THE VALLEY OF DEATH
The Cavalry, Light and Heavy, but more especially the Light, were, as
we have seen, rankling bitterly under quite uncalled-for imputation of
showy uselessness, and chafing sorely at their enforced inaction
during the siege operations. The campaign, so far, had offered them no
opening, nor did it seem likely to do so. Moreover, forage was scarce,
their horses were on short rations, and before long, unless those
infernal transport people woke up, they would be padding it afoot like
the toilers on the heights, who were having all the fun--such as it
was--and would reap all the glory.
But Fortune was kind, and sore, on them.
For some days past they had, from time to time, caught the sound of
distant bugles among the hills to the north and east of the valley in
which their camp lay, and their hopes had been briefly stirred.
It might mean nothing more, however, than the passage of
reinforcements into Sebastopol, for those northern ways by Inkerman
gorge were always open and impossible of closing.
In front of them on the plain was a line of small redoubts occupied by
Turks. Behind them on the way to Balaclava lay the 93rd Highlanders
under Sir Colin Campbell.
Jim Carron was awakened from a very sound sleep one morning by a lusty
kick from Charlie Denham, and the information that "Lucan wanted him."
Five minutes later he was pressing his horse to its utmost, with the
word to Head-quarters that the Russians were pouring down the valley
towards Balaclava, that they had already captured Redoubt No. 1, that
the Turks could not possibly hold the others against them, and that
unless our base at Balaclava was to go, the sooner the army turned out
to stop them the better.
Lord Raglan sped Jim on at once to French Head-quarters with the news;
and as he galloped back in headlong haste lest they should be starting
without him, all the camps were a-bristle and troops hurrying from all
quarters to the scene of action.
As he came over the hill leading down to the Balaclava road, he could
see the vast bodies of, Russians pouring out of the hills, the Turks
from the redoubts were running across the plain towards the long thin
line of Highlanders, and the Cossacks and Lancers were in among them
cutting them down as fast as they could chop.
All this he saw at a glance, as he sped on to join his own men, drawn
up on the left of the Heavies. And as he took his place, panting, both
he and his big brown, like steam-engines, he heard the roll of the
Highlanders' Miniés on the right as they broke the rush of the Russian
cavalry.
The next minute a great body of horsemen, brilliant in light blue and
silver, topped the slope in front of the Heavies, and looked down on
their Insignificant numbers as Goliath did on David.
He saw old Scarlett haranguing his men, and then with a roar--he knew
just how they felt!--like starving tigers loosed at last on
long-desired prey--the Greys and Enniskillens dashed at them and
through them, and wheeled, and through again, first line, second line,
and out at the rear. And then, as the broken first line gathered
itself again to swallow the tigers, the rest of the Heavies, the
Royals, and Dragoons shot out like a bolt and scattered them to the
winds.
And Jim and all about him yelled and cheered in a frenzy--but down
below it all was a bitter sense of regret at being out of it. Truly it
seemed as though malignant fate had the Light Brigade on her black
books and was bent on defrauding them of their rightful chances.
By this time the allied troops were coming up from their distant
camps, and the rout of the Russian horse enabled them to take up their
positions in the valley.
It looked like being a pitched battle. All hearts beat high, and none
higher than those of the Hussars and Light Dragoons. Their chance
might come after all. They twitched in their saddles. Give them only
half a chance and they would show the world what was in them.
And it came.
Messengers sped in haste to and from the Chief, on the heights above,
to the various commanders down below. And then came young Nolan of the
15th, Lord Raglan's own aide, his horse in a white sweat, himself
aflame.
He spoke hurriedly to Lord Lucan, and Jim saw his lordship's eyebrows
lift in astonishment. He seemed to question the order given.
Nolan waved a vehement arm towards the Russians. Lord Lucan spoke to
Lord Cardigan, and his brows too went up. Every tense soul among them,
whose eyes could see what was passing, watched as if his life depended
on the outcome.
Then in a moment the word rang out, and they were off.
Where? He had not the remotest idea nor the slightest care. Enough for
him that they were off and that they meant business.
And away in front of them, where he had no earthly right to be, since
he did not belong to them and had only brought a message, went young
Nolan, waving them on with insistent arm.
They swept along at a gallop in two long lines, and the rush and the
rattle got into Jim's blood, and the blood boiled up into his head,
and he thought of nothing--nothing, but the fact that their chance had
come at last--least of all of fear for himself.
Fear? There were Russians ahead there!----them all!--and every faculty
in him, every nerve and muscle, every drop of boiling blood, every
desire of his mind and heart and soul rushed on ahead to meet them. He
wanted at them, he wanted to hew and thrust and kill. He wanted blood.
Head down, forward a bit, sword-hilt fitting itself to his hand as it
had never done before, knees so lightly tight to the saddle that he
could feel the great brown shoulders working like machinery inside
them, a glance forward from under his busby and an impression of a
vast multitude of men--and the roar and crash of numberless guns in
front and on both flanks--a scream just ahead, and young Nolan's horse
came galloping round at the side, with young Nolan still in the
saddle--but dead--his chest ripped open by a shell.
Men were falling all round now, men and horses hurling forward and
down in rattling lumbering heaps.
Jim's face was cast-iron, his jaw a vice. Not the Jim we have
known--this! His dæmon--nay, his demon, for he had but one thought,
and that was to kill. No man who knew him would have known him.
Belching guns in front. Shot and bullets coming like hail. Men falling
fast. Lines all shattered and anyhow. But the thick white smoke and
the venomous yellow-red spits of flame were close now, and so far it
had not struck him as wonderful that he still rode while so many had
gone down.
He had felt hot whips across his face, something had tipped his busby
to the back of his head, several other somethings had plugged through
the flying jacket which covered his bridle arm. Then he had to swerve
suddenly from the smoking black muzzle of a gun, and he was among
flat-caps and gray-coats, and his sword was going in hot quick blows,
and every blow bit home.
A big gunner struck heavily at him with a smoking mop. He had an
honest brown hairy face and blue eyes. The sweep of Jim's sword took
him in the neck, and . . . .
An infantryman behind had his gun-stock at his chest to fire. Jim
drove the big brown at him, the man went down in a heap, arms up, and
the gun went off as he fell.
Then it was all wild fury and confusion. Deseret's sword was
wonderful, as light as a lath and as sure as death. He was through the
smoke, fighting the myriads behind--singlehanded it seemed to him.
--!--!--!--!--he could not tackle the whole Russian army! He whirled
the big brown round and plunged back through the smoke, saw the others
riding home, and bent and dashed away after them.
He was almost the last. A thunder of hoofs on his flank, and a vicious
lance-head came thrusting in between his right arm and his body. His
sword swept round backwards--and the Lancer's empty horse raced
neck-and-neck with his own, its ears flat to its head, its eyes white
with fear.
Then the guns behind opened on them again, and bullets came raining in
on each side as well--on Russian Lancers and British Hussars and
Dragoons alike.
Jim was swaying in his saddle, he did not know why, But dashing at
those guns was one thing, and retiring was another, and the hell-fire
had burnt out of him and left him spent.
He saw the long unbroken lines of the Heavies sweeping up to meet and
cover them, and wondered dizzily if he could hold on till they came.
There were Lancers ahead of him, thrusting at his men as they rode. A
whole bunch of them went down in a heap just in front of him, riddled
by the murderous fire of their comrades behind, and he lifted the
brown horse over them as if they had been a quick-set.
The Heavies parted to let them through, and the splendid fellow on the
thundering big horse at the side there, who stood high in his stirrups
cheering on his men, was good old George. There was no mistaking him,
he was such a size and weight.
A couple of Lancers, who had been making for Jim, swerved to face the
new attack and made for George instead, bold in the advantage of their
longer reach. And Jim would have been after them to equalise matters
but that it was all he could do to keep his seat.
He saw George rise in his saddle, with his great sabre swinging to the
blow. Then a whirling blast of canister shore them all down, and they
lay in a heap, men and horses riddled like colanders. And Jim, with a
sob, clung to the pommel of his saddle and let the brown horse carry
him home.
Jack had just got up to camp from night duty in the trenches when the
alarm sounded in the valley, and he made his way with the rest to the
edge of the plateau to see what was going on.
When he saw the cavalry drawn up for action he hurried down the hill
as fast as he could go, hung spell-bound halfway at the terrible and
amazing sight below, and then tumbled on with a lump in his throat to
learn the worst, as the broken riders came reeling back in twos and
threes.
It was he lifted Jim out of his saddle, and found it all sticky
with blood from the lance-thrust in his side. His face was streaming
from a graze along the scalp, and he had a bullet through the left
shoulder--small things indeed considering where he had been.
The miracle of that awful ride was, not that so many fell, but that
any single man came back alive.