Chapter LII: Patching Up

As soon as matters settled down, Colonel Carron rode over at once for news of his boy, He knew he must have been in that brilliant madness, about which every tongue in the camps was wagging, and he feared he had seen the last of him.

He had some difficulty in finding what was left of the Light Brigade, for the Russians still held the lowlands in force. They had, in fact, drawn a cordon round the allied forces and were, to an extent, besieging the besiegers, and the cavalry camps had to be moved up on to the plateau.

But he came at last on the handful of laxed and weary men, lying about their new quarter's, some fast asleep with their faces in their arms, while willing hands did all their necessary work for them, and every man of them still bore in him the very visible effects of that most dreadful experience.

He almost feared to ask for Jim, lest it should kill his last spark of hope.

"You had a terrible time," he said, to one on his knees by a big brown horse, which stood there with an occasional shiver as he applied healing ointment to its many wounds. "The whole world will ring with it."

"Alt blamed foolishness, sir," growled the man--who had lost his own horse and most of his chums in the foolishness, and so was in a mighty bad humour--and lifted a casual sticky finger in recognition of the Colonel's brilliant uniform.

"I'm afraid it was, but you did it nobly. Can you tell me anything of Cornet Carron? Was he in it?"

"In it and out of it, sir, thanks be! He's too good a sort to lose. He's inside there. This is his horse I'm patching up, 'cos he wouldn't lie quiet till I done it." And the Colonel dived into the tent with a grateful heart, and found Jim fast asleep on a hastily made couch. His wounds had been bound up, and there were even mottled white streaks on his face where a hasty sponge had made an attempt to clean it. But he was sleeping soundly, and it was the very best medicine he could have.

The Colonel went quietly out again to wait. He gave the horse-mender a very fine cigar, and lit it for him along with his own.

"Bully!" said the man. "Best thing I've tasted since I left Chelsea."

"Your losses must be very heavy."

"Under two hundred at roll-call, sir, and we went in over six."

"Awful!"

"Set of ---- fools we were, sir; but we showed 'em what was in us, an' now mebbe they won't talk about us any more as they have bin doen."

"They'll talk about you to the end of time," said the Colonel heartily.

"That's all right, sir. That's a different kind of talk."

"We knowed it was all a mistake," he went on, with his head on one side, as he laid on artistic patches of ointment; "but we'd bin aching for a slap at the beggars, just to put a stopper on the mouth-wagglers nearer home. And we _did_ slap 'em too, by----!"--and he lost himself for a moment in admiring contemplation of their prowess. "But they're vermin, them Roosians! Shot down their own men when we got all mixed up with 'em coming home, so they say."

"Yes, they did that. We saw it all from the heights."

"Well, that's not what I call right, sir."

"It was barbarous and damnable. No civilised nation would do such a thing."

"That's it, sir--barbarous and damnable and no civilised nation would do such a thing." And he said it over and over to himself, and gained considerable éclat by the use of it in discussion with his fellows later on.

"Jackson!" said a drowsy voice inside the tent. "How's Bob? And what the deuce are you preaching about?" And the brown horse gave a whuffle at sound of the voice.

"That's it. Thinks more of his hoss than he does of himself," said Jackson, with a wink at the Colonel. "Bob's patching up fine, sir. He's a good bit ripped up, but no balls gone in, s'far as I can see. He'll be ready for you, sir, by time you're ready for him, I should say. Gentleman called to see you, sir."

"My dear lad," said the Colonel, sitting down by his side on a stained-red saddle. "I am grateful for the sight of you. We doubted if one of you would come back alive."

"I don't know that we expected to, sir. But we hadn't time to think about it."

"Whose mistake was it? Lucan's?"

"I don't think so, sir," he said thoughtfully, as he strove to recall it all. "I remember the look that came on his face when Nolan brought him the order. . . . I think both he and Cardigan knew there was something wrong. But Nolan was hot to have us go----"

"Is it true that he and Lucan were not on good terms?"

"I don't know anything about that, sir. There's so much talk. He's dead, anyway. His horse came galloping back with him still in the saddle and all his chest ripped open. It was horrid."

"He had no earthly right to go with you. There was some strong talk about it up there. A brave fellow, from all accounts, but hot-headed. . . . I'm going to take you to my quarters, my boy. We want you on your legs again as soon as possible."

"All right, sir. I don't think it's much. A rip or two here and there and some bullet-grazes. And the doctor's patched me up nicely."

"It's a wonder there's anything left to patch."

"You'll bring old Bob along too?"

"Oh yes, we'll take you both together. I'm glad it's in life you're not to be divided, not in death."

"He went like a bird," said Jim. And then, as the recollection of it all came back on him--the belching guns, the hairy brown gunner, the venomous Lancers, George Herapath,--"My God!" he said softly; "I wonder we ever got back at all."