Nolan took a second to toss back a shouted reply, “You will see, you will see!” and as they watched, he halted at Lord Lucan’s side, handing down the written order he carried.
Jared and his friends were too far away to hear the conversation but were able to make out the expression on Lucan’s face as he read the message, glancing up at Nolan with incredulous disbelief and rereading the order from Raglan. They held their breath as the silent drama unfolded before their curious eyes. Somehow, Lucan’s indecision was more dramatic than if they had heard the actual questions he put to Raglan’s aide. He seemed unable to grasp the content, unwilling to believe what the order contained. Finally, they saw Nolan jump impatiently to the ground, gesturing insolently in the direction of the North Valley.
Jared and Morris exchanged puzzled glances, and, frowning, Morris shook his head. As many excuses as he’d made in the past for his friend’s impetuous nature, even he could see Nolan had overstepped the bounds of military etiquette. Waiting for the fury to resolve itself into Lucan’s usual short-tempered manner, he was astounded that the divisional commander restrained himself. His eaglelike features seemed more preoccupied with the order he’d been given, and he merely threw Nolan a stern, disapproving glare and mounted his horse, signaling to his staff to follow him.
“What the devil could be in that order?” Jared thought aloud, putting into words what they all wondered. Lucan, followed by his senior aide and Nolan, rode down to Lord Cardigan, seated astride his mount in front of the Thirteenth Dragoons. This time the scenario was close enough to Jared so that he could make out the words exchanged. Lucan handed the order to Cardigan and allowed him time to peruse it. The same puzzled look came over Cardigan’s face as he looked in the direction of the valley. Jared’s mind reeled from the effect of Cardigan’s reply. The Light Brigade commander had pointed out that to reach their objective of capturing the Russian guns at the end of the valley, they would have to ride through a hail of artillery fire from left and right, not to mention the cannon at the valley’s end. My God! Jared thought. What was Raglan thinking of when he wrote the order? Granted, the man had a view of the entire valley floor from high on the ridge, but to attempt to capture cannon with light cavalry and no infantry or artillery support was sheer madness. In a daze, he heard Lucan reply, “I know it,” and as he shrugged his shoulders he added, “Lord Raglan will have it and we have no choice but to obey.” Lucan gave further orders to have Cardigan’s own troop of Eleventh Hussars fall back to follow the first line of the Seventeenth Lancers and Thirteenth Light Dragoons, and he placed the Eighth Hussars and Fourth Light Dragoons behind the Eleventh to form a tighter fighting wedge. Adding that he would support the movement with his own Heavies, he cautioned Cardigan not to charge wildly, but to proceed at an orderly pace.
Cardigan, showing none of the usual disrespect for the superior officer who was his brother-in-law, seemed merely piqued that his own Hussars would not be in the vanguard of the attack and moved about, ordering the cavalry to ready itself.
Jared looked at the others. Morris, his mouth set in a tight line, had already mounted, and Michaels was following suit. Amazed at the calm acceptance of the order, Jared lost his earlier nonchalance. “Don’t you think you ought to protest, Morris?” he demanded. “As senior captain, you have to realize the implications of such an order.” Morris was gazing off toward the valley, his face set in brooding resignation, as though he had seen his own death and had already accepted it. In the past, Morris had teased him about being half-American, and now he looked down at Jared, a flicker of impatience crossing his face.
“You still don’t quite understand how things are run, do you, Bryant? Orders are orders. An officer does not question his superior’s judgment…” he turned and flashed a worried look at the North Valley again and continued, “…regardless of what he may think of the order. I suggest you mount up.”
Around him the Lancers were moving their mounts into an orderly line, preparatory to advancing. Jared was amazed at the eagerness written across the faces. Was he the one who was crazy? No! Damn it anyway, this was madness, a totally futile attempt! The frustrating part of it was that there was nothing he could do about it. Obviously, Lucan and Cardigan both considered the order to be insane, but typically, neither of them protested to stop the useless slaughter. Orders! Jared slammed into his saddle, swearing to himself that if he survived this ridiculous attack, he’d resign his commission and return to England.
The brigade aligned itself correctly—Lord Cardigan, a proper two horse-lengths ahead of his staff officers, and five lengths ahead of the right squadron of Lancers. The left squadron was commanded by Morris; and as Jared stationed himself next to him, to his disgust, he saw Nolan bound for glory on the other side of Will. The man had communicated his edgy temper to his horse, which danced about with nervous, sidestepping movements.
A cold, icy dread had settled over Jared; and though he had resigned himself to the worst, he still had no desire in blindly play follow-the-leader with his life at stake. Taking a deep breath, he gained control of his anger and frustration, channeling it into sharpening his senses. Despite the absurdity of their orders, he intended to come out of this alive. Glancing over his shoulder, he surveyed the members of the Lancers, many of whom had become trusted comrades. Bitterness etched fine lines about his deep blue-gray eyes as he regarded his friends, almost as though he were taking a moment to bid them a silent farewell. Straightening in the saddle, Jared stiffened his back and stared ahead, concentrating on a small spot on Cardigan’s back, willing himself to act and react, but not to think. Never one to turn from a fight, Jared nevertheless had survived before by avoiding confrontations where he had no chance of winning.
At eleven-twenty, Cardigan’s voice rang out, clear and steady, ordering the advance. Ramrod straight, he was every inch the polished aristocrat as he regally inclined his head toward the Lancer trumpeter, Britten, and ordered the advance. The brigade was a magnificent sight as it moved out—the eyes of every man set straight ahead, precise, even lines and a sense of pride and confidence that emanated from the whole. David was confidently riding out to conquer Goliath.
Traveling due north, the brigade passed the small hollow between Redoubt #3 on their right and #6 on the left. As they entered the North Valley to swing eastward along the valley floor, the sun poked its head from beneath a puffed cloud, striking the tarnished gold lace on the uniforms and lighting it, so that all who watched the progress of the dauntless brigade were even more awed by the flash of fire that seemed to outline their movement. To their left, high on the ridge above, stood General Raglan (whose orders were responsible for their movement) and his staff. A group of ladies had joined them to watch the action and had made the day an outing; a picnic, complete with wine.
Proceeding forward at a trot, the brigade kept a disciplined, compact shape. Now, as they faced east, on their left could be seen a captured British gun emplacement in the Fedioukine Hills and to the right, high on the Causeway Heights, several batteries of Russian artillery, settled into Redoubts #1, 2 and 3 which had been captured by the Russians in the early morning fighting. Straight ahead lay their objective and as the horses’ hooves churned the moist rich land underfoot, the first line of Lancers had a clear view of the twelve heavy cannon facing them squarely. Two hundred yards into the valley, the troops began a canter.
From the spectators atop the high ridge, overlooking the action, came a collective gasp of dismay. The gazes of every officer and lady were fastened on the direction Lord Cardigan was leading the Light Brigade. They were heading for the wrong guns! Lord Raglan, the one-armed commander-in-chief, began to shake with fury. His order had told Lucan that the Russians were carrying the guns away. From this height, anyone could see the guns he had meant were the captured British cannon on the Fedioukine Hills! There was nothing that could be done at this point, but to watch the horrible drama unfold before their helpless eyes.
Jared kept his gaze forward, but
from the corners of his eyes he could see movement on the hills to either side of them. For a while everything had been still, the Russians watching the cavalry’s direction. Now, on the other side of Morris, Nolan mumbled an oath and spurred his horse forward, galloping toward the front, past Lord Cardigan. He rode, waving his sword and shouting something unintelligible. Lord Cardigan swung his head toward the young officer, his face white with anger at Nolan’s breach of military procedure. Just then the first shell from the Russian batteries exploded, bursting close to the feckless Nolan. His horse danced high a moment, then savagely wheeled and rode back toward the west. As Nolan passed the troops, he was a frozen portrait of grizzly death, arm still held high in a fixed position, although the sword he had carried had dropped from the lifeless fingers. A gaping, blackened hole exposed the chest cavity and only the traumatic shock of sudden death had kept the muscles rigid enough for the body to stay ahorse.
Jared suddenly had more than the gruesome sight of Nolan’s corpse to concentrate on. Awakened from stunned surprise at the audacity of the cavalry advance, the Russians were now raining cannon fire in a constant shower, from both sides of the valley. Grapeshot and shells exploded among the lines, horses and men tumbling upon the earth to deepen the rich brown color with their blood. The lines expanded and contracted in a billowing action as men moved their horses around the fallen bodies and, with ingrained discipline, drew back to straighten the line. Several times, Jared heard Cardigan bellow an order, making sure that even in the heat of the battle, no one lode ahead of the commanding officer. “Steady, steady, Seventeenth Lancers,” his hoarse voice boomed.
Jared and Morris were busy maintaining the troopers in the semblance of a line. Their voices could be heard above the booming, thunderous explosions of the cannon. “Close in to the center! Maintain ranks!” The horses, driven into a furious panic by the tumult, raced into a gallop and, at the head of the brigade, Cardigan was forced into a charge to avoid the rush of troops following his lead.
Russian marksmen, firing the latest Belgian rifles, were adding to the murderous effects of a cannonade of metal fragments and shells falling about the brigade.
Viewed from high on the ridge, the scene was a bloody massacre, a vision of hell, as heavy white smoke billowed about in misty clouds, flaming a yellow-red with each new salvo. To add to the confusion and hail of the artillery volleys, they had reached the range of fire of the cannons at the western perimeter of the valley, and now heavy cannon balls were blasting men and horses. Huge holes, craters caused by the exploding shells, added to the danger for the advancing troops.
The Heavy Brigade, led by Lord Lucan, had followed at a distance, intending to give weight to the attack with succeeding waves of horsemen. Lucan paused momentarily, seeing his men enter the withering fire that was destroying the Light Brigade. Seeing that his Heavies had already fallen under the shelling and sniping from the Causeway Heights, he came to a momentous decision. He had been forced by Raglan to sacrifice the Light cavalry, but he would now stand by his Heavies. He had already been wounded, and with his leg bleeding, he turned to his trumpeter and had the Heavy Brigade retire to the western end of the valley. Out of range of the deathly salvos of cannon fire, the troops watched as the Light Brigade reached the far end of the valley, disappearing like ghosts into clouds of smoke lying heavily over the field of action.
Almost to the guns, Jared managed to keep pace with Morris. Through the blinding, acrid smoke the remnants of the decimated first line rode at a mad charge, while shells whistled past, adding to the cacophony. Harnesses and spurs tinkled delicately, in an almost musical counterpoint to the explosions of bursting shells and the agonized screams of the dying.
Ahead, Jared could almost discern Lord Cardigan, miraculously untouched, his sword held high as he pounded toward the objective. Just as they reached the cannon, the Russians discharged their last volley of fire, the deafening boom and concussion knocking Jared’s mount sideways. The ground vibrated with the thunder of twelve cannons, and once again the white smoke took on a crimson, hell-fire hue.
Jared tightened his grip on his sword and, noting the blood that smeared the guard, wondered dazedly if it was his own. His Lancers were around him now, all that were left of the first line. The mists parted briefly, affording a view of their target. Spurring his mount forward, Jared slashed down at an enemy gunner, remembering orders to slash, not jab. The man’s round, flattened “mutton” hat flew sideways as his head fell back, his throat a bloody gash; and as he toppled, Jared engaged another of the Russians. This one was about to pull his pistol up. Jared brought his charger forward, using the horse’s muscular body to cast him off balance and as the man fell, Jared’s lance skewered the body to the ground.
Busy pulling his lance point from the dead gunner, Jared had no time to see the Russian lancer who appeared on his left side. A blinding, white pain shot through his thigh as the lancer thrust the needle-sharp point deep, twisting as he moved. Ignoring the pain, Jared brought his sword crashing down on the man’s skull. The movement of his horse ripped the lance point away from his thigh as the Russian lancer fell, his head caved in by the heavy, desperate blow.
The mist cleared for a brief half-second and Jared caught sight of Lord Cardigan and several of the Lancers. Through the noise and confusion, he heard a desperate shout, “Rally on him!” and tightening his grip, forced the charger in the commander’s direction.
Somewhere out there, if he hadn’t been killed, Morris must be near, for Jared had only been two horse-lengths behind him when they entered the cannon entrenchment. His eyes burned from the smoke and Jared swiped at them with the back of his torn coat sleeve as he tried to distinguish details in the blurred scene before him. The deathly silence following the cessation of cannon fire assailed his noise-deafened ears; only the shouts of men engaged in mortal, hand-to-hand combat broke the stillness. Here and there a glimpse of bodies struggling from beneath dead mounts could be seen. Taking his chances, Jared moved in the direction of the last cannon he’d seen.
A voice shouted, hailing him, and he spurred the tired horse toward it. It was Morris! He had about twenty Lancers gathered about him and was organizing them into a front. Yielding to Morris’ seniority and experience, Jared followed his lead. As the smoke drifted away, the group found themselves behind the gun emplacement. Ordering all to keep together, Morris commanded a charge. Swords drawn, Jared and the others followed him, striking through the immobile enemy line, scattering them like sheep. Taking their advantage, the Lancers pursued the Russians, but almost immediately a second group of Russians swept down on their flank. Huge Cossacks, lances drawn, threatened them so that they had to retreat, battling all the way. Cut off, they made a desperate attempt to defend their position. Jared saw Morris sustain a head wound that knocked him senseless to the ground. They were far outnumbered, but even so, staged a magnificent defense. While Jared was engaged fighting off two of the tall, broad Cossacks, a third broke on his blind side, thrusting the butt of his lance at Jared’s side with such force that it knocked him flying. He landed brokenly on the ground, the wind knocked out of him.
Shaking his head to clear it, Jared found a heavy bruiser standing over him, grunting unintelligibly in his native tongue. The man’s jowly face glowered down, reminding Jared of a fractious bear awakened from hibernation. He grunted once more, in his primitive way urging Jared to rise and follow the other prisoners. Ahead of him, Jared could see Morris being poked along, his face covered with his own blood. As he passed Morris, he paused, meaning to say a word to him, but the bear who had captured him jabbed wickedly at his already bruised ribs, forcing him to continue to stumble toward the Russian headquarters. His head was aching miserably as he limped along, unable to place even slight pressure on his wounded thigh.
Moments later, Jared heard a shout and recognized it as coming from Morris. His head turned a moment and he was overjoyed to see Morris escape the men who’d captured him and vanish into the mists. The please
d smile on Jared’s face was enough to annoy his captor and he shoved Jared forward again with the butt of his lance.
The further they marched and the clearer the air became, the more ragged Jared’s breathing grew. Finally, they reached a small rise where other prisoners had been gathered and his “friend” shoved him down to join the others. Jared landed on his wounded thigh with such force that the blurred face of a Hussar, bending over him, was the last sight he remembered. Blackness swallowed him as his leg pulsed blood from the deep, five-inch gash the lance had cut.
Chapter 47
Jared lay in the dark, dungeonlike cell in which his captors had thrown him. His leg ached miserably from the deep wound the Russian lancer had dealt him. Trying to adjust his weight so that less pressure was placed on it, he only succeeded in breaking open the clotted blood that bound it. He fell back against the wall with nausea threatening to overcome him. Only deep, gulping breaths quelled his stomach’s revolt. They’d thrown him in here a day ago and he’d had nothing to eat but a piece of stale bread and only a taste of the fetid, stinking liquid that was supposed to pass for water in the rusty bucket. Now, as he felt his forehead burning with fever, he tore off a strip of his blood-stained undershirt and, with an immense effort of will, dragged himself toward the bucket. Wetting the cloth, he ignored the foul odor and swabbed at his feverish brow. It wouldn’t do to succumb to an infection. God only knew what these Slavic devils had in mind for him; already he’d been separated from the other captured prisoners.
His eyes searched every inch of the dim, murky cell, seeking an escape route. Jared laughed at the natural instinct. How far do you think you’d get, you idiot, he berated himself. He didn’t know where he was; it had taken them two long, grueling days in a horse-drawn cart, over a deeply rutted track, to reach this stone prison. A small shaft of light peeping through a slit high in the wall told him it was still daylight outside.
Savage In Silk Page 36
