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--was 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 second line of
the heavy brigade rushed at the remnants of the first line of the enemy,
went through it as though it were made of paste-board 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.
* * * * *
And now occurred the melancholy catastrophe which fills us all with
sorrow. It appears that the Quartermaster-General, Brigadier Airey,
thinking that the light cavalry had not gone far enough in front when
the enemy's horse had fled, gave an order in writing to Captain Nolan to
take to Lord Lucan, directing his lordship "to advance" his cavalry
nearer the enemy. Lord Lucan, with reluctance, gave the order to Lord
Cardigan to advance upon the guns, conceiving that his orders compelled
him to do so.
It is a maxim of war that "cavalry never act without a support," that
"infantry should be close at hand when cavalry carry guns as the effect
is only instantaneous," and that it is necessary to have on the flank of
a line of cavalry some squadrons in column--the attack on the flank
being most dangerous. The only support our light cavalry had was the
reserve of heavy cavalry at a great distance behind them, the infantry
and guns being far in the rear. There were no squadrons in column at all
and there was a plain to charge over before the enemy's guns could be
reached, of a mile and a half in length!
At ten minutes past eleven our light cavalry brigade advanced. The whole
brigade scarcely made one effective regiment according to the numbers of
continental armies, and yet it was more than we could spare. As they
rushed towards the front the Russians opened on them from the guns in
the redoubt on the right with volleys of musketry and rifles. They swept
proudly past, glittering in the morning sun in all the pride and
splendour of war.
We could scarcely believe the evidence of our senses. Surely that
handful of men are not going to charge an army in position? Alas! it
was but too true. Their desperate valour knew no bounds, and far indeed
was it removed from its so-called better part--discretion. They advanced
in two lines, quickening their pace as they closed upon the enemy. A
more fearful spectacle was never witnessed than by those who beheld
these heroes rushing to the arms of Death.
At the distance of twelve hundred yards, the whole line of the enemy
belched forth from thirty iron mouths a flood of smoke and flame,
through which hissed the deadly balls. Their flight was marked by
instant gaps in our ranks, by dead men and horses, by steeds flying
wounded or riderless across the plain. The first line is broken--it is
joined by the second--they never halt or check their speed an instant.
With diminished ranks thinned by those thirty guns which the Russians
had laid with the most deadly accuracy, with a halo of flashing steel
above their heads, and with a cheer which was many a noble fellow's
death-cry, they flew into the smoke of the batteries, but ere they were
lost from view the plain was strewn with their bodies and with the
carcasses of horses. They were exposed to an oblique fire from the
batteries on the hills on both sides, as well as to a direct fire of
musketry. Through the clouds of smoke we could see their sabres flashing
as they rode up to the guns and dashed into their midst, cutting down
the gunners where they stood. We saw them riding through the guns, as I
have said: to our delight we saw them returning after breaking through a
column of Russian infantry and scattering it like chaff, when the flank
fire of the battery on the hill swept them down scattered and broken as
they were. Wounded men and riderless horses flying towards us told the
sad tale. Demi-gods could not have done what they had failed to do.
At the very moment when they were about to retreat an enormous mass of
Lancers was hurled on their flank. Colonel Shewell saw the danger and
rode his few men straight to them, cutting his way through with fearful
loss. The other regiments turned and engaged in a desperate encounter.
With courage too great almost for credence, they were breaking their way
through the columns which enveloped them, when there took place an act
of atrocity without parallel in the modern warfare of civilized nations.
The Russian gunners, when the storm of cavalry passed, returned to their
guns. They saw their own cavalry mingled with the troopers who had just
ridden over them, and, to the eternal disgrace of the Russian name, the
miscreants poured a murderous volley of grape and canister on the mass
of struggling men and horses, mingling friend and foe in one common
ruin!
It was as much as our heavy cavalry could do to cover the retreat of the
miserable remnants of the band of heroes as they returned to the place
they had so lately quitted. At thirty-five minutes past eleven not a
British soldier, except the dead and the dying, was left in front of
those guns.
William Howard Russell
FUNERAL OF WELLINGTON
Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest,
With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?
Mighty Seaman, this is he
Was great by land as thou by sea.
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man,
The greatest sailor since our world began.
Now, to the roll of muffled drums,
To thee the greatest soldier comes;
For this is he
Was great by land as thou by sea;
His foes were thine; he kept us free;
O give him welcome, this is he
Worthy of our gorgeous rites,
And worthy to be laid by thee;
For this is England's greatest son,
He that gain'd a hundred fights,
Nor ever lost an English gun;
* * * * *
Remember him who led your hosts;
He bad you guard the sacred coasts.
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall;
His voice is silent in your council-hall
For ever; and whatever tempests lour
For ever silent; even if they broke
In thunder, silent; yet remember all
He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke;
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power;
Who let the turbid streams of rumour flow
Thro' either babbling world of high and low;
Whose life was work, whose language rife
With rugged maxims hewn from life;
Who never spoke against a foe:
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke
All great self-seekers trampling on the right:
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named;
Truth-lover was our English Duke;
Whatever record leap to life,
He never shall be shamed.
Tennyson
IN A CAVE WITH A WHALE
Just when the delightful days were beginning to pall upon us, a real
adventure befell us, which, had we been attending strictly to business,
we should not have encountered. For a week previous we had been cruising
constantly without ever seeing a spout, except those belonging to whales
out at sea, whither we knew it was folly to follow them. At last, one
afternoon as we were listlessly lolling (half-asleep, except the
look-out man) across the thwarts, we suddenly came upon a gorge between
two cliffs that we must have passed before several times unnoticed. At a
certain angle it opened, disclosing a wide sheet of water extending a
long distance ahead. I put the helm up, and we ran through the passage,
finding it about a boat's length in width and several fathoms deep,
though overhead the cliffs nearly came together in places. The place was
new to us, and our languor was temporarily dispelled, and we paddled
along, taking in every feature of the shores with keen eyes that let
nothing escape. After we had gone on in this placid manner for maybe an
hour, we suddenly came to a stupendous cliff--that is, for those
parts--rising almost sheer from the water for about a thousand feet. Of
itself it would not have arrested our attention, but at its base was a
semicircular opening, like the mouth of a small tunnel. This looked
alluring, so I headed the boat for it, passing through a deep channel
between two reefs which led straight to the opening. There was ample
room for us to enter, as we had lowered the mast; but just as we were
passing through, a heave of the unnoticed swell lifted us unpleasantly
near the crown of this natural arch. Beneath us, at a great depth, the
bottom could be dimly discerned, the water being of the richest blue
conceivable, which the sun, striking down through, resolved into some
most marvellous colour-schemes in the path of its rays. A delicious
sense of coolness, after the fierce heat outside, saluted us as we
entered a vast hall, whose roof rose to a minimum height of forty feet,
but in places could not be seen at all. A sort of diffused light, weak,
but sufficient to reveal the general contour of the place, existed, let
in, I supposed, through some unseen crevices in the roof or walls. At
first, of course, to our eyes, fresh from the fierce glare outside, the
place seemed wrapped in impenetrable gloom, and we dared not stir lest
we should run into some hidden danger. Before many minutes, however, the
gloom lightened as our pupils enlarged, so that, although the light was
faint, we could find our way about with ease. We spoke in low tones, for
the echoes were so numerous and resonant that even a whisper gave back
from those massy walls in a series of recurring hisses, as if a colony
of snakes had been disturbed.
We paddled on into the interior of this vast cave, finding everywhere
the walls rising sheer from the silent, dark waters, not a ledge or a
crevice where one might gain foothold. Indeed, in some places there was
a considerable overhang from above, as if a great dome whose top was
invisible sprang from some level below the water. We pushed ahead until
the tiny semi-circle of light through which we had entered was only
faintly visible; and then, finding there was nothing to be seen except
what we were already witnessing, unless we cared to go on into the thick
darkness, which extended apparently into the bowels of the mountain, we
turned and started to go back. Do what we would, we could not venture to
break the solemn hush that surrounded us, as if we were shut within the
dome of some vast cathedral in the twilight. So we paddled noiselessly
along for the exit, till suddenly an awful, inexplicable roar set all
our hearts thumping fit to break our bosoms. Really, the sensation was
most painful, especially as we had not the faintest idea whence the
noise came or what had produced it. Again it filled that immense cave
with its thunderous reverberations; but this time all the sting was
taken out of it, as we caught sight of its author. A goodly
bull-humpback had found his way in after us, and the sound of his spout,
exaggerated a thousand times in the confinement of that mighty cavern,
had frightened us all so that we nearly lost our breath. So far so good;
but, unlike the old negro though we were "doin' blame well," we did not
"let blame well alone." The next spout that intruder gave, he was right
alongside of us. This was too much for the semi-savage instincts of my
gallant harpooner, and before I had time to shout a caution he had
plunged his weapon deep into old Blowhard's broad back.
I should like to describe what followed, but, in the first place, I
hardly know; and, in the next, even had I been cool and collected, my
recollections would sound like the ravings of a fevered dream. For of
all the hideous uproars conceivable, that was, I should think, about the
worst. The big mammal seemed to have gone frantic with the pain of his
wound, the surprise of the attack, and the hampering confinement in
which he found himself. His tremendous struggles caused such a commotion
that our position could only be compared to that of men shooting Niagara
in a cylinder at night. How we kept afloat, I do not know. Some one had
the gumption to cut the line, so that by the radiation of the
disturbance we presently found ourselves close to the wall, and trying
to hold the boat in to it with our finger tips. Would he never be quiet?
we thought, as the thrashing, banging, and splashing still went on with
unfailing vigour. At last, in, I suppose, one supreme effort to escape,
he leaped clear of the water like a salmon. There was a perceptible
hush, during which we shrank together like unfledged chickens on a
frosty night; then, in a never-to-be-forgotten crash that ought to have
brought down the massy roof, that mountainous carcass fell. The
consequent violent upheaval of the water should have smashed the boat
against the rocky walls, but that final catastrophe was mercifully
spared us. I suppose the rebound was sufficient to keep us a safe
distance off.
A perfect silence succeeded, during which we sat speechless, awaiting a
resumption of the clamour. At last Abner broke the heavy silence by
saying: "I doan' see the do'way any mo' at all, sir." He was right. The
tide had risen, and that half-moon of light had disappeared, so that we
were now prisoners for many hours, it not being at all probable that we
should be able to find our way out during the night ebb. Well, we were
not exactly children, to be afraid of the dark, although there is
considerable difference between the velvety darkness of a dungeon and
the clear, fresh night of the open air. Still, as long as that beggar of
a whale would only keep quiet or leave the premises, we should be fairly
comfortable. We waited and waited until an hour had passed, and then
came to the conclusion that our friend was either dead or had gone out,
as he gave no sign of his presence.
That being settled, we anchored the boat, and lit pipes, preparatory to
passing as comfortable a night as might be under the circumstances, the
only thing troubling me being the anxiety of the skipper on our behalf.
Presently the blackness beneath was lit up by a wide band of phosphoric
light, shed in the wake of no ordinary-sized fish, probably an immense
shark. Another and another followed in rapid succession, until the
depths beneath were all ablaze with brilliant foot-wide ribbons of green
glare, dazzling to the eye and bewildering to the brain. Occasionally a
gentle splash or ripple alongside, or a smart tap on the bottom of the
boat, warned us how thick the concourse was that had gathered below.
Until that weariness which no terror is proof against set in, sleep was
impossible, nor could we keep our anxious gaze from that glowing inferno
beneath, where one would have thought all the population of Tartarus
were holding high revel. Mercifully, at last we sank into a fitful
slumber, though fully aware of the great danger of our position. One
upward rush of any of those ravening monsters, happening to strike the
frail shell of our boat, and a few fleeting seconds would have sufficed
for our obliteration as if we had never been.
But the terrible night passed away, and once more we saw the tender,
iridescent light stream into that abode of dread. As the day
strengthened, we were able to see what was going on below, and a grim
vision it presented. The water was literally alive with sharks of
enormous size, tearing with never-ceasing energy at the huge carcass of
the whale lying on the bottom, who had met his fate in a singular but
not unheard-of way. At that last titanic effort of his he had rushed
downward with such terrific force that, striking his head on the bottom,
he had broken his neck. I felt very grieved that we had lost the chance
of securing him; but it was perfectly certain that before we could get
help to raise him, all that would be left on his skeleton would be quite
valueless to us. So with such patience as we could command, we waited
near the entrance until the receding ebb made it possible for us to
emerge once more into the blessed light of day.
Frank T. Bullen: "The Cruise of the Cachalot."
[Illustration: IN GEORGIAN BAY]
From toil he wins his spirits light,
From busy day the peaceful night,
Rich, from the very want of wealth,
In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.
Gray
THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved
a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions strove, sat
looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches round, the
ladies by their side,
And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one
he hoped to make his bride;
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that
crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the
royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid
laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams,
a wind went with their paws.
With wallowing might and stifled roar, they
rolled one on another,
Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in
a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing
through the air;
Said Francis, then, "Good gentlemen, we're
better here than there!"
De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a
beauteous, lively dame,
With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes,
which always seemed the same:
She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as
brave as brave can be;
He surely would do desperate things to show
his love of me!
King, ladies, lover, all look on; the chance
is wond'rous fine;
I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great
glory will be mine!"
She dropped her glove to prove his love: then
looked on him and smiled;
He bowed and in a moment leaped among the
lions wild:
The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon
regained his place;
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right
in the lady's face!
"In truth!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and
he rose from where he sat:
"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a
task like that!"
Leigh Hunt
THREE SCENES IN THE TYROL
You are standing on a narrow, thread-like road, which has barely room to
draw itself along between the rocky bank of the River Inn, and the base
of a frowning buttress of the Solstein, which towers many hundred feet
perpendicularly above you. You throw your head far back and look up; and
there you have a vision of a plumed hunter, lofty and chivalrous in his
bearing, who is bounding heedlessly on after a chamois to the very verge
of a precipice. Mark!--he loses his footing--he rolls helplessly from
rock to rock! There is a pause in his headlong course. What is it that
arrests him? Ah! he puts forth his mighty strength, and clings, hand and
foot, with the grip of despair, to a narrow ledge of rock, and there he
hangs over the abyss! It is the Emperor Maximilian! The Abbot of Wiltau
comes forth from his cell, sees an imperial destiny suspended between
heaven and earth, and, crossing himself with awe, bids prayers be put up
for the welfare of a passing soul.
Hark! there is a wild cry ringing through the upper air! Ha! Zyps of
Zirl, thou hunted and hunting outlaw, art thou out upon the heights at
this fearful moment? Watch the hardy mountaineer! He binds his
_crampons_ on his feet,--he is making his perilous way towards his
failing Emperor;--now bounding like a hunted chamois; now creeping like
an insect; now clinging like a root of ivy; now dropping like a
squirrel:--he reaches the fainting monarch just as he relaxes his grasp
on the jutting rock. Courage, Kaiser!--there is a hunter's hand for
thee, a hunter's iron-shod foot to guide thee to safety. Look! They
clamber up the face of the rock, on points and ledges where scarce the
small hoof of the chamois might find a hold; and the peasant-folk still
maintain that an angel came down to their master's rescue. We will,
however, refer the marvellous escape to the interposing hand of a
pitying Providence.
Zyps, the outlaw, becomes Count Hallooer von Hohenfeldsen--"Lord of the
wild cry of the lofty rock;" and in the old pension-list of the proud
house of Hapsburg may still be seen an entry to this effect: that
sixteen florins were paid annually to one "Zyps of Zirl." As you look up
from the base of the Martinswand, you may, with pains, distinguish a
cross, which has been planted on the narrow ledge where the Emperor was
rescued by the outlaw.
There is another vision, an imperial one also. The night is dark and
wild. Gusty winds come howling down from the mountain passes, driving
sheets of blinding rain before them, and whirling them round in hissing
eddies. At intervals the clouds are rent asunder, and the moon takes a
hurried look at the world below. What does _she_ see? and what do _we_
hear? for there are other sounds stirring besides the ravings of the
tempest, in that wild cleft of the mountains, which guard Innsbruck, on
the Carinthian side.
There is a hurried tramp of feet, a crowding and crushing up through the
steep and narrow gorge, a mutter of suppressed voices, a fitful glancing
of torches, which now flare up bravely enough, now wither in a moment
before the derisive laugh of the storm. At the head of the melée there
is a litter borne on the shoulders of a set of sure-footed hunters of
the hills; and around this litter is clustered a moving constellation of
lamps, which are anxiously shielded from the rude wrath of the tempest.
A group of stately figures, wrapped in rich military cloaks, with helms
glistening in the torch-light, and plumes streaming on the wind,
struggle onward beside the litter.
And who is this reclining there, his teeth firmly set to imprison the
stifled groan of physical anguish? He is but fifty-three years of age,
but the lines of premature decay are ploughed deep along brow and cheek,
while his yellow locks are silvered and crisped with care. Who can
mistake that full, expansive forehead, that aquiline nose, that cold,
stern blue eye, and that heavy, obstinate, Austrian underlip, for other
than those of the mighty Emperor Charles V? And can this suffering
invalid, flying from foes who are almost on the heels of his attendants,
jolted over craggy passes in midnight darkness, buffeted by the tempest,
and withered by the sneer of adverse fortune--_can_ this be the Emperor
of Germany, King of Spain, Lord of the Netherlands, of Naples, of
Lombardy, and the proud chief of the golden Western World? Yes, Charles,
thou art reading a stern lesson by that fitful torch-light; but thy
strong will is yet unbent, and thy stern nature yet unsoftened.
And who is the swift "avenger of blood" who is following close as a
sleuth-hound on thy track? It is Maurice of Saxony--a match for thee in
boldness of daring, and in strength of will. But Charles wins the
midnight race; and yet, instead of bowing before Him whose
"long-suffering would lead to repentance," he ascribes his escape to the
"star of Austria," ever in the ascendant, and mutters his favourite
saying, "Myself, and the lucky moment."
One more scene: it is the year 1809. Bonaparte has decreed in the secret
council chamber, where his own will is his sole adviser, that the Tyrol
shall be cleared of its troublesome nest of warrior-hunters. Ten
thousand French and Bavarian soldiers have penetrated as far as the
Upper Innthal, and are boldly pushing on towards Prutz.
But the mountain-walls of this profound valley are closing gloomily
together, as if they would forbid even the indignant river to force its
wild way betwixt them. _Is_ there a path through the frowning gorge
other than that rocky way which is fiercely held by the current? Yes,
there is a narrow road, painfully grooved by the hand of man out of the
mountain side, now running along like a gallery, now dropping down to
the brink of the stream. But the glittering array winds on. There is the
heavy tread of the foot-soldiers, the trampling of horse, the dull
rumble of the guns, the waving and flapping of the colours, and the
angry remonstrance of the Inn. But all else is still as a midnight
sleep, except, indeed, when the eagles of the crag, startled from their
eyries, raise their shrill cry as they spread their living wings above
the gilded eagles of France.
Suddenly a voice is heard far up amid the mists of the heights--not the
eagle's cry _this_ time--not the freak of a wayward echo--but human
words, which say "_Shall we begin?_" Silence! It is a host that holds
its breath and listens. Was it a spirit of the upper air parleying with
its kind? If so, it has its answer countersigned across the dark gulf.
"_Noch nicht!_"--"_Not yet!_" The whole invading army pause: there is a
wavering and writhing in the glittering serpent-length of that mighty
force which is helplessly uncoiled along the base of the mountain. But
hark! the voice of the hills is heard again, and it says "_Now!_"