A Gallant Grenadier: A Tale of the Crimean War

Once more returning to the post-road, Phil and Tony rode along it quietly, only the jangle of their Cossack swords breaking the silence. Three hours later a line of watch-fires in the distance told them that they were approaching the Russian field-army, and warned them to find some safe hiding-place.

“They are seven or eight miles away at least,” said Tony, “and we are lucky to have spotted them so soon.”

“Yes, Tony, we are,” Phil remarked thoughtfully. “We are still more lucky, for this side they will have only a few pickets and outposts, and we must be far outside their circle. Also they will not be expecting anything. I fancy our best course will be to ride to our left, keeping the lights at the same distance as now. Then we will choose some sort of a shelter, on high ground if possible, so that to-morrow we can see what direction to take. Once past those troops, Tony, and safely through the scouts who are certain to be watching our fellows, we shall be back in the British camp.”

“Safe in the British camp. Yes,” echoed Tony, “and I hopes stowing away the first decent feed for many a long day now. Coffee and bread’s all right, but my strength is just going for the want of meat.”

More than two hours later, and just before the dawn broke, they rode their ponies into a big vineyard situated on the slope of a hill which seemed to command the camp.

Daylight discovered a splendid panorama spread out before them, for they had been unconsciously but steadily ascending all night, and now were at such an elevation that they could see, beyond the Chersonese heights, Sebastopol in the far-off distance, merged in a haze of sea and land, and only distinguishable by the whiteness of its masonry; while directly beneath them, as it seemed, lay the Russian camp, seething with horses and troops, which were very soon to try the fortunes of war with their adversaries.

To the right of the Chersonese heights another line of rugged hills stretched as far as the river Tchernaya, which could be seen winding here and there, and flashing back the sun. Along these heights ran the Woronzoff road, branching off before it reached the river, and, running parallel and at some distance from it, deflected by other heights, known as the Kamara. To the right of these was a deep valley, the ever-memorable “Valley of the Shadow of Death”, opposite which, by straining their eyes and shading them with their hands, the broad folds of the grand flag of England could be distinguished flaunting in the breeze, even at that distance, so clear was the atmosphere.

Phil pointed it out to Tony.

“That’s the place for us,” he said shortly, “and we must manage to get into that valley. After that all will be plain sailing. But it’s a big job. I fancy I can make out earthworks along that road you see upon the heights, and, if I am not mistaken, there is a large camp to the right, resting by a collection of houses close to the river.”

Tony followed the direction of Phil’s finger, and gazed long and earnestly.

“It’s a camp, Phil,” he agreed, “and I suppose it ain’t likely to lie British. Tothers is earthworks, I think, and manned with guns, or I’m a wrong ’un. Look! you can see one against the sky-line. If they are our batteries, all the better. But in any case I am for steering clear of them, and cutting into the valley.”

“Yes, I think so too, Tony; and now, how to get there. We are well to the left of the Russian camp below us. By keeping still more so, we ought to reach that big clump of houses and vineyards you see over there before the morning, and next time the night falls I hope we shall be able to answer an English challenge.”

Had they but known it, Phil and Tony were to meet with more than one adventure before the well-known “Halt! Who goes there?” struck upon their ears, for this was the 23rd of October, and on the 25th that small camp down by the river Tchernaya was to be swollen by the emptying of the one directly below them, and the Russians were to try conclusions with the Allies.

It was destined to be a brilliant spectacle, and brimful of gallant deeds – one more striking than all the rest, and to find a lasting place in the history of our race, a deed of dare-devilry and sheer disregard of life and limb which Phil and Tony were never to forget, and the honour of their having taken part in it will ever be cherished by their descendants.

Having made a thorough survey of the scene below them, Phil and his friend removed the saddles and bridles from their ponies, and replaced the latter with a halter attached to the saddle. Then, finding a stream near at hand, Tony watered them and led them back to the vineyard, where he secured them in a part completely obscured from view. Meanwhile Phil crept out to a shed at the end of the vines, and returned with a large armful of hay. That done they ate some of their bread and meat, and, flinging themselves down in the shadow of the vines, were soon fast asleep.

The sun was low down in the heavens and fast sinking when Phil awoke, and, rubbing his eyes, kicked Tony playfully.

“Up you get, old chap,” he cried cheerfully. “We’ll have a meal, and then make for that clump of trees. Let us have one more good look at it before the night falls. See! by striking a little to the left we shall get into that narrow valley, and by keeping to it shall be going directly for our goal.”

Tony sprang to his feet, and, thrusting his stout stick through his belt, joined Phil in an open spot, from which, unseen, they could look down towards Sebastopol.

A curious figure he was too – more like a scarecrow than a British soldier. A short stubbly beard covered his chin, while a flaming red handkerchief was tied round his head in place of his bearskin, lost long ago now at the Alma. His red tunic was tattered and stained with mud, and his trousers hung in rags round his boots.

As for Phil, he was in no better plight; but still, strange to say, he looked spruce and neat beside his rough companion, the short fair down upon his cheeks scarcely showing, and contrasting most favourably with Tony’s spiky beard.

“Right again, young ’un!” agreed the latter, evidently in the highest spirits. “We’ll lie up over there to-night, and then make a dash for it. That sleep has just put new life into me, and now I’m ready for anything; and I tell yer, Phil, it’s got to be five to one afore I gives in to the Russians. Let’s have a look at this here toothpick;” and he dragged his sword, a heavy cavalry sabre, from its sheath. “Sharp as a razor,” he remarked, with a grim smile, feeling the edge. “All the better. It’s got plenty of weight too, and once I wants to use it, blest if I don’t make it cut clean through the head of one of our Cossack friends.”

He swished the sword round in the air, narrowly missing Phil in his eagerness. Then, thrusting it back into the sheath, he stalked across to the ponies and commenced to saddle up.

That night they reached the vineyard close against the heights bearing the Woronzoff road, and in it they passed the following day, devouring an abundance of grapes, which were perfectly ripe, and served to keep off the pangs of hunger, now that their bread and meat had disappeared.

When darkness fell again they were fully prepared for the last dash. A nek between two stunted hills forming the ridge of heights had been chosen, and through this they were to ride into the valley, and from there into the British camp. Crowning the heights they could discern three batteries, but no flag flew above them, though the fact that the guns, which were now clearly distinguishable, were turned towards the opposite Kamara heights, in occupation by the Russians, pointed conclusively to the fact that they were manned by the Allies.

“They are our batteries undoubtedly,” said Phil when discussing the question with his friend, “but for all that, I propose we slip between them, and make for our own camp. They may be occupied by the French or Turks, and as we could not answer their challenge, and our speech is as likely to be taken for Russian as for English, we should run a great chance of being shot or bayoneted before they discovered which side we belonged to. No, decidedly, I am for slipping through.”

Tony expressed his approval, and indeed it was the wisest course to take, for as it turned out the batteries were manned by Turks, who, on the following day, were to defend them valiantly, and the majority of whom were to lose their lives in doing so.

At last the moment for setting forth arrived, and the state of excitement into which Phil and Tony had worked themselves may be imagined. This was the last struggle for freedom, the trump card upon which their fortunes depended. If they failed to pass unnoticed through the ground intervening between themselves and the batteries no doubt a hoard of Cossack scouts would be quickly on their track, like vultures on their prey, for the waning light had shown numbers of these shaggy horsemen dotting the plain below. Still, the risk was no greater than that which they had already run, and, buoyed with the hope of liberty on the morrow, and, as Tony did not forget to mention again, a substantial meal for the first time for many a long day, they vaulted into their saddles and commenced to ride from the vineyard.

“Hark! What is that?” asked Phil suddenly, in a subdued tone of alarm. “I am certain I heard something over there;” and he pointed towards the Kamara heights.

Both listened intently, and distinctly heard the rumble of distant wheels, and a dull, heavy sound as though of a large force of men approaching.

“Back for our lives!” cried Phil excitedly. “It must be the Russian troops coming this way. We must watch them, Tony.”

“Ay, it’s the enemy right enough,” muttered Tony angrily. “Phil, them chaps is always coming up against us and spoiling our fun. First they stopped us from carrying that colour back, and then blest if a Cossack cove didn’t try for to keep us when we was bolting from the camp. He paid for that, he did, and I expect he’ll be more careful in the future. Then them drunken swabs turned us out of what was house and home, if yer can call an old rickety carriage such. Law! what a jolly time we give them too! And now they are after us again, the brutes!” and with a grunt of disgust Tony dragged the club from his belt, silently determining to fight the whole Russian army, if need be, and to help his comrade back to liberty.

“Hush! Can’t you keep quiet?” whispered Phil sharply. “Follow me through the vineyard. The road runs close beside the farther end, and we must hide there and watch.”

Somewhat abashed, Tony followed, and soon both were crouching within, a few yards of the road. A few minutes later a front guard of Cossacks passed like so many silent ghosts. Then field-guns and ammunition-wagons rumbled by, followed by battalions of infantry, and by regiments of Cossack horse. It was an impressive sight, especially when the Russian horsemen filed by, for in front of each regiment rode the commander, superbly mounted, and chanting a song, while behind him came other horsemen, clashing cymbals, to the accompaniment of which the whole regiment took up the refrain, and sang with voices far more melodious than could be expected from rough soldiers.

“There is some big movement on,” whispered Phil, “and I fear our difficulties in getting through will be vastly increased. Still, I am for trying to-night. To-morrow we might be hunted out of this. What do you say to our joining the stragglers, who are certain to follow the main body? The night is too dark for them to recognise us except when close at hand.”

“Seems to me a likely way out of the fix,” agreed Tony, after a moment’s consideration. “There won’t be many of them, and if one happens to spot us, why – it’ll be his own fault, Phil. Yes, we’ll follow, and by keeping reasonably near we shall see where these fellows bivouac, and have a better chance of slipping through.”

Accordingly they waited till the army had got a quarter of a mile away, and then fell in behind. Occasionally stragglers passed them, and once a squadron of horsemen galloped by; but, taking the two solitary figures for scouts, they swept on without a word. An hour later they were beyond the Russian camp and ascending the nek. No one seemed to be about, and they were not challenged. Once over the summit they turned abruptly to the left, and rode down into the valley, keeping close to the heights. But here again another difficulty faced them. Watch-fires twinkled in every direction, some undoubtedly being Russian, and, fearful of falling into the enemy’s hands, or what would perhaps be equally bad, stumbling against a French or Turkish outpost, and being shot before an explanation could be given, they once more selected a vineyard and bivouacked there till the day broke, hoping to be able then to make a dash for the British camp.

Chapter Fifteen.

Balaclava

The dawn of October 25th broke dull and chill. Banks of fog hung over the heights, and the “Valley of the Shadow of Death” lay hidden in mist, as if cloaked already with a funeral pall. Blades of grass and leaves drooped with the added weight of the moisture, and Phil and Tony, crouching in their vineyard, shivered and longed for the sun to rise and bring warmth and cheerfulness.

A gentle breeze was blowing, and, freshening, it soon cleared the fog away, while the mist in the valley disappeared mysteriously a little later. It had scarcely done so when the boom of guns on the Russian side of the heights which the two friends had crossed during the night broke on their ears, while flashes from four points on the summit, and still louder reports, showed that the Turkish batteries, between which they had passed, were hotly engaged.

Situated as they were, close to the end of the Causeway heights, along which ran the Woronzoff road, Phil and his friend were in an excellent position to view a large portion of the historical battle which was now commencing. Facing across the valley, with the Chersonese height on their left, they looked towards the river Tchernaya, and a group of low hills, known as the Fedioukine heights, already manned by Russian guns and infantry. And now they gazed upon a wonderful sight. A Russian army of 25,000 infantry, 34 squadrons of cavalry, and 78 guns was commencing its march, intending to cross the Causeway heights, descend into the valley south of that ridge, and capture the harbour of Balaclava and all our stores of food and military equipment. And between them and their goal were interposed 4 Turkish batteries with 9 guns in all, the foremost being two miles in advance of its nearest infantry support, which consisted of some 500 of the 93rd Highlanders under command of the famous Sir Colin Campbell, a few Turks, and a battery of horse artillery. In addition, some 600 horsemen, belonging to Scarlett’s Heavy Brigade, lay in the valley south of the Causeway heights, while 600 sabres, composing the Light Brigade, sat on their horses at the opening of the Tchernaya valley – the valley now better known as that of the Shadow of Death, and within a short mile of Phil and Tony.

“What can be happening?” asked Phil, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. “The guns we hear must be those belonging to the army that marched past us last night, and the cavalry are certainly the same who sang while they filed by in the darkness. What does it all mean, Tony? There must be some huge movement afoot, for I have never seen so many men marching together, save when the Allies advanced on the Alma.”

“And now it’s the Russians advancing towards the camp of the Allies,” Tony answered thoughtfully. “What’s their game? you’re asking, Phil. Why shouldn’t it be Balaclava? The harbour is just chock-full of British shipping, and, if that was captured, where should we be without our stores of grub and ammunition? Nowhere. That’s their plan, I can tell you. Depend upon it, that is what they’re up to; but you’ll see how it will end. I give them a couple of hours to play about in, and after that our chaps will drive ’em off the field.”

“Then I hope we shall have a chance of joining friends soon, Tony, for to be compelled to sit here and watch the battle would be harder luck than we bargained for. But look at the Russian army. What a grand sight it makes!”

And indeed the greatest enemy of Russia, with mind morbidly awry with jealousy and dislike, could not look upon that advancing army and fail to admire.

Steadily, and with a swing which told of long practice in marching, the infantry advanced in thick columns, rifles at the slope and caps well set back upon their heads. And between them and on either flank rumbled heavy cannon, the drivers holding in their horses as yet, while they turned eager eyes to the left to watch their more fortunate companions who at the moment were engaging the Turkish redoubts. Beyond the guns, and away in front of all, rode the huge force of cavalry, squadron upon squadron, riding knee to knee and listening to the music of the guns and the jingle of their own equipment.

Amidst the cavalry the flash of polished brass would occasionally be seen, while sometimes, as the squadrons moved apart for the moment, a battery of small field-guns came to view, the bright metal sparkling in the sun. But though a casual glance might suggest the idea that these were merely toys, given to the cavalry to play with, yet the day was not to pass before the men who manned these tiny field-guns were to show that, protected by horsemen and capable of an extremely rapid advance and retreat, these same batteries became a formidable item when fired at moderately-close range.

“Yes, they make a very fine sight,” Phil admitted, to himself again, “and I only wish I thought that we could beat them as easily as Tony suggests. I wonder what our troops are doing!”

Turning his eyes to the left he swept them along the Chersonese heights, and saw a long line of infantry there hurrying towards Balaclava, while on an eminence to the left a brilliantly-dressed group suddenly appeared, and, lifting telescopes, fixed them upon the Russians. It was Lord Raglan and his staff.

Lowering his eyes still more, Phil swept them along the valley, and soon hit upon the Heavy Brigade, looking, even at that distance, a most formidable body of men, while their horses, laden with cavalry saddles of great weight and a considerable amount of kit, seemed huge when compared to the Cossack animals.

Passing from Scarlett’s famous “Heavies”, Phil’s eyes then lit upon the 600 troopers of the Light Brigade. Bright, gallant fellows they looked as they sat there jauntily upon their saddles and slowly rode up the valley. And little did Phil and Tony, and for the matter of that hundreds more who looked upon them in the early hours of that morning, imagine that, long ere the sun set again and the grey mist fell upon hill and valley, more than half of those fine horsemen would be silent and still for ever.

Slowly, and as if careless of the huge mass of the enemy, they rode up the valley till the mile which separated them from Phil and Tony was considerably decreased.

There were friends close at hand, and, saddling up hurriedly, the two prepared to gallop across to them. But now a turn in the fortune of battle changed their plans, for, gallantly clinging to their position, the Turks holding the battery on the extreme left nearest the Russians had been decimated by a storm of shell, while, before they could think of retiring, 11,000 grey-coated infantry came rushing up at them. What could a mere handful of men do in the circumstances? They broke and fled, and, seeing this, their comrades in the other redoubts also took to their heels. Instantly a cloud of Russian horse burst from their ranks, and, sweeping into the plain, made short work of the flying gunners.

Phil and Tony looked on, disconcerted, for to ride across to the Light Brigade now would mean almost certain destruction.

“Done again by those Cossacks!” grumbled Tony, who took all the enemy’s horsemen to be Cossacks. “Done brown this time, Phil!”

“We’ll have to wait, that’s all,” said Phil, with a sigh of resignation. “We are safe here, and it won’t be long before those fellows ride back. See! they are already riding up the heights on our right after the Turks who bolted into the other valley.”

This was the case, and to follow the movement we must for the moment leave the valley into which Phil looked, and ride with the Russian horsemen over the Causeway heights.

Scarcely heard upon the springy turf, the horses’ feet strike hard and ring with a sound of iron upon the beaten path, and then the thunder of a thousand hoofs dies down again as if by magic, and he who rides with the fiery Cossack horsemen hears only the dull stamp upon the yielding grass, and the clatter and jangle of sabres and accoutrements. And when the summit is topped, another valley comes into view, running almost parallel with that just left behind, and merely separated from it by the Causeway heights, the slopes of which gently fall in rolling stretches of green till the bottom is reached. From there the grass runs on, undulating in big waves, sometimes falling and sometimes rising, till at last an upward sweep brings the rider to a crest from which the narrow basin of Balaclava can be seen.

Yes, there it is, a fairy pool set in this wide stretch of green, and bearing upon its flashing surface a host of vessels, anchored and crowded close together. There, too, is its narrow entrance, scarcely wide enough to pass in two vessels side by side, and there, close beside its shores, is an array of huts already filled with stores, while outside, boxes of biscuit and barrels of salt pork are piled in huge stacks which overtop and completely swamp the dwellings.

And where is the defending force? Where are the men told off to protect this most important harbour and its valuable contents? The rider stares and gasps with astonishment when all he sees is a handful of kilted men standing to arms upon the sloping grass leading to the harbour. Long ago their paucity of numbers was known to the enemy, and now the Russian commander sends his Cossacks against them, hoping to sweep them aside and capture the harbour.

Rallying to their comrades, a thousand lances swept down against the thin line of 93rd Highlanders. It was a sufficiently imposing array to have scattered a stronger body of troops, but the brawny kilted warriors were maddened by the sight of the unhappy Turks being cut down in their flight, and moreover, at that moment a ludicrous affair set them roaring with laughter. They had received as supports some Turkish troops, and these, having no stomach for a cavalry encounter, fled from the ranks.

“Let ’em go,” muttered one Highlander, with a laugh. “We come out here to fight for those chaps, and see how they help us. We’ll turn the cowards into servants.”

But one at least was roused to indignation. One of the women of the regiment struggled amongst the Turks, belabouring them with a club, and, catching one big fellow at this moment, thrashed him soundly, ordering him between every stroke, and in shrill falsetto, to return to the fighting-line.

Roars of laughter and cheers ascended from the thin line of Highlanders, and laughing still they were, and bandying jokes with one another, when the Russians swept down upon them.

“Back, lads! back!” shouted Sir Colin, waving his sword, and having to do his utmost to keep his eager men from rushing down upon the enemy. Then came the sharp command to fire, and, a second discharge following, the Russians broke and fled.

And meanwhile the widely-separated regiments composing the heavy brigade of cavalry were quietly riding along the valley, keeping the Causeway heights on their left. Suddenly Scarlett, who was in advance with 300 of the Greys and Inniskillings, saw a perfect forest of lances upon the summit of the heights, and not more than 600 yards away. Three thousand Russian cavalry had just come into view, and, seeing the British horse, their trumpets rang out shrill, and like an avalanche they dashed down the slopes. Scarlett’s decision was taken in a moment. “In any case it must mean death and destruction,” he thought. “Better to meet the enemy face to face than ride across their front and be cut to pieces.”

“Left wheel into line,” the gallant old fellow shouted, and as calmly as if manoeuvring at home the squadrons took up their new position. And then – think of the audacity and coolness of the action – they were halted, while the officers, facing round, dressed the line, which had been somewhat broken by rough ground. And a stubborn line it proved to dress, for not a man but leaned forward in his saddle, cursing the delay, and eager to fly forward. Hoarse growls arose from the ranks, and troopers snatched angrily at their bridles, pulling their horses back upon their haunches, well knowing all the while that it was themselves and not the willing animals they bestrode that needed curbing at that moment.