Blair of Balaclava
A HERO OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
BY
ESCOTT LYNN
Author of ‘When Lion Heart was King,’ ‘Under the Red Rose,’
‘With Robin Hood in Sherwood,’ &c.
WITH SIX COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS
by
W. H. C. Groome
LONDON: 38 Soho Square, W.
W & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED
EDINBURGH: 339 Hight Street
Edinburgh:
Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited.
TO MY BROTHER FRED
AND THE OFFICERS
NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICERS AND MEN
OF THE ‘DEATH OR GLORY’ BOYS
PREFACE.
Inkermann has been called ‘The Soldiers’ Battle.’ With equal truth the
whole Crimean campaign might be called ‘The Soldiers’ War.’ It was the
vindication of the regimental officer and the rank and file; it showed
to the world the ineptitude of the general staff as it existed at that
day. Those entrusted with the conduct of the campaign were mostly old
men long past the age when brilliant service in the field could be
expected of them. Some had seen war-service in the Peninsula forty years
before, the interim being spent doing office-work at the Horse Guards;
many had never heard a shot fired in anger in their lives, their
services being confined to Hyde Park or the Curragh Camp. Family or
political influence procured them their appointments, while younger men
who had already rendered splendid war-service in the East were either
passed over, snubbed, or relegated to subordinate positions.
The miseries of Varna, the unparalleled sufferings of the troops before
Sebastopol, and the awful blunder of Balaclava give testimony to the
unwisdom of the selections.
During the long peace since Waterloo the army had grown unpopular. It
had been neglected. Even the Duke of Wellington was averse to making any
military display for fear that what army there was should be further
reduced.
The force which left England for the East was one of the worst equipped
and most badly organised that ever left our shores. On the contrary,
the men of which it was composed were the finest. They were all
long-service men, of grand physique and of an unrivalled spirit.
Before the Crimean war a red coat was looked on with disdain; after the
war the wearer was hailed as a friend. He had proved that he was a
worthy descendant of the heroes of the Peninsula, that he could perform
as gallant deeds on the blood-stained slopes of the Alma or in the
valley of Balaclava as had his forebears at Waterloo, that he could die
of disease and starvation as uncomplainingly before Sebastopol as did
his predecessors in Spain or Portugal.
In the following pages the author has endeavoured to pay a small tribute
to the heroism of the rank and file, and to show how they won for
themselves in the hearts of the British public the warm place they have
ever since occupied.
The survivors of the Crimean war are, alas! growing yearly fewer; but
the author desires to acknowledge with thankfulness much information he
has gained from the veterans he has had the opportunity of knowing,
amongst whom he wishes specially to mention Sergeant James Mustard, of
the 17th Lancers, a survivor of the immortal charge, and happily still
alive.
He also wishes to acknowledge his indebtedness to the fascinating pages
of Kinglake’s _Invasion of the Crimea_ and Russell’s _British Expedition
to the Crimea_. Stirling’s _Highland Brigade in the Crimea_, and
Steven’s _Connaught Rangers_ have also been advantageously consulted.
ESCOTT LYNN.
LONDON, 1911.
FOREWORD.
BY A SURVIVOR OF THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.
It is many a long year now since the misty October morning when with my
regiment, the 17th Lancers, I rode up that fatal valley where so many of
my gallant comrades fell. Yet, as I read Mr Lynn’s description of the
charge, I seemed to see and hear it all again: my comrades’ faces grim
and set, the fine figure of Lord Cardigan leading us, poor Captain Nolan
wildly trying to direct us out of the course we were following, the
rattle of rifle-fire, the crash of the shells, the blazing of the guns
all round us, the constant gaps in the ranks as man and horse went down,
the ever-increasing speed till we were in amongst the Russian gunners
and avenging those who had fallen.
I shivered again when I read of the awful storm of November and of the
miseries of the road to Balaclava. My heart beat with pride at the tale
of Inkermann, so well is the story told.
Many of the characters in the story I recognise--Jack Blair, Sergeant
Barrymore, Sergeant Linham, Captain Norreys, Pearson, Brandon, and so
on. I knew them under different names in the old regiment, but they were
the same men.
If any boy is interested in what we did, what we suffered, and what part
in the Crimean war my regiment played, let him read _Blair of
Balaclava_. As a survivor of the Light Brigade I can truly say that had
Mr Lynn soldiered with me and ridden by my side in the charge he could
not have given a truer account of our doings in the Crimea in 1854 and
1855.
(Signed) JAMES MUSTARD,
_late 17th Lancers_.
* * * * *
SERGEANT JAMES MUSTARD, the writer of the fore-going letter, was born in
St James’s, Piccadilly, on January 13th, 1829.
Coming of a family of soldiers, a love for the profession of arms was
born in him, and he joined the 3rd Light Dragoons, in London, on May
1st, 1850. Two years later he transferred, at Canterbury, to the 17th
Lancers.
He went out to the East with his regiment in April 1854, was present at
the affair of the Bulganak and the battle of the Alma. He rode in the
front rank of the ‘Immortal Six Hundred,’ going down the valley
immediately behind Lord Cardigan and his orderly trumpeter, Brittain of
the 17th Lancers, who died of his wounds received in the charge. He
reached the guns in safety, and, after using his lance with good effect
against the Russian gunners and the cavalry formed behind them, started,
with a little group of his own regiment and the 8th Hussars, on the
return ride. He had a personal encounter with a Polish Lancer, whom he
worsted; then continuing on his way, went to the assistance of Trumpeter
Landfried of the 17th, who came safely out of the fray.
Sergeant Mustard had received a severe wound; but owing to the intense
excitement became aware of the fact only by accident. To describe this
event the writer quotes the sergeant’s own words: ‘We were coming back
along the valley when a chum of the 13th Light Dragoons, named Hetridge,
rode up to me. “Jim,” he said, “lend me your sword, for I’ve lost mine
in the fight.” I still held my lance, though the shaft had been chipped
by a bullet. I turned to draw my sword to hand it to Hetridge, when, to
my amazement, I found I had neither sword, scabbard, nor belt. A
canister-shot had caught me on the left hip, and cut away sword, belt,
overalls, and pants, and laid bare a great red patch of bleeding flesh.
Another inch would have smashed my hip and killed me.’
After lying all night on the ground, and helping to shift camp twice,
Sergeant Mustard was next day sent to Scutari hospital, where he spent
the next four months.
He served till the end of the war; and, returning with his regiment, was
stationed in Ireland till the outbreak of the Indian Mutiny. Going to
India, he served in Sir William Gordon’s squadron in the pursuit and
capture of Tantia Topee. He was again wounded, and had his horse shot
under him. Among his officers at that date were Lieut.-General Sir D. C.
Drury Lowe, G.C.B., and Field-Marshal Sir Evelyn Wood, V.C., G.C.B.,
both then regimental officers in the 17th Lancers.
Sergeant Mustard, after being master-tailor of his regiment, retired
from the service in 1865, being the possessor of the Crimean medal with
three clasps, the Turkish medal, and the Indian Mutiny medal with one
clasp.
The old veteran is still hale and hearty, though the only survivor of
the rank and file of his regiment who rode in the charge. The kindly
face and upright, soldierly figure, with the glittering medals on his
breast, are well known in the suburb where he has lived, greatly
respected, ever since he left the service.
His grandfather and two uncles fought at Waterloo in the 71st Light
Infantry, and two of his brothers served for many years in the 22nd
Regiment.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A SCRIMMAGE IN THE OFFICE 1
II. ROBBERS ON THE HIGHWAY 11
III. THE ‘DEATH OR GLORY BOYS’ 18
IV. JACK BECOMES A LANCER 23
V. A BARRACK-ROOM SQUABBLE 30
VI. JACK MAKES A RESOLVE 38
VII. SERGEANT LINHAM INSTRUCTS 43
VIII. BANDSMAN NAPPER IS TAUGHT A LESSON 55
IX. JACK MAKES GOOD PROGRESS 60
X. THE REVIEW 71
XI. JACK RECEIVES VISITORS 76
XII. THE ROUTE ARRIVES 81
XIII. EASTWARD HO! 85
XIV. AN ADVENTURE AT VARNA AND ITS SEQUEL 92
XV. JACK MEETS AN OLD FRIEND 99
XVI. AN ADVENTURE IN BULGARIA 106
XVII. NAPPER PLAYS HIS LAST CARD 111
XVIII. A WELCOME MOVE 116
XIX. THE FIRST BRUSH WITH THE ENEMY 120
XX. CAUGHT IN A TRAP 127
XXI. SERGEANT LINHAM TAKES COMMAND 137
XXII. A BRILLIANT LITTLE AFFAIR 144
XXIII. JACK SHOWS HIS METTLE 151
XXIV. THE PASSAGE OF THE ALMA 164
XXV. THE WINNING OF THE HEIGHTS 175
XXVI. JACK RECEIVES HIS FIRST STEP 186
XXVII. LARRY AND JACK MAKE A DISCOVERY 191
XXVIII. LARRY WINS DISTINCTION 198
XXIX. THE BEGINNING OF THE SIEGE 204
XXX. A NIGHT ON VEDETTE DUTY 212
XXXI. ‘THE THIN RED LINE’ 216
XXXII. WELL DONE, HEAVIES! 224
XXXIII. ‘INTO THE JAWS OF HELL’ 233
XXXIV. A NIGHT ON THE BATTLEFIELD 253
XXXV. THE CAVES OF INKERMANN 267
XXXVI. ‘THE SOLDIERS’ BATTLE’ 277
XXXVII. MISERIES ACCUMULATE 294
XXXVIII. WAR IN GRIM EARNEST 302
XXXIX. IN THE HANDS OF THE COSSACKS 308
XL. A FRIEND IN NEED 314
XLI. THE CHÂTEAU PAULOFF 322
XLII. TREACHERY AT WORK 333
XLIII. A DREARY MARCH 339
XLIV. THE RESCUE 346
XLV. THE BATTLE OF THE TCHERNAYA 361
XLVI. THE STORMING OF THE REDAN 367
XLVII. HOMEWARD BOUND 374
XLVIII. ‘FOR VALOUR!’ 387
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Jack jerked out a note or two as they literally raced
along _Frontispiece_
Dragged the little boy right from under the iron-shod hoofs 74
Pearson caught the cowardly Russian just between the
shoulder-blades 162
‘Howly Moses, look there to yer left!’ cried Larry 194
Jack having as much as he could do to keep up with his
brutal captors 313
The two heroes were seized, seated shoulder high 360
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BLAIR OF BALACLAVA.
CHAPTER I.
A SCRIMMAGE IN THE OFFICE.
‘You young brute, why don’t you mind what you’re doing, blundering
about?’
‘I couldn’t help it, Jenkins; it was quite an accident. Your foot was
stuck out, and I stumbled over it.’
‘It was nothing of the sort, you clumsy wretch; and take that to remind
you that I’m _Mr_ Jenkins.’
As he spoke, the lanky, pale-faced youth rose from the table, where he
had been sitting nibbling the end of a quill, and soundly boxed the ears
of a small, delicate-looking boy who, while carrying an inkpot across
the office, had stumbled and upset some of the black fluid upon the
lavender-coloured continuations of Mr Silvester Jenkins.
Not content with boxing the boy’s ears, Mr Jenkins seized him by the
arm, which he twisted savagely.
‘Oh, oh--Jenkins! don’t--please don’t! You do hurt!’
‘And I will too, you young pig!’
The scene was taking place in the close and dismal office of Messrs
Phogg & Cheetham, Solicitors, House Agents, &c. The tiny windows,
partly covered with a wire blind and partly with big bills, allowed but
little daylight to penetrate into the office, Messrs Phogg & Cheetham
seeming to prefer, in more senses than one, working in the dark.
While the boy’s cries still rang out, a third person, who had been
seated in the darkest corner of the office, perched up on a high stool,
making entries in a book of vast dimensions, quietly descended from his
seat, and in two strides stood before Mr Jenkins.
This third person was a well-set-up, handsome young fellow of about
sixteen, with a firm chin, clear-cut features, and honest hazel eyes.
‘Leave Mallinson alone,’ he said quietly to Mr Jenkins; ‘you’re hurting
him.’
‘And a good job too. He’s spoilt my trousers!’
‘It was an accident, and he’s sorry. Now let him go.’
‘I sha’n’t, and you mind your own business, John Blair, or you’ll get
kicked out into the gutter.’
A slight flush crept into Blair’s cheeks, and Jenkins gave Mallinson’s
arm another twist that made the poor boy almost shriek with pain. This
was more than the quick temper of Jack Blair could stand.
The pent-up animosity of months broke out; and, never pausing to
consider the probable consequences of his act, or to remember that the
dandified being before him was his master’s nephew, he caught Mr Jenkins
by the collar, shook him as a terrier would a rat, then hurled him
across the office, where he fell with a crash in the fireplace.
Picking himself up, with a snarl of rage Jenkins seized a heavy ebony
ruler, which he aimed with all his might at Blair. It struck that youth
a sharp blow on the head, making him see stars for a moment, then
glanced off and smashed one of the small, dirty panes of glass in the
window.
Mr Jenkins’ triumph was, however, but short-lived. Roused to fury by the
sting of the blow, Blair stepped up to the angry bully, his right and
left shot out with lightning-like rapidity; and, receiving one on his
mouth and one on his ample nose, Mr Jenkins measured his length upon the
floor again, where he lay like a whipped cur, shouting ‘Murder!’ and
‘Police!’
In the midst of the hubbub, a door which led to the private office of Mr
Phogg opened, and a tall, thin, black-bearded man appeared in the
doorway. He gave a rapid look round the office, readjusted his
gold-rimmed spectacles, took another look, then asked in cutting tones,
‘What is the meaning of this low, disgraceful conduct?’
Mr Jenkins picked himself up from the floor, holding his coloured silk
handkerchief to his nose; little Mallinson shrank back into a corner;
while Blair put his hands in his trouser-pockets with a resigned air,
knowing there was trouble ahead for him, but determined to meet it
boldly.
‘Now then,’ rapped out Mr Phogg, ‘must I ask again what is the meaning
of this outrage perpetrated upon the premises of one of the oldest and
most respectable businesses in Wycombe?’
‘It’s that low fellow Blair,’ said Mr Jenkins; ‘he made a savage attack
upon me. He’s a bully and a coward. He tried to murder me.’
‘Now, John Blair,’ said Mr Phogg coldly, ‘what explanation have you got?
Be careful what you say, for you may yet find yourself in the
police-court, and any admission now, although spoken in hot blood, may
be used against you.’
Jack Blair looked the contempt he could not express, for he cordially
detested Mr Phogg.
‘I have no explanation,’ he said shortly; ‘ask your nephew for his
version. I dare say it will be more to your taste than mine would be.’
Mr Phogg gave a sort of gasp--that is, he opened his mouth like a fish
suddenly taken from the water, but he made no sound. Astonishment kept
him silent. Had he heard aright? Had John Blair, the junior clerk, the
youth who was dependent on his bounty, the ungrateful being whom he fed
and lodged _and_ paid--had he dared to be impudent to him, Anthony
Phogg, senior partner of the firm of Phogg and Cheetham?
He paused for a moment; then a kind of painful smile crossed his
features. ‘Very well, Silvester,’ he said, ‘_very_ well; proceed with
your narrative. Relate the facts;’ and he sat on the edge of the high
stool Blair had just vacated, folding his arms and stretching out his
long legs before him.
‘That young brute of a Mallinson’---- began Jenkins.
‘Nothing libellous, please,’ said Mr Phogg, holding up one lean, yellow
hand; ‘plain facts only. I will draw my own conclusions.’
‘Well, sir, Mallinson then, crossing the office just now, deliberately
upset an inkpot on my trousers, completely spoiling them.’
‘We can recover the value if we find motive,’ said Mr Phogg, making a
pencil note on a scrap of paper lying on Blair’s desk. ‘Proceed.’
‘I was just showing Mallinson what he had done, and was telling him to
be more careful another time, when he began cheeking me’----
‘Being insolent, say,’ corrected Mr Phogg.
‘He has been most insolent ever since he got that new job and gave us
notice. I was checking him for being chee--insolent, when that bully
Blair seized his ruler, rushed at me, and attacked me like a mad-man. I
struggled to get the ruler from him, when he threw it at me and smashed
the window, afterwards punching me about the face like a prize-fighter.
Just look at me.’ And indeed Mr Jenkins did look in a pretty plight,
with one eye nearly closed, his nose swollen, his mouth cut, and his
hands smeared with blacklead and soot off the grate.
‘Ha,’ said Mr Phogg, ‘just what I expected! You are a low, common bully,
Blair; a worthless, lazy brat, whom I kept only out of charity,’ he
continued, his thin lips curling back from his teeth as he spoke. ‘Now
you shall go--do you hear?--you shall go, be bundled, without a
reference, neck and crop out into the gutter, where you can starve, or
sell matches, or thieve. I dare say you’re a thief as well as’----
‘Stop!’ cried Blair, his eyes flashing fire. ‘Discharge me you can; but
insult me you shall not. I am ready to go, for I’m sick to death of this
place and its shady business, of you and your ape of a nephew. Give me
my money and I’ll go at once.’
‘Oh Mr Phogg, please, please!’ cried poor little Mallinson, coming
forward and holding out his hands appealingly; ‘it wasn’t Blair’s fault,
on my honour it wasn’t. Jenkins--Mr Jenkins, I mean--boxed my ears and
pinched me, and twisted my arm till I had to scream, I couldn’t help it.
And I didn’t upset the ink on him on purpose. Blair only interfered
because Mr Jenkins was hurting me, and he’s always at it, and Blair
told him last time he wouldn’t have any more of it. Oh, please, Mr
Phogg, don’t sack Blair.’
‘Silence, you little sneak!’ roared Mr Phogg; ‘leave the house, and
depend upon it I’ll mention this occurrence in the character I shall
give you.--Silvester, come into my room.’
Mr Phogg and his worthy nephew disappeared into the inner sanctum
together; then Blair and Mallinson looked at one another, the latter
almost on the verge of tears.
‘Oh Blair, what shall I do? It’s all my fault, and now you’ll have to
go. I shall never, never forgive myself. What shall I do?’
Jack Blair placed an arm caressingly round the neck of the
delicate-looking boy.
‘Don’t you worry, Cecil,’ he said; ‘it isn’t your fault. Ever since you
got that nomination for Lidsdale’s Bank and gave Phogg notice to leave
they’ve been down on you and me. There was bound to be a row, and I’m
glad it’s over. I could not have stopped here much longer. I feel as
though the very air of this office, with its pettifogging business, and
dark, underhand methods, would choke me. I’m glad the burst-up has come.
Now, cut away home, and I’ll give you a look up in the morning on the
way to church.’
‘But--but--aren’t you afraid to be left here with those?’ and he pointed
to the door of the private room.
Blair laughed grimly just as the door was opened and Mr Phogg shot out.
‘What! not gone, Mallinson?’ he cried. ‘Put on your hat at once. Here’s
your money. Now go, and never darken my doors again!’ and, giving the
boy a small envelope, he bundled him out of the door, which he banged
behind him.
‘You’d better tidy up the place,’ he said to Blair; then again retired
to his own room.
Blair did as he was bidden; then climbed up on to his high stool, and
sat looking at the brilliant sunlight outside. His mind wandered back
twelve months--to his old school and the pleasant cricket-meadow where
probably the fellows were then playing, or perhaps his own old
particular chums were having a pull up the river. The recollection made
him sigh, for the last twelve months had held nothing but trouble and
hard work for him. He looked round the dismal office, seeming ten times
more dismal, he thought, now young Mallinson had gone, and his head fell
forward on his hands, for the future looked dark indeed before him.
Less than fifteen months ago he had lost his father. At the end of the
summer term he had gone home to find his mother and sisters removed from
the great, rambling old house in Hampshire, where he had been born, to a
humble lodging in London. There nothing but bad news met him. Mr Bailey,
the old lawyer who had managed his father’s business for years, had
stated that Mr Blair’s affairs were in a far from flourishing state.
Unfortunate speculations had dissipated his fortune; his property was
mortgaged, and most of his securities had to be disposed of to meet his
liabilities. The house and best part of the furniture were sold, and the
proceeds, being invested, were just sufficient to bring in a bare
pittance, enough to keep a roof over the widow’s head. Jack Blair had to
turn out into the world to earn his own living.
His first place had been in a wholesale drapery establishment, where he
worked twelve hours a day. The hard work and the confinement, together
with the bad and insufficient food, had in a few months made him but a
ghost of his former self, and his mother had insisted upon his leaving.
His second situation had been with a firm of merchants who in less than
two months went bankrupt, and Jack Blair was once more thrown on his
mother’s hands. Then the family lawyer had procured him his present
situation with Messrs Phogg & Cheetham, a place where he worked from
eight in the morning till eight or often nine at night, Saturdays
included. He lived on the premises, and, besides his board, received the
magnificent sum of four shillings a week for his services.
The old lawyer had told him that at any cost he must keep that
situation, as he must not be a burden to his mother, who had as much as
she could do to keep herself.
Jack had determined to succeed, and in spite of drudgery and continual
snubs and insults, had been there six months; and now--well, after that
afternoon’s work--he knew that his days there were numbered, and, worst
of all, Mr Phogg had said he would not give him a reference. Jack knew
his employer’s vindictive nature too well to doubt that he would carry
out his threat. He felt he could not write and tell his mother, and what
to do he knew not.
At eight o’clock that night he was turned out into the street, all his
worldly possessions packed in a small portmanteau, a week’s wages (less
one shilling and fourpence stopped for the broken window) added to his
small stock of money, seven shillings and eightpence in all, forming
the whole of his wealth, for Jack had sent his mother half his slender
earnings ever since he had been in his situation. He went straight to
the Mallinsons’ and arranged for a night’s lodging with them, he having
been on very friendly terms with the family since he had been in
Wycombe.
Early on the Sunday morning, Jack, portmanteau in hand, started on his
long tramp from Wycombe to London, for he decided he dared not spend the
two and tenpence for the railway fare. Cecil accompanied Jack some
distance on the way, and when they parted he said, as he wrung Jack’s
hand, ‘I can’t help feeling it’s all my fault your going.’
‘Don’t say a word about it, Cecil. I should do the same again
to-morrow.’
‘Jenkins did look a guy,’ said Cecil, his eyes kindling at the
recollection of his tormentor’s humiliation.
‘He looked just what he is, a sneaking bully,’ said Jack as he shook
Cecil’s hand; ‘and now, good-bye and prosperity to you in your new
situation.’
‘Good-bye, Jack. May you have all the luck you deserve,’ said Cecil.
There were tears in the latter’s eyes when he turned away, for he felt
he had lost a good friend.
At a steady four miles an hour Jack kept on, mile after mile, the
exercise taking more effect on him than it otherwise would have done, as
since he had been at Wycombe he had enjoyed few opportunities of taking
long walks. A brief halt for some bread and cheese in the middle of the
day, then on again, every mile seeming to get longer and longer while
yet a good part of the journey was before him.
Jack took off his coat, which he carried over his shoulder, changing his
portmanteau from hand to hand. The day was baking hot. The white road,
an inch thick in dust, reflected back the glowing sun till it made his
eyes ache.
Jack hobbled painfully, his heels being rubbed and blistered, while his
portmanteau seemed to grow heavier with every yard he walked. He had
arrived at a spot where the hedge turned off at right angles, leading up
to a five-barred gate opening on to some pasture-land. One side of this
opening was in the shade, and, after looking at it for a moment, Jack
turned up with a half-sigh of contentment and seated himself on the
sloping, shady bank. He guessed he was somewhere near Hounslow, and he
began to despair of reaching London that night. ‘Perhaps I could get a
train from Hounslow,’ he thought; ‘but can I afford it?’
He took from his pocket the little purse his eldest sister had given
him, and counted all his store--a half-crown, a florin, two shillings, a
sixpence, and fivepence halfpenny in coppers--seven shillings and
fivepence halfpenny in all. Jack sighed as he looked at the money in his
hand and thought how short a way it would go when he was out of a
situation. He was replacing the coins in his purse when a rush of feet
sounded near him. Three men burst through the hedge, and while one
seized him by the collar, another ragged, unshaven rascal, holding a
short, heavy bludgeon in his hand, cried with a grin, ‘Evenin’, young
gen’l’man, you’re the wery covey we’ve been a-waitin’ for. I’ll trouble
yer to ‘and over them dibs, or’--and he flourished his
stick--‘circumstances _may_ be onpleasant.’