The cavalry, who had been pursuing the Turks on the right, are coming up
to the ridge beneath us, which conceals our cavalry from view. The heavy
brigade in advance is drawn up in two lines. The first line consists of
the Scots Greys and of their old companions in glory, the Enniskillens;
the second, of the 4th Royal Irish, of the 5th Dragoon Guards, and of
the 1st Royal Dragoons. The Light Cavalry Brigade is on their left, in
two lines also. The silence is oppressive; between the cannon bursts one
can hear the champing of bits and the clink of sabres in the valley
below. The Russians on their left drew breath for a moment, and then in
one grand line dashed at the Highlanders. The ground flies beneath their
horses’ feet; gathering speed at every stride, they dash on towards that
thin red streak topped with a line of steel.
As the Russians come within six hundred yards, down goes that line of
steel in front and out rings a rolling volley of musketry. The distance
is too great; the Russians are not checked, but still sweep onward
through the smoke, with the whole force of horse and man, here and there
knocked over by the shot of our batteries above.
With breathless suspense every one awaits the bursting of the wave upon
the line of Gaelic rock; but ere they come within a hundred and fifty
yards, another deadly volley flashes from the levelled rifles, and
carries death and terror into the Russians. They wheel about, open files
right and left, and fly back faster than they came. “Bravo,
Highlanders! well done!” shout the excited spectators. But events
thicken. The Highlanders and their splendid front are soon forgotten;
men scarcely have a moment to think of this fact, that the 93d never
altered their formation to receive that tide of horsemen. “No,” said Sir
Colin Campbell, “I did not think it worth while to form them even four
deep!” The ordinary British line, two deep, was quite sufficient to
repel the attack of these Muscovite cavaliers.
Our eyes were, however, turned in a moment on our own cavalry. We saw
Brigadier-General Scarlett ride along in front of his massive squadrons.
The Russians, their light blue jackets embroidered with silver lace,
were advancing on their left, at an easy gallop, towards the brow of the
hill. A forest of lances glistened in their rear, and several squadrons
of gray-coated dragoons moved up quickly to support them as they reached
the summit. The instant they came in sight, the trumpets of our cavalry
gave out a warning blast which told us all that in another moment we
should see the shock of battle beneath our very eyes. Lord Raglan, all
his staff and escort, and groups of officers, the Zouaves, French
generals and officers, and bodies of French infantry on the height, were
spectators of the scene, as though they were looking on the stage from
the boxes of a theatre. Nearly every one dismounted and sat down, and
not a word was said.
The Russians advanced down the hill at a slow canter, which they changed
to a trot, and at last nearly halted. Their first line was at least
double the length of ours--it was three times as deep. Behind them was a
similar line, equally strong and compact. They evidently despised their
insignificant-looking enemy; but their time was come. The trumpets rang
out again through the valley, and the Greys and Enniskilleners went
right at the centre of the Russian cavalry. The space between them was
only a few hundred yards; it was scarce enough to let the horses “gather
way,” nor had the men quite space sufficient for the full play of their
sword-arms. The Russian line brings forward each wing as our cavalry
advance, and threatens to annihilate them as they pass on. Turning a
little to their left so as to meet the Russian right, the Greys rush on
with a cheer that thrills to every heart--the wild shout of the
Enniskilleners rises through the air at the same instant. As lightning
flashes through a cloud, the Greys and Enniskilleners pierced through
the dark masses of the Russians. The shock was but for a moment. There
was a clash of steel and a light play of sword-blades in the air, and
then the Greys and the Red-coats disappear in the midst of the shaken
and quivering columns. In another moment we see them emerging and
dashing on with diminished numbers and in broken order against the
second line, which is advancing against them as fast as it can, to
retrieve the fortune of the charge. It was a terrible moment. “God help
them! they are lost!” was the exclamation of more than one man, and the
thought of many.
It was a fight of heroes. The first line of Russians--which had been
smashed utterly by our charge, and had fled off at one flank and towards
the centre--were coming back to swallow up our handful of men. By sheer
steel and sheer courage, Enniskillener and Scot were winning their
desperate way right through the enemy’s squadrons, and already gray
horses and red coats had appeared right at the rear of the second mass,
when, with irresistible force, like a bolt from a bow, the 1st Royals,
the 4th Dragoon Guards, and the 5th Dragoon Guards rushed at the
remnants of the first line of the enemy, went through it as though it
were made of pasteboard, and, dashing on the second body of Russians, as
they were still disordered by the terrible assault of the Greys and
their companions, put them to utter rout.
--WILLIAM HOWARD RUSSELL.