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Arthur Griffiths - The Thin Red Line; and Blue Blood

A >> Arthur Griffiths >> The Thin Red Line; and Blue Blood




"It is little likely; and, as I tell you, I don't understand it in the
least."

"Leave it so. No doubt you will find out some day. In the meantime do
justice to your recommendation, whoever gave it. You have got your
foot on the ladder now, but no one can help you to climb; that must
depend upon your own exertions."

"Yes, but you can help me, Hyde, with your advice, encouragement,
support. I am very young to be put up so high, and over men of
standing and experience like yourself."

"You will have no more loyal subordinate than me, Sergeant-major
McKay. Come to me whenever you are in trouble or doubt. I will do all
I can, you may depend. I like you, boy, and that's enough said."

The old sergeant seized McKay's hand, shook it warmly, and then
abruptly quitted the room.

Stanislas was eager to tell this pleasing news of his promotion to
Mariquita; but she was the last person to hear it, notwithstanding.
McKay entered at once upon his new duties, and they kept him close
from morning till night. A good sergeant-major allows himself no
leisure. He is the first on parade, the last to leave it. He is
perpetually on the move; now inspecting guards and pickets, now
superintending drills, while all day long he has his eye upon the
conduct of the non-commissioned officers, and the demeanour and dress
of the private men.

There was no time to hang about the tobacconist's shop in Bombardier
Lane, waiting furtively for a chance of seeing Mariquita alone. They
kept their eye upon her, too; and when at last he tore himself away
from his new and absorbing duties he paid two or three visits to the
place before he could speak to her.

Mariquita received him coldly--distantly.

They were standing, as usual, on each side of the low fence at the end
of the garden.

"What's wrong, little star? How have I offended you?"

"I wonder that you trouble to come here at all, Don Stanislas. It's
more than a week since I you."

"I have been so busy. My new duties: they have made me, you know--"

"Throw that bone to some other dog," interrupted Mariquita, abruptly.
"I am to be no longer deceived by your pretended duties. I know the
truth: you prefer some other girl."

"Mariquita!" protested McKay.

"I have heard all. Do not try to deny it. She is tall and fair; one of
your compatriots. You were seen together."

"Where, pray? Who has told you this nonsense?"

"At Waterport. Benito saw you."

McKay laughed merrily.

"I see it all. Why, you foolish, jealous Mariquita, that was my
general's wife--a great lady. I was attending and following her about
like a lackey. I would not dare to lift my eyes to her even if I
wished, which is certainly not the case."

Mariquita was beginning to relent. Her big eyes filled with tear, and
she said in a broken voice, as though this quarrel with her lover had
pained her greatly--

"Oh, oily-tongued! if only I could believe you!"

"Why, of course it's true. Surely you would not let that villain
Benito make mischief between us? But, there; time is too precious to
waste in silly squabbles. I can't stay long; I can't tell when I shall
come again."

"Is your love beginning to cool, Stanislas? If so, we had better part
before--"

"Listen, dearest," interrupted McKay; "I have good news for you," and
he told her of his unexpected promotion, and of the excellent
prospects it held forth.

"I am nearly certain to win a commission before very long. Now that we
are going to the war--"

"The war!" Mariquita's face turned ghastly white; she put her hand
upon her heart, and was on the point of falling to the ground when
McKay vaulted lightly over the fence and saved her by putting his arm
round her waist.

"Idiot that I was to blurt it out like that, after thinking all the
week how best to break the news! Mariquita! Mariquita! speak to me, I
implore you!"

But the poor child was too much overcome to reply, and he led her,
dazed and half-fainting, to a little seat near the house, where, with
soft caresses and endearing words, he sought to restore her to
herself.

"The war!" she said, at length. "It has come, then, the terrible news
that I have so dreaded. We are to part, and I shall never, never see
you again."

"What nonsense, Mariquita! Be brave! Remember you are to be a
soldier's wife. Be brave, I say."

"They will kill you! Oh! if they only dared, I would be revenged!"

"Bravo, my pet! that is the proper spirit. You would fight the
Russians, wouldn't you?"

"I would do anything, Stanislas, to help you, to shield you from harm. Why
can't I go with you? Who knows! I might save you. I, a weak, helpless girl,
would be strong if you were in danger. I am ready, Stanislas, to sacrifice
my life for yours."

Greatly touched by the deep devotion displayed by these sweet words,
McKay bent his head and kissed her on the lips.

But at this moment the tender scene was abruptly ended by the shrill,
strident tones of La Zandunga's voice.

"So I have caught you, shameless girl, philandering again with this
rascally red-coat. May he die in a dog-kennel! Here, in my very house!
But, I promise you, it is for the last time. _Hola!_ Benito! Pedro!
help!" and, screaming wildly, the old crone tore Mariquita from
McKay's side and dragged her into the house.

The young sergeant, eager to protect his love from ill-usage, would
have followed, but he was confronted by Benito, who now stood in the
doorway, black and menacing, with a great two-edged Albacete knife in
his hand.

"Stand back, miscreant, hated Englishman, or I will stab you to the
heart."

Nothing daunted by the threat, McKay advanced boldly on Benito; with
one hand he caught his would-be assailant by the throat; with the
other the wrist that was lifted to strike. A few seconds more, and
Benito had measured his length on the ground, while his murderous
weapon had passed into the possession of McKay.

Having thus disposed of one opponent, McKay met a second, in the
person of Tio Pedro, who, slower in his movements, had also come out
in answer to his wife's appeal.

"Who are you that dares to intrude here?" asked Pedro, roughly. "I
will complain to the town major, and have you punished for this."

"Look to yourself, rather!" replied McKay, hotly. "I stand too high to
fear your threats. But you, thief and smuggler, I will bring the
police upon you and your accomplice, who has just tried to murder me
with his knife."

Tio Pedro turned ghastly pale at the sergeant-major's words. He had
evidently no wish for a domiciliary visit, and would have been glad to
be well rid of McKay.

"Let him be! Let him be!" he said, attempting to pacify Benito, who,
smarting from his recent overthrow, seemed ready to renew the
struggle. "Let him be! It is all a mistake. The gentleman has
explained his business here, and nothing more need be said."

"Nothing more!" hissed Benito, between his teeth. "Not when he has
insulted me--struck me! Nothing more! We shall have to settle accounts
together, he and I. Look to yourself Senor Englishman. There is no
bond that does not some day run out; no debt that is never paid."

McKay disdained to notice these threats, and, after waiting a little
longer in the hope of again seeing Mariquita, he left the house.

It was his misfortune, however, not to get speech with her again
before his departure. The few short days intervening before
embarkation were full of anxiety for him, and incessant, almost
wearisome, activity. He had made himself one moment of leisure, and
visited Bombardier Lane, but without result. Mariquita was invisible,
and McKay was compelled to abandon all hope of bidding his dear one
good-bye.

But he was not denied one last look at the girl of his heart. As the
regiment, headed by all the bands of the garrison, marched gaily down
to the New Mole, where the transport-ship awaited it, an excited
throng of spectators lined the way. Colonel Blythe headed his
regiment, of course, and close behind him, according to regulation,
marched the young sergeant-major, in brave apparel, holding his head
high, proudly conscious of his honourable position. The colonel and
the sergeant-major were the first men down the New Mole stairs; and as
they passed McKay heard his name uttered with a half-scream.

He looked round hastily, and there saw Mariquita, with white, scared
face and streaming eyes.

What could he do? It was his duty to march on unconscious, insensible
to emotion. But this was more than mortal man could do. He paused,
lingering irresolutely, when the colonel noticed his agitation, and
quickly guessed the exact state of the case.

"'The girl I left behind me,' eh, sergeant-major? Well, fall out for a
minute or two, if you like"--and, with this kindly and considerate
permission, McKay took Mariquita aside to make his last _adieux_.

"_Adios! vida mia_" [good-bye, my life], he was saying, when the poor
girl almost fainted in his arms.

He looked round, greatly perplexed, and happily his eye fell upon
Sergeant Hyde.

"Here, Hyde," he said, "take charge of this dear girl."

"What! sergeant-major, have you been caught in the toils of one of
these bright-eyed damsels? It is well we have got the route. They are
dangerous cattle, these women; and, if you let them, will hang like a
mill-stone round a soldier's neck."

"Pshaw! man, don't moralise. This girl is my heart's choice. Please
Heaven I may return to console her for present sorrow. But I can't
wait. Help me: I can trust you. See Mariquita safely back to her home,
and then join us on board."

"I shall be taken up as a deserter."

"Nonsense! I will see to that with the adjutant. We do not sail for
two hours at least; you will have plenty of time."

Sergeant Hyde, although unwillingly, accepted the trust, and thus met
Mariquita for the first time.




CHAPTER X.

A GENERAL ACTION.


A long low line of coast trending along north and south as far as the
eye could reach; nearest at hand a strip of beach, smooth shingle cast
up by the surf of westerly gales; next, a swelling upland, dotted with
grazing cattle, snug homesteads, and stacks of hay and corn; beyond, a
range of low hills, steep-faced and reddish-hued.

The Crimea! The land of promise; the great goal to which the thoughts
of every man in two vast hosts had been turned for many months past.
On the furze-clad common of Chobham camp, on the long voyage out, at
Gallipoli, while eating out their hearts at irritating inaction; on
the sweltering, malarious Bulgarian plains, fever-stricken and
cholera-cursed; at Varna, waiting impatiently, almost hopelessly, for
orders to sail, twenty thousand British soldiers of all ranks had
longed to look upon this Crimean shore. It was here, so ran the common
rumour, that the chief power of the mighty Czar was concentrated; here
stood Sebastopol, the famous fortress, the great stronghold and
arsenal of Southern Russia; here, at length, the opposing forces would
join issue, and the allies, after months of tedious expectation, would
find themselves face to face with their foe.

No wonder, then, that hearts beat high as our men gazed eagerly upon
the Crimea. The prospect southward was still more calculated to stir
emotion. The whole surface of that Eastern sea was covered with the
navies of the Western Powers. The long array stretched north and south
for many a mile; it extended westward, far back to the distant
horizon, and beyond: a countless forest of masts, a jumble of sails
and smoke-stacks, a crowd of fighting-ships and transports,
three-deckers, frigates, great troopers, ocean steamers, full-rigged
ships--an Armada such as the world had never seen before. A grand
display of naval power, a magnificent expedition marshalled with
perfect precision, moving by day in well-kept parallel lines; at
night, motionless, and studding the sea with a "second heaven of
stars."

Day dawned propitious on the morning of the landing: a bright, and
soon fierce, sun rose on a cloudless sky. At a given signal the boats
were lowered--a nearly countless flotilla; the troops went overboard
silently and with admirable despatch, and all again, by signal,
started in one long perfect line for the shore. Within an hour the
boats were beached, the troops sprang eagerly to land, and the
invasion was completed without accident, and unopposed.

The Royal Picts, coming straight from Gibraltar, had joined the
expedition at Varna without disembarking. The regiment had thus been
long on ship-board, but it had lost none of its smartness, and formed
up on the beach with as much precision as on the South Barracks
parade. It fell into its place at once, upon the right of General
Wilders's brigade, and that gallant officer was not long in welcoming
it to his command.

Everyone was in the highest health and spirits, overflowing with
excitement and enthusiasm. At the appearance of their general, the
men, greatly to his annoyance, set up a wild, irregular cheer.

"Silence, men, silence! It is most unsoldierlike. Keep your shouting
till you charge. Here, Colonel Blythe, we will get rid of a little of
this superfluous energy. Advance, in skirmishing order, to the
plateau, and hold it. There are Cossacks about, and the landing is not
yet completed. But do not advance beyond the plateau. You understand?"

The regiment promptly executed the manoeuvre indicated, and gained
the rising ground. The view thence inland was more extended, and at no
great distance a road crossed, along which was seen a long line of
native carts, toiling painfully, and escorted by a few of the enemy's
horse.

"We must have those carts." The speaker was a staff-officer, the
quartermaster-general, an eagle-eyed, decisive-speaking, short,
slender man, who was riding a splendid charger, which he sat to
perfection. "Colonel Blythe! send forward your right company at the
double, and capture them."

"My brigadier ordered me not to advance," replied the old colonel,
rather stolidly.

"Do as I tell you; I will take the responsibility. But look sharp!"

Already, no doubt under orders from the escort, the drivers were
unharnessing their teams, with the idea of making off with the cattle.
The skirmishers of the Royal Picts advanced quickly within range, and
opened fire--the first shots these upon Russian soil--and some of them
took effect. The carts were abandoned, and speedily changed masters.

"We shall want those carts," said old Hyde, abruptly, to his friend
the sergeant-major. They had watched this little episode together.

"Yes, I suppose they will come in useful."

"I should think so. Are you aware that this fine force of ours is
quite without transport? At least, I have seen none. Do you know what
that means?"

"That we shall have to be our own beasts of burden," said McKay,
laughing, as he touched his havresack. It was comfortably lined with
biscuit and cold salt pork--three days' rations, and the only food
that he or his comrades were likely to get for some time.

"I'm not afraid of roughing it," said the old soldier. "I have done
that often enough. We have got our greatcoats and blankets, and I
daresay we shan't hurt; but I have seen something of campaigning, and
I tell you honestly I don't like the way in which we have started on
this job."

"What an inveterate old grumbler you are, Hyde! Besides, what right
have you to criticise the general and his plans?"

"We have entered into this business a great deal too lightly, I am
quite convinced of that," said Hyde, positively. "There has been no
sufficient preparation."

"Nonsense, man! They have been months getting the expedition ready."

"And still it is wanting in the most necessary things. It has to trust
to luck for its transport," and the old sergeant pointed with his
thumb to the captured carts. "We may, perhaps, get as many more; but,
even then, there won't be enough to supply us with food if we go much
further inland; we may never see our knapsacks again, or our tents."

"We shan't want them; it won't do us any harm to sleep in the open.
Napoleon always said that the bivouac was the finest training for
troops."

"You will be glad enough of shelter, sergeant-major, before to-night's
out, mark my words! The French are better off than we are; they have
got everything to their hands--their shelter-tents, knapsacks, and
all. They understand campaigning; I think we have forgotten the art."

"As if we have anything to learn from the French!" said the
self-satisfied young Briton, by way of ending the conversation.

But Sergeant Hyde was right, so far as the need for shelter was
concerned. As evening closed in, heavy clouds came up from the sea,
and it rained in torrents all night.

A miserable night it was! The whole army lay exposed to the fury of
the elements on the bleak hillside, drenched to the skin, in pools and
watercourses, under saturated blankets, without fuel, or the chance of
lighting a bivouac fire. It was the same for all; the generals of
division, high staff-officers, colonels, captains, and private men.
The first night on Crimean soil was no bad precursor of the dreadful
winter still to come.

Next day the prospect brightened a little. The sun came out and dried
damp clothes; tents were landed, only to be re-embarked when the army
commenced its march. This was on the third day after disembarkation,
when, with all the pomp and circumstance of a parade movement, the
allied generals advanced southward along the coast. They were in
search of an enemy which had shown a strange reluctance to come to
blows, and had already missed a splendid opportunity of interfering
with the landing.

The place of honour in the order of march was assigned to the English,
who were on the left, with that flank unprotected and "in the air"; on
their right marched the French; on whose right, again, the Turks; then
came the sea. Moving parallel with the land-forces, the allied fleets
held undisputed dominion of the waters. A competent critic could
detect no brilliant strategy in the operations so far; no astute,
carefully calculated plan directed the march. One simple and primitive
idea possessed the minds of the allied commanders, and that was to
come to close quarters, and fight the Russians wherever they could be
found.

There could be only one termination to such a military policy as this
when every hour lessened the distance between the opposing forces. At
the end of the first day's march, most toilsome and trying to troops
still harassed by fell disease, it was plain that the enemy were close
at hand. Large bodies of their cavalry hung black and menacing along
our front--the advance guards these of a large force in position
behind. Any moment might bring on a collision. It was nearly
precipitated, and prematurely, by the action of our horse--a small
handful of cavalry, led by a fiery impatient soldier, eager, like all
under his command, to cross swords with the enemy.

A couple of English cavalry regiments had been pushed forward to
reconnoitre the strength of the Russians. The horsemen rode out in
gallant style, but were checked by artillery fire; a British battery
galloped up and replied. Presently the round-shot bounded like cricket
balls, but at murderous pace, across the plain. More cavalry went
forward on our side, and two whole infantry divisions, in one of which
was the Royal Picts, followed in support.

Surely a battle was close at hand. But nothing came of this
demonstration. Why, was not quite clear, till Hugo Wilders, who was a
captain in the Royal Lancers, came galloping by, and exchanged a few
hasty words with the general, his cousin Bill.

"What's up, Hugo?" The general was riding just in front of the Royal
Picts, and his words were heard by many of the regiment.

"Just fancy! we were on the point of having a brush with the Cossacks,
when Lord Raglan came up and spoiled the fun."

"Do you know why?"

"Yes; I heard him talking to our general--I am galloping, you know,
for Lord Cardigan, who was mad to be at them, I can tell you, but he
wasn't allowed."

"They were far too strong for you; I could see that myself."

"That's what Lord Raglan said. As if any one of us was not good enough
for twenty Russians! But he was particularly anxious, so I heard him
say, not to be drawn into an action to-day."

"No doubt he was right," replied old Wilders. "Only it can't be put
off much longer. Unless I am greatly mistaken, to-morrow we shall be
at it hammer and tongs."

"I hope I shall be somewhere near!" cried Hugo, gaily. "But where are
the Royal Picts? Oh! here! I want to give Anastasius good-day."

He found his younger brother was carrying the regimental colours, and
the two young fellows exchanged pleasant greetings. It was quite a
little family party, for just behind, in the centre of the line, stood
Sergeant-major McKay, the unacknowledged cousin. How many of these
four Wilders would be alive next night?

No doubt a battle was imminent. It was more than possible that there
would be a night attack, so both armies bivouacked in order of battle,
ready to stand up in their places and fight at the first alarm.

But the night passed uneventfully. At daybreak the march was resumed,
and the day was still young when the allies came upon what seemed a
position of immense strength, occupied in force by the Russian troops.

It was a broad barrier of hills, at right angles with the coast, lying
straight athwart our line of march. The hills, highest and steepest
near the water's edge, were still difficult in the centre, where the
great high road to Sebastopol pierced the position by a deep defile;
beyond the road, slopes more gentle ended on the outer flank in the
tall buttresslike Kourgane Hill. All along the front ran a rapid
river, the Alma, in a deep channel. Villages nestled on its banks--one
near the sea, one midway, one on the extreme right; and all about the
low ground rich vegetation flourished, in garden, vineyard, and copse.

These were the heights of the Alma--historic ground, hallowed by many
memories of grim contest, vain prowess, glorious deeds, fell carnage,
and hideous death.

"We are in for it now, my boy," whispered Sergeant Hyde, who was one
of the colour-party, and stood in the centre of the column, near
McKay.

"What is it?" asked the young sergeant-major eagerly. "A fight?"

"More than that--a general action. In another hour or two we shall be
engaged hotly along the whole line. Some of us will lose the number of
our mess before the day is done."

The Royal Picts formed part of the second division, under the command
of Sir de Lacy Evans, a fine old soldier, who had seen service for
half a century. This division was on the right of the English army. On
the left of Sir de Lacy Evans was the Light Division, beyond that the
Highlanders and Guards. The Third Division was in reserve behind the
Second, the Fourth far in the rear, still near the sea-shore.

The march had hitherto been in columns, a disposition that lent
itself readily to deployment into line--the traditional formation,
peculiar to the British arms, and the inevitable prelude to an attack.

The order now given to form line was, therefore, promptly recognised
as the signal for the approaching struggle. It was rendered the more
necessary by the galling fire opened upon our troops by the enemy's
batteries, which crowned every point of vantage on the hills in front.

Grandly, and with admirable precision, the three leading divisions of
the British army formed themselves into the historic "Thin Red Line,"
renowned in the annals of European warfare, from Blenheim to Waterloo.

This beautiful line, so slender, yet so imposing in its simple,
unsupported strength, was more than two miles long, and faced the
right half of the Russian position. As the divisions stood, the Guards
and Highlanders confronted the Kourgane Hill, with its greater and
lesser redoubts, armed with heavy guns and held by dense columns of
the enemy. Next them was the Light Division, facing the vineyards and
hamlets to the left of the great high road; before them were other
earth-works, manned by a no less formidable garrison and artillery.
The Second Division lay across the high road, opposite the village of
Bourliouk, high above which was an eighteen-gun battery and great
masses of Russian troops.

General Wilders's brigade was on the extreme right of the British
front; its right regiment was the Royal Picts, the very centre this of
the battle-field, midway between the sea and the far left; and here
the allied generals had their last meeting before the combat
commenced.

A single figure, sitting straight and soldier-like in his saddle, with
white hair blanched in the service of his country--a service fraught
with the perils and penalties of war, as the empty sleeve bore
witness--this single figure rode a little in advance of the British
staff. It was Fitzroy Somerset, now Lord Raglan, the close comrade and
trusted friend of the Iron Duke, by whose side he had ridden in every
action in Spain. His face was passive and serene. Contentment shone in
every feature. His martial spirit was stirred by the sights and sounds
of battle, once so familiar to him, but now for forty years unheard.
But the calm demeanour, the quiet voice, the steady, unflinching gaze,
all indicating a noble unconsciousness of danger, were those of the
chance rider in Rotten Row, not of a great commander carrying his own
life and that of thousands in his hand.

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