"My dear Captain Hardinge,--Papa has sprained his whip hand when hunting with Sir Watkins Vaughan, and so compels me to write for him." (Why should compulsion be necessary? thought I.) "You will, no doubt, have heard all about Lady Estelle's marriage by this time. She was engaged to Lord Pottersleigh before she came here, it would seem, and matters were brought to an issue soon after your transport sailed. She wished Dora and me to be among her bridesmaids, but we declined; nor would papa have permitted us, had we desired to be present at the ceremony. She bade me say, if I wrote to you, that you must forgive her, as she is the victim of circumstances; that she shall ever esteem and love you as a brother, and so forth; but I agree with papa, who says that she is a cold-hearted jilt, undeserving of any man's love, and that he 'will never forgive her, even if he lived as long as Gwyllim ap Howel ap Jorwerth ap Tregaian,' the Old Parr of Wales.
"We are all well at Craigaderyn, and all here send you and Mr. Caradoc kindest love. We are quite alone just now, and I often idle over my music, playing 'The Men of Harlech,' and other Welsh airs to papa. More often I wander and ride about the Martens' dingle, by Carneydd Llewellyn's hut--you remember it?--by Glendower's oak, by the Elwey, Llyn Aled, and the rocking stone, and think--think very much of you and poor Mr. Caradoc, and all that might have been." (Pretty pointed this--with which--Phil or me? Could I be uncertain?) "Next to hearing from you, our greatest pleasure at Craigaderyn is to hear about you and our own Welsh Fusileers, of whose bravery at Alma we are so justly proud; so we devour the newspapers with avidity and too often with sorrow. How is my dear pet goat?"
And so, with a pretty little prayer that I might be spared, her letter ended; and hearing the voices of the adjutant and sergeant-major, I thrust it into my pocket, and set off to relieve the trenches, with less of enthusiasm and more recklessness of life than ever before possessed me, and without reflecting that I did not deserve to receive a letter so kind and prayerful as that of the dear little Welsh girl, who was so far away. It was cold that night in the trenches, nathless the Russian fire--yea, cold enough to freeze the marrow in one's bones; but my heart seemed colder still. In the morning, four of my company were found dead between the gabions, without a wound, and with their muskets in their hands. The poor fellows had gone to their last account--slipt away in sheer exhaustion, through lack of food, warmth, and clothing--and this was glory!
[CHAPTER XL.--A PERILOUS DUTY.]
I have said that, ere the regular hutting of the army for the winter siege began, quarters were found for me by fate elsewhere; a circumstance which came about in the following manner. All may have heard of the famous solitary ride of Lieutenant Maxse of the Royal Navy, to open a communication between headquarters and Balaclava; and it was my chance to have a similar solitary ride to perform, but, unfortunately, to fail in achieving the end that was in view. One afternoon, on being informed by the adjutant of ours that I was wanted at headquarters, I assumed my sword and sash--indeed, these appurtenances were rarely off us--and putting my tattered uniform in such order as the somewhat limited means of my "toilet-table" admitted, repaired at once, and not without considerable surprise, and some vague misgivings, to the house inhabited by Lord Raglan. I had there to wait for some time, as he was busy with some of the headquarter staff, and had just been holding a conference with certain French officers of rank, who were accompanied by their aides and orderlies. Among them I saw the fat and full-faced but soldier-like Marshal Pelissier, the future Duc de Malakoff, with his cavalry escort and banner; and grouped about the place, or departing therefrom, I saw Chasseurs d'Afrique in sky-blue jackets and scarlet trousers; Imperial Cuirassiers in helmets and corslets of glittering steel; French horse artillery with caps of fur and pelisses covered with red braid. There, too, were many of our own staff officers, with their plumed hats; even the Turkish cavalry escort of some pasha, stolid-looking fellows in scarlet fezzes, were there, their unslung carbines resting on the right thigh; and I saw some of our Land Transport Corps, in red jackets braided with black, loitering about, as if some important movement was on the tapis; but whatever had been suggested, nothing was fated to come of it.
Through the buzz and Babel of several languages, I was ushered at last, by an orderly sergeant, into the little dingy room where the Commander-in-chief of our Eastern army usually held his councils or consultations, received reports, and prepared his plans. The military secretary, the chief of the staff, the adjutant-general, and some other officers, whose uniforms were all threadbare, darned, and discoloured, and whose epaulettes were tattered, frayed, and reduced almost to black wire, were seated with him at a table, which was littered with letters, reports, despatches, telegrams, and plans of Sebastopol, with the zigzags, the harbour, the valley of the Tchernaya, and of the whole Crimea. And it was not without an emotion of interest and pleasure, that I found myself before our old and amiable leader, the one-armed Lord Raglan--he whose kindly nature, charity, urbanity, and queer signature as Fitzroy Somerset, when military secretary, had been so long known in our army during the days of peace; and to whom the widow or the orphan of a soldier never appealed in vain.
"Glad to see you, Captain Hardinge," said he, bowing in answer to my salute; "I have a little piece of duty for you to perform, and the chief of the staff" (here he turned to the future hero of the attack on the Redan) "has kindly reminded me of how well you managed the affair of the flag of truce sent to the officer on the Russian left, concerning the major of the 93rd Highlanders."
I bowed again and waited.
"My personal aides," he continued, "are all knocked up or engaged elsewhere just now, and I have here a despatch for Marshal Canrobert, requiring an immediate answer, as there is said to be an insurrection among the Polish troops within Sebastopol, and if so, you will readily perceive the necessity for taking instant advantage of it. At this precise time, the Marshal is at a Tartar village on the road to Kokoz." (Here his lordship pointed to a map of the Crimea.) "It lies beyond the Pass of Baidar, which you will perceive indicated there, and consequently is about thirty English miles to our rear and right. You can neither miss him nor the village, I think, by any possibility, as it is occupied by his own old corps, the 3rd Zouaves, a French line regiment, and four field guns. You will deliver to him this letter, and bring me his answer without delay."
"Unless I fail, my lord."