BALACLAVA—“THE THIN RED LINE.”
(After the painting by Robert Gibb, R.S.A., in the possession of Archibald Ramsden, Esq., Leeds.)
Russian squadrons with a scorching storm of fire, that sent them flying in confusion from the field. “During the rest of the day,” said Sir Colin Campbell, with a touch of grim humour in his despatch, “the troops under my command received no further molestation from the Russians.” A still more formidable body of Russian horse, however, had swooped down on our Heavy Cavalry (Brigadier-General Scarlett). The Scots Greys and Enniskilling Dragoons sprang forward to meet them, tore through the first and second lines of the enemy, and, supported by the Dragoon Guards, broke up their heavy masses in utter rout. At this moment Lord Raglan ordered Lord Lucan, who was in command of the cavalry, to advance his Light Brigade and prevent the Russians from carrying away some of the guns which the Turks had abandoned in the redoubts. When the order was carried to Lucan by Captain Nolan, Raglan’s aide-de-camp, the Russians had recovered from their reverses and had completely re-formed on their own ground. Raglan’s order, therefore, had come to mean that Lucan was to hurl his slender Light Cavalry Brigade, utterly devoid of supports, against a great army holding a strong position, flanked and covered on all sides by murderous artillery. For a moment he hesitated, appalled by the hideous madness of the order. A taunt from Nolan stung him to the quick, and he spoke the word that sent Cardigan into the “valley of death” with the far-famed Six Hundred.
“Long shall the tale be told,
Yea, when our babes are old”—
how they rode onward—through the smoke and fire that belched forth from the iron throats of the Russian cannon—how they clove their way through the Russian masses and cut down the gunners at their guns—how they cut their way back, “stormed at with shot and shell,” a broken remnant of wounded and dismounted troopers, who had to report that they had failed to do that which even the demigods of ancient legend would not have been reckless enough to attempt. Nolan was killed at the very first onset—whilst riding far in advance cheering on the Brigade.[189] “It was magnificent, but it was not war” was the comment of the French General Bosquet, on this horrible sacrifice—a sacrifice so horrible that, when it was over, even the Russians ceased firing and stood motionless and awe-stricken, gazing at the sickening scene. They claim Balaclava as a victory. Certainly they took more than half the field from us; but on the other hand, thanks to the obstinate tenacity of the 93rd Highlanders, we repelled their attack on our base of operations, which was, of course, their objective point.[190]
After this fight the Russians concentrated an overwhelming force and planned an attack on our position at Inkermann. Its weakest point, in spite of the warnings of Lieutenant-General Sir De Lacy Evans, had been left badly protected, and on the 5th of November the Russians surprised our pickets. Having driven them in they fell on our Second Division, who had barely time to stand to their arms when they found themselves struggling with overwhelming masses of the enemy. Pennefather was in command, for, unfortunately, De Lacy Evans was disabled. Instead of retiring in order and attempting to ward off the attack by artillery, Pennefather hurried up little mobs of troops to his outposts, and there waged a dreadful hand to hand fight against an army ten times as strong as his own. It was “a soldiers’ battle” that raged through the morning on these misty heights—a confused melée, in which officers lost their men, and men lost their officers—in which, when ammunition failed, the English troops fought with bayonets; when these broke or bent, with stones; and when these failed, with clenched fists. Column after column of Russians was hurled at our little force—but without avail. No man could be moved from his position till he was shot or cut down, and the indomitable courage of the Duke of Cambridge and his Guards—for his Royal Highness, though he lacked skill and knowledge, never lacked pluck—held the Russians in check so long, that the French had time to come to the rescue. Then the enemy beat a retreat. We retook the positions we had lost, and once again demonstrated that the English infantry were without a rival in the world. The Russian plans were so laid, that it was a mathematical certainty our army must be driven into the sea. Two sons of the Czar had been invited to witness this catastrophe. And, in spite of the splendid fighting qualities of our men, the catastrophe must have happened, had it not been for two blunders which the Russians committed. In the first place, Menschikoff, who seems to have been even a stupider person than Raglan or Burgoyne, attacked in massive columns. This so reduced his fighting front that our weak detachments formed in line decimated them with their fire, and when our artillery came into action every shot and every shell also told on them with deadly effect. The Russian sortie from Sebastopol, moreover, was mismanaged. The commander lost his way in the mist, and instead of falling on us, he found himself entangled with the French far away on our left, so that he gave no real aid to the main attack.
The Russians lost 12,000 men in this battle, the French lost 1,800, and the British lost 2,600. It was therefore clear that the siege must be raised, or that the Allies must enter on a winter campaign. Up till now the troops had suffered very little hardship; but, alas! when winter set in they were doomed to cruel suffering. A terrific storm on the 14th of November blew