Not long after the events here recorded came a time that we all remember
right well, when, without note of preparation, the war-trumpets sounded
from the east and the north; when Europe woke up, like a giant
refreshed, from the slumber of a forty years' peace, and took down
disused weapons from the wall, and donned a rusted armor. It was a time
rife with romantic episodes, and, as such seasons must ever be, fraught
with peril to the prudence of womankind. There was perpetual recurrence
of the striking antithesis which happened at Brussels before Waterloo,
when the roll of the distant cannon at Quatre Bras mingled with the
music of the duchess's ball. The coldest reserve is apt to melt rapidly,
and the most skillful coquetry is brought to bay, when opposed to
pleading urged possibly for the last time. Those were days of rebuke and
blasphemy to "the gentlemen of England who sat at home at ease;" and
even the Foreign Office "irresistibles" could hardly hold their own.
What chance have the honeyed words of the accomplished civilian against
the simple eloquence of the soldier, who speaks with his life in his
hand? Truly there were many conquests then achieved of which the world
knew nothing, for the victor never came back to claim his prize.
When the funeral of the Great Duke went by, it was easy to find fault
with some of the details of that pretentious pageant; but which of us
was cool enough to criticise, on the gray February morning, when the
Guards marched out? There were practiced veterans enough to be found in
their ranks; and each of these perhaps could number some who loved him
dearly; but none in the column won such hearty sympathy as those "trim
subalterns, holding their swords daintily," who went forth to their doom
gayly and gallantly, as if pestilence were not lying in ambush at
fever-stricken Varna, and lines of hungry graves waiting for their prey
in the bleak Chersonese. Surely there were sadder faces at home than any
that lined the road; and the anxious crowd at the station represented
very inadequately the "girls they left behind them."
When the first certain rumors of war prevailed, Royston Keene was
shooting woodcocks in the Hebrides; he hastened back to town without a
moment's delay. We know how quick and unerring, on such occasions, is
the instinct of the Rapacidæ. His object was to get on the
active-service list as soon as possible. With his powerful interest and
high reputation, this was not difficult; and he was soon gazetted to a
Light Cavalry regiment. But he did not go out with the first
detachments, and the summer was far advanced when he reached the Crimea.
There was great jubilation at his coming. Many out there knew him
personally, well; and others rejoiced at having the opportunity of
judging for themselves if he really deserved his fame. It soon became
apparent that the Cool Captain was strangely altered. To be sure, the
opportunities for general conviviality were few, for mess-rooms and
ante-rooms were phantoms of the imagination, or only pleasant memories;
still, there was a certain amount of agreeable though select _réunions_,
where the vintages of Bordeaux and Burgundy were sufficiently replaced
by regulation rum. At these Royston appeared rarely; and when he did
show there, was remarkably silent, and apt to let a favorable
opportunity, even for a sarcasm, go by. He seemed to prefer the solitude
of his own tent to the most tempting inducements of society. Men
remembered afterward how, if they went in and found him alone, he was
always busy with his revolver, or playing with his sabre. He had refused
two advantageous offers of staff appointments, for no apparent reason
except the desire not to be out of the way if any work were to be done:
and scarcely a day passed when he was not up at head-quarters, trying to
find out if there was any chance of a break in the long inaction of the
cavalry. Whether it was that the old blood-thirstiness had waked again
in a congenial atmosphere, or whether a great weariness weighing on his
spirits made him so impatient and restless, none can know for certain.
Again I say, let us not sift motives too inquisitively.
It is the morning of the 25th of October, and a lull comes between the
storm-gusts. The "Heavies" have just taken up their position, after that
magnificent charge, in which the Russian lancers were scattered like
dead leaves in autumn when the wind is blowing freshly. There are
murmurs of discontent running the ranks of the Light Brigade; it seems
as if _their_ chance was never coming. One of his intimates grumbles as
much to Royston Keene. The Cool Captain straightens a stray lock of his
charger's mane, and answers, with his old provoking smile,
"Don't fret yourself, George. I have a presentiment that we shall get
rid of the 'fidgets' before we sleep. See--_that_ looks like business."
It seemed as if a spirit of prophecy possessed him; for even while he
was speaking, the aide-de-camp came down at speed. There was a pause
while that message was delivered, the exact words of which will never be
known--for you can not summon the dead as witnesses; then a brief
hesitation, and a dozen sentences exchanged between the first and second
in command; and then--every trooper in the Brigade understood what he
had to do. Many drew true and evil augury from the cloud lowering on the
stern features of the "Haughty Earl."
Keene had been under fire oftener than most there, and his practiced eye
took in and appreciated every item of the peril; nevertheless, his brow
cleared, and all his face lighted up strangely.
"What did I tell you, young one?" he said to the man who had addressed
him just before; "it will be warmer work than the old Phoenix
field-days; but one comfort is, it won't last so long."
Before the words were fairly uttered the trumpets rang out; and with a
gayer laugh on his lip than it had worn for many a day, the Cool Captain
led his squadron gallantly into Aceldama.
We will not describe the charge. Enthusiasts are not wanting who would
rather have ridden in it than have won the highest distinction to which
civilians can aspire. Who dares to object that it was not ultimately
successful? Such a taunt has never been weighed in the balance against
the glories of Thermopylæ. I frequently meet in society one of the
Paladins of that fatal Roncesvalles. In private life he has few
peculiarities, except a tendency to engage in each and every game of
chance, and a perfect monomania for waltzing. Yet I regard him with an
immense respect and reverence, that the object of the feeling would be
the last to understand. I think of the awful peril out of which the
delicate, feminine face has come without a scar; and I protest I would
no more dream of speaking to him angrily or slightingly, than I would
venture to discourse about the Derby to the Bishop of O----, or to offer
to that dignified prelate the current odds against the favorite. Rely
upon it, in many homes of England (if the Manchestrians leave them
standing) there will be one family portrait that our children will most
delight to honor. Pointing out to strangers the crowning glory of their
house, they will pass by grave effigies of lawyers, ecclesiastics, and
statesmen, and pause opposite to a martial figure, dressed in the
uniform of a light dragoon. All his ancestors shall give precedence to
the simple soldier, who rode that day in the van of the Six Hundred.
Yes, we will leave that charge alone. The most hackneyed of professional
_littérateurs_ might shrink from sitting down to his writing-desk, to
make merchandise of such a "deed of _derring-do_." Nevertheless, Royston
Keene bore his part in it manfully; and the troopers talk yet of the
feats of skill and strength wrought by his sabre.
The immunity from dangers of shot and steel for which he had been always
remarkable, did not seem to have deserted him; for he had come out of
the batteries without a scratch, and had fought his way through more
than one knot and peloton of the enemy, with no scathe beyond a slight
flesh-wound. In one of these encounters he had got separated from such
remnants of his squadron as still held together (you know even regiments
lost their unity in that terrible _mêlée_), the only man who still kept
near him was his covering-sergeant. All this while the fire from the
Russian guns on the hill-side grew heavier and heavier, while the cruel
grape-shot ripped through the mingled masses of friends and foes: making
sudden, unsightly gaps here and there, just as may be seen in a field of
ripe corn "laid" by the lashing hail. The good horse on which Keene was
mounted had not been out from England long enough to suffer materially
in wind or limb; he was in very fair condition, and had carried his
master splendidly so far, with equal luck in escaping any serious
injury. Five hundred yards more would have placed them in safety, within
the position where the Heavy Brigade was already moving up to cover the
retreat of their comrades, when the Templar, going at top-speed, pitched
suddenly forward, as a ship does when she founders; and, after rolling
once half over his rider, lay still, with limbs just faintly quivering.
Two grape-shot, making one wound, had crashed right into his chest and
through the heart.
His covering-sergeant was within three lengths of Royston when the
latter went down: he pulled up and sprang down instantly, and was by his
officer's side in a second, trying to extricate him.
"Hold up, Major," he said cheerily; "that's nothing. Take my horse.
He'll carry you in; and I can manage well enough."
The strong soldier reeled, from sheer weakness, as he was speaking; for
the blood was spouting in dark-red jets from a ghastly cut in his bridle
arm: yet he seemed to see nothing in his offer but a simple act of duty;
though men have won a place in history for meaner self-sacrifice. One of
the most remarkable peculiarities about the Cool Captain was the hold he
maintained over the affections and impulses of those with whom he was
brought in contact, without any visible reason for such influence. He
was the strictest possible disciplinarian; and his demeanor toward his
subordinates was consistently dictatorial; yet the present case was only
one instance of the enthusiasm with which they regarded him.
Keene looked up at the speaker wistfully, from where he lay; and his
face softened in its set sternness.
"You're a good fellow, Davis," he said; "but I would not avail myself of
your generosity if I could. I can't take much credit for refusing it. My
thigh is broken; and I am hurt besides. I couldn't keep the saddle for
ten seconds. Draw my right gauntlet off, and take my ring; you deserve
it better than the Cossacks. Keep it as long as you like; it will always
bring you a fifty, if you get hard up. And take _this_ too." He put his
hand into the breast of his uniform; but drew it back quickly. "No: it
shall stay with me while I live."
His tone and manner were just the same as if he had met with a heavy
fall, out hunting, and were answering some good-natured friend who had
stopped to pick him up.
The trooper took the ring; but he lingered still. Royston saw a knot of
the enemy sweeping down on them, like ravens on a stag wounded to the
death; his voice resumed its wonted accent of irresistible command.
"Did you hear what I said? I told you to go. Those devils will be down
on us in less than a minute. I have not fired one barrel of my revolver,
and I'm good for one or two of them yet."
The habit of obedience, more than the instinct of self-preservation,
made Davis mount and ride away without another word. He looked back,
though, as he did so. He heard three distinct reports from Keene's
revolver: two of the enemy's skirmishers dropped to the shots, and the
third wavered in his saddle; the rest closed round the fallen man with
leveled lances. The stout sergeant looked back no more; but he set his
teeth hard, and turned out of his way to encounter a stray Russian, and
laid the foeman's face open from eyebrow to lip, with an awful
blasphemy. The spot where Royston fell was so near to the British lines
that those who slaughtered him dared not stay for plunder. Half an hour
later, Davis and two more volunteers went out and brought in the mangled
body of the best swordsman in the Light Brigade.