Part 38

That softer effects might not be wanting, between the booming of the half-random cannonade that was dying away for the night, we could hear the brass band of the Rifle Brigade playing an old familiar air, which sounded sweetly in the distance. It was "Annie Laurie"--an air heard daily and hourly among our tents in the Crimea.

"Of all songs, the favourite song at the camp," says one of the lancers, in a published letter, "is 'Annie Laurie.' Words and music combine to render it popular, for every soldier has a sweetheart, and almost every soldier possesses the organ of tune. Every new draft from Britain marches into camp playing this old Scottish melody. I once heard a corporal of the Rifle Brigade start 'Annie Laurie.' He had a tolerably good tenor voice, and sang with expression; but the chorus was taken up by the audience in a much lower key, and hundreds of voices, in the most exact time and harmony, sang together--

And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doon and dee!

The effect was extraordinary. I never heard any chorus in oratorio rendered with greater solemnity; and the heart of each singer was evidently far away over the sea."[*]

[*] Letter from the camp.

Just as we diverged from the main road, we heard the galloping of horses in our rear.

"Thank God, we are _first_ on the ground," said Studhome. "Here come Scriven and his man, with our assistant-surgeon, Bob Hartshorn, on his nagtailed bay."

As he spoke, they reined in their horses a little. Then we all bowed, touched our caps, and proceeded slowly along the eminence, towards a quiet hollow, which Studhome and Scriven had previously inspected.

Berkeley was nervous and restless; his eyes wandered vaguely over the moonlit scenery. I could see that he frequently passed his tongue over his lips, as if to moisten them; he drew his gloves off and on, and fidgeted with his stock and eyeglass a hundred times; yet he chatted gaily enough to Scriven and the doctor, who told us that he had quite patients enough on his list, without having them added to by fighting duels.

"How romantic!--how terribly grand is all this prospect!" exclaimed Hartshorn, pointing to Sebastopol.

"Aw--haw--doocid good!" drawled my antagonist; "but, Bob, my dear boy, I am an Englishman, and England has been too well fed, too d----d cosy, for centuries, to have much romance about her! and so--aw--aw--I have none, thank Heaven! It is behind the age, Bob--behind the age!"

"An Englishman?" said I to Studhome. "His worthy father was an honest Scotch tradesman, who could little have foreseen the despicable figure his son is cutting to-night."

"I was up to the front before to-day," said Scriven, "and got a rifle ball through my shako."

"It will serve for the--aw--aw--healthy purpose of ventilation," said Berkeley, with a laugh--a very little one, however.

"My old quarters in Balaclava have been nicely ventilated by three bullet-holes in the roof," said the doctor, a good-humoured, careless young fellow.

"Bob is quartered there, on an old Turk, whose third wife is a female so severely respectable, that she never feeds the hens without a veil on."

"Why?" asked Scriven.

"Can't you guess?" asked Berkeley.

"No."

"Because there is--aw--aw--a d----d cock among them."

This frivolous conversation was now interrupted by a hoarse voice in front, challenging--

"Qui va la?"

"Friends!" I replied.

"_Anglaises_," added the other, and we found ourselves face to face with a French mounted officer and a small party of workmen, with pickaxes and shovels. In the horseman I immediately recognised Colonel Giomar, of the French 77th Regiment, who demanded whither we were going in that remarkable direction.

"'Tis an affair of honour, _monsieur le colonel_, and we propose to settle it here," said I. "May we?"

"_Tres bien!_ but you have chosen a droll place and hour," replied the colonel, a short, pot-bellied little man, in a scarlet kepi, which had a great square peak, and who wore a frogged surtout, with a sabre in a brass sheath.

"We cannot fight within our own lines, monsieur."

"I comprehend. You don't permit duelling in your service, I believe?"

"No."

"Indeed--singular!"

"Public opinion is against it."

"The King of France, Louis XIV., in 1700, tried to put down duelling, on which an old field-officer said to him, '_Tudieu_, sire! you have put down gaming and stage-playing; now you wish to make an end of duelling. How the devil are officers and gentlemen to amuse themselves?' But, with your permission, messieurs, I shall look and see how this affair ends. I haven't seen one since we marched out of Cambrai."

Berkeley bowed, and gave him a ghastly smile. When viewed by the moonlight, his face was so pale that even Scriven, his second, surveyed him with disgust and annoyance. There was a clamorous fluttering about my own heart. Thank that Heaven which I was about to face, my bearing was very different from his!

We dismounted, and the soldiers of the French working-party led our horses aside, as we had all come without grooms. The pot-bellied Colonel Giomar seated himself on the turf, to enjoy a cigar and see the sport; and the doctor, with professional _sang froid_, opened his case of instruments, and drew forth lint and bandages from the pocket of the Inverness cape which he wore over his uniform.

We now threw off our cloaks and swords. I wore an undress blue surtout; but Berkeley was dressed in an entire suit of black--a sack-coat, buttoned up to the neck, so that not a vestige of shirt was visible to attract my eye, or fix an aim.

Let me hasten over what follows.

Apologies were neither asked nor offered. The affair was beyond such amenities in the deadly game we were about to play. Twelve paces were measured; we tossed up for the first fire, and it fell to--Berkeley! Then I saw a smile of savage hope light up his eyes and curl his lip, as he took his ground and carefully cocked his pistol, just feeling the percussion-cap for a second with the fore-finger of his left hand.

Steadily I looked at him. I could see how he restrained his breathing, lest the aim might waver; how a white glare came into his eye, as it glanced along the barrel of the pistol, which he levelled full at my head, in the pale moonlight.

"_Gardez la bombe!_" shouted Colonel Giomar, as he rolled away over the turf like a butter-firkin. It was a moment of thrilling suspense, and, bewildered by the interruption, Berkeley permitted his pistol to explode, the ball going Heaven knows where! There was a whistling in the air overhead, with a rushing sound and then a heavy thud, as there lighted, almost at Berkeley's feet, a five-inch shell, shot from the South Fort by the Russians, who must have seen our group in the moonlight; and there it lay on the turf, half-imbedded by its own weight, with its red fuse hissing and burning furiously.

For a moment I saw its upward glare, as it shone on the pale face of the terrified man, who was too much paralyzed by emotion to move; but, just as I flung myself flat on the earth to escape the explosion, there was a blaze of yellow light, a crash as of thunder, and I felt a kind of hot wind sweep over me. The shell had burst, and Berkeley lay a heap of mutilated blood and bones beside it!

We rushed towards him. Both legs were broken in many places, a large fragment was buried deep in his chest, and the man was dead!

"Poor fellow!" said I, after our first exclamations of astonishment and commiseration had subsided.

Berkeley had long and systematically wronged me deeply; and now the angry lust for vengeance passed away, and I felt ashamed of the bitterness of the emotions which had inspired me but a few moments before. I forgave him all now, and almost felt sorry for the sudden fate that had, perhaps, saved me--I say sorry, but I could feel no more.

That fate so unlooked for and mysterious freed me from all further trouble or responsibility. I could pardon him for all he had ever done to me, and to his dead victim too--poor Agnes Auriol.

"_C'est la fortune de guerre, camarades_," said Colonel Giomar, shrugging his shoulders.

Stretched on the grass, which was soaked and sodden with his yet warm blood, there lay De Warr Berkeley, the coxcomb of Rotten Row, the epicurean of the mess and dinner-table, the Sybarite of the clubs, the sensualist whom poor Agnes Auriol loved--not too wisely, but too well; the sporting man, whose splendid drag presented the gayest show, the best company, the brightest parasols, bonnets, and fans, with the loveliest faces and the most expensive champagnes on the Derby-day, or the yearly inspection at Maidstone--there he lay dead, mangled, like a very beggar's dog!

It was the fortune of war, as Giomar said; but a fortune on which he had never calculated--his mother's pet from childhood, "clad in purple and fine linen."

Bundled in a cloak, his remains were borne to the rear by the Frenchmen of the 77th; and full of much thought, and with many a surmise as to how the corps would view the story of the night, Studhome, Scriven, the doctor and I, rode slowly back to quarters, leading with us a riderless horse.

I entered my tent, bewildered, giddy with the startling episode in which I had been involved. I had but one satisfaction--his blood was not on my hands. My brain swam, my heart was beating fast, and I had an intense thirst. A bottle of Cliquot stood near. Studhome adroitly struck off the top with his sword, and gave me a generous draught.

Then, by the light of a stable lantern that hung glimmering on the tent-pole, I saw the two letters I had so recently penned lying on the top of a baggage trunk; but a third epistle, addressed to myself, was beside them.

It was from Sir Nigel: the mail from Constantinople had come in that afternoon. I tore my missive open, and almost the first words that met my eyes were--

"Compose yourself, my dear boy. Louisa Loftus, the tricky jade, is now a marchioness. I send you herewith the _Morning Post_, which details her marriage at full length."

"Read that, Jack!" said I, in a hoarse voice, while the miserable tent swam round and round me.

Studhome scanned the letter hurriedly.

"Oh, Jack! what do you think of all this?"

"Think!" said he with an oath. "I think Sir Walter Scott did well to call the world 'an admirable compound of folly and knavery.'"

So all her studied silence was accounted for now!

*CHAPTER L.*

The line divides: the right half, which is Conspicuous for madder breeches, Presses, like flock of hunted sheep, Towards yon tower, so grim and steep. STONE TALK.

On that day, never to be forgotten in the annals of the British cavalry, the 25th of October, when we fought the battle of Balaclava, no man in all the Light Division mounted his horse with a more reckless heart than I, and no man, perhaps, was personally more careless as to the sequel. War and its contingent horrors were a relief, congenial to my bitterness of spirit, and afforded me a relief from myself.

There is probably not a boy in Britain but knows how, on that terrible day, the six hundred horsemen rode fearlessly into the Valley of Death; yet I cannot resist the temptation to tell the gallant story once again.

We were roused early in our miserable quarters by tidings that the Russians, in great force, were menacing Balaclava, the harbour of which was of vital importance to the allies in their operations against Sebastopol. Sir Colin Campbell--Lord Clyde, of glorious memory--had been appointed governor; and to him and his Highland Brigade had this most valuable post been intrusted by the allied generals. On this day he was reinforced by a few marines from the fleet, and four thousand lubberly Turks, who occupied four redoubts, which commanded the road to the camp.

The cavalry division--led by Lord Lucan, and composed of the Scots Greys, the Inniskillins, 1st Royal, 4th and 5th Dragoon Guards, forming the Heavy Brigade, under General Scarlett; and the 4th and 13th Light Dragoons, the 8th and 11th Hussars, with the 17th Lancers and ours, forming the Light Brigade, under the Earl of Cardigan--were to form between those Turkish redoubts and the Sutherland Highlanders, who were encamped under the cliffs, where the marines had a battery.

It was seven in the morning, when Captain Nolan, of the 15th Hussars, Lord Raglan's gallant aide-de-camp, dashed into our quarters on horseback.

"Get your men into their saddles, Colonel Beverley," he exclaimed. "A strong column of the enemy's cavalry, supported by artillery and infantry, some twenty-three thousand of all arms, are now in the valley before Balaclava. General Baur has already stormed one of the Turkish redoubts, and is opening fire on the other three. The Bono Johnnies are flying in all directions. Pass the word along for the whole line to turn out. We must floor them instantly!"

The trumpets blew loud and shrill among the tents, just as Studhome and I were making a hasty breakfast.

"The deuce!" said he. "So we must take a turn against those troublesome Cossacks; but if no Russian rifle bullet hath its place allotted in my proper person, we shall devil those drumsticks, and polish off that cooper of sherry in the evening."

Poor Jack!

We were soon in our saddles, with pistols loaded and lances slung. All were eager for the fray; and just as the sun arose General Bosquet, with a few pieces of artillery and two hundred Chasseurs d'Afrique, arrived to join us.

The surface of the valley into which the cavalry division advanced was undulating, and numerous green grassy hillocks served to conceal the movements of the various bodies of troops from each other. Above those hillocks we could see the light smoke of the distant conflict curling, as the Russians attacked and took in rapid succession the four redoubts, turning the guns of each, as they captured it, on the fugitive Turks, who fled in masses, and were decimated by round-shot and grape from their own guns, which, in their haste to escape, they forgot to spike.

The last redoubt was speedily abandoned by the brutal Colonel Hadjie Mehmet, who, bareheaded and without his sabre, was seen galloping ignominiously over his own men, as they rushed like a flock of sheep towards the steady line of the 93rd Highlanders, and there, by superhuman exertions, Sir Colin Campbell formed them in a confused body on his flank. But before this bourn was reached a Russian bullet had sent the soul of Hadjie Mehmet in search of the wonders of Paradise.

In fierce pursuit the Russian horse came dashing on, their polished lance-heads and black leather helmets shining in the sun, and, like successive human waves, squadron after squadron came in view. Pausing for a moment on the crest of a ridge, they looked with wonder--it might be scorn--upon the thin red line of Scotsmen, whom, as Campbell said, in his quaint way, he "did not think it worth while to form four deep or in square."

On came the Russians, with levelled lances and uplifted swords--on and on at a gallop, and from thence to racing speed--down like thunder rolling through the murky air. This sight proved too much for the red-capped Turks. Once more their line of red breeches was turned to the enemy, as they fled _en masse_; but calmly, steadily, and sternly, like their native rocks, stood the men of the slender Scottish line.

A command is given. Now the Minie rifles are levelled from the shoulder, the plumed bonnets seem to droop a little to the right as each man takes his aim, the withering volley rolls along from flank to flank, and, as the smoke rises, we see a confused heap of men rolling wildly over each other, while swords, lances, and caps are scattered far and near. Beyond these are the retreating squadrons--fugitives, and in utter rout!

The cowardly Turks were objects of intense derision to our seamen, and even to the little middies and soldiers' wives. Many of the latter kicked and cuffed the "Bono Johnnies" without mercy for their shameless abandonment of the Highlanders, and for plundering our cavalry camp, where they gobbled up the porridge which the Scots Greys had been cooking for breakfast when the alarm sounded.

Many other regiments of cuirassiers and lancers now joined the baffled horse, as they re-formed on the slope of a hill, from whence, for the first time to-day, they saw us, the heavy and light divisions of cavalry, drawn up in the small valley a little to the left of the Highlanders, and having had enough of them, with us they now resolved upon a trial of strength.

By many thousands they outnumbered us; but we knew that we were unaided; that upon our own bravery, discipline, and hardihood depended the honour and the fortune of the day; and all the many staff officers and other spectators, who had come from the French camp and the harbour to witness the result, knew this too, and looked silently and breathlessly on.

In two long, compact, and glittering lines, the Russian horse once more came on. Among them were some cuirassier regiments of the Imperial Guard, with magnificent helmets, adorned with silver eagles. But now, without waiting for orders, the two advanced corps of our cavalry--the Scots Greys and the Inniskillin Dragoons, galloped forward to meet them, one in heart, in ardour, and in purpose, as when those two noble regiments had ridden side by side, in the same brigade, in the Septennial War, a century before, and on the plains of Waterloo.

Overlapped by the vast extent of the first Russian line, we thought they would be literally swallowed up and exterminated. A ray of light seemed to pass along the ranks, as all their sword blades flashed in the sunshine; and then came the shock of battle.

The Scots on the left, the Irish dragoons on the right, broke through the Russians, cutting and treading them down; then both regiments actually disappeared! We held our breath; but anon a shout escaped us, as we saw them on the crest of an eminence beyond, cutting through the second Russian line!

All was then a wild and mingled chaos of uniforms, scarlet, blue, and green; of flashing swords and brandished lances, of floating plumes and swaying standards; of shrieking men, and horses kicking, plunging, and rolling on the turf; and many an episode of chivalry and hand-to-hand combat was there.

Then we heard the shrill trumpets above that infernal din, where no commands would have availed. The tall black bearskins of the Scots, and the brass helmets of the Irish dragoons, began to reappear; and, soon emerging from that human sea of glory and honour, we saw our gallant Heavies once more reforming in compact line, and retiring at a hand gallop, after having taught the thick-skulled Muscovites the strength of a Briton's arm, and the temper of our Sheffield steel.

Conspicuous by their colour, we could see that many of the Scots Greys' horses were covered with blood.

And now came our part in this terrible drama--the disaster of the day!

*CHAPTER LI.*

Half a league, half a league, Half a league, onward, Into the Valley of Death, Rode the Six Hundred! TENNYSON.

Recoiling before the glorious charges of our Heavy Brigade, the Russian horse and foot had retired into a narrow gorge at the head of the long green valley. There thirty pieces of cannon were in position, and in rear of them were formed six solid columns of cavalry and six of infantry, while other dense masses occupied the slopes beyond.

Notwithstanding this formidable array, in an almost unassailable position, a message was received by Lord Lucan from Captain Lewis Edward Nolan, of the 15th Hussars, undoubtedly one of the bravest of the brave, to the effect that the Light Brigade was to carry those thirty pieces of cannon. Another account says that he simply pointed to the guns with his sword, and said, "We should take them," and that the motion was taken for an order.

Ere many minutes were passed, poor Nolan paid the full penalty of this misconception or error in judgment--if error it was.

Perilous, rash, and desperate though the attempt, Lord Lucan reluctantly ordered the Earl of Cardigan to advance with his brigade, and cheerfully we obeyed the startling order.

We numbered only six hundred and seven horsemen, officers included.

Each officer took up the words in succession--"The brigade will advance. First squadron, march, trot, gallop!" And then for the first time, as I led my squadron on, did I become aware how thirsty we unconsciously become when under fire. My lips were quite baked, yet the morning air was moist and cool. We had before us a mile and a half to gallop over, level and open ground, encumbered here and there by the dead and wounded men and horses of the previous encounter; but these we swept over in our advance towards where the black and grim artillery stood, with round and gaping muzzles, before the solid array of Russian horse and foot--those dark columns in long grey capotes, all cross-belted, with fixed bayonets glittering in the sun; those darker and less distinct clouds of horsemen, whose forest of lances, sword-blades, and brighter appointments glittered and flashed from among their umbered masses.

On and on we rode, and faces flushed red, and hearts beat wildly--while the Earl, brave as every English gentleman should be, with all his faults of temper--led us on with brandished sword. Every hand was firm on the bridle, every grasp was firm on the sword, every knee was pressed to the saddle-laps, every rowel was tinged with blood; so, holster to holster and boot to boot, the squadrons were pressing on.

"CHARGE!" escaped me, almost before the time, and then the maddened horses rushed on at full racing speed, with long, invigorating strides. Our lances were all unslung, and in the rest, the banneroles fluttering before the horses' heads and outstretched necks, from which the manes were floating backward like smoke.

We were soon within the line of fire. Like the thunder of heaven the park of artillery shook the air, as cannon, mortars, and rifles opened like a fiery hell on front and flanks at once. An iron shower of round shot and grape, shells, and rockets, with a tempest of conical rifle bullets, whizzed past our ears, or tore through horses and men, and down they went on right and left at every stride.

Struck on the breast by a shell, the gallant Nolan fell back on his saddle, with a wild and harrowing cry, as his horse swept round, and bore his body to the rear, with his feet still in the stirrups, vindicating, even in death, his reputation as one of England's noblest horsemen.

Man after man, horse after horse, are now going down, thick and fast, and shrieks, and prayers, and curses rise together to Heaven; but the rest close in from the flank, and firmer, denser, wilder, and more resolute than ever we ride the race of death!

On, and on yet, steeds snorting, lances rising and falling, pennons fluttering, and sabres flashing in the sunshine.

"Steady, lads, steady!" cried Lionel Beverley, as another shower of grape tore through the squadrons, and many more went down, though some of the horses remained riderless in the rank, and galloped mechanically on. For a moment, amid the confusion, I saw the colonel for the last time, as he led us--that noble heart, that polished gentleman and gallant lancer. He was deadly pale, for he was mortally wounded in the left side. His life-blood was ebbing; but his sword was still uplifted, and a light was flashing in his eyes, which already could see "the glories and the terrors of the unknown world."

"Close up, gentlemen and comrades! Keep your horses well in hand; but spur on--charge, and charge home! Hurrah!"

A ball hummed past--a twenty-four pound shot, apparently--and where was Lionel Beverley?