Lord Lucan rode off to Cardigan.
"You are to charge right down the valley with your brigade. The Heavies will follow in support."
He looked at Lucan. His very look seemed to imply that there must be some mistake.
"This means death—annihilation," he thought; "but it is Lord Raglan's orders. A soldier's first duty is obedience."
"The brigade will advance!" shouted Cardigan, and in a loud voice.
And right down that valley of death they charged upon the twelve guns in front. A splinter from the very first shell killed Captain Nolan, who was waving his sword and riding obliquely across the front of this mad attack. Why he was there or what he meant may never be guessed. Back through the ranks of the 13th flew his startled horse, bearing the body of his master—lifeless.
In a very short time Cardigan and his brave brigade were in the thick of it—death on every side, death in front, shattering shells, roaring shot overhead, and saddles emptied every second; horses and riders falling together, horses galloping riderless into the still more awful fire that poured upon them when they neared the twelve guns. The valley was strewed with the dead and the wounded—the latter, whether horses or men, sometimes rising, but to fall dead next moment.
The Russians themselves must have thought them mad.
Yet that brave brigade knew no fear, no faltering; straight into the ranks of the foe rode they, and smoke and fire for a time swallowed them up. The Russian gunners were cut down where they stood, or driven from their guns, and our men even charged the enemy's cavalry.
They had done their duty!