by V. A. Stuart
“Your hour will come, Phillip,” Alex offered consolingly, and he added, without any idea of how close that hour now was for the Light Brigade, “Who knows? It may yet come today.”
But Phillip shook his head. “The day is all but over,” he returned despondently. “And what are we offered? The chance to support the infantry, which is conspicuous by its absence? So we wait and the Cossacks jeer at us . . . even our own infantrymen call us gilded popinjays and worse. Alex, if this goes on, it will break my heart . . . and every man of the 11th feels as I do.”
They talked of the day’s events, fretting at the delay, as another half hour passed, without sight or sound of the infantry. And then, riding at headlong speed down the precipitous escarpment from Lord Raglan’s headquarters on the Sapouné Ridge, there came a lone horseman, in the conspicuous uniform of the 15th Hussars. As he drew nearer, both Alex and Phillip recognized him as Captain Edward Nolan, on duty as General Airey’s aide, and they guessed, from the reckless haste with which he came spurring down the escarpment, that the orders he carried must be of supreme urgency. Nolan was renowned for his passionate belief in cavalry as “the decisive military arm,” and, at the sight of him, the spirits of the men of the Light Cavalry Brigade rose. His route took him close to their lines and as he galloped past, Captain Morris, of the 17th Lancers—his closest friend—called out to him urgently, “Nolan, what’s going to happen?”
Nolan, without slackening speed, shouted back triumphantly, “You’ll see, you’ll see!”
Up on the Sapouné Ridge, Lord Raglan had watched his messenger’s breakneck descent and, according to those about him, his face had, for once, lost its look of composed tranquility. From where he watched, he had seen teams of Russian artillery horses cantering up to the captured Turkish redoubts and, to him, their intention was plain. They were about to remove the captured British naval guns . . . no doubt with the ultimate intention of despatching them, as proof of victory, to the Tsar. Lord Raglan, to whom, educated in the stern military traditions of the Great Duke, this was unthinkable, knew that he must somehow regain possession of the guns. In desperation, he called General Airey to him and bade him write an order to Lord Lucan. The Cavalry Division’s long delay in carrying out his previous order still irked him and, after Airey had written as he dictated and had given this order to Nolan for delivery, he called out after the A.D.C., “tell Lord Lucan that the cavalry are to attack immediately!”
Nolan saluted and was gone. Within ten minutes, thanks to the consummate horsemanship with which, scorning the circuitous track, he had made his perilous descent, he jerked his blown and panting horse to a standstill beside Lord Lucan, who was waiting, with the members of his staff, between his two brigades, and thrust the order into his hand. The officers, catching Nolan’s excitement, crowded closer, as Lucan read it. But his expression, when he had done so, was one of shocked perplexity.
To him, the order was both obscure and impracticable. It read: “Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front and try to prevent the enemy carrying away the guns. Troop of Horse Artillery may accompany. French cavalry is on your left. Immediate.”
The signature on it was General Airey’s and Lucan looked at Airey’s aide-de-camp as if wondering whether he, too, had taken leave of his senses. For he could see no British naval guns being dragged away from the Turkish redoubts on the Causeway Heights . . . while these were clearly visible to Lord Raglan on the Sapouné Ridge, they were cut off from Lucan’s view, and it did not for a moment occur to him to read this order in conjunction with the order which had preceded it. The two did not appear to bear any relation to each other, and he took it for granted that the earlier one—which, owing to the infantry’s failure to appear, he had been unable to carry out—had now been superceded by this second order, just placed in his hands by Captain Nolan.
Yet he was bewildered. The French cavalry mentioned in the order were obviously the Chasseurs d’Afrique, known to have been ordered down much earlier on by General Canrobert . . . but now there was no word of infantry support, so what had happened to the infantry? The only guns in any danger of being carried away by the enemy, of which Lucan was aware, were those at the end of the North Valley, behind which the routed Russian cavalry had established themselves . . . in a defensive, rather than an offensive position. Lord Raglan could hardly wish him to attack those guns, without infantry support, and with only one troop of Horse Artillery—unless he also wished for the annihilation of the entire British Cavalry Division? The mere suggestion seemed to him so preposterous that he did not entertain it and he started to voice a puzzled and irritated protest at the absurdity of the order, when Nolan cut him short. He said, in a deliberately insolent and peremptory tone, “Lord Raglan’s orders are that the cavalry are to attack immediately!”
Lord Lucan stared at him, visibly taken aback. He was fully aware that Nolan disliked him—a feeling which he heartily reciprocated—and he knew that, in the past, Nolan had criticized him openly for his handling of the Cavalry Division. But, as a lieutenant-general, he was unaccustomed to being addressed in so disrespectful a manner by a mere captain, even if that captain happened to be an acknowledged expert on cavalry tactics and a favourite with his commander-in-chief.
He turned on the arrogant young A.D.C. with barely controlled fury. The word “attack” had not been mentioned in Lord Raglan’s written order and he was still not clear as to which “front” he was expected to advance on . . . “Attack, sir?” he shouted. “Attack what? What guns, sir?”
All Edward Nolan’s bitter contempt for the man he had nicknamed” Lord Look-on” exploded suddenly. Lucan was, in his eyes, entirely to blame for the deplorable handling of the Cavalry Division and its consequent humiliating inactivity. It had always been his own contention that cavalry—and above all, light cavalry—properly led, could accomplish anything. Yet here was Lucan, as always hesitant, questioning the order he had been given and prepared to throw away the chance of glory that, at long last, was his for the taking . . . . Nolan flung out his arm, in a gesture which embraced the North Valley, where the Russian cavalry waited behind their guns, and said, with a provocative scorn he made not the smallest effort to conceal, “There, my lord, is your enemy! There are your guns!”
His words—and that flamboyantly vague gesture—were to send six score men to their deaths. Long afterwards, it was argued that, in making his gesture, Nolan had no intention of conveying the meaning which Lord Lucan read into it. Yet it is doubtful whether this could have been so; Nolan, as an A.D.C. was a mere bearer of messages, he was not in Lord Raglan’s confidence. He had simply been given a written order and a verbal message to deliver, but neither had been explained to him . . . and he was ignorant of the contents of the earlier order.
With his deep and heartfelt belief in the invincibility of the British cavalry, to him the task which Lucan’s two magnificent brigades had apparently been set would not have seemed impossible. And if, from the Sapouné Ridge, he had noticed the attempt to remove the captured guns, he would not have attached much significance to it, for the infantry had been called down to retake those particular guns. The guns which mattered, to Edward Nolan, were the guns sheltering the Russian cavalry, whom the Heavy Brigade had already routed—guns designed to cover their retirement—and it was to these he pointed, quite deliberately, in the belief that they were indeed the guns his commander-in-chief wished the cavalry to attack.
Certainly, to all those watching the two men—whether or not, as Alex and Phillip were, they were out of earshot and heard neither question nor answer—Edward Nolan’s out-flung arm could indicate only one thing. The cavalry’s objective was in the North Valley. And, when Lord Lucan dictated a written order and sent it to Lord Cardigan by one of his staff, the last of their doubts were removed. With quickening pulses and, perhaps, a momentary sinking of the heart, the men of the Light Brigade recognized that their hour had come . . . they were to lead the attack. It was they who were to char
ge the Russian guns, a mile away, at the end of the North Valley. A strange, unearthly silence fell; after an outburst of talking, the men spoke in whispers, as the news passed from regiment to regiment, from squadron to squadron, from man to man . . . and its import sank in.
Phillip’s gaze met Alex’s and he said, his voice hushed, as the others were,“So you were right, Alex. Our hour has come indeed.”
Alex was silent, his throat tight. Edward Nolan rode past them and Phillip asked him a low voiced question, to which the A.D.C. replied smilingly, “Back to the Upland—oh, no, my lord! I’m on my way to seek permission to charge with the 17th.”
Lord Cardigan, sitting his horse a few yards from them, had read his brother-in-law’s written order in horrified bewilderment, transcending even Lucan’s when he had originally received it from Lord Raglan. For cavalry to attack guns in battery, without infantry support, was contrary to every accepted rule of war. He had longed for action, he was not afraid to die, he had the utmost confidence in the courage and splendid discipline of the men he commanded but—this was madness. The North Valley was a mile in length, shut in by hills on either side, and those flanking hills were the site of other gun batteries, besides that at its eastern end, which his brigade was being ordered to charge. He sent his aide, Fitz Maxse, to remonstrate with Lord Lucan and point out these facts, before complying with the order.
Lucan rode over to him, Lord Raglan’s original order in his hand. Coldly—for, even now, he could not forget the hatred that, for thirty years had been between them—he read its contents to Lord Cardigan and ordered him to advance down the North Valley with the Light Brigade, while he himself followed, in support, with the Heavy Brigade.
Alex, sitting his horse a few yards away, was a witness of the tense, unbelievably bitter little scene and he listened in mounting horror and dismay as Cardigan, bringing down his sword in formal salute, said with equal coldness, “Certainly, sir. But allow me to point out to you that the Russians have a battery in the valley at our front, and batteries and riflemen on each flank.”
“I know it,” Lucan returned, his tone bleakly resigned. “But Lord Raglan will have it. We have no choice but to obey.”
Lord Cardigan saluted again. “Advance very steadily,” his brother-in-law instructed. “And keep your men well in hand.”
There was the same icily formal acknowledgement; then Cardigan wheeled his horse and, in a harsh undertone which could be clearly heard by those grouped about him, muttered to himself, “Well, here goes the last of the Brudenells!” After which, outwardly calm, he trotted across to Lord George Paget who, with the 4th Light Dragoons, was dismounted and smoking a cigar. “Lord George, we are ordered to make an attack to the front,” he stated, without preamble. “You will take command of the second line, and I expect your best support. Mind . . .your best support!” The last sentence was repeated and Lord George reddened resentfully.
“Of course, my lord. You shall have my best support.”
Phillip laid a hand on Alex’s arm. “I must go.” He smiled tightly. “Wish me luck, Alex. I think I may need it.”
“You know I do, Phillip. God go with you.”
“And with you.” Phillip turned and galloped off to where the brilliantly uniformed squadrons of the 11th Hussars were starting to form up and wheel into line. Alex watched them and suddenly it became more than he could bear. His old regiment was going to brave the fury of the Russian guns . . . it was going, perhaps, to its destruction and his place, when it did so, was in support, behind it with the Heavy Brigade. He hesitated but only for a moment and then rode over to Colonel Douglas, the 11th’s commanding officer, saluted and, as Edward Nolan had done a little while before, asked permission to accompany the regiment in the charge.
Douglas recognized him and inclined his head. “If you wish, Captain Sheridan,” he answered wryly. “You were once one of us . . . by all means die with us.”
Alex thanked him and rode over to join Phillip.
The trumpets sounded, in shrill succession, “Stand to your horses!” “Mount!” and the men obeyed them.
The Light Brigade was drawn up in two lines. The first, from right to left, consisted of the 13th Light Dragoons, the 17th Lancers and, slightly to their rear, the 11th Hussars. The 4th Light Dragoons and the 8th Hussars formed the second line. With half a squadron of the 8th acting as Lord Raglan’s escort, the brigade had paraded that morning 675 strong. Lord Lucan, looking down the valley, saw that this wide deployment would be too exposed for the coming attack and ordered Colonel Douglas to move the 11th back so as to take position to the rear of the 17th Lancers. They thus formed the second line, with the 4th and 8th acting as the third.
Lord Cardigan rode forward, to take his place in front of the right squadron of the Lancers. He sat his big chestnut horse, seemingly unmoved and perfectly composed, his staff-—on his instructions—several yards behind him, as he waited for the troop officers to finish aligning their men. In the magnificent uniform of the 11th Hussars, his long legs encased in the famous cherry-coloured overalls, he sat bolt upright in his saddle, with drawn sword, looking neither to right nor left. His head, in its crimson-and-white plumed busby, was—as always—held arrogantly and, as his sole concession to the fact that he was going into action, he wore his blue, heavily braided pelisse over his tunic, instead of slinging it from his shoulders. In contrast to those of most of the other officers, his uniform—being kept on board the Dryad and cleaned and pressed daily by his valet—looked as if it had come straight from a military tailor’s.
When the shouted commands of the troop officers died away, there was again a strangely pregnant silence. Lord Cardigan raised his voice and, without any sign of apprehension or excitement, gave his orders. “The Brigade will advance. The first squadron of the 17th Lancers will direct. Walk march . . . trot!”
The three lines of the Light Brigade started to move slowly down the North Valley, followed several minutes later by the Heavy Brigade, led by Lord Lucan. Owing to the nature of the ground, for part of the North Valley was ploughed, the troop of Horse Artillery Lord Raglan had authorized had to be left behind.
To the watchers high above them on the Sapouné Ridge there was, at first, no indication that Lord Raglan’s order had been misinterpreted. It was not until Lord Cardigan had covered some two hundred yards and then—instead of inclining right, in the direction of the redoubts on the Causeway Heights, continued the advance straight on down the valley—that the awful truth began, at last, to dawn upon the British commander-in-chief and his staff. But, by the time Lord Raglan realized how appalling was the error that had been made, it was much too late to correct it.
Even the Russians occupying the redoubts had assumed, until that moment, that their captured guns were the objectives towards which the British Cavalry Division was advancing. The watchers on the Sapouné Ridge saw them retire and, with their supporting infantry, form up to receive the charge which, they were obviously convinced, was about to be launched against them. It was the ideal opportunity for Sir George Cathcart’s 4th Division to make a bid to retake the redoubts but Sir George did not take it . . . like the watchers with Lord Raglan, he remained a spectator, as bewildered as they by the Cavalry’s extraordinary change of direction.
The Russian gunners and sharpshooters on the Fedioukine Hills and the forward slopes of the Causeway Heights did not, at first, divine the purpose of the steady advance of the brilliantly uniformed squadrons of the Light Brigade. They were also completely taken by surprise and stared down incredulously, unable to believe that so small a force could possibly be entering the North Valley with the intention of charging the twelve-gun battery at its eastern end. The gunners expected them to wheel and escape from the trap before its jaws closed about them . . . but they did not.
At an unhurried trot, with superb precision and in perfect alignment, the Light Brigade came on. About fifty or sixty yards separated the first line from the second; the third was also about this distance behind
the second, the gap steadily widening. Alone at their head, rode the tall, striking figure of their brigadier-general, the gold frogging on his spectacular blue and cherry-red Hussar uniform glistening in the sunlight. He led them into the range of the flanking guns as if he were either unaware of their presence or else supremely indifferent to the terrible threat they offered .. . and nothing, it seemed, could shake his rocklike calm.
The Russian gunners stared at him in stunned fascination, scarcely able to believe the evidence of their own eyes; the infantrymen sighted their rifles but did not fire, for they, too, were stunned by this extraordinary turn of events. Then the first shock of surprise passed. Officers bellowed frantic orders and, one after another, the batteries on the Fedioukine Hills opened up, hurling a deadly cross-fire of grape and round shot and cannister upon the slowly moving horsemen below.
As the first battery started firing, a single rider detached himself from the 17th Lancers’ leading squadron and galloped frenziedly across its front towards Lord Cardigan. Captain Nolan passed ahead of him—an unforgivable breach of military etiquette, which Cardigan observed with outraged astonishment.
Nolan was waving his sword and shouting at the pitch of his lungs as if, at the eleventh hour, he had realized the probable consequences of his taunt to Lord Lucan and was now seeking desperately to avoid them by halting the brigade’s advance. But his voice was inaudible above the crash of guns and the drumming hoofbeats of the Light Brigade’s chargers and Lord Cardigan wrathfully waved him back. To him, it must have seemed as if the young upstart A.D.C., who fancied himself as a cavalry tactician, dissatisfied with the speed of the advance, were attempting to take over the leadership of his brigade and this, quite properly, he could not allow.