Barely half an hour had sufficed for the annihilation of nearly six hundred soldiers, the flower of the British Light Horse. The northern valley was like a shambles, strewn with the dead and dying, while all about galloped riderless horses, and dismounted troopers seeking to regain their lines on foot. Quite half of the whole force had been struck down, among the rest Hugo Wilders, whose forehead a grape-shot had pierced.
The muster of regiments after such a fight was but a mournful ceremony. When at length the now decimated line was re-formed, the horror of the action was plainly seen.
"It was a mad-brained trick," said Lord Cardigan, who had marvellously escaped—"a monstrous blunder, but it was no fault of mine."
"Never mind, my lord!" cried many gallant spirits. "We are ready to charge again!"
"No, no, men," replied Lord Cardigan, hastily; "you have done enough."
It was at this moment that Lord Raglan rode up, and angrily called Lord Cardigan to account.
"What did you mean, sir, by attacking guns in front with cavalry, contrary to the usages of war?"
"You must not blame me, my lord," replied Lord Cardigan. "I only obeyed the orders of my superior officer," and he pointed to Lord Lucan, whom Lord Raglan then addressed with the severe reproof—
"You have sacrificed the Light Brigade, Lord Lucan. You should have used more discretion."