Diaries of a Heartbroken Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Hamilton, Hanna

  From up on the ridge to the west, the civilian spectators and general staff saw the Highlanders as a thin red streak of their red tunics topped with steel; this was a phrase that would soon become the term the “Thin Red Line”.

  Soon after, the Heavy Brigade charged and fought hand-to-hand until the Russians retreated. This brave action countered a Russian cavalry movement. It caused a more widespread Russian retreat, including a number of their artillery units. When the local commanders failed to take advantage of the retreat, Lord Raglan sent out orders to move up and attack some Russian guns located across the valley. Raglan could see these guns due to his position on the hill; however, when in the valley, this view was obstructed, leaving the wrong guns in sight.

  What Lord Raglan saw was the enemy attacking British artillery positions. Promptly the Russian soldiers started to remove the cannons from the redoubts and pull them back to their infantry lines.

  “My Lord, the enemy is taking our guns. We must send in the cavalry,” said Captain Louis Nolan of the fifteenth King’s Hussars.

  Lord Raglan peered down at his horse contingent that had not moved despite his previous order to advance. He sighed irritably.

  “My Lord, this is too much. They are dragging off the guns - our guns,” reminded Captain Nolan.

  “Yes, they are, aren’t they,” responded general Airey to his aide-de-camp.

  Lord Raglan ignored them as he conversed with another member of his staff. “You see, Sir George, they are on them; they are indeed.” He was indecisive as he looked to Airey. “I shall tell you, I need an aid, Airey. Something has to be done about this.”

  The Quarter-master-general bade one of the younger officers to approach. Once he was in position with pen and paper to hand, Lord Raglan began to dictate his order.

  “Lord Lucan, cavalry to advance on the French…” Lord Raglan chuckled. “It is all so confusing you know. I still mistake the French for our enemies and yet they are our allies.” He cleared his throat as he prepared his next words more carefully lest the French general, St Arnaud hear him. “Lord Lucan, cavalry to advance on the Russians and take advantage of any opportunity to recover the Heights. They will be supported by infantry, which have been ordered to advance on two fronts.”

  The orderly wrote quickly and handed the order to a horseman nearby.

  A short while later, down in the valley, Lord Lucan read the missive. “Infantry? I see no infantry.” The men around him looked about in search of the infantry, but to no avail. “We must wait,” concluded Lucan.

  Back up on the hill, Captain Nolan approached Lords Raglan and Airey who were both studying a map rather than watch the enemy stealing their guns.

  “Do you see the Russian army, My Lord? Do you? For a full fifty minutes Lord Lucan has stood and watched this – this is no way, My Lord – there sit the finest cavalry in the world. Men who will follow their officers to the ends of life, men who take it for granted that their officers know best. The mere sight of the brigade moving would be enough,” he shouted as he shook the telescope in his hand.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Raglan, completely put out by Nolan’s tone. He turned to Airey. “Send another order to Lord Lucan and kindly take it down in your clearest handwriting.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Airey, ignoring a nervous Nolan hovering behind them.

  “The cavalry is to advance rapidly to the front - follow the enemy and try to prevent them carrying away the guns - Troop Horse Artillery may accompany - French cavalry is on your left – Immediate,” dictated Raglan.

  Airey signed the document. “Someone to take this to Lord Lucan,” he said, lifting up the piece of paper.

  “Allow me, My Lord,” said Nolan, snatching it form him.

  Watching him mount his horse and ride down the hill, Raglan turned to Airey. “That young man, Nolan. I don’t really like him. He rides too well, you know. He has no heart. It will be a sad day when men who know too well what they are doing lead Britain’s armies. It smacks of murder.”

  The other man grunted something incomprehensible.

  In the meantime, in the valley…

  “I am waiting, Sir,” said Lord Cardigan imperiously to Lord Lucan. He had been late that morning in his arrival from his yacht moored off the coast near the town of Balaclava.

  “You will wait until I have clear orders to tell you to do otherwise – I wait,” snapped Lord Lucan who was in charge of the cavalry in the British expeditionary force.

  Lord Cardigan scoffed in disgust. His gaze was arrogant as he stared ahead at the sweep of the valley. He was looking for Russians but he couldn’t see any of them. “Clear! Normally there are clear orders for cavalry to attack anything and everything.”

  “Damn it, Cardigan, I would attack; I am constrained.”

  “Hussar, hussar,” shouted Stirling enthusiastically. He sat on his horse next to Lord Cardigan as he peered up the incline of the ravine.

  The man riding the white charger towards the assembled cavalry was Captain Nolan. He galloped forward, diving down the hill by the straightest and quickest route. He came on at great speed, while he waved a piece of paper above his head and shouted, “The Russians, the Russians they’re taking the guns.” Reaching the commanding officers and their staff, he came to an abrupt halt leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

  “Orders from Lord Raglan, My Lord,” said Nolan handing the message to Lord Lucan.

  For a moment, one could only hear the neighing of the horses and the clinking of the equipment as Lord Lucan read the order far too carefully. When he’d finished, with a grunt, he handed the paper to Lord Cardigan who was next to him. He in turn cleared his throat and read in silence. It took Cardigan even longer than his superior.

  It was all taking far too long. “Will you execute Lord Raglan’s order, My Lord? I am waiting,” said Nolan too loudly.

  His insubordinate tone irritated Lord Lucan and for once his brother-in-law shared in his irritation. They both glowered at Nolan as if he was an irritating insect.

  “I’m still waiting, My Lord,” repeated Nolan, getting more and more agitated. “Lord Raglan orders the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front, to follow the enemy and try to prevent them from carrying away the guns,” shouted Nolan.

  Lucan arched his eyebrows and coughed. “Mm, Captain Nolan, is it?”

  Nolan nodded his head hopefully.

  “Such an order is ridiculous. If you look before you, you will see neither the enemy nor guns, Sir. The usefulness of such an order eludes me,” he said imperiously.

  “From where Lord Raglan sits, I can assure you, My Lord, that there are Russians over there and they are taking the guns, My Lord. You have been ordered to attack now!” shouted Nolan.

  “I see no Russians, Nolan. Where are the Russians?” shouted Cardigan coming to Lucan’s support.

  Lucan exchanged a look with Cardigan. “Yes, Nolan, where are the Russians? There is no one to attack,” screamed Lucan.

  “Yes, attack what, you insolent fool?” shouted Cardigan in support of his superior.

  “There is your enemy, Sir, there, there, there!” screamed Nolan stretching his arm down the valley.

  “He is right, My Lord,” chimed in Stirling, at last seeing the happenings further down the valley. “We must attack at once.”

  Finally, seeing a troop of Russians moving the guns in the distance, Lucan and Cardigan exchanged embarrassed looks. Stirling and Royce who had witnessed the entire spectacle felt sorry for Nolan who was considered a fine officer and a gentleman.

  “I suggest Lord Cardigan, you advance steadily. Keep your men close at hand and if the brigade is handled with control, there will not be a too greater loss of life,” said Lord Lucan finally.

  “Certainly, Sir. But allow me to point out to you that the Russians have guns in the valley and infantry on each flank. It is contrary to all practices of war for cavalry to charge artillery head on,” said Cardigan calmly.

  “You’re quite right, sir,
but what choice do we have?” said Lucan agreeing.

  “Major Whit Whittaker, please give the order to mount up,” ordered Lord Cardigan.

  “Certainly, My Lord,” said Stirling with excitement trailing off his voice.

  He spun his horse around and cantered to the men stationed close by. He ordered the men who were sitting and standing about their horses to mount up. He acknowledged Rory briefly before riding off back to his position next to his general. He nodded at him when he reached his side.

  “The men are ready for your command, My Lord,” said Stirling. He gave his friend Royce a look that was returned with nervous trepidation.

  “Draw sabres,” shouted Cardigan.

  The sound of six hundred and seventy swords rasped as the weapons left their scabbards. With parade ground precision, the blades came to a rest against the men’s shoulders.

  “The brigade will advance, bugler!” shouted Cardigan from the front.

  The sound of the trumpet echoed down the valley. The brave men started to move as one. Their glinting sabres making them look like an impenetrable wall of steel. Royce and Stirling exchanged excited glances. This was the moment they had been waiting for. For the glory of the empire they would ride into the jaws of death. There were cannons to the front of them, cannons to the left and cannons to the right.

  Stirling thought of Clementine. Sitting on his horse that trotted forward on the dry and dusty plain and surrounded by his comrades, Stirling could see Clementine’s beautiful face clearly in front of him.

  He could remember every contour of her face with minute perfection. Stirling knew that he would do his duty for queen and country, but what he did, was also for her. He believed in fighting for a safer and more just world, a place where the woman he loved could live in harmony and with the rule of British law.

  He had written her a two-page letter the previous evening, telling her about the life he and Royce shared at the front. Despite not wanting to, he had been far too graphic in his narration. Stirling prayed that he had not frightened her all that much. It was bad enough being separated from her embrace, but having her worry about his wellbeing was not something he wanted.

  Stirling looked ahead. The enemy position was still relatively obscured from view. There was no way of telling how many of them there were or the disposition of the troops and their placement. The Light Brigade was riding blind into what could be great glory or a bloody and gory death.

  It did not take long for the first shell to burst in the air about one hundred yards in front of the advancing Light Brigade.

  “Noooo, nooo,” shouted Nolan galloping forward from the rear and riding in front of Lord Cardigan, Stirling, Royce and the remainder of the lead party.

  “The insolence of that man,” grunted Cardigan who was insulted by the captain’s impudence of charging ahead of him.

  The next artillery shell dropped right in front of Nolan's horse and exploded violently on touching the ground. Almost at once, with his arms extended, Nolan let off a high-pitched keening sound that emanated from the depth of his lungs. Not holding the reigns of his horse, Nolan trotted a few yards toward the advancing brigade and dropped dead off his horse.

  It was too late; Nolan’s effort at warning Cardigan that the charge was aimed at the wrong valley had failed. Nobody except the front rank of horsemen had seen Nolan who had bravely forfeited his life in his attempt to save his comrades.

  “What was that all about?” shouted Stirling to Royce

  As ignorant as the rest of them, he shrugged his shoulders. “He was shouting no. But I know not why.”

  “Incoming,” shouted Stirling suddenly when he heard the violent whoosh of another shell approaching their position.

  There was a loud thud. The cavalryman riding next to Stirling was no longer there. The round shot had taken him. Stirling said a silent prayer. He asked God to let him survive. He wanted to be with Clementine. His life could not end here; there was still so much to do.

  He looked around and saw Royce whose face was as white as a sheet. A little further afield, Stirling perceived the body belonging to the dead trooper that had somehow kept in the saddle. For a heartbeat, he hoped that he still might be alive. He watched his former comrade ride with them for another thirty yards until his mount veered off to the right and the lifeless body fell to the ground.

  After another three hundred yards the batteries of Russian horse artillery opened fire. There were no jubilant shouts of Hussar or attack, just silence. Not a soul in the Light Brigade said a word as the 11th Regiment of Hussars gradually broke from a trot into a canter.

  As the barrage became more intense, the noise of the striking of men and horses by grape and round shot was deafening, while the dust and gravel struck up by the round shot that fell short was almost blinding.

  Stirling had trouble controlling his horse. It was so bad that he could scarcely hold him at all. But as he got nearer, he could see plainly enough through the smoke, especially when he was about a hundred yards from the guns. He swallowed nervously because he seemed to be riding straight on to the muzzle of one of the guns.

  At that moment, he clearly saw the Russian gunner’s determined face as he applied the fuse to the cannon. Stirling shut his eyes. In that instant, he thought that his life was forfeit and that he would never see his Clementine again. But the shot just missed him by the breadth of a hair, striking the man on his right full in the chest. Looking again, Stirling saw that Royce was no longer riding with him.

  In another minute, Stirling who was riding alongside Lord Cardigan in the vanguard was on the gun and the leading Russian's grey horse. The Russian shot with a pistol but his aim was not true as the musket ball whizzed passed Stirling’s head. A heartbeat later, another man received a ball straight to the chest and fell across Stirling’s horse, dragging it to the left with his weight.

  To his surprise, Stirling still held onto the reigns of his mount. That was when he saw a Russian gunner, on foot, with his carbine at the ready. Fortunately, he was just within reach of Stirling’s sword, and he struck him across his neck. The blow severed his windpipe, and he fell down with a wheeze and a gurgle until he came to a rest in an untidy heap.

  Spurring his horse further still, Stirling half jumped, half blundered, over the fallen animals and guns. It was so loud and there was so much smoke that he felt he was riding inside the mouth of a volcano. The dead and wounded were everywhere; it was a miracle he was still alive.

  That was when it happened. A carbine shot hit Stirling’s horse, and he flew out of the saddle and landed on the dry and dusty ground. The last thing Stirling saw was an apparition of Clementine and then darkness as the sweet lines of her face disappeared into nothingness.

  The British ranks looking on from the hilltops and to the rear were silent as the last Russian gun, shot its lethal charge. The civilian spectators exchanged nervous glances. The general staff tried to remain stoic in the face of such carnage. Yet, the words, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, would one day compose hung over the field of Balaclava like a wraith.

  Half a league, half a league,

  Half a league onward,

  All in the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  “Forward, the Light Brigade!

  Charge for the guns!” he said.

  Into the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred…

  …When can their glory fade?

  O the wild charge they made!

  All the world wondered.

  Honour the charge they made!

  Honour the Light Brigade,

  Noble six hundred!

  Chapter 27

  Lo! in that house of misery

  A lady with a lamp I see

  Pass through the glimmering gloom,

  And flit from room to room.

  A small light flickered through the hallways. A slender form passed the doorways leading to the various dormitories where the men slept. Occasionally, she would tend to a patient whe
n he stirred in his sleep, waking up either in pain or in fright. When they heard her voice, the sick or wounded man would invariably slump back down onto the bed and resume sleeping. Others would utter thanks to the Angel of the Crimea or the Lady of the Lamp as many now called her.

  It had been relatively quiet at the Scutari Hospital as of late. There had been far less new admittances. Ever since the high influx after the Battle of Alma, the flow of wounded had decreased to a trickle. This delivered false hope as the local sickbays close to the hostilities burst at the seams. The allied high command had deemed it more effective to ship the casualties deemed too far-gone in bulk.

  Florence knew this was not going to last. Rumours had reached her that the allied army had planned and started a major offensive a few weeks ago. The beginning of the action had been a fiasco. Rumours abounded that the illustrious Light Brigade had been involved, albeit partially unsuccessfully.