THE PASSAGE OF THE ALMA.
As Jack gazed up and saw Sergeant Barrymore bending over him, his
thoughts went back to that Sunday afternoon, nearly eighteen months ago,
when once before he had lain beside a river, with Sergeant Barrymore
tending him. Then with a rush came back the recollection of the
skirmish.
‘Poor Tom!’ said Jack, ‘was he saved after all?’
‘Yes, and is still alive, thanks to you. He is being attended to by the
doctors; but whether he’ll live or not I can’t say. But we’d best get
you along to the doctor and have your cut properly bandaged.’
Putting up his hand, Jack found his head was tied up in a
pocket-handkerchief.
‘Your cap saved you,’ said the sergeant, ‘else that slice above the ear
would have been serious.’
Jack had also received a prick from a lance on his thigh, which, though
bleeding profusely, was not very painful. He, however, insisted on
remaining at his duty, and with Barrymore’s help went on to their
camping-ground.
Will was loud in his praises of Jack’s gallantry. ‘You ought to get your
commission,’ he said. ‘If some blessed officer had done what you’ve done
he’d have got a step in the regiment, half-a-dozen letters after his
name, and I don’t know what all.’
‘Never mind, Will, old boy; get me a drink of coffee from somewhere, and
any one can have the letters and the promotion.’
Pearson and Brandon had just succeeded in roasting some green
coffee-beans, and soon Jack had a pannikin of the hot beverage, to which
a little drop of rum had been added. The drink did Jack much good and he
soon felt better. In the evening he went up to the hospital-tent with
Will and inquired about Tom Gallon.
The gray-headed, kind-eyed Scot who was regimental surgeon shook his
head. ‘He may live,’ he said; ‘but his soldiering days are over. His
left arm ‘s smashed and must come off above the elbow, and he’s got a
nasty dig in his back. Providing we can keep off fever, he may pull
round; but I’m afraid’-----
‘Poor Tommy!’ said Jack. ‘I should like to see him once, doctor, before
it’s too late.’
‘Impossible; any excitement would be fatal. By the way, are you the
trumpeter who saved him?’
‘I stood by him till our men returned.’
The doctor shook Jack warmly by the hand. ‘You performed a brave deed,’
he said. ‘I heard of the affair from Captain Norreys, who’s bringing it
to the notice of Lord Raglan. But what’s wrong with your head?’
Jack replied that he had received a slight cut, which the doctor
insisted upon dressing, besides the prod in his leg, making Jack relate
how he had saved Gallon the while.
That night the army was encamped in order of battle, for it was expected
the Russians would make a night-attack. They were known to be quite
close and in great strength, part of which they had revealed in their
attempts to draw the British cavalry into an ambush. The troops piled
arms and were warned to be ready to turn out at an instant’s notice.
Extra strong vedettes and outposts were posted; but Jack’s regiment was
fortunate in not being called upon to supply either.
They were encamped just behind the village of Bulganak, Lord Raglan
passing the night in a posthouse close to the bridge. From the English
lines the camp-fires of the enemy, seeming endless in number, could be
plainly seen, and all knew that even if they went through the night
without an attack the next day would see them engaged in a big battle,
for the Russians barred all further progress towards Sebastopol.
The night passed peacefully, however, and before dawn, without sound of
trumpet or drum, the French and English got under arms. Little time was
taken over breakfast, the last meal many hundreds of the gallant fellows
were fated to eat; then the troops began to take up their position for
the advance. But it was some time before the army got on the move. When
they did, Jack, who with his regiment still marched on the left flank,
saw large bodies of Cossacks and other cavalry on the hills and ridges,
and the sight of burning villages and homesteads showed the Allies that
the Russians were pursuing their old tactics of destroying everything as
they retired before their enemy.
The advance was across gently undulating country towards a range of
steep heights, ending near the sea in great cliffs, some hundreds of
feet high. With one or two protracted halts in between, the Allies
towards midday had approached to within about a mile and a half of these
heights, and there another long halt was made while the English right
got into touch with the French left.
Jack could see at the base of the cliffs the river, with the knolls,
ridges, and gullies beyond it. The opening in the hills through which
the road to Sebastopol ran was also visible. A commanding height, which
Jack afterwards learnt was the Kourgane Hill, stood out plainly. Several
small villages were visible on the Russian side of the river, between
the sea and the Kourgane Hill, and cottages and farmhouses were
scattered about.
The practised eye of the soldier could discern across the river large
bodies of cavalry on the move, while enormous masses of gray-coated
infantry were amongst the slopes and ravines, the whole position simply
bristling with field-batteries and howitzers. In front of the Kourgane
Hill a great redoubt, armed with fourteen guns of heavy calibre, had
been erected, and this was the ‘key’ of the Russian position. Around
this it was fated that the fiercest fighting of the day was to take
place.
Sergeant Linham had approached Jack, and he looked grimly at the strong
position. ‘Ha, hum!’ he said, ‘many a man will lose the number of his
mess before those heights are carried; but we shall do it.’
Just then the dense blue-uniformed masses of French infantry were seen
moving forward to attack the Russian right. They advanced with a deal of
dash, artillery supporting them. Soon a tremendous cannonade was in full
progress, and the English line was halted till the French had achieved
their object.
Presently the English again moved forward, and the objects on the other
side of the river became plain. It was then about one o’clock, the day
was hot and cloudless; the sun shone down on what, had they not been
advancing in the grim reality of war, would have been a glorious
spectacle. Arms glittered, plumes waved, colours fluttered.
Scarlet-coated light infantry, fated to bear the brunt of that day’s
fighting, sombre-clad Riflemen, kilted Highlanders, bearskinned Guards,
gaily braided artillerymen--all moved forward in the most beautiful
order. No haste, no uncertainty; everything staid, orderly, majestic.
Arrived within about a mile of the river, the British regiments began to
deploy, and with the utmost coolness and precision moved forward for
attack.
Presently a boom was heard from the position in front of Jack’s
division, and a round-shot came ripping across the river. Another and
another followed, and soon a tremendous cannonade was opened on the
English. Jack felt a sort of tightening of his heartstrings as the
thunder of the artillery began; but the feeling of nervous anxiety died
away when he saw with what absolute indifference to danger our gallant
infantrymen deployed under a heavy fire.
The Lancers were dismounted and a field-artillery battery was passing
them on its way to the front when the reins suddenly dropped from a
driver’s hands; he gave a sort of gasp, and then fell heavily on the
ground.
‘Sunstroke,’ said Sergeant Barrymore, who was close by Jack, and running
to the artilleryman he turned him on his back and dragged him away from
the wheels of the guns. As he did so, the front of the man’s tunic was
seen to be wet with blood. A splinter of shell had struck him in the
heart! He was the first Englishman killed that day, and Sergeant
Barrymore, new to war, went silently back to his horse.
Presently the Lancers were ordered to mount, and a further advance was
made till they were pretty close to the river. Musket and rifle balls
began to hum over their heads, and they were again dismounted. From the
spot where Jack was he could obtain a very good view of the field, and,
his heart throbbing wildly, he gazed upon the fascinating scene. The
round-shot were now causing considerable execution, and the regiments of
the Light Division were ordered to lie down. Here a terrible trial of
passive endurance awaited them. Round-shot tore through them, shells
exploded over them, while a shower of bullets pinged and buzzed about
them. Casualties were frequent, but the gallant fellows, few of whom had
ever been under fire before, bore their trial bravely. They laughed and
joked, and as they watched the dread guns which were spreading death and
destruction amongst them they began to distinguish their different
sounds. Then men were heard remarking, ‘Look out, Bill, here’s Shrieking
Eliza coming again!’ or ‘There goes Barking Tom!’
Every now and then a mighty blast of wind would sweep by a soldier, the
earth would receive a shattering shock, and what one instant was a
living soldier would next be a shapeless mass. His comrades would rise
and gently carry his remains to the rear; then resume their places. This
went on for a terrible time, till even the iron nerves of the British
soldiers began to feel the strain.
‘We ain’t afraid of dying,’ said a man of the 33rd to his captain; ‘but
we’d like to have a smack at they Rooshians. Lead us on, sir; lead us
on.’
‘Steady, men--steady,’ was the reply; ‘we shall get our chance
directly.’ And the intrepid officers would walk up and down in front of
their companies to inspire confidence in the men.
The British were waiting till the French had effected the turning
movement; but they were in difficulties, and time passed slowly. The
Light Division began to murmur; a lull took place in the battle. Affairs
seemed critical.
Lord Raglan and his staff rode up and down the line, the round-shot
ploughing up the ground all round them. The commander-in-chief looked
anxious. At last he made up his mind to advance.
At that time the village of Bourliouk was set in flames, which caused
much confusion, as it was impossible for the English to cross the river
for a space of two hundred yards on either side of the burning mass. The
smoke also blotted out that part of the field from the view.
Nothing, however, could daunt the British. A staff-officer, the
impetuous Nolan, in his resplendent Hussar uniform, was seen to gallop
along the lines of the Light Division, saying a few words to each
commander. Then the regiments sprang to their feet--the 7th, 23rd, and
77th--dressed their ranks, and with a front of two miles and a depth of
only two men marched grandly down the slope.
The cavalry gave them a tremendous cheer. But the light infantry made no
sound; the joyous light of battle was in their eyes, their blood was
aroused. They were going to close with the enemy, they would soon be at
grips with him, it was enough. As they neared the river the guns of the
greater part of three field-batteries, a battery manned by sailors, the
light guns of the lesser redoubt, and the fourteen guns of the great
redoubt, opened with shot and shell upon them. Sixteen battalions of
infantry in front and four on each flank poured in a terrific
musketry-fire, and a perfect inferno of iron whizzed around them.
‘God help them!’ cried Jack, his heart wrung at the sight; ‘mortal men
can never face such a fury of destruction.’
Brandon, fired by the sight, turned to Jack and quoted:
‘He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours.
* * * * *
He that outlives this day and comes safe home
Will stand on tiptoe when this day is named.’
The advancing regiments reached the river, into which they boldly
plunged. Some were only up to their knees; some sank at once to their
armpits; some had to abandon their arms and swim for their lives; while
others, alas! sank, and were seen no more. The surface of the water was
literally lashed into foam by the iron and leaden hail that swept into
it; but with a rush the British were across and sheltered for a moment
by the steep banks from the murderous fire of the Russians. Then, headed
by their officers, they scrambled up the incline. All formation was
lost, and the men of the different regiments got mixed together as they
charged up the slope towards the batteries. As they crowned the ridge, a
mob of desperate, fearless men, showers of grape and canister mowed its
way through them, literally cutting lanes in the crowded masses, while
the infantry on their flanks poured in volleys at point-blank range.
Still they advanced, every foot of the way being marked with slain or
wounded men.
The gallant Fusiliers, 7th and 23rd, smitten sorely, reeled like drunken
men; but still they went on, led by the gallant Lacy Yea. The General
had but one idea--to lead his division right up to the fiery jaws of the
guns belching death and destruction around. He was well in front, a
conspicuous figure in his cocked hat and mounted on his gray Arab,
waving his sword and encouraging his men.
Ah! he’s down; his horse is killed! In a moment he is again on his feet,
waving his sword and crying, ‘I’m all right, 23rd! Be sure I’ll remember
this day!’
The red-coats opened a rapid fire upon the masses of gray-coated
Russians, who began to waver; those behind the breastwork were soon seen
in retreat. They did not like the light in the eyes of the British lads.
Then the bayonets were levelled, a great cheer went up, and the gallant
‘Light Bobs’ went at the great redoubt. The Russians were stricken with
terror; before the foremost red-coats got amongst them they had limbered
up their guns and were seen dragging them away. The British gave a yell
and raced forward, swarmed up the escarpment, leaped through the
embrasures, and in a moment were in amongst the enemy, bayoneting the
artillerymen.
One Russian driver was urging with whip and spur his black horses to
carry off the last gun. An officer of the 23rd rushed forward, seized
the bridle, and stopped the horses. The driver slipped from the saddle
and bolted. Gun and horses were captured; the latter to serve in our
black battery, the former to be sent to England as a trophy.[3]
The remains of the Light Division were in possession of the famous great
redoubt; but the Guards and Highlanders had not advanced to support
them, and they were isolated. The dense masses of Russians, seeing this,
halted, then turned back.
The Light Division was in a critical position. This could be seen much
more plainly from the British side of the river than from the Russian,
on account of the numerous dips, ravines, and gullies among which our
infantry lay.
Lord Lucan, in command of the cavalry, observed with great anxiety the
critical position of the remnant of the Light Division. To add to his
consternation, he saw an immense mass of cavalry, fully three thousand
strong, wheeling slowly round from the south-eastern slopes of the
Kourgane Hill, as though in readiness, when the Russian infantry had
driven the red-coats from the redoubt, to charge down upon them and
annihilate them. Under these circumstances the cavalry commander
determined to take a decisive step. Without orders from Lord Raglan, he
decided to cross the river, advance to the support of the Light
Division, hold the hordes of Russian cavalry in check, and if necessary
to charge them.
He mounted his brigade and rode up to Major Willett, commanding Jack’s
regiment. ‘I am going to advance across the river,’ he said; ‘your
regiment will lead. Send word to Lord Raglan of what I am doing. I shall
myself lead the advance.’
Major Willett saluted with his sword. ‘Cornet Leland,’ he said, ‘gallop
to Lord Raglan and tell him the cavalry brigade is crossing the river
to the assistance of the light infantry division which is threatened on
the flank with an overwhelming mass of cavalry.’
Captain Norreys, possessing the advantage of having seen war-service,
spoke to Major Willett. ‘I should send three or four men,’ he said. ‘It
is doubtful if any one man would get through such a fire-zone; but, out
of several, one is almost sure to.’
‘Well thought of, Norreys,’ said the major.--‘Mr Leland, take three men,
and whoever gets through will deliver the message.’
‘Barrymore,’ said the cornet, ‘follow me with Blair and Pearson.’
Jack’s heart leapt at these words, and with a touch of the spur he made
Dainty bound from her place in the ranks. He settled himself in the
saddle.
‘Thank goodness we’re going to do something at last!’ he said to
Pearson. ‘If we once get in the thick of it we’ll have a go at some of
those Russian beggars before we retire;’ and next moment he was swinging
along, under a heavy fire, behind Cornet Leland and Sergeant Barrymore,
on their way to find Lord Raglan.