‘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.