By contrast, when he picked up his letter to Rachel, he could scarcely write first enough.
We have more death than life here, so much that it has become almost meaningless, and yet your letter brought home to me the meaning of death. The plain, irreversible fact that I shall now never see my father again, nor have the opportunity to say those things which perhaps should be said between father and son is almost more than I can bear, and it reminds me of all those parents and wives of men who have died here. It shames me to say it and I can only do so to you, who I know will understand and not think the worse of me, but for us, in these circumstances, a dead man is just one more gone to what must be a better place, and we almost envy him. But for those at home he is their unique beloved son, brother or husband, whose picture stands on the shelf, whose childhood transgressions they punished and whose triumphs they praised, whose joys they shared in . . .
You say that you hope to be writing a happier letter very soon, and so I am going to keep this of my own letter till then. You have been so much in my thoughts, more than you can ever know, and I want more than anything to hear that all is well with you. I wish that I could say that these feelings are simply those of gratitude for your kindness to my parents, and of natural affection for the wife of my dear brother. But, Rachel, they are not. We are here at what sometimes feels like the end of the earth, from which we may not ever return, and if my father’s death has brought one blessing it is the knowledge that if I do not say or write these things you will never know them. I love you, and have always loved you. Your face, your voice, the way that you think and how you express those thoughts, the workings of your heart – I feel that I know them as I know my own. This may be presumptuous, but do not think me arrogant. I say these things in all humility and out of love. I long for you. I feel, for Hugo’s sake, that it is wrong to do so, and yet I cannot help myself, and if it were not for Hugo whom we both loved, I should never have known you.
I am going to put this letter somewhere safe and hope that when next I take it out, to respond as I pray to joyful news, it will seem not too foolish, for it is the most in earnest that I have ever written.
He placed the unfinished letter, along with others from home, in his trunk, first wrapping it carefully to protect it from the other contents – dirty clothing, cracked boots, and biscuit, chocolate and rum husbanded against hard times.
With all the false alarms, the pickets were jumpy at night, and dawn often revealed the odd hapless dead cow whose resemblance to a Russian marksman had proved its undoing. And it was becoming colder, especially at night, dawn and dusk. Men made use of whatever clothing they had or had managed to acquire, including sheepskin waistcoats purloined from the Turks and fur coats from discarded Russian packs, so that much of the time it was impossible to tell officer from man, nationality from nationality, or friend from foe.
The enemy fire was now of an unimaginable ferocity, blasting continuously on both unprotected flanks. And still they trotted. Fyefield was struck: Harry heard the dull, wet implosion and felt a fine drizzle of Hector’s blood on his cheek. Behind him he heard a man shout, ‘Bloody bastards!’ and the reprimand, ‘Watch your filthy tongue, boy, you’ll be facing your maker soon enough!’
They were now moving across the broad shallow depression in the centre of the valley and the fire seemed to be coming from all sides along with the swirling smoke, the boom of guns and the crack of rifle fire, the shouts of men and the screams of horses, and the hammering of hooves as riderless chargers sought desperately to rejoin the security of the ranks, weaving and jostling for position in the herd. A panic-stricken grey, dappled with blood, was trampling on its own entrails until it collapsed and somersaulted, squealing in agony.
Harry felt, rather than saw, the upward incline of the ground. A great shout, resounding and clamorous, of exultation or terror, perhaps both, rose from way ahead of them. The front line had seen the guns.
Rachel did at last stop bleeding, but only just in time. Dr Jaynes, on his mettle, told Maria in no uncertain terms that her daughter-in-law might have died.
‘She’s had the narrowest possible escape, and that she escaped at all is a mystery to me. In fact, nothing short of a miracle.’
Maria, who had been scared half to death herself, was accordingly sharp. ‘For an intelligent woman she was very stupid to leave it so late before she sent for you.’
‘It would have made no difference.’ The doctor was matter-offact, he was belatedly beginning to get the measure of Maria. ‘Your new granddaughter was an exceptionally large baby—’
‘Bigger than both my boys!’ Maria sounded both admiring and outraged.
‘—and Rachel is not a young girl. She didn’t begin to haemorrhage until an hour after the birth. The woman who was with her did an excellent job.’
‘She should also not have gone to the harvest home,’ huffed Maria.
‘There really was no reason why not. She assured me that she didn’t dance but only watched. You were there yourself for a while,’ he reminded her gently, ‘and I’m quite sure you wouldn’t have allowed her to endanger the life of your grandchild, or her own.’
‘No, of course not, but I left early. I love to dance,’ she added as if an excuse were required, ‘but widows are not allowed to enjoy themselves.’
‘And I must go.’ The doctor rose. ‘In any event, she will make a full recovery but she must rest. Eat and sleep, sleep and eat, that’s the ticket. I’ll call tomorrow.’
When he’d gone, Maria went up to see Rachel. Her face was as white as the pillow case, like a pencil drawing on the pale linen with only her hair and the shadows around her eyes and mouth to give it definition. Belle lay in her cradle making small popping and grunting sounds, only lightly asleep after the best efforts of the wet nurse. Mrs Bartlemas left the room discreetly. But when Maria sat down next to the bed she was surprised at how fixed and determined a look Rachel gave her.
‘How is Belle?’
‘Attending to her digestion. How are you, my dear? You look better.’
‘Please, Maria – I have looked in the mirror.’
‘I didn’t say that you looked well, but that you looked better.’
Rachel closed her eyes briefly in acknowledgement of this brisk response. ‘Will you write to Harry, and tell him about his niece?’
‘Of course.’
‘I promised I would let him know at once. And everything takes so long ...’
‘Then I shall do so at once. Immediately! Now that I know you, at least, are not going to die.’
Rachel’s pale mouth suggested a smile. ‘I’m sorry to have caused such panic and alarm.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Maria, getting up. Her long fingers brushed Rachel’s as if by accident. ‘And anyway, it was my granddaughter’s fault.’
If the charge was sounded, they did not hear it. But they did not need to, for the Lancers in the front line had broken into a gallop, hurtling headlong for the iron mouths of the Russian battery to escape the tearing fusiliade from either side. Cardigan was obliged to match their pace in order to remain in front and squadron upon squadron followed suit. The charge had begun, spurred on by the tribal shouts of regimental rivalry: ‘Come on, boys! Come on. Deaths! Don’t let the busby-bags get in front!’
The second line breasted the rise and the ground fell away slightly, then levelled out. The horses were flying now – like arrows fired from a bow they were going to hit their target at the peak of their speed and the height of their trajectory. And hit it blind, for the fire continued to come from all sides. Beneath him Harry could sense Clemmie beginning to struggle and strive, overcoming weakness to become a pounding piston-pulse – neck, body, legs grabbing and releasing the ground so fast they barely touched it. The glare and blast of the cannons in front of them knocked over two troopers in their path, hurling them backwards in a screaming tangle of limbs, leather, weaponry and flesh split with glistening scarlet. The front row was gone, annihilated as though i
t had never been.
Clemmie leapt the first casualty and linked like a hare to avoid the second. In response to the cries of ‘Close up! Close the line!’ the ranks parted and came together around the fallen like a stream swirling around driftwood. Ahead of them the battery was a churning wall of smoke, spitting flame. With a bludgeoning impact they were among the guns as the last salvo exploded about them.
Whirling his sword, killing in order to live, Harry heard through the din an eerie howl like a vixen’s, and realised that the cry was his.
Early on the morning of 25 October there had already been two engagements with the enemy, resulting in two British victories. Victories, it had to be said, due more to courage and initiative than to any strategic brilliance, but which the Lights had once again endured the indignity of watching from the sidelines.
The heroic stand of the Highlanders, a display of steadfast bloody-mindedness amounting to sheer bluff, was universally cheered and admired. But then the Scots had a leader whose judgement they trusted, literally, with their lives and whom they would have followed to hell and back. Several of the younger cavalry officers, believing Campbell to be (rightly) of the old guard and (wrongly) a stick in the mud, had now and again ventured to give him the benefit of their opinions, and had returned with a high colour and a flea in their ear. And the small Scots contingent’s disciplined repulse of thousands of Russian cavalry silenced criticism.
But barely an hour later the Lights had been forced to see another chance of glory come, and go. As the Heavies had charged valiantly uphill at enemy cavalry advancing from the northwest the brigade under Cardigan were drawn up at right angles to the action. As the two sides engaged there was the perfect opportunity for a swift, punitive flank attack of the kind the Light Cavalry was designed for. Once again, as at the Alma, Harry had felt that primitive surge of the blood, the leap of expectancy and anticipation that this time surely, surely, they would be given their heads.
But no order came. It appeared that Lord Cardigan had been told to hold his ground and his position, and even the most heaven-sent opportunity – what was universally agreed to be a textbook opening for cavalry – would not tempt him into using his initiative over his orders. The Heavies carried the day with no assistance from the Lights except that of a few undisciplined hotheads who could stand it no longer and broke ranks to join the mêlée.
There followed a regrouping amid an air of celebration. The enemy’s attempt to cut off the army from their supply source at Balaklava had been thwarted. The few had routed the many. Élan and esprit de corps had won the day. The bulldog spirit had prevailed.
The Lights were stood down, and many of them dismounted and were standing chatting and smoking, swapping much-needed food and rum rations in the sun. The horses’ heads swung low, blowing hopefully at the thin stubble of grass.
Harry had undone one button on his jacket and would have taken out the unopened letter from his mother, but at that moment they received a peremptory order – delivered more furiously as it passed down the chain of command from one smarting officer to another – to douse their smokes, abandon their breakfast, mount and fall in.
Their services, it seemed, were required.
* * * * *
Suddenly, they were through, exploding from the mêlée like living roundshot.
As they emerged from the guns he was still yelling, and now they were confronted by a swarming pitched battle, the vanguard of the brigade struggling hand to hand with a huge concourse of Russian cavalry. Gough, slightly ahead of him, thrust his sword into a Russian soldier’s neck to the hilt, but could not withdraw it because his hand was lashed to the hilt by Harry’s handkerchief. The weight of his victim dragged him from the saddle and the blood spouting from the carotid artery sprayed over him as he fell. His horse reared back into Harry’s path and he was obliged to fend it off with his sword, opening its shoulder.
He kept slashing with the sword, round his head, back and forth, all skill and orthodoxy abandoned in an attempt to stay alive. At first he could see no one to rally to in the heaving forest of flesh and steel, but then from his left he heard ‘8th! Close up! To me!’ and saw Colonel Shawcross, his cigar still clamped between his teeth, his face running with blood. Soon a knot of them had formed around Shawcross, facing outward into the maelstrom. Men of both sides snatched at the flying reins of loose horses and scrambled aboard. The butcher, conspicuous in his abattoir smock of white spattered with scarlet, decapitated a Cossack and, lifting the head on the point of his sword, smashed it into the face of an oncoming rider.
A mile and a half away the spectators, looking through their spyglasses and binoculars, witnessed what seemed to be another ghostly lull as the last of the cavalry disappeared into the boiling smoke, and with their disappearance the fusillade from the hills stuttered and ceased.
Mercy Bartlemas put her head round the door.
‘It’s our Ben to see you, mum.’
‘Tell him to come in . . .’
Ben entered the bedroom and stood just inside, uncertain of his ground as Cato went to greet him. ‘Thank you, Mercy.’
‘I’ll wait in the kitchen. All right Ben?’ He nodded, and his sister gave him a sharp warning look as she closed the door. Rachel smiled at him. ‘She’s over here in her cradle. Come and have a look.’
He advanced and looked down. At first it seemed no more than a polite compliance, but then she could see his interest catch alight and he leaned forward, tilting his head to look into the baby’s face.
‘You calling her Belle?’
‘Yes, do you like it?’
‘I don’t mind. But my dad doesn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘He says it sounds like a music hall name.’
‘Well, he’s right in a way. But then I’ve nothing against the halls. I called her Belle because it means beautiful, and she is.’
‘And it makes it sound as if the house belongs to her,’ suggested Ben.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Rachel. ‘It does.’
He peered again. ‘Can I touch her?’
‘You can hold her if you like.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ He pursed his lips. ‘All right.’
He sat on the edge of the bed, gingerly holding the bundle that was Belle, and lowered his head to kiss the tiny fingers of the pink starfish hand that poked from her shawl. Rachel felt tears spring to her eyes because the kiss was so unaffected, a simple, instinctive, animal response.
After a minute he wriggled off the bed and laid the baby back in her cradle.
‘Will you be all right?’ he asked, and she knew at once that it was a farewell.
‘Definitely. I shall be up and about very soon and then you must help me take her for walks.’
‘What could I do?’
‘You could . . .’ for a moment she was lost for words . . . ‘you could keep Cato company.’
This seemed to tell Ben what he wanted to know. He nodded and went to the door.
‘ ’Bye then.’
‘Goodbye, Ben, see you soon.’
When he’d gone she sat up and gazed at Belle, whose life had so nearly taken hers. She knew now that it was not only for Hugo that she loved her daughter, not merely because she was his legacy. She loved Belle because she was her own person, the custodian, like Ben, of the future.
A terrible confusion reigned. Clemmie was flagging now, and fearful that she would collapse in the middle of the carnage Harry used his spurs and the flat of his sword to keep her upright and moving. The ground was treacherous with broken tack, gore, and the bodies and severed limbs of the wounded. Loose horses careered crazily about hampered by flapping reins and hanging saddles, or stood shuddering in their death throes, with broken limbs and tom bellies. One lunged in pitiful circles, its shattered back leg swinging round and round. A man on the ground who had lost both his own legs screamed, ‘Don’t ride over me! For the love of God, don’t ride over me!’ Another was trapped beneath his fallen ch
arger, covering his head against the flying hooves, an easy target for the lancers.
A corporal whom Harry recognised rode alongside, his shattered left arm dangling at his side and shouted chirpily ‘Warm work, sir – honour satisfied?’ before falling from the saddle and being dragged into the belly of the fighting, his foot caught in the stirrup.
They were retreating now, he could hear the cries of ‘Close up!’ and ‘Back, back!’ and see the scattered men of the Lights as they separated from the throng. Harry pulled Clemmie’s head round and spurred her into one last effort back towards the guns.
For a long time all that could be seen from camp was the smoke, drifting up like that of a distant autumn bonfire at the far end of the valley. Betts’s hand, grasping a wisp of dry grass, moved back and forth, back and forth on Derry’s neck as he gazed at the smoke. When the firing from the heights started up again the word got round that the Light Brigade was coming back.
They returned through the scudding smoke into a hail of fire, and the valley floor strewn with dead men and horses. For perhaps a hundred yards they stumbled and dodged their way between these horrific obstacles, no longer noticing the torn limbs, the cries for help and mercy, the outstretched hands and convulsing bodies. The barrage of roundshot, grapeshot, shells and musketry was even deadlier to them in their depleted condition, without the solid formations of the regiments around them.
Another hundred yards, and now Harry could see the zouaves, the French Chasseurs d’Afrique, engaging the enemy on his right flank. Safety and survival seemed suddenly within his grasp. Then from nowhere came a blow that rocked them both, so violent that he couldn’t tell whether it was he or Clemmie who had been hit. The mare leapt forward like a cat, bolting uncontrollably towards the mouth of a narrow defile at the foot of the Woronzov escarpment, the gulley lined with a tangle of dark scrub. He couldn’t control her but she baulked at the scrub and wheeled sharply, heading back the way they’d come. Harry leaned forward, clutching at her cheek strap, hoping to turn her head by main force. But now he could feel the unevenness of her stride, and at the same moment that her legs gave way beneath her he felt a hot, wet explosion of pain that propelled him into darkness.
The Grass Memorial Page 59
