his saber and Elliott, passing by him on the other side, drove his own weapon up to its hilt in his chest. In his effort to withdraw it, he was almost unhorsed but he kept his seat and, side by side, he and Alex drove their way into the Russian horde, intent on giving their commander such protection as they could. Scarlett was fighting like a lion, slashing and parrying the saber and lance thrusts aimed at him with his sword and Alex, in front of Elliott, now, guarded his back, careless of his own safety.
He saw Shegog and the trumpeter close beside him, fighting for their lives, and heard a familiar shout come from behind him and then William Beatson’s giant figure loomed up on his left, as the first line of the Greys and the Inniskillings, with which he had charged, struck the enemy centre. Their battle cries—the wild Irish yell of the Inniskillings and the fierce, moaning wail of the Greys echoed, as the trumpet call had been, by the hills which hemmed them in—could be heard quite distinctly by those watching the engagement from Sapouné Ridge, six hundred feet above.
To all of them, including Lord Raglan, it appeared that the thin line of scarlet-jacketed British dragoons had been literally engulfed by the dark mass of the Russian thousands. But miraculously, and encouraged here and there by an officer, who fought his way into the mêlée and then turned to face and rally his men, the British line kept some semblance of its original formation and the Russian centre began, incredibly, to waver. But it did not break. After the first shock of surprise, the Russians turned on the handful of men who had departed from all the accepted concepts of war and charged them with such reckless valor, to set about annihilating them. Skilled swordplay was impossible with the two opposing forces jammed so closely and inextricably together, and the battle soon became a series of furiously fought individual contests, each British cavalryman being attacked simultaneously by at least two of his opponents. The Russians’ greatcoats were so thick that they afforded a high degree of protection against saber-cuts, often turning the British blows harmlessly aside. But their tightly packed ranks prevented either pistols or carbines being used and even the Cossack lances had to be discarded, in favour of sabers.
The second line of Inniskillings and the 5th Dragoon Guards, following their comrades in the first line, struck with even greater impact and drove a wedge in the Russian centre. But then the two wings on either flank started to wheel inwards, to take their attackers in the rear. They might have succeeded had it not been for the remaining squadrons of the Heavy Brigade, which had now formed up in their separate regiments, preparatory to charging in their turn. The 4th Dragoon Guards were on the left, the 1st—the Royals—in the centre, a little behind them, with General Scarlett’s old regiment, the 5th—the Green Horse—and a squadron of the Inniskillings on the right. Each regiment charged on its own, two on the Russian right flank, one in the centre on the heels of the Greys, the final charge being made on the enemy’s left flank with devastating effect, for the Russians who had wheeled round to encircle and crush the Greys, found themselves being taken in the rear. The Russian mass broke and, with startling suddenness, began to disintegrate, as it was steadily driven back, reeling and thrown into confusion by the disciplined courage of the British attack.
Alex, still at General Scarlett’s back, saw him emerge, spent but triumphant and, apparently—save for a few cuts and grazes—unscathed. He was followed by Shegog and his trumpeter, who fell in on either side of him, and then William Beatson hacked and jostled his way through to the general’s side. Of Elliott there was no sign; Alex started back to search for him, glimpsed the plumed hat and thrust past a trio of Cossacks with whom, his face covered with blood, Elliott was engaged in desperate and unequal contest. He took one of the Cossacks from behind with his saber; the second turned on him with a ferocious cry but Alex evaded him and two troopers of the Greys, shouting and cursing at the pitch of their lungs, dealt swiftly and effectively with the third. Elliott was slumping, semi-conscious, in his saddle but, as Alex led him to safety, the first line of Greys and Inniskillings burst through, cheering exultantly, and the Russians in the rear files turned in headlong flight.
Soon to Alex’s stunned amazement and relief, the whole great force was in retreat, re-ascending the ridge in complete disorder, pursued by a handful of red-coated British dragoons. A great cheer went up from the men of the Heavy Brigade, too exhausted to join in the pursuit, as they watched the beaten enemy streaming away over the Woronzoff Road and across the Causeway Heights in a panic-stricken bid to gain the shelter of their guns in the North Valley. Apart from a few individuals from other regiments, only the Horse Artillery and the 4th Dragoon Guards—who had cut through from flank to flank, with comparative ease, as the Russians were on the point of br
eaking—made any serious effort to catch up with the fugitives and thus consolidate the brilliant victory by preventing their escape.
General Scarlett removed his battered dragoon helmet and mopped his streaming brow. He said, with finality,“Well, we have done our part . . . we’ve routed them. We will leave the Light Brigade to do the rest.” He turned to his trumpeter and ordered him to sound the recall adding, with tears in his eyes, “Our men have performed prodigies of valor this day.”
As the regiments of the Heavy Brigade started to sort themselves out and re-form, after the confusion of the battle, Alex became aware that the Light Brigade had not moved. Throughout the action Lord Cardigan’s command had been positioned in full view of it, less than five hundred yards away, in a perfect position for a flank attack. But not only had Lord Cardigan failed to attack on the flank, he was now making no effort to pursue the fleeing enemy . . . the Light Brigade remained motionless. Bewildered by their inaction, Alex walked his tired horse to the edge of the ridge and looked down. Lord Cardigan sat his horse, surrounded by a small group of obviously angry and disappointed officers—amongst whom he recognized Phillip Dunloy—who appeared to be pleading with him. But he shook his head several times, apparently deaf to their appeals and finally, as if losing patience, he turned his back on them and rode out of earshot. One of them—Captain Morris, in command of the 17th Lancers —wheeled round in front of his regiment, slapped his overalled leg with his drawn saber in a display of angry frustration which, even at that distance, Alex had no difficulty in recognizing for what it was. He sighed, in understanding.
A little later, Lord Bingham—Lucan’s son, who was acting as his father’s aide-de-camp—galloped up and delivered a written message but, although Cardigan read this, with great concentration, several times, the Light Brigade stayed where it was. The Russian cavalry, with their horse artillery intact, gained the eastern end of the North Valley unmolested and established themselves there, behind their unlimbered guns. The Heavy Brigade, whose courageous charge had succeeded against seemingly impossible odds, watched the fruits of their hard-won victory slipping away from them and—many of them with tears streaming down their cheeks—counted their dead and carried their wounded slowly back to their tents.
In the circumstances, their casualties were light. Alex reported them to General Scarlett as under eighty killed and wounded, of whom less than a dozen had been killed. A number, including Scarlett himself, William Beatson and Elliott, had suffered saber cuts but, after receiving medical attention, they refused to be relieved and returned to duty. As General Scarlett was having his wounds attended to, an A.D.C. sought him out, with a written message from Lord Raglan. He read it, beaming and then passed it to his staff . . . the message stated briefly, “Well done, Scarlett.” To the A.D.C. he said, “I beg to thank his lordship,” and to his staff, “Gentlemen, I say the same to every one of you!”
A little later, Alex to his joy and relief, saw Sir Colin Campbell riding towards them. He offered his congratulations to the commander of the Heavy Brigade and, on being asked how he himself had fared, smiled and answered simply, “Balaclava is still in our hands, thanks to my 93rd . . . and the naval gunners and invalids who gave us gallant support.” It was not until a long time afterwards that Alex heard the full story of the heroic stand of the 93rd’s “thin red line,” in the face of a determined attack by four squadrons of Russian cavalry and of how, with perfect disciplined steadiness and complete trust in their commander, the Highlanders had risen from the ground to deliver three volleys of rifle fire into the Russian ranks, before which they had fled.
Sir Colin, very typically, said little of his own exploits. Instead he rode across to where the Greys were re-forming and, doffing the Highland bonnet he had worn since the Battle of the Alma, addressed them with visible emotion, “Greys, gallant Greys . . . I am sixty-one years of age, but if I were young again, I should be proud to serve in your ranks.”
The Greys, as deeply moved as he, cheered him to the echo and their commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Griffiths, wrung his hand.
CHAPTER TEN
THE END of the Battle of Balaclava—which was to write an unforgettable page in British military history and immortalize those who took part in it—was fast approaching.
But to Alex Sheridan, with the now re-formed Heavy Cavalry Brigade, the position was still as confused as it was to all the other officers and men of the Cavalry Division—including their divisional commander. They were aware that the Russians still held the captured Turco-Tunisian redoubts on the Causeway Heights, but knew that they had been pushed back from Balaclava itself. They had seen the defeated cavalry fleeing into the narrow, mile-long North Valley, presumably—since this was their habit—in order to seek the protection of their own guns. But they were aware of little else, save the exasperating fact that support from the 1st and 4th Infantry Divisions, although promised early in the day, had not yet materialized.
To Lord Raglan, from the lofty vantage point of his command headquarters six hundred feet above the field of battle, the overall situation was a great deal clearer—although he, too, was by this time also exasperated by the slowness with which the two British Infantry Divisions were carrying out his orders. The Duke of Cambridge had not yet completed his descent to the Plain. Sir George Cathcart had, at last, done so but for some reason he appeared to be in no hurry to carry out the commander-in-chief’s instructions to “advance immediately and recapture the Turkish redoubts.” His division marched past the scene of the Heavy Brigade charge and occupied the nearest two redoubts, from whence a desultory fire was opened, at extreme range, on those held by the enemy. The division then came to a halt.
The routed Russian cavalry had been observed by Lord Raglan and his staff to rally and regroup themselves in columns, ranged across the eastern end of the North Valley, with a line of twelve field guns drawn up in front of them. Behind them, still further to strengthen their positions, were massed their infantry; to their right, along the ridge of the Fedioukine Hills and on its lower slopes were four squadrons of cavalry, eight battalions of infantry and fourteen guns. To their left front, across the valley on the Causeway Heights, were the eleven infantry battalions which had stormed and were now occupying the Turkish redoubts, with the naval guns the Tunisians had left behind, together with some thirty of their own field pieces. They were now being threatened, although not yet seriously, by Sir George Cathcart’s division.
To Lord Raglan, taking stock, the Russian force in the North Valley, while it occupied a virtually impregnable position, presented no immediate menace. On the other hand, continued occupation by the enemy of the Turkish redoubts meant that his vital lines of communication with Balaclava were threatened, since the redoubts commanded the Woronzoff Road. He decided to deal with this threat at once, basing his decision on the fact that the enemy on the Heights, although strong, were without support and might be expected to abandon the redoubts if resolutely attacked. Accordingly, he issued fresh orders.
The Duke of Cambridge was urged to hurry his division’s final descent to the Plain, advance to a point south of the Woronzoff Road and, in conjunction with Sir George Cathcart, to attack the Russians on the Causeway Heights and drive them from the captured redoubts. To Lord Lucan, he sent another written order—ever afterwards, the subject of argument and controversy. This read: “Cavalry to advance and take advantage of any opportunity to recover the Heights. They will be supported by the infantry, which have been ordered to advance on two fronts.”
Lucan interpreted this to mean that he was to advance and attempt to recapture the Causeway Heights—and the redoubts—as soon as he received the infantry support which the order suggested was on its way to him. He therefore mounted his division, ordered the Light Brigade to take up a position at the western end of the Causeway Heights, facing down the trough of the North Valley, and drew up the Heavy Brigade on the slopes of the Woronzoff Road, behind them and to their right. After this, as he believed
that he had been commanded to do, he waited with ever increasing impatience for some sign of the expected infantry support.
When fifteen minutes had passed without any evidence whatsoever of the infantry’s arrival, the men were permitted to stand easy. They dismounted, leaning against their horses, the officers sipping rum from their flasks and those who had them eating hard boiled eggs and biscuits. Some of the troopers lit their pipes but were sternly reprimanded for “smoking in the face of the enemy”
Alex, during this lull, received permission to ride over to talk to Phillip, granted quite readily by General Scarlett. As he trotted up to the Light Brigade’s position, he could see, a little over a mile away at the far end of the valley, the dark masses of enemy cavalry waiting there. Phillip, when he found him, was also moodily watching the movements in the North Valley and he said, when they had greeted each other,“Well, Alex my dear fellow—you and your Heavies had the laugh on us this morning! Your charge, while magnificent to watch, was also quite heartbreaking to those of us who would have given everything they possessed to have come to your support. Myself included, needless to tell you.”
“Why did you not?” Alex questioned curiously. “And why, in heaven’s name, did you not pursue the Russians when they broke? Did Lord Cardigan forbid it?”
Phillip shrugged angrily. “He did . . . and there was almost a mutiny in consequence! He had received orders, he told us, to post the Light Brigade where it was and none, from either Lord Raglan or Lord Lucan, to come to the support of the Heavies. He blames Lord Look-on, of course, and was as bitter as any of us when we had to stand and watch the enemy escape, without lifting a finger to stop them. It was a chance of a lifetime and we were compelled to let it go. Alex, I would have wept! Look at them now . . . “he gestured down the valley at the confused dark shapes of the Russian horsemen and swore aloud. “This campaign has been nothing but frustration for the Light Cavalry . . . frustration and humiliation. We are never permitted to go into action, to charge the enemy, to show what we are made of . . . it is driving us to despair. You, at least, can hold your heads up, after this morning—yours was a superb feat. But we must bow ours in shame . . . dear God, it is past all bearing!”