Chapter XXXIV: A Night on the Battlefield

When Jack found himself once more out of danger, and the excitement of that terrible charge had died away, he became aware of a feeling of absolute weakness and helplessness, while his mouth and throat were so parched and dry that he felt he could not have spoken a word to save his life.

Many officers came crowding round shaking hands with him and Barrymore, congratulating them on their escape, and lauding their gallantry in standing by and rescuing their officer in face of the terrible odds they had to contend with.

A doctor and two assistants came up and took the insensible Captain Norreys in hand, while many questions were poured on Jack and the sergeant.

They had answered a few questions; and just then a French General came up, and, pointing to Captain Norreys, said, ‘Your officer, comrades?’

Jack and Barrymore, saluting, said he was.

‘And you, _sous officiers_,’ he said, ‘I saw you bring him from under fire. Ah, _mes braves_, if you were French I would make you officers on the spot.’ He was the same officer who on seeing the charge exclaimed, ‘It is splendid, but it is not war!’

A little revived, Jack and Barrymore walked on to the crest of the hill on which the remnants of the Light Brigade were forming up. The flutter of lance-pennons showed where Jack’s regiment was, and the two battle-weary soldiers walked towards them. Jack counted the survivors, officers and men, under thirty! The 13th Light Dragoons were barely a dozen, and the remains of all five regiments numbered but little over a hundred men. Many of these were bareheaded and blood-stained; all had a strained, far-away look in their eyes which told of the terrible ordeal through which they had passed.[6]

Jack gazed along the faces of the men of his own regiment; but none of his particular friends were there. Captain Norreys, Cornet Leland, Linham, Brandon, Pearson, Williams, Hodson--all, all gone.

Jack turned his eyes down the hill. One or two weary, wounded stragglers were seen coming up--a man of the 11th Hussars, his head bound up, leaning round the neck of a Light Dragoon; two men of the 8th, half-carrying a trumpeter between them. Jack strained his eyes; it was not Larry, neither did he see his Irish friend with his regiment.

He felt his hand grasped, and, turning, saw Will, his arm bound round with a blood-stained bandage. He had just come from having his wound dressed.

‘Will, Will,’ cried Jack, ‘where are our comrades--where is the old regiment?’

‘Gone, Jack. All gone,’ half-sobbed Will; and at those words Jack’s fortitude gave way and the tears rolled down his weather-beaten face. ‘It can’t be helped Jack,’ said Will. ‘It’s been a horrible blunder; but at least we’ve done our duty. You’re wounded though. Look at your cap.’

Jack removed his battered lance-cap, and found it had a bullet-hole through it, and that a sabre had cut the square top right down to the plate in front, inflicting a slight wound on his head, of which he was quite unaware. He had a graze from a bullet on his left shoulder, the right leg of his overalls had been ripped open by a lance or sword, exposing the flesh, and there were several rents in his uniform.

‘I’m all right, Will,’ he said; ‘just tie my handkerchief round my shoulder till we are dismissed.’

Presently the roll was called, and thirty-five of the 17th answered to their names, every man, when the name of a missing comrade was called, giving what information he could as to when he had last seen his chum. Several men spoke to having seen poor Brandon’s head literally blown to pieces. Pearson had been seen returning down the valley unhorsed, and fighting with five Russians. Cornet Leland had been seen for the last time amongst the cavalry in rear of the guns; but none knew what had happened to Sergeant Linham, he seemed to have disappeared about the time when Jack’s horse had been killed.

While the roll was being called and the farriers were busy with their pistols despatching the wounded horses, Lord Cardigan rode up to the remnants of the brigade. His face wore a sorrowful expression.

‘Men,’ he said, ‘it was a mad-brained trick; but it was no fault of mine.’

The charge of the Light Brigade lasted but twenty minutes, and it was barely noon when the survivors formed up on the hill overlooking the valley.

Firing went on till four o’clock, but nothing else was attempted by the Allies. The cavalry retired some distance from the site of their old camp, and the field remained in possession of the enemy.

In the evening, as the survivors struggled to light fires to cook their rations, an ominous silence reigned.

They had just taken part in the most brilliant cavalry charge in modern warfare. Every survivor, so long as he should live, would be looked upon as a hero; but there was no elation. Every one was thinking of friends and comrades, sometimes brothers, lying cold and stiff out in that Valley of Death. It would be a terrible day for those left behind in England!

Presently the men sought their tents; but few of them could sleep. Of those who had occupied Jack’s tent he was the only one left. Linham, Brandon, Pearson, Williams--all were gone. He asked Will to share his tent with him, and they both turned in. Presently Jack, who had been trying to get to sleep, jumped up.

‘Hallo!’ said Will,’can’t you sleep? Nor can I.’

‘My mind keeps running on our comrades. I can’t get it out of my head that they may be out there on the field, perhaps dying for the want of a drink of water.’

‘I feel the same,’ said Will. ‘Are you game to come with me and see if we can find any one alive?’

‘Anything, to keep myself from thinking.’

‘Come on then.’

The two donned their forage-caps, and each taking a pistol and their water-bottles, in which they had some spirits-and-water, they started.

They made their way to the north valley, easily passing the picket. They reached the spot from whence the Light Brigade had started, and kept along till presently they came to the place where Nolan had been killed. His dead body still lay where it had fallen.

Some distance farther along they came to several dead horses; then men, all in the blue and white of their own regiment or the 13th Light Dragoons, either stretched out as though asleep, or lying in curiously huddled-up positions. Some of their comrades they recognised; in others, the nature of their wounds was such as to render this impossible. All were dead, however.

As they proceeded farther the pale moonbeams showed some Hussars. Among them they came to a poor fellow of the 11th with one leg crushed, who from time to time moaned in agony. This man they were able to make more comfortable, and gave him a drink, for which he blessed them.

They were moving farther along when they saw at a little distance from them another figure, crouching low as though to avoid detection. In an instant Will cocked his pistol.

‘Some murdering wretch robbing the wounded,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll put an end to his game.’

He was about to pull the trigger when Jack seized his arm. ‘Don’t fire,’ he said, ‘the Russians are in possession of the field and must be close to us. We shall bring them down on us. We are two to one; pick up one of these swords lying about and let us tackle him.’

They did so, and advanced towards the man, who as quickly retreated. As he did so Jack saw that the man was a soldier, and he seemed to be wearing a scarlet tunic.

‘He can’t be a Russian, Will,’ he said; ‘none of them wear scarlet.’

Then, raising his voice, he cried, ‘Hi there, who are you?’

The man in front, halted and turned round, when Jack and Will, getting nearer, to their surprise saw he was a British Dragoon.

‘Who are you, and what are you doing here?’ asked Jack.

‘I might as well ask you that,’ replied the Dragoon, recognising the uniform of the 17th; ‘but I’m Denis O’Callaghan of the Inniskillings, and I’m looking for my cousin Larry. He’s in the 8th Hussars, and I’m told he’s not with his regiment, so I could not rest till I tried to find the poor bhoy’s body.’

‘He is one of my best friends,’ said Jack; ‘I’m here as much to find him as anybody.’

Together, then, the three searched, and presently they came across several Hussars in blue and yellow. One was lying on his face, and in an instant Jack saw the gold chevrons of a sergeant glittering faintly in the moonlight. There was a trumpet on his back too, and Jack’s heart grew heavy as he saw it.

Gently he stepped up to the body and turned it over. Larry’s well-known features were exposed. Jack dropped on his knees and raised his friend’s head; his face was white as marble. He felt under the laced jacket; all was cold and still and silent, the faithful heart had ceased to beat. Tears, of which Jack was not ashamed, dropped on poor Larry’s face.

‘True comrade, faithful heart,’ Jack murmured, ‘God has willed that you shall never be trumpet-major of the 8th; but you have gone to join that nobler army in the ranks of which we must all sooner or later answer to our names.’

‘Ochone, ochone!’ wailed the big Dragoon; ‘shure this will be a sad day for ould Con O’Callaghan. Larry was the apple of his eye, his favourite son, who followed in the ould man’s footsteps. Wirra, wirra, Larry darlint, spake to me!’

‘Hush, comrade!’ said Jack; ‘poor Larry will never speak again!’

He had been killed by the splinter of a shell, and death must have been instantaneous, for the poor lad’s face still wore a kind of triumphant smile. They straightened his limbs, sheathed the sword still attached by the sword-knot to his wrist, and placed his trumpet and bugle on his breast. The Dragoon knelt beside his dead cousin in prayer for a minute, and Jack and Will stood bareheaded.

Suddenly a faint scream broke on the night air, and Jack, looking behind him, saw a dark figure bending over a dead or wounded man. As he gazed he saw a gleam of steel, and in an instant, being suspicious, darted towards the spot. As he did so a tall, thin figure in a long, dark sort of gown darted away. Jack followed him, Will coming on behind.

The man, who carried a little sack, ran swiftly, and the two Lancers chased him for some distance down towards the Russian lines before they overtook him. They then saw he was a hook-nosed villain with a long black beard, and Jack immediately grappled him.

The fellow drew a knife and tried to stab Jack; but the latter seized his wrist and held it. Will coming up, they got the man on the ground, and, overpowering him, proceeded to bind him with the bridle of a dead horse. This done, they examined the bag he was carrying, and saw it was filled with gold epaulets, watches, rings, money, medals, even chevrons and sword-knots.

‘The scoundrelly villain,’ cried Jack; ‘he’s been robbing the dead and wounded!’

‘If nothing worse,’ said Will. ‘Look at this!’ and he held up the knife which he had wrested from him. There was a dark, sticky fluid on the blade.

Jack shuddered. ‘Blood,’ he said; ‘that accounts for the scream we heard.’

‘What shall we do with him?’ asked Will.

‘Haul him back prisoner,’ replied Jack.

‘Blow his brains out,’ said Will. ‘Why be troubled with such a reptile?’

They were standing irresolute, when suddenly Jack cried, ‘By Jove, look there!’

Close behind them a number of men, some carrying lanterns, had crept up, and several with rifles in their hands were advancing rapidly towards the two Lancers.

‘Russians,’ said Jack. ‘We’re in a fix!’

‘We must run,’ said Will.

They started to do so, when _bang! bang!_ two reports rang out and two balls whizzed past them.

‘Let’s fall as though killed,’ said Jack; ‘perhaps they won’t trouble anything more about us.’

They did as Jack suggested, and lay still for a second. But rapid footsteps approaching, they felt themselves seized, and looking up saw the flat faces and dark-gray coats of several Russians.

They were prisoners!

For a few moments Jack half-expected to be immediately despatched, for ominous tales about the treatment of wounded and prisoners by the Russians had found their way to the camp of the Allies. Instead, he and Will were raised to their feet, and on the group with the lanterns approaching Jack saw, to his surprise, several officers of high rank.

One, a handsome man with a white moustache, on whose breast several orders glittered, spoke sharply to his companions, some of whom spoke in reply. Then the scoundrel whom the Lancers had bound was discovered, on which the Russian officers spoke rapidly together.

Then a couple of soldiers came and felt over Jack’s and Will’s uniforms, as though to find out whether they had any ill-gotten gains concealed about their persons.

The action was so significant that Jack cried out, ‘Good Heavens, they can’t think we’ve anything to do with that vile wretch! Can’t they see by our uniforms we’re English soldiers?’

‘If you are,’ said a voice in excellent English, ‘why are you prowling about on the battlefield? Do you not know you are liable to be shot as spies?’

Jack turned in surprise and saw he was addressed by an officer in a handsome uniform of green and silver.

‘You cannot mistake us for spies, sir,’ he said respectfully, ‘seeing we are in uniform.’

The white-moustached officer now spoke, and the officer in green said, ‘General Liprandi wants to know at once who you are, and what you are doing here?’

‘We are English Lancers, and we came to see if we could succour any of our wounded comrades.’

‘You are both very young.’

‘We are trumpeters.’

‘And what is this man?’

Jack related what had happened; and on the officer translating to the General, he gave a curt command; when two of the soldiers, despite the screams of the wretch, knelt the fellow up, levelled their muskets at him, and shot him dead.

‘Sharp work,’ said Will, shuddering, ‘but served the scoundrel right.’

That being finished, the officer, translating for General Liprandi, said, ‘Do you belong to one of the regiments which charged down the valley this morning?’

Jack replied that they did, and that they were both in the charge.

General Liprandi took a lantern and held it up to their faces; then noticing the skull and cross-bones on the buttons of their jackets, asked, through his interpreter, how they came to have such a badge. On Jack replying, the General, with a small penknife, cut two of the buttons from his jacket and put them in his pocket. He then asked, ‘Were not all your men and officers drunk when they charged this morning?’

‘On the contrary,’ replied Jack, ‘none of them had even broken their fast.’

This the General did not seem inclined to believe, when, an idea striking Jack, he said, ‘If you like to look in the haversacks of any of my dead countrymen you will doubtless find their day’s rations untouched!’

This was done, and the General actually inspected the food found in the haversack of a dead Hussar.

Various other questions as to the number of troops the English had, what they thought of the action of the day, and so on, were put to Jack and Will, none of which they would answer. They were then asked if they could prove they had only ventured on the field of battle in search of wounded comrades, and Jack replied that if the Russians would return a little way along the valley with him he would show them the body of a comrade whom they had decently laid out.

To Jack’s surprise he was told to lead the way, the Russians following him. When they came to the place where poor Larry lay, the trumpeters were alarmed to see the Dragoon still kneeling, as though in prayer, beside the body of his cousin.

Jack expected every instant he too would be made a prisoner; but on a sharp word from General Liprandi, the officers removed their headdresses and stood still till the poor pious Irishman, looking up, saw to his intense astonishment the group of Russians, with Jack and Will prisoners among them. He jumped to his feet, when the English-speaking officer said, ‘Do not be afraid; we shall not hurt you. And you two,’ turning to Jack and Will, ‘are free. The General says you may return to your camp and do not trouble any more about your wounded. It is for this very reason these men you see about are on the field. He bids me tell you that the Russians are Christians as well as the English, and that what the English doctors did for the Russian wounded after the battle of the Alma our doctors will do for your wounded after our victory of Balaclava.’ The words ‘victory of Balaclava’ rankled in Jack’s mind. True, the Russians had possession of the field, and had even captured a few English guns; but not once had they stood before the English, who had proved their superiority in the field and driven the Russians before them.

However, that was no moment for arguing, and, thankful to regain his liberty, he asked permission to take the dead body of Larry with them. This being granted, they departed towards their own lines.

Confident that any of their wounded comrades would be well treated did they fall into the hands of General Liprandi, Denis O’Callaghan returned with Jack and Will, and they reached their lines just as word had been given to move the camp half a mile farther back.

They then wrapped poor Larry in the cloak of a dead Lancer, and Denis sat beside the body till daylight, while Jack, at last worn out with the exertions of the past day and night, lay down and slept almost as soundly as his dead friend.

Williams, who had been wounded in the charge, had managed to crawl back to the English lines during the night, and was then in hospital. The next day the remnants of the light cavalry brigade were moved still farther up the valley.

During the day, the Russians, elated with a rose-coloured account of the battle of Balaclava, made a determined attack upon the Second Division; but the English outlying pickets met them bravely and held them in check till reinforcements came up, when the able commander of the division so handled his men that he drew the enemy on till he had got him within his grasp, and then completely crushed him with his artillery, killing and wounding about five hundred.

Poor Larry was laid to rest with military honours. Jack cut the gold chevrons from his jacket to keep in remembrance of him, and Denis O’Callaghan, with the permission of Larry’s colonel, had his bugle, which he intended to send to Larry’s father. The trumpeters of his own and Jack’s regiment, only five in all, attended and sounded the ‘last post’ over the grave in which he was laid, his only covering being the old Lancer cloak in which Jack had wrapped him. During the ceremony, Jerry, the regimental dog of the 8th Hussars, sat looking as if he understood it all, giving an occasional whine, and following the men of the 8th when they turned away from the grave.

Two days later the camp was again shifted to a pretty spot up among the hills on the road from Balaclava, close to the rear of the French centre on the Sapoune Ridge.

The depression in the Light Brigade caused by their terrible losses began to wear off, and the men were pretty busy doing orderly and escort duty.

Jack’s share in the great fight was brought under notice of Captain Morgan, then in command, Captain Wintle having been killed and Captain Norreys in hospital. He was the only soldier who had taken part in both charges, and earned more celebrity than his modesty appreciated.

Sergeant Barrymore, who was promoted to sergeant-major after the charge, said on several occasions, ‘Captain Norreys took the old regiment into action; but if any one can be said to have brought out what remained of it, that man was Jack Blair. He is, so far as “Ours” is concerned, the hero of Balaclava.’ The men fully agreeing, Jack got the nickname of ‘Blair of Balaclava.’

Being then old enough, acting on the advice of Captain Norreys, who in spite of his terrible hurts was in a fair way of recovery, Jack transferred to the ranks, resigning his place as trumpeter. In fact there was small need for a trumpeter at all with the handful of men who were left, and Will was quite able to do all the duty required. Jack on transfer received promotion, and found himself in orders as sergeant, probably the youngest sergeant in the Crimea.

During the next few days the pickets and vedettes, keeping an ever watchful eye on the enemy, noticed that enormous reinforcements reached the Russians, and it was evident that the Czar, probably enraged at the idea of a mere handful of hardy soldiers invading his territories and sitting down before his fortress of Sebastopol, had determined to use all the resources of his mighty empire to sweep the arrogant invaders into the sea.

Thousands upon thousands of men, horse, foot, and artillery, were poured into Sebastopol, whole divisions at a time, and to the badly fed, ragged, and overworked heroes in the allied camps it became evident that soon, very soon, they would have to wage grim battle against their enemy for their very existence.