Catacomb Tales Read online

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  Lancers.

  I’d been with the 17th Lancers for two months now, if fact I’d just finished my training only two weeks before the orders came down. A bustle of excitement whipped round the barracks when the orders were posted, the regiment is to make ready for expedition to the someplace known as the Ukraine, I later found out it is the Crimea. It is mid September when we land at the port of Sevastopol, the great army of the British Empire, commanded by Lieutenant General the Earl of Raglan. The army advanced onto the enemy strongholds, defeating them at the river Alma, and took up base at Balaclava. T’is now the 25th October 1858, his lordship and the commanders on Sapouné Heights look down from the high ground. The 17th Lancers are positioned to the western end of the valley where Captain Morris, commander of the 17th, pressed Lord Cardigan, our brigade commander to order the advance, but his lordship refused to issue the advance order.

  Captain Morris returned to the regiment and slapped his thigh with his gauntlet, “What an opportunity we have missed!”

  Every one of us lancers were eager for the off, so far his lordship had not committed us to any engagement, and the men were becoming frustrated. We were all fed up with polishing sabres, sharpening lances, and grooming our mounts, we wanted action, the thrill of the charge, and we needed it badly. We were fed up sitting round the camp fires chatting idly as our comrade engaged the enemy full on time after time.

  T’was this day that Lord Raglan and the commanders realised the Russian enemy were attempting to remove captured Turkish naval guns from the redoubts, a manoeuvre that wouldn’t go unchallenged, as the capture of guns signifies the winning or losing of a battle. So it was; Lord Raglan sent written word to Lord Cardigan, an order that will go down in history…’Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front, and try to prevent the enemy carrying away the guns. Troop of horse artillery may accompany. French cavalry is on your left. Immediate.'

  T’was soon after 11am the brigade moved behind Lord Cardigan, the 13th Light Dragoons on the right flank with us 17th Lancers taking the left, and positioned behind us were the 11th Hussars followed by the 8th Hussars and the 4th Light Dragoons. Here we were abreast of the valley in all our splendour, red and black uniforms, plumed helmets, lance pennants fluttering in the breeze, horses neighing, and with Lord Cardigan mounted proudly in front. We stand ready, one and one-quarter mile to our front stand the Russian emplacements. The bugle sounds the advance, the brigade moves forward at the trot, the clatter of sabre clashing against saddle, the rattle of horse bridle, and thump of a hundred hooves is the only sound I hear.

  The brigade moves to the chanter, the enemy guns fire, cannon shot hits the ground throwing up soil as the 17th Lancers still hold their lances aloft. The brigade moves to the charge, the 17th lower their lances as the horses gallop. To the right and left of me lancers fall, horses crumble as cannon shot ploughs into the brigade. My breathing is strained; sweat runs down my forehead as I lean into the saddle charging towards the guns, the air is filled with thunderous claps of cannon fire mingled with the thrum of horse hooves. Earth showers my face, my mount rears and rolls forward; I am unseated and tumble head first from the saddle. My lance leaves my grip as I hit the ground and my helmet leaves my head as my eyes close.

  When I awake there is silence, a silence that signifies a battle over. I raise myself up and see my comrades, my friends strewn across the valley, bleeding, moaning, or dead. Just how many of the 17th remained alive I did not know. I could see a few cavalrymen walking their sweating steeds back towards our lines, most with heads lowered and dragging their lances, they came out of a mist, no not a mist, clouds of soil only now returning to the earth from being blown into the air. I looked at my steed, my trusty mount laying on its side snorting, puffs of hot breath billowing from her flared nostrils. She would not survive, as both her forelegs were broken. T’was then I saw Peter, a friend, and fellow lancer approaching; I waved and called out.

  “Peter…Peter!”

  I don’t know why, maybe because of battle shock, but he ignored me, walked straight past me he did, as if I wasn’t there! A dragoon of the 4th staggers past, his arms limp and torn, and his tunic bloodstained.

  “Hey mate, did we gain victory this day?” I asked politely, and what did he do, nothing, he too ignored my question and walked on by as if I didn’t exist!

  With nothing more to do I turn to face my lines, behind me is a sea of fallen cavalrymen and horses. This day, this battle, this charge had cost the Empire dearly! On my return to our lines, no matter who I approach, all act as if I am not there, I feel somewhat confused as to why they do this. But no matter what I do, how loud I shout, I go unheard. I walk bewildered by this to the 17th lancers assembly point, where only remnants of the regiment gather, most being tended to by the surgeons. T’was here I happened upon Peter again, who was in conversation with Billy Treacher, I stood near waiting for them to show some greeting, and as I stood Peter said something that shocked me beyond belief.

  “I saw Jimmy Fletcher on the way back; all beaten up was he, dead for sure!”

  I staggered back at the brutal sound of his words.

  “T’is a shame, the kid only celebrated his 18th last week. T’is too young to die!” Peter continued.

  “War doesn’t recognise age mate, and Jimmy was all for the charge!” Billy replied.

  “Don’t mess about, I’m here!” I said; I know because I heard myself.

  “I reckon I’ll have to break the news to his mother on our return, the brass will only send a letter, and I owe it to em to tell her in person.” Peter announced.

  “Am I going mad?” I mouthed, though this time I didn’t hear my voice!

  I looked in shock and horror at my hands, they were faded, see-through!

  “No this can’t be!”

  But alas it was.

  All the remainder of that day I wondered the field, a spectre of my once self. I even stood next to his lordship the Earl of Raglan, listening to their views on how well the battle went. T’was a mistake they said, but a mistake that gave them the day, and victory. A valiant charge by brave men of the Empire, Lord Lucan had replied.

  So there it is, the first time I charged into battle for glory and honour, and I end up dead, a spirit of the once man I was. I hope Peter did go to see my mother, I’m sure he did, but I’ll never know for sure. I now walk the quiet valley, alone in solitude, never reaching my nineteenth year, a young whippersnapper killed before he could live his life, and that is the way of war! I did manage to find out though, that the charge, that fateful charge so long ago now, actually went down in history, a famous mishap that won the day at Sevastopol. Even wrote about it they did… “Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of Death rode the six hundred.” The historians named it, the charge that claimed my young life, the Charge of the Light Brigade. For I was one of the six hundred.