His sword was in the air. He seemed to be acting from impulses outside his body and brain. ‘Steady, steady! Close in!’ He realised he had been shouting the words ever since the forward movement had begun and his voice had become cracked and strained.
Just at that moment, the Russian battery in front fired again and he felt the heat and heard the whirr as a shell passed him. Then he was on top of the battery, and, wrenching at Bess’ head, he chose a space between two of the guns and charged into it.
That last salvo had brought down most of the remnants of the first line, so that only isolated groups of men passed into the battery. Bess gave a tremendous leap into the air, but in the smoke Colby had no idea what she cleared, then horsemen were swirling about him, silhouetted against grey wraiths of smoke, and he tried to remember what little he’d been told about attacking infantry.
‘Let’s have none of your cissy prodding.’ The words of the sergeant-major instructor of fencing rang in his ears. ‘Make it a good jab and transfix the bastard!’
As he lunged with all his strength, a Russian in front of him fell away, blood welling from his mouth, but, as Colby returned his sword to the slope, he almost removed Bess’ ear, and he decided that, since she always indicated with them what she intended to do, he’d be at a considerable disadvantage if he left her without them. A second Russian jabbed at him with a sponge staff and he slashed with all his strength so that the staff leapt into the air, one of the Russian’s hands still grasping it. As the gunner staggered back, staring at the stump of his wrist, a dragoon officer swept down on him and caught him across the neck with a swipe that almost severed his head, to leave Colby with a mouth full of bile.
Suddenly alone except for Trumpeter Sparks, he saw a sergeant of the 17th sweep by and yelled at him to rally on him before he realised the sergeant was as dead as a stone, still in the saddle, his eyes fixed and staring. A dismounted Russian, like Colby thinking him alive, took a swing at him with his sword, but missed and laid open the horse’s breast instead. As the animal came to an abrupt stop, its legs trembling, its eyes rolling with terror and pain, the dead sergeant toppled from the saddle and flopped in a heap at the startled Russian’s feet, seconds before he was skewered himself. The lance which drove through him into the wheel of the gun bent like a bow and snapped off, leaving half its length still protruding from the Russian’s chest. The other half shot from the hand of the man who was holding it and lifted upwards in an uneven arc, while its owner yelled with fury and dragged at his sword as he was surrounded by a cloud of Cossacks. For a second, as he wrestled with his excited mare, Colby stared, shocked at the savagery, then he came to life and, charging from behind with Sparks, flailed about him with his sword until the Cossacks bolted into the smoke.
The battery was full of horsemen now, the Russian gunners diving under their guns or running for their lives. One of the 17th was on his knees beside a dying dismounted officer. ‘Don’t ride us down, sir!’ he was yelling. ‘Don’t ride us down!’ Bullets seemed to be plucking at Colby’s clothing from all sides and Bess had almost come to a standstill now, blowing hard. Three Cossacks appeared, pale ugly men with flat caps, and a lance point caught Colby’s belt, almost wrenching him from the saddle. As the blade appeared under his arm, tearing at his skin, he saw it had a little barb on the end covered with a tuft of hair.
Swinging wildly, he sent the Cossack head over heels across the tail of his horse, and rode on, dragging the lance behind, him, still caught in his belt. For a while, he struggled to free himself of it but in the end he had to undo the belt and let the lot go. As he did so, another Cossack appeared through the smoke, but Sparks came thundering past him and his lance took the Russian in the throat.
‘Thank you, Sparks.’
‘You’re welcome, sir.’
Just ahead, a small group of light dragoons were fighting, and one of the aides hurtled past, pointing at them. ‘Rally!’ he was yelling. ‘Rally on Lord Cardigan!’
Colby, who couldn’t see Cardigan anywhere, was beginning to grow angry, and when a Cossack came at him, he went for him bull-headed, but his sword bounced off the Russian’s thick coat as if it had no edge at all and, without bothering to recover it, he smashed the Russian in the face with the hilt. As he reeled aside, a British lance thumped into his back and he rolled over his mount’s head and crashed to the ground.
What was left of the first line had dissolved into tiny groups of shouting men by this time, and as they tried to sort themselves out, the second line arrived. One of them collided with one of the 17th, so that both chargers went down with kicking legs, and the unhorsed men stumbled past Colby, trying to dodge the frantic animals screaming with shattered jaws and torn flanks as they galloped through the smoke.
A light dragoon, trapped by one leg under his fallen horse, yelled at Colby, and he dismounted hurriedly to drag him free while Sparks kept guard. Retaining a good grip on his sword, as a couple of Russians bore down on them he swept the lances aside with his left hand and thrust upwards. Something hit him on the head and for a moment he was sure he was dead.
He came to, to find himself being pushed into the saddle by the man he had rescued. His head was ringing and blood was running down his face from somewhere above his eyes. He had lost his lance cap and the dragoon was thrusting a peaked forage cap at him. It had gold lace on it and looked as if it belonged to a staff officer.
‘That’s not mine,’ he said.
‘Better shove it on all the same, sir,’ the dragoon said. ‘It’ll protect your ’ead.’
Jamming it well down over his ears, Colby swung the horse round, and as a riderless charger appeared, he snatched at the bridle and held it until the dragoon could leap aboard.
Further down the valley, drawn up in lines, was a mass of Russian horsemen, but Colby had long since lost touch with the rest of the brigade, and even Sparks, the last mounted survivor of his small detachment, had vanished now.
‘We can’t charge that lot,’ he yelled. ‘I think we’ll be safer in the smoke.’
As they re-entered the battery, he found himself among a mixed group of hussars round a gun attached to a limber. The gun team were in a confused tangle of leathers, their eyes bulging with fear, the off-rear animal lashing out with its hind legs at anything that came near. An officer of the 4th was rallying his men with his sword in the air and, catching up with them as they swung up the valley, Colby jammed his spurs into his jaded mount. A cloud of Russian lancers was across his path and, knowing he was no swordsman, he flayed the air with his sabre and the Russians gave way. Driving hard at an officer in a pale blue uniform, his sword went in to the hilt, and as the Russian fell he was almost dragged from the saddle. Bent over, fighting to free the weapon, he was dazed by a blow from a slashing sabre which hit the heavy gold acorn in the centre of the staff-officer’s forage cap he was wearing and split it in two.
A 17th lancer was alongside him now, fighting with the fury of desperation, whirling his nine-foot weapon in a circular motion to parry the blows aimed at him. As they burst clear, a Russian sword seared Colby’s back, almost dragging him from the saddle, but they were heading back up the slope now as hard as they could get their mounts to stagger. The air stank of saltpetre and the turf was pitted and torn by shellfire and littered with broken swords, abandoned lances, busbies, shakoes and lance caps. Horses beat and kicked at the ground in their death agonies, and men stumbled and ran through the smoke to safety. Across Colby’s path a man sprawled, biting at the turf in his agony, and an officer, his chest a mass of bloody lace, crawled on white-gloved hands, his sabretache twisted between his legs.
‘Sir! Mr Goff, sir!’
Swinging in the saddle, terrified of a lance thumping into his shoulder blades, Colby drew rein. Ackroyd was stumbling up the slope, his overalls drenched with blood from a wound in his thigh. ‘Thank God you’re all right, Tyas,’ Colby said. ‘My father would give me stick if I lost you!’
Ackroyd managed a weak grin as Colby shoved him into the saddle. ‘What about you, sir?’
‘Never mind me. Get up there to our lines.’
With Ackroyd looking as if he were about to swing from the saddle again, Colby slapped at Bess’ rump. The terrified mare cantered for a few yards before slowing to an exhausted trot that carried Ackroyd to safety, and it was only when he looked round that it occurred to Colby that Cossacks were moving among the wounded just behind him, spearing anybody who moved.
A horse wearing Russian accoutrements galloped past him, its head up, its eyes wild, and as he snatched at the reins and brought it to a standstill the jerk almost swung him off his feet. Trying to fight down his panic, he moved to the horse’s head talking to it softly and wondering insanely if it understood English. As he swung into the saddle the Russian guns were still sending cannon balls bouncing across the valley to tear great scars in the turf where they hit, and he was just congratulating himself on his escape when he saw one of them coming towards him, visible every inch of the way.
It hit the Russian horse on the head, smashing it to bloody pulp and spinning the animal round to fling it to the ground with a clatter of harness. Sprawling alongside it, wanting to cry out in rage and horror, Colby scrambled to his feet, his neck muscles straining, his eyes staring. But nothing came out beyond a silent shriek of agony deep down inside himself, then the air burst into his lungs and seemed to tear him in two. A shell exploded near him and he felt pebbles and rock splinters hitting him. Blood spurted from his hand and pinprick cuts on his face dribbled red to his chin. Dazed, deafened and stupefied, he recovered his senses just in time to see a group of Cossacks bearing down on him. But he had almost reached safety now, and all save one of them turned away. The last man’s lance caught his collar and he felt the blade tear at his neck. Writhing on the ground, in desperation he flung a handful of grit in the Russian’s face, half-blinding him, then jumping up and gripping his leg, yanked him from the saddle with a crash.
The Russian was on his knees at once, yelling for mercy, but in a fury of fear Colby slashed at him, and his face seemed to split into a red mask, the eyes out of alignment and staring at the sky as he fell back. Sickened, Colby stumbled after the Russian’s horse but it was frightened and remained just out of reach. As he turned again up the slope, he passed a hussar removing the saddle and bridle from his dead charger.
‘I’ll get a new mount,’ he said, ‘but never another saddle.’
As he spoke, he was hit in the chest by a musket ball and staggered back, his eyes startled. Sitting down heavily, he slowly sagged backwards, dead, the saddle still in his arms and, picking it up, aware of safety not far away, Colby held it over his head and started to run. Horses passed him, and from the shouts he could tell they were ridden by Russians. Twice he felt thumps on the leather over his head that he took to be sword blows and once something tore at his sleeve and the flesh beneath. Then he was alone, stumbling among other stumbling men and weaving horses. An English voice called out to him and, tossing the saddle aside, he found himself staring at a huge dappled horse and between its ears the face of one of the Scots Greys who was helping a wounded lancer to dismount. Close by, a light dragoon, hit in the head, was lying across the neck of his horse which was being led to safety by an infantry officer. Other exhausted, bleeding men were staggering in, cheered and greeted by handshakes as they arrived. A charger with a man on its back hobbled by, its broken hind leg swinging agonisedly, its eyes bulging with pain and terror, and a sailor from one of the naval batteries, wearing a dragoon’s brass helmet, grabbed it, pulled the man off its back and shot the horse with a farrier’s pistol.
‘We had that bloody battery!’ someone was yelling furiously. ‘We had it! It was ours! Where was the infantry support?’
Colby had no idea where his men were, but then he saw Ackroyd sitting on a hummock, his eyes closed and white as a sheet. He still held on to the exhausted Bess’ reins and the mare’s head was drooping over his bowed figure.
‘You all right?’
Ackroyd shook his head without opening his eyes. ‘I think I’m dying.’
Colby’s temper flared. ‘Don’t talk bloody rubbish, Tyas!’ he snapped. ‘Look to your front. Your eyes are wallowing about like eggs in a frying pan! And what’s all this nonsense about dying? It’s an offence to die after you’ve been rescued. Get better at once!’
After all the shouting he’d done, his voice whirred away almost to nothing like a broken watch spring, but it was enough to bring Ackroyd to his feet, despite his torn leg, his eyes wide open, his face shocked and startled. That, Colby thought grimly as he moved on, ought to shift any remaining self-pity. Self-pity was what you died of.
He saw his troop officer, Claude Cosgro, approaching him. He looked plump and clean, as if he’d put his visit to Balaclava to good effect.
‘Good God!’ The smooth round face registered shock. ‘It’s young Goff, ain’t it?’
A surgeon grabbed Colby’s arm. ‘You all right, my boy?’ he asked.
He dragged a mirror from his pocket and held it up so that Colby found himself staring into a pair of shocked eyes in a red-masked face. Blood was streaming across it from two separate wounds above his hair line and there was more blood about his throat from the gash in his neck and the pinprick wounds in his cheeks. The surgeon, who was stout and middle-aged, was moving round him, counting. ‘Eleven, twelve, thirteen – my God, boy, you must be the most wounded man on the field! Are you sure you’re all right?’
To his surprise, he was. As the surgeon wrenched off the forage cap, they found the sword stroke had removed the acorn but the badge and the peak had taken the force of the blow.
Farriers’ pistols were putting crippled horses out of their misery and soldiers’ wives were appearing, to take care of wounded and dying men. All round them, officers were arguing about the cause of the disaster. Some blamed it on Cardigan and some on his brother-in-law, the divisional commander. It didn’t require much sense to realise that the blame didn’t lie there at all. Everybody had seen Nolan point down the valley.