Here we are at the first low wall, which we leap nimbly, and find ourselves among the tanglement of bushes and vines. We must cut and fight our way through these till we reach the river. Did ever you pause on the banks of a stream and wonder whether it was fordable or not, or whether it would be unadvisable to wet your feet! Whiz! That was a round shot, that flew close over us; and shells are now tearing up the vineyard behind us, and shattering the stone walls. The bullets from above are pattering on the water, and men are falling here and there. So we hesitate not, but dash into the stream. The swords of our brave young officers are pointing onwards. Yonder is the hill. Up we must charge!
Now over the stream, we find a little shelter, for a few moments only, under the opposite bank. Some of us, weak from illness, are already pumped. All are glad to have this breathing spell. We look back across the stream. Yonder is the blazing village, flames leaping in tongues high in air through the clouds of smoke and sparks that roll slowly to leeward. Evans's men, their belts and accoutrements glittering here and there in the sunshine, are half hidden by the smoke, but soon they too reach the stream and commence to ford.
"On, lads, on!"
It is the bold voice of Sir George Brown, who, on horseback, is the first to clamber up the bank. We draw a deep breath, and nerve ourselves to follow. Nay, but it needs but little power of will to get up nerve. Are we not Englishmen?
So we answer our general with a blood-rousing cheer.
We are up! The fight is raging now all around us. Last night, as we lay under the stars wrapped in our humble blankets, we wondered if in the heat of battle we should experience aught of fear. Fear? no, no, here is none of it. We hardly know just at present what is going on. We hear no orders. The din of battle—the shouts of rage or agony, the clash of arms, and the roar of artillery—deafens us. The air is filled with smoke and flame. At times we are in touch with our companies, and charging two deep against the four-deep masses of the grey-clad foe in front of us; but as often as not do we find ourselves in no line at all, only fighting in daring groups. We in the Light Division, though at present we know it not, are supported by the 95th, one of Codrington's regiments.
This is awful work! Not three hundred yards ahead and above, the shot from the Russians' greatest battery is tearing through our ranks. Again and again we stumble, sometimes on the blood-slippery glacis, sometimes over a fallen friend. Yet on we dash towards the fiery mouths of those roaring guns. Away to our right the 7th Regiment is hurling all its force against the left wing of the Kazan Regiment. That was indeed a terrible tulzie!
Hurrah! It is a wilder shout than ever. Just for a moment we see the impetuous Codrington urging his regiment even to greater speed. It was their war-cry we heard, and it steels our every nerve.
But see, the guns above us give no longer voice. Have we won? We know not. The guns, however, are rapidly being withdrawn. And we know afterwards that a greater mistake could not have been made by our surly foe. Yet every gun is valuable, and I suppose they knew we would take them anyhow.
But bravery is not everything in battle. The guns, it is true, hurl no more their deadly missiles, to decimate our ranks, but there are now rushing on to meet our four regiments the brave Vladimir Regiment, supported by a field battery, and another great regiment, with the right wing of the Kazan.