The time, half-past four o’clock in the morning; the date the twentieth
of September, eighteen hundred and fifty-four; the place the southern
bank of the River Alma. Present, some thirty thousand stalwart British
men, the vast majority of them snoring open-mouthed, and here and
there in the grey of the morning a sentry pacing up and down. Facing
northward, Polson Jer-vase’s regiment lies far to the right, and to
the right of it again, at a distance of some half a mile, the men of
Bosquet’s command are also sleeping. This is a day destined to be famous
and terrible in history; but the dawn is cloudless and quiet. Away
beyond the slope of the valley, across the grey flow of the river and
half-way upon the northern slope, the pacing sentries, or such of them
as are sharp-sighted, can perceive what looks like a wrinkle in the
hill. It is some three or maybe four miles from the long line of
sleepers, and it indicates the outlines of that great Redoubt around
which the memories of Englishmen will cling for centuries to come.
Near five o’clock, and a soft warm morning wind blowing under a
stainless sky. Gallopers from headquarters pass here and there with a
quiet word, ‘Wake your men, and make no noise.’ There is no sound of any
bugle call at that _reveille_, and the men silently arise, sit up and
shake themselves, and mostly make their toilet by a simple process of
eye-rubbing and the assumption of their headgear. Then the camp fires
are lit here and there where a clump of officers gathers together over
their morning tea and coffee. For thus early in the campaign all the
luxuries of home are not abandoned or forgotten. Troop and company
orderlies stroll down to the river, bearing buckets, and the rank and
file munch their ration of ship’s biscuit. And before the simple meal
is barely over, the stealthy word passes along the ranks, and a forward
march begins, ghost-like in the dawn. Somewhat clumsily manoeuvred
by their chiefs, the line, three or four miles in length, dips; down
towards the river and crowds at a few chosen fording places. Then
it spreads out again like an open fan, and marches up the further
slope--the infantrymen dripping from the arm-pits downwards, and the
handful of cavalry on the right of the British flank shining in the
rising sun to the horses’ shoulders.
Then a pause, and a long pause. Vine yards along the hill and spaces of
field and farm, and scattered houses here and there, and on the left the
village of Vourliouk, set aflame by the foe for some as yet undiscovered
reason. The smoke goes circling up into the pure air, and a faint scent
of burning is discernible. Still a mile and a half away on either side
the great Redoubt, and in front of it there are cubes and oblongs which
look like masses of grey stone, and might pass for such except that now
and again they may be seen to move. These are the infantry troops of
Russia, with whom our own men are soon to be in deadly conflict. The
fields of Europe have heard no sounds of any cannon fired in anger
since the last loud Sabbath of Waterloo shook down the spoilers of
the Continent; but, unseen at this distance, the guns which line that
wrinkle of the hill above there are charged to the throat, and there are
resolute men behind them.
The sun rises higher and higher, and the men of the halted army throw
themselves to the ground, awaiting a further word from somebody.
Solitary gallopers go hither and thither, over the rolling hills. The
staff, with waving plumes, goes cantering along the line, and the idea
somehow passes through the ranks that Lord Raglan has gone to consult
with Monsieur St. Arnaud as to the disposition of the day’s battle.
There are thousands of youngsters lying there among the vineyards who
have never, until this moment, set eyes on their commander. Raglan
goes by amidst a dropping fire of cheers, the sleeve of the right arm
dangling loose beside him, his bronzed Roman face one cheerful and
inspiring smile, and the cunning left hand, with which he has learned to
write his despatches, held low down as he controls his charger. And on
the far right of the English line, Polson Jervase is standing at his
horse’s head, cheering with the rest, when on a sudden he discerns a
familiar figure: General Boswell is at the Chiefs side and the two are
in familiar converse. The young soldier’s first battle not yet begun,
and Irene’s father going by so near and yet so unmindful of him as a
mere unit among the waiting thousands. And it is not yet, not even yet,
so very certain that we are to give battle this morning, after all. For
we have been bedevilled hither and thither with false marches and with
false rumours of sailing and lines of route. Monsieur St. Arnaud has
been for camping south of the Balkans, and giving battle to the power
of Russia there, and Raglan has been all for the Crimea and the road
to Sevastopol. And no man has known what to believe amongst the divided
councils of the Allies. The men amongst the vineyards are plucking and
sucking the grapes. The sun grows hotter and hotter, and there is so
dreary a silence in these waiting hours that the angry neigh of a horse
is heard for a mile along the line. Five o’clock when we began to move,
and here is high noon, and impatience all on edge, and nothing done.
The staff comes cantering back, and another hour goes by in silence; and
then from the Highlanders half a mile away on the left of the handful of
cavalry there rises a sound of jubilation. And round the camp fires at
night, when the fight is over and the English are in possession of the
field, the men learn the reason of the cry. Sir Colin Campbell has sent
round the word that the men are to break their cartridge packets, and
lay the cartridges loose in their pouches, and this is the first word of
real business. Now at one o’clock, or near it, the note passes along
the line from east to west, and the men are afoot again, and marching
forward two deep against those solid masses of grey human masonry, and
that gash upon the hill-side which is by and by to burst like a volcano
into flame. There goes the first boom of cannon from the Russian side,
and a round shot sends the earth spluttering amidst the staff as it
canters by once more, plumes waving, and epaulets, and scabbards, and
gold lace, and all the fine tinsel of war, as yet unsoiled, glittering
in the sunshine.
This is no day for a cavalryman to win honour. Here we sit on the
hill-side with a downward slope before us, and an upward slope beyond,
and the unmounted men are working their way onward and upward, whilst we
are held inactive. And now the war begins in earnest. The tartan fellows
are lounging along, half of them with the stem of a grape bunch between
their teeth, loading and firing as they go, scarcely a man of them
having stood fire before, and walking towards their baptism of death and
blood with an astounding cheerfulness, and the long waving broken line
converges as if by instinct, and, as the historians of the battle tell
us, without definite order from any quarter, towards that grim gash
on the hillside, until it grows to be something of a mob, so thickly
clustered that the Russian batteries cleave lines through it. It wavers,
it pauses, it rushes forward, it takes shelter beneath the forehead of
the hill on which the great Redoubt stands, and then declines, a mere
swarm of ants to look at from this distance, towards the belching roar
and smoke and flame. And on a sudden the batteries are silent, and far
and far there goes up a cheer. And then there is silence again, and a
long waiting, and the grave massive oblongs and cubes of masonry come
down on this side and on that, and the watchers in the valley wait in
a tense and terrible strain. Where are the reinforcements? Where is the
Duke of Cambridge, with the Guards? Hidden away there in a wrinkle of
the hill they are waiting for some unknown reason, and the conquerors
of the great Redoubt seem doomed. But after awful minutes and minutes,
which stretch to hours, the line sweeps up. Raglan’s immortal two guns
come into play from the knoll on the distant right, and the tide of
battle is turned again. And all the while we of the cavalry division are
maddened with excitement, and consumed by ennui, by turns, wearied with
thirst and heat, and waiting in vain for our chance to strike a blow at
the enemy. Bored and tired and athirst, the men who have stood for hours
at the bridle throw themselves on the sunburned grass. No chance for
us to-day, says one to the other, and the tide of battle, now grown
invisible, is rolling noisily here and there, now seeming as if it
would vanish altogether into the air, and now as if a flying enemy had
suddenly taken heart and were back in swift return. And here is a hill
to the west of us, and the hot sun, yet shining clean and bright through
whiffs and shreds of scattered smoke, goes down behind it, and the
shadow lengthens, and creeps up the brown-green face of the hill to the
left. And lo, on a sudden, a sweating galloper on the crest of the hill,
with his horse one lather from haunch to bridle, is tearing down with
orders. Here is old Stacey in the saddle again, and his hoarse voice is
calling. The tired and thirsty souls are alert in an instant, and away
go the Heavy Dragoons at a walk until the hill is breasted. Then at a
trot, a canter, a gallop, a charge. For the masses of the enemy are all
huddled in disorderly crowds away there in the pass, and it needs but
one decisive blow to smite them into utter rout and scatter them like
chaff. Then was an hour when the fate of a great campaign lay in the
balance; and because that hour was not chosen England had to pour out
her blood and her treasure in one mingled torrent for a year or two. For
as the charging regiment was in amongst the lingerers of the retreat,
the pursuit was called away. The keener spirits had naturally ridden
furthest, and there was no man there that day who was keener than Polson
Jervase. When the bugles rang out the ‘Retire,’ he would, had he been in
command, have risked a plagiarism of Nelson, with a glass at the blind
eye, and would have failed to recognise the recalling signal. But he
was a unit, and a private unit at that. And he was already half emmeshed
amidst the edges of the flying crowd, and actually at their mercy,
if any of the fugitives had found so much as a sheep’s heart to awake
within him.
So he turned and galloped back, and since he had been one of the first
in the advance, he was naturally one of the last to retreat. There had
been a rare burst of a downhill mile or two, and his horse, unfed and
unwatered within the last twelve hours, was in need of mercy. He rode
the poor beast tenderly, caressing him as he went, and looking up he
was aware of an officer in staff uniform, who was rounding up the
stragglers. There are few things that appeal more directly from man
to man than the sympathy of the sound and rooted sportsman. Polson had
followed the hounds almost from the time when he could first bestride a
pony; and the sight of a clean workman across bad country was like wine
to him at any time. This fellow in the cocked hat and waving plumes was
splendidly mounted, to be sure, but the going was as treacherous and
difficult as it well could be, and the horseman rode with an address and
daring which were delightful to look at. He waved an urgent hand from
three or four hundred yards away towards Polson, who responded by a
gesture indicating the route he meant to take. The last straggler having
been thus rounded up, the officer turned and reined in his charger for a
final look at the retreating forces of the enemy; and somewhere from the
black middle mass of them down in the shadow of the valley there came a
flash and a volley of smoke, and almost directly afterwards an echoing
boom of sound. The charger reared, drooped upon his haunches, and fell
over; the rider dropped with admirable agility on one side and avoided
the threatened mischief of the fall. There were scores of unmastered
steeds racing about the valley and the upward slopes; Polson rode for
the nearest, and, having secured it, cantered up to the place where the
dead charger lay, A round shot had ploughed its way clean through the
noble creature’s chest, and the sight was pitiable and gruesome.
‘Here is a mount, sir,’ said the young dragoon. ‘Not as good as your
own, but it will carry you back to camp, anyhow.’
As he spoke, the epauletted cocked-hatted owner of the slaughtered
charger was leaning downward, detaching something from a holster, and
when he looked up he displayed the features of Major de Blacquaire.
Until that instant neither could have recognised the other, but at the
first glance there was a challenge in the eyes of either.
‘Thanks, my man,’ said De Blacquaire, laying a hand upon the rein which
Polson held out towards him.
Nothing could have been more savagely incisive than the tone, nothing
more purposed to wound.
‘You caught this horse rather cleverly,’ said De Blacquaire, ‘and I’m
very much obliged to you. Of course, you understand that a man doesn’t
go into action with a lot of money about him; but if you’ll ask for
me at headquarters this evening, Major de Blacquaire, you’ll find
half-a-sovereign waiting for you. You can ask my man for it.’
The Major stood drawling there, with purposed insult in word and tone
and smile, and Polson, leaning downward, drew his dragoon’s gauntlet
from the left hand, and struck him across the face with it.
‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that’s flat mutiny, and whilst I am about it,
here’s another sample of the same.’
The Major retreated behind his horse, and stood there, almost speechless
with indignation.
‘I threatened you with a hiding once before,’ said Polson. ‘And you were
cur enough to run away. I told you on the day I joined that if we ever
met again and by word or look or gesture you insulted me, I would spoil
that handsome face of yours. You can report against me, if you like, and
I dare say that if you do it may go pretty hard with me. But I will let
you off for the moment with what you have taken, and for the present I
will say good evening to you.’
He drew on his gauntlet as he spoke, and turned his horse’s head.
‘Wait there,’ said De Blacquaire. ‘I have just one word to say to you.
You know that I could have you triced to the triangle and flogged?’
Polson nodded, but said nothing. His eyes spoke for him. ‘You know I
could have you court-martialled and shot?’
‘Like enough,’ said Polson. Major de Blacquaire swung into the saddle.
‘I don’t care to take revenge that way,’ he said. ‘I have known you
always for an impudent and underbred young cub; but you go by way of
pretending to be a gentleman, and I have my punishment in store for you.
I learned something of you from your friend, Captain Volnay, and amongst
other things I find you are playing Quixote. When the campaign is over
you’ll be going back to the old thief’s thousands. I will give you
a gaol-bird to go back to. I have at quarters what amounts to a
confession. It’s an offer of restitution from Mr. Jervase; and I am not
disposed to accept it. The case must slumber until this little business
is over; but when I get back I will make a criminal prosecution of it,
and you may make up your mind for whatever it may be worth that the
work of this last five minutes has made a felon of that blackguard of a
father.’
‘And that,’ said Polson, ‘is an English officer’s answer to a blow!’
‘Yes,’ said De Blacquaire, ‘that is the English officer’s answer.’ And
so saying, he put in spurs and rode away.