"NOT WAR!"
The spy, whatever his nationality, and however questionable his
antecedents, was right in the intelligence he had communicated. A
large Russian force was even then on the march from Tchorgorum,
pointing straight for the Balaclava plain. The enemy had regained
heart; emboldened by the constant influx of reinforcements, and the
inactivity of the allies, he had grown audacious, and was ready to try
a vigorous offensive. A blow well aimed at our communications and
delivered with intention might drive us back on our ships, perhaps
into the sea.
McKay had passed the night at Balaclava. The transport with the
knapsacks was not yet in port, and he was loth to return to camp
empty-handed. But next morning, soon after daylight, news came back
to the little seaside town that another battle was imminent, on the
plains outside.
The handful of Royal Picts were promptly mustered by their young
commander, and marched in the direction of the firing, which was
already heard, hot and heavy, towards the east.
As they left Balaclava, they encountered a crowd of Turkish soldiers
in full flight, making madly for the haven, and shouting, "Ship!
ship!" as they ran. McKay, gathering from this stampede that already
some serious conflict had begun, hurried forward to where he found a
line of red-coats drawn up behind a narrow ridge which barred the
approaches to Balaclava.
This was the famous 93rd, in its now historic formation--another "Thin
Red Line," which received undaunted, and only two deep, the onslaught
of the Russian horse.
The regiment was under the personal control of its brigadier, stout
old Sir Colin, who, with his staff, stood a little withdrawn, but
closely observing all that passed. He recognised McKay, and called out
abruptly--
"Halloa! where have you dropped from?"
"I heard the firing, sir, met the Turks retreating, and brought up my
party to reinforce and act as might be ordered."
"It was well done, man. But, enough; get yourselves up into line there
on the left, and take the word from the colonel of the 93rd."
"We have our work cut out for us, sir," said one of his staff to Sir
Colin.
"We have, but we'll do it. This gorge must be held to the death. You
understand that, Colonel Ainslie--to the death?"
"You can trust us, Sir Colin."
"I think so; but I'll say just one word to the men," and, while the
enemy's cavalry were still some distance off, the general rode slowly
down the line, speaking his last solemn injunction--
"Remember, men, there is no retreat from here. You must die where you
stand."
One and the same answer rose readily to every lip--
"Ay! ay! Sir Colin; we'll do that!" shouted the gallant Scots.[1]
[Footnote 1: Historical. _cf._ Kinglake's "Crimea," v. 80.]
Their veteran leader's head was clear; his temper cool and
self-possessed. He held these brave hearts in hand like the rider of a
high-couraged horse, and knew well when to restrain, when to let go.
As the Russians approached, a few eager spirits would have rushed
forward from their ranks to encounter their foe in the open plain; but
Sir Colin's trumpet voice checked them with a fierce--
"Ninety-third! Ninety-third! None of that eagerness!"
And then a minute or two later came the signal for the whole line to
advance. The Highlanders, and those with them, swiftly mounted to the
crest of the ridge, and met the charging cavalry with a withering
volley. A second followed. The enemy had no stomach for more; reining
in their horses, they wheeled round and fell back as they had come.
This, however, was only the beginning of the action. Heavy columns of
the enemy now appeared in sight, cavalry and infantry, with numerous
artillery crowning the eastern hills. A portion occupied the redoubts
abandoned by the Turks, and the attitude of the Russians was so
menacing that it seemed unlikely we could stay their onward progress.
For the moment no troops could be interposed but the British
cavalry--the two brigades, Light and Heavy--which had their encampment
in the plain, and had been under arms, commanded by Lord Lucan, since
daybreak.
"We must have up the First and Fourth Divisions," Lord Raglan had
said, when he arrived on the battle-field soon after eight in the
morning; at first he had treated the news of the Russian advance
lightly. Many such moves had been reported on previous days, and all
had ended in nothing. "Let the Duke of Cambridge and Sir George
Cathcart have their orders at once. We must trust to the cavalry till
the infantry come up. Tell Scarlett to support the Turks."
But the Turks had given way before General Scarlett could stiffen
their courage, and as his brigade, that of heavy cavalry, trotted
towards the redoubts, other and more stirring work offered itself. The
head of a great column of Russian horse, three thousand sabres, came
over the crest of the hill and invited attack.
Scarlett saw his opportunity, and, with true soldierly promptitude,
seized it. He wheeled his squadrons into line and charged. Three went
against the front, five against the right flank, one against the left.
The intrepid "Heavies," outnumbered fivefold, dashed forward at a hand
gallop, and were soon swallowed up in the solid mass. But it could not
digest the terrible dose. Just eight minutes more and the Russian
column wavered, broke, and turned.
It was a fine feat of arms, richly meriting its meed of praise.
"Well done! well done!" was the message that came direct from Lord
Raglan, on the hills above.
"Greys! Gallant Greys!" cried Sir Colin Campbell, galloping up to one
of the regiments that had made this charge. "I am sixty-one years old,
but if I were young I should be proud to be in your ranks!"
"What luck those Heavies have!" shouted another and a bitterly
discontented spectator of their prowess.
It was Lord Cardigan who, at the head of the Light Brigade, sat still
in his saddle, looking on.
Yet it was no one's fault but his own that he had not been also
engaged. His men were within striking distance; they were bound,
moreover, by the clearest canons of the military art to throw their
weight upon the exposed flank of the discomfited foe.
But Lord Cardigan had strangely--obstinately, indeed--misunderstood
his orders, and, although chafing angrily at inaction, conceived that
it was his bounden but distasteful duty to halt where he was.
"Why don't he let us loose at them? Was there ever such a chance?"
muttered Hugo Wilders, audibly, and within earshot of his chief. He
was again riding as extra aide to Lord Cardigan, who turned fiercely
on the speaker.
"How dare you, sir, question my conduct? You shall answer for your
insubordination--"
"Let me implore you, my lord, to advance," said another voice,
entreating earnestly, that of Captain Morris, a cavalry officer who
knew war well, and who was, for the moment, in command of a
magnificent regiment of Lancers.
"It is not your business to give me advice," replied the general,
haughtily. "Wait till I ask for it."
"But, my lord, see! the Russians are reeling from the charge of the
Heavies. Now if ever--"
"Enough, Captain Morris. My orders were to defend this position; and
here I shall stay. I was told to attack nothing unless they came
within reach. The enemy has not yet done that."
So the chance of annihilating the Russian cavalry was lost, and the
Light Brigade thought that its chances of distinction were also gone
for the day. Alas! the hour of its trial was very close at hand.
Lord Raglan had waited anxiously for the infantry divisions he had
ordered up. The first, under the Duke of Cambridge, was now close at
hand, and the fourth, led by Sir George Cathcart, had arrived at a
point whence it might easily have reached out a hand to recover the
redoubts. But Cathcart's advance was so leisurely that Lord Raglan
feared he would be too late to prevent the Russians from carrying off
the guns they had captured from the Turks. The enemy, it must be
understood, were showing manifest signs of despondency: their
shattered cavalry had gone rapidly to the rear, and their infantry had
halted irresolute, inclined also to retreat.
"This is the moment to strike them," decided Lord Raglan. "They are
evidently losing heart, and we ought to get back the redoubts easily.
I will send the cavalry. They are almost on the spot, and at any rate
can get quickly over the ground. Ride, sir," to an aide-de-camp, "and
tell Lord Lucan to recover the heights. Tell him he will have
infantry, two whole divisions, in support."
They watched the aide-de-camp deliver his message; but still Lord
Lucan, who was in supreme command of the cavalry, made no move.
"What is he at?" cried Lord Raglan, testily. "He is very long about
it."
"There is no time to lose, my lord," interposed the
quartermaster-general, who had been intently watching the redoubts
with his field-glasses. "I can see them bringing teams of horses into
the redoubts. They evidently mean to carry off our guns."
The necessity for action was more than ever urgent and immediate.
"Lord Lucan must be made to move. Here, Airey! send him a peremptory
order in writing."
The quartermaster-general produced pencil and paper from his
sabretash, and wrote as follows:--
"Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front, and
try to prevent the enemy from carrying away the guns. Immediate."
"That will do," said Lord Raglan. "Let your own aide-de-camp carry the
order. He is a cavalry officer, and can explain, if required."
It was Nolan, the enthusiastic, ardent, devoted cavalry soldier, heart
and soul, and overflowing now with joy at his mission, and the chances
of distinction it offered the cavalry. A fine, fearless horseman, he
galloped at a breakneck pace down the steep and rocky sides of the
plateau, and quickly reached Lord Lucan's side.
The general read his orders, with lips compressed and lowering brow.
"You come straight from Lord Raglan? But, surely, you are General
Airey's aide-de-camp?"
"Lord Raglan himself entrusted me with the message."
"I can't believe it. It is utterly impracticable: for any useful
purpose. Quite unequal, quite inadequate, to the risks and frightful
loss it must entail."
The impetuous aide-de-camp showed visible signs of impatience. While
the general debated and discussed his orders, instead of executing
them with instant, unquestioning despatch, a great opportunity was
flitting quickly by.
"Lord Raglan's orders are"--Nolan spoke with an irritation that was
disrespectful, almost insubordinate--"his lordship's orders are that
the cavalry should attack immediately."
"Attack, sir!" replied Lord Lucan, petulantly; "attack what? What
guns?"
"There, my lord, is your enemy," replied Nolan, with an excited wave
of his arm; "there are your guns!"
The exact meaning of the gesture no man survived to tell, but its
direction was unhappily towards a formidable Russian battery which
closed the gorge of the north valley, and not to the heights crowned
by the captured redoubts.
Lord Lucan, heated by the irritating language of his junior officer,
must have lost his power of discrimination, for although his first
instructions clearly indicated the guns in the redoubt, and his
second, brought by Nolan, obviously referred to the same guns, the
cavalry general was misled--by his own rage, or Nolan's sweeping
gesture, who shall say?--misled into a terrible error.
He conceived it to be his duty to send a portion of his cavalry
against a formidable battery of Russian guns, well posted as they
were, and already sweeping the valley with a well-directed, murderous
fire.
Of the two cavalry brigades, the Light was still fresh and untouched
by the events of the day. The Heavy Brigade, as we have seen, had
already done splendid service in routing the Russian cavalry. The turn
of the Light Brigade had come, although, unhappily, the task entrusted
to it was hopeless, foredoomed to failure from the first.
It stood close by, proudly impatient, its brigadier, Lord Cardigan, at
its head.
To him the divisional general imparted Lord Raglan's order.
"You are to advance, Lord Cardigan, along the valley, and attack the
Russians at the far end," was the order he gave.
"Certainly, sir," replied Lord Cardigan, without hesitation. "But
allow me to point out to you that the Russians have a battery in the
valley in our front, and batteries and riflemen on each flank."
"I can't help that," said Lord Lucan; "Lord Raglan will have it so.
You have no choice but to obey."
Lord Cardigan saluted with his sword; then, rising in his stirrups, he
turned to his men, and cried aloud in a full, firm voice--
"The brigade will advance!"--to certain death, he might have added,
for he knew it, although he never quailed. But, settling himself in
his saddle, as though starting on a promising run with hounds, and not
on a journey from which there was no return, he said, with splendid
resignation, as he prepared to lead the charge--
"Here goes for the last of the Brudenells!"[2]
[Footnote 2: The family name of the Earls of Cardigan was Brudenell.]
All this had passed in a few minutes, and then three lines of
dauntless horsemen--in the first line, Dragoons and Lancers; in the
second, Hussars; in the third, Hussars and more Dragoons--galloped
down the north valley on their perilous and mistaken errand.
They were already going at full speed, when a single horseman, with
uplifted arm and excited gesture, as though addressing the brigade,
crossed their front. It was Nolan, who thus seemed to be braving the
anger of Lord Cardigan by interfering with the leadership of his men.
What brought Nolan there? The inference is only fair and reasonable
that at the very outset he had recognised the misinterpretation of
Lord Raglan's orders, and was seeking to change the direction of the
charging horsemen, diverting them from the Russian battery towards the
redoubts, their proper goal.
Fate decreed that this last chance of correcting the terrible error
should be denied to the Light Brigade. A Russian shell struck Nolan
full in the chest, and "tore a way to his heart." By his untimely
death the doom of the light cavalry was sealed.
As the devoted band galloped forward to destruction, all who observed
them stood horror-stricken at the amazing folly of this mad, mistaken
charge.
"Great heavens!" cried Lord Raglan. "Why, they will be destroyed! Go
down, Calthorpe, and you, Burghersh, and find out who is responsible
for this frightful mistake!"
"Magnificent!" was the verdict of Bosquet, a friendly but experienced
French critic. "But it is not war."
Not war--murder, rather, and sudden death.
The ceaseless fire of the guns they faced wrought fearful havoc in the
ranks of the horsemen as they galloped on. Still the survivors went
forward, unappalled; but it was with sadly diminished numbers that they
reached the object of their attack. The few that got to the guns did
splendid service with their swords. The gunners were cut down as they
stood, and for the moment the battery was ours. But it was impossible to
hold it; the Light Brigade had almost ceased to exist. Presently its
shattered remnants fell slowly back, covered by the Heavies against the
pursuit of the once more audacious Russian cavalry.
Barely half an hour had sufficed for the annihilation of nearly six
hundred soldiers, the flower of the British Light Horse. The northern
valley was like a shambles, strewn with the dead and dying, while all
about galloped riderless horses, and dismounted troopers seeking to
regain their lines on foot. Quite half of the whole force had been
struck down, among the rest Hugo Wilders, whose forehead a grape-shot
had pierced.
The muster of regiments after such a fight was but a mournful
ceremony. When at length the now decimated line was re-formed, the
horror of the action was plainly seen.
"It was a mad-brained trick," said Lord Cardigan, who had marvellously
escaped--"a monstrous blunder, but it was no fault of mine."
"Never mind, my lord!" cried many gallant spirits. "We are ready to
charge again!"
"No, no, men," replied Lord Cardigan, hastily; "you have done enough."
It was at this moment that Lord Raglan rode up, and angrily called
Lord Cardigan to account.
"What did you mean, sir, by attacking guns in front with cavalry,
contrary to the usages of war?"
"You must not blame me, my lord," replied Lord Cardigan. "I only
obeyed the orders of my superior officer," and he pointed to Lord
Lucan, whom Lord Raglan then addressed with the severe reproof--
"You have sacrificed the Light Brigade, Lord Lucan. You should have
used more discretion."
"I never approved of the charge," protested Lord Lucan.
"Then you should not have allowed it to be made."
The battle of Balaclava was practically over, and, although they had
suffered no reverse, its results were decidedly disadvantageous to the
allies. The massacre of the Light Brigade encouraged the Russian
general to advance again; his columns once more crossed the Woronzoff
road, and re-occupied the redoubts in force. The immediate result was
the narrowing of the communications between the front and the base.
The use of a great length of this Woronzoff road was forbidden, and
the British were restricted to the insufficient tracks through
Kadikoi. A principal cause this of the difficulties of supply during
the dread winter now close at hand.
Another lesser result of the Russian advance was that McKay and his
men that afternoon were unable to rejoin their regiment by the road
they had travelled the day before. He returned to camp by a long and
circuitous route, through Kadikoi, instead of by the direct Woronzoff
road.
It was late in the day, therefore, when he was once more at his
headquarters. He had much to tell of his strange adventures on these
two eventful days, and the colonel, who had at once sent for him, kept
him in close colloquy, plying him with questions about the battle, for
more than an hour. It was not till he had heard everything that
Colonel Blythe handed the sergeant-major a bundle of letters and
papers, arrived that morning by the English mail.
"There is good news for you, McKay," said he. "I was so interested in
your description that I had forgotten to tell you. Let me congratulate
you; your name is in the _Gazette_," and the Colonel, taking McKay's
hand, shook it warmly.
McKay carried off his precious bundle to his tent, and, first untying
the newspaper, hunted out the _Gazette_.
There it was--
"The Royal Picts--Sergeant-Major Stanislas Anastasius Wilders McKay to
be Ensign, _vice_ Arrowsmith, killed in action."
They had lost no time; the reward had followed quickly upon the
gallant deed that deserved it. Barely a month had elapsed since the
Alma, yet already he was an officer, bearing the Queen's commission,
which he had won with his own right arm.
His letters were from home--from his darling mother, who, in simple,
loving language, poured forth her joy and pride.
"My dearest, bravest boy," she said, "how nobly you have justified the
choice you made; you were right, and we were wrong in opposing your
earnest wish to follow in your poor father's footsteps--would that he
had lived to see this day! It was his spirit that moved you when, in
spite of us all, of your uncles' protests and my tears, you persisted
in your resolve to enlist. They said you had disgraced yourself and
us. It was cruel of them; but now they are the first to come round. I
have heard from both your uncles; they are, of course, delighted, and
beg me to give you their heartiest good wishes. Uncle Ralph said
perhaps he would write himself; but he is so overwhelmed with work at
the Munitions Office he may not have time. Uncle Barto you will,
perhaps, see out in the Crimea; he has got command of the _Burlington
Castle_, one of the steamers chartered from his Company, and is going
at once to Balaclava.
"Oh, my sweet son be careful of yourself!" went on the fond mother,
her deep anxiety welling forth. "You are my only, only joy. I pray God
hourly that He may spare your precious life. May He have you in His
safe keeping!"
The reading of these pleasant letters occupied Stanislas till
nightfall. Then, utterly wearied, but with a thankful, contented
heart, he threw himself upon the ground, and slept till morning.
When he issued forth from his tent it was to receive the cordial
congratulations of his brother officers. Sergeant Hyde came up, too, a
little doubtfully, but McKay seized his hand, saying--
"You do not grudge me my good luck, I hope, old friend?"
"I, sir?"--the address was formal, but the tone was full of heartfelt
emotion. "You have no heartier well-wisher than Colour-Sergeant Hyde.
Our relative positions have changed--"
"Nothing can change them, or me, Hyde. You have always been my best
and staunchest friend. It is to your advice and teachings that I owe
all this."
"Go on as you have begun, my boy; the road is open before you. Who
knows? That field-marshal's baton may have been in your pack after
all!"
While they still talked a message was brought to McKay from General
Wilders; the brigadier wished to see him at once.
"How is this, Mr. McKay?" said the general. "So you pretend to be a
cousin of mine? Sir Colin Campbell has told me of his meeting with
you, and now I find your name in full in the _Gazette_."
"It is no pretence, sir," replied Stanislas, with dignity.
"What! You call yourself a Wilders! By what right?"
"My mother is first cousin to the present Lord Essendine."
"Through whom?"
"Her father, Anastasius Wilders."
"I know--my father's brother. Then you belong to the elder branch. But
I never heard that he married."
"He married Priscilla Coxon in 1805."
"Privately?"
"I believe not. But it was much against his father's wish, and his
wife was never recognised by the family. His widow--you know my
grandfather died early--married a second time, and thus increased the
breach between the families."
"It's a strange story. I don't know what to think of it. These
statements of yours--can they be substantiated?"
"Most certainly, sir, by the fullest proof. Besides, the present Lord
Essendine is quite aware of my existence, and has acknowledged my
relationship."
"Never openly: you must admit that."
"No, we were simple people; not grand enough, I suppose, for his
lordship. At any rate, we were too proud to be patronised, and
preferred to go our own way."
"I acknowledge you, Mr. McKay, without hesitation, and am proud to own
so gallant a young man as my relative. You have indeed maintained the
soldierly reputation of our family. Shake hands!"
"You are very kind, sir; I hope to continue to deserve your good
opinion," and McKay rose to take his leave.
"Stay, Cousin McKay, I have more to say to you. What is this Sir Colin
tells me about your speaking Russian?"
Stanislas explained.
"It may prove extremely useful; we have not too many interpreters in
the army. I shall write to headquarters and report your
qualifications. Do you speak any other languages?"
"French, Spanish, and a little Turkish."
"By Jove! you ought to be on the staff; they want such men as you. Can
you sit on a horse?"
"I have ridden bare-backed many a dozen miles across the moors at
home."
"Faith! I will take you myself. I want an extra aide-de-camp, and my
cousin shall have the preference. I will send to Colonel Blythe at
once; be ready to join me. But how about your kit? You will want
horses, uniform, and--Forgive me, my young cousin: but how are you
off for cash? You must let me be your banker."
McKay shook his head, gratefully.
"Thank you, sir; but I have been supplied from home. One of my
uncles--my mother's half-brother--is well-to-do, and he sent me a
remittance on hearing of my promotion."
"Well, well, as you please; but mind you come to me if you want
anything. I shall expect you to take up your duties to-morrow." They
were interrupted by all the bugles in the brigade sounding the
assembly. "What is it? The alarm?"
"I can hear file-firing, sir, from the front."
"An attack, evidently. Hurry back to your camp; the regiment will be
turned out by the time you get there!"
As McKay left the general's tent he met Captain Powys.
"The outposts have been driven in on Shell Hill and the enemy is
advancing in force," said the aide-decamp. "We shall have another
battle, I expect. It is our turn to-day."
This was Colonel Fedeoroff's forlorn hope against our extreme right:
the sequel to Balaclava, the prelude of Inkerman--a sharp fight while
it lasted, but promptly repulsed by our men.