Blair of Balaclava

A HERO OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE BY ESCOTT LYNN Author of ‘When Lion Heart was King,’ ‘Under the Red Rose,’ ‘With Robin Hood in Sherwood,’ &c. WITH SIX COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS by W. H. C. Groome LONDON: 38 Soho Square, W. W & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED EDINBURGH: 339 Hight Street Edinburgh: Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited. TO MY BROTHER FRED AND THE OFFICERS NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICERS AND MEN OF THE ‘DEATH OR GLORY’ BOYS {vii}

PREFACE.

Inkermann has been called ‘The Soldiers’ Battle.’ With equal truth the whole Crimean campaign might be called ‘The Soldiers’ War.’ It was the vindication of the regimental officer and the rank and file; it showed to the world the ineptitude of the general staff as it existed at that day. Those entrusted with the conduct of the campaign were mostly old men long past the age when brilliant service in the field could be expected of them. Some had seen war-service in the Peninsula forty years before, the interim being spent doing office-work at the Horse Guards; many had never heard a shot fired in anger in their lives, their services being confined to Hyde Park or the Curragh Camp. Family or political influence procured them their appointments, while younger men who had already rendered splendid war-service in the East were either passed over, snubbed, or relegated to subordinate positions.

The miseries of Varna, the unparalleled sufferings of the troops before Sebastopol, and the awful blunder of Balaclava give testimony to the unwisdom of the selections.

During the long peace since Waterloo the army had grown unpopular. It had been neglected. Even the Duke of Wellington was averse to making any military display for fear that what army there was should be further reduced.

The force which left England for the East was one of the worst equipped {viii}and most badly organised that ever left our shores. On the contrary, the men of which it was composed were the finest. They were all long-service men, of grand physique and of an unrivalled spirit.

Before the Crimean war a red coat was looked on with disdain; after the war the wearer was hailed as a friend. He had proved that he was a worthy descendant of the heroes of the Peninsula, that he could perform as gallant deeds on the blood-stained slopes of the Alma or in the valley of Balaclava as had his forebears at Waterloo, that he could die of disease and starvation as uncomplainingly before Sebastopol as did his predecessors in Spain or Portugal.

In the following pages the author has endeavoured to pay a small tribute to the heroism of the rank and file, and to show how they won for themselves in the hearts of the British public the warm place they have ever since occupied.

The survivors of the Crimean war are, alas! growing yearly fewer; but the author desires to acknowledge with thankfulness much information he has gained from the veterans he has had the opportunity of knowing, amongst whom he wishes specially to mention Sergeant James Mustard, of the 17th Lancers, a survivor of the immortal charge, and happily still alive.

He also wishes to acknowledge his indebtedness to the fascinating pages of Kinglake’s Invasion of the Crimea and Russell’s British Expedition to the Crimea. Stirling’s Highland Brigade in the Crimea, and Steven’s Connaught Rangers have also been advantageously consulted.

ESCOTT LYNN.

{ix}

London, 1911.

FOREWORD. BY A SURVIVOR OF THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

It is many a long year now since the misty October morning when with my regiment, the 17th Lancers, I rode up that fatal valley where so many of my gallant comrades fell. Yet, as I read Mr Lynn’s description of the charge, I seemed to see and hear it all again: my comrades’ faces grim and set, the fine figure of Lord Cardigan leading us, poor Captain Nolan wildly trying to direct us out of the course we were following, the rattle of rifle-fire, the crash of the shells, the blazing of the guns all round us, the constant gaps in the ranks as man and horse went down, the ever-increasing speed till we were in amongst the Russian gunners and avenging those who had fallen.

I shivered again when I read of the awful storm of November and of the miseries of the road to Balaclava. My heart beat with pride at the tale of Inkermann, so well is the story told.

Many of the characters in the story I recognise—Jack Blair, Sergeant Barrymore, Sergeant Linham, Captain Norreys, Pearson, Brandon, and so on. I knew them under different names in the old regiment, but they were the same men.

If any boy is interested in what we did, what we suffered, and what part in the Crimean war my regiment played, let him read Blair of Balaclava.{x} As a survivor of the Light Brigade I can truly say that had Mr Lynn soldiered with me and ridden by my side in the charge he could not have given a truer account of our doings in the Crimea in 1854 and 1855.

(Signed) James Mustard, late 17th Lancers.

Sergeant James Mustard, the writer of the fore-going letter, was born in St James’s, Piccadilly, on January 13th, 1829.

Coming of a family of soldiers, a love for the profession of arms was born in him, and he joined the 3rd Light Dragoons, in London, on May 1st, 1850. Two years later he transferred, at Canterbury, to the 17th Lancers.

He went out to the East with his regiment in April 1854, was present at the affair of the Bulganak and the battle of the Alma. He rode in the front rank of the ‘Immortal Six Hundred,’ going down the valley immediately behind Lord Cardigan and his orderly trumpeter, Brittain of the 17th Lancers, who died of his wounds received in the charge. He reached the guns in safety, and, after using his lance with good effect against the Russian gunners and the cavalry formed behind them, started, with a little group of his own regiment and the 8th Hussars, on the return ride. He had a personal encounter with a Polish Lancer, whom he worsted; then continuing on his way, went to the assistance of Trumpeter Landfried of the 17th, who came safely out of the fray.

Sergeant Mustard had received a severe wound;{xi} but owing to the intense excitement became aware of the fact only by accident. To describe this event the writer quotes the sergeant’s own words: ‘We were coming back along the valley when a chum of the 13th Light Dragoons, named Hetridge, rode up to me. “Jim,” he said, “lend me your sword, for I’ve lost mine in the fight.” I still held my lance, though the shaft had been chipped by a bullet. I turned to draw my sword to hand it to Hetridge, when, to my amazement, I found I had neither sword, scabbard, nor belt. A canister-shot had caught me on the left hip, and cut away sword, belt, overalls, and pants, and laid bare a great red patch of bleeding flesh. Another inch would have smashed my hip and killed me.’

After lying all night on the ground, and helping to shift camp twice, Sergeant Mustard was next day sent to Scutari hospital, where he spent the next four months.

He served till the end of the war; and, returning with his regiment, was stationed in Ireland till the outbreak of the Indian Mutiny. Going to India, he served in Sir William Gordon’s squadron in the pursuit and capture of Tantia Topee. He was again wounded, and had his horse shot under him. Among his officers at that date were Lieut.-General Sir D. C. Drury Lowe, G.C.B., and Field-Marshal Sir Evelyn Wood, V.C., G.C.B., both then regimental officers in the 17th Lancers.

Sergeant Mustard, after being master-tailor of his regiment, retired from the service in 1865, being the possessor of the Crimean medal with three clasps, the Turkish medal, and the Indian Mutiny medal with one clasp.{xii}

The old veteran is still hale and hearty, though the only survivor of the rank and file of his regiment who rode in the charge. The kindly face and upright, soldierly figure, with the glittering medals on his breast, are well known in the suburb where he has lived, greatly respected, ever since he left the service.

His grandfather and two uncles fought at Waterloo in the 71st Light Infantry, and two of his brothers served for many years in the 22nd Regiment.{xiii}

CONTENTS.

{xv}

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

{xvi}

BOOKS BY G. MANVILLE FENN.

{1}

CHAPTER I. A SCRIMMAGE IN THE OFFICE.

‘YOU young brute, why don’t you mind what you’re doing, blundering about?’

‘I couldn’t help it, Jenkins; it was quite an accident. Your foot was stuck out, and I stumbled over it.’

‘It was nothing of the sort, you clumsy wretch; and take that to remind you that I’m Mr Jenkins.’

As he spoke, the lanky, pale-faced youth rose from the table, where he had been sitting nibbling the end of a quill, and soundly boxed the ears of a small, delicate-looking boy who, while carrying an inkpot across the office, had stumbled and upset some of the black fluid upon the lavender-coloured continuations of Mr Silvester Jenkins.

Not content with boxing the boy’s ears, Mr Jenkins seized him by the arm, which he twisted savagely.

‘Oh, oh—Jenkins! don’t—please don’t! You do hurt!’

‘And I will too, you young pig!’

The scene was taking place in the close and dismal office of Messrs Phogg & Cheetham, Solicitors, House{2} Agents, &c. The tiny windows, partly covered with a wire blind and partly with big bills, allowed but little daylight to penetrate into the office, Messrs Phogg & Cheetham seeming to prefer, in more senses than one, working in the dark.

While the boy’s cries still rang out, a third person, who had been seated in the darkest corner of the office, perched up on a high stool, making entries in a book of vast dimensions, quietly descended from his seat, and in two strides stood before Mr Jenkins.

This third person was a well-set-up, handsome young fellow of about sixteen, with a firm chin, clear-cut features, and honest hazel eyes.

‘Leave Mallinson alone,’ he said quietly to Mr Jenkins; ‘you’re hurting him.’

‘And a good job too. He’s spoilt my trousers!’

‘It was an accident, and he’s sorry. Now let him go.’

‘I sha’n’t, and you mind your own business, John Blair, or you’ll get kicked out into the gutter.’

A slight flush crept into Blair’s cheeks, and Jenkins gave Mallinson’s arm another twist that made the poor boy almost shriek with pain. This was more than the quick temper of Jack Blair could stand.

The pent-up animosity of months broke out; and, never pausing to consider the probable consequences of his act, or to remember that the dandified being before him was his master’s nephew, he caught Mr Jenkins by the collar, shook him as a terrier would a rat, then hurled him across the office, where he fell with a crash in the fireplace.

Picking himself up, with a snarl of rage Jenkins seized a heavy ebony ruler, which he aimed with all his might at Blair. It struck that youth a sharp{3} blow on the head, making him see stars for a moment, then glanced off and smashed one of the small, dirty panes of glass in the window.

Mr Jenkins’ triumph was, however, but short-lived. Roused to fury by the sting of the blow, Blair stepped up to the angry bully, his right and left shot out with lightning-like rapidity; and, receiving one on his mouth and one on his ample nose, Mr Jenkins measured his length upon the floor again, where he lay like a whipped cur, shouting ‘Murder!’ and ‘Police!’

In the midst of the hubbub, a door which led to the private office of Mr Phogg opened, and a tall, thin, black-bearded man appeared in the doorway. He gave a rapid look round the office, readjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles, took another look, then asked in cutting tones, ‘What is the meaning of this low, disgraceful conduct?’

Mr Jenkins picked himself up from the floor, holding his coloured silk handkerchief to his nose; little Mallinson shrank back into a corner; while Blair put his hands in his trouser-pockets with a resigned air, knowing there was trouble ahead for him, but determined to meet it boldly.

‘Now then,’ rapped out Mr Phogg, ‘must I ask again what is the meaning of this outrage perpetrated upon the premises of one of the oldest and most respectable businesses in Wycombe?’

‘It’s that low fellow Blair,’ said Mr Jenkins; ‘he made a savage attack upon me. He’s a bully and a coward. He tried to murder me.’

‘Now, John Blair,’ said Mr Phogg coldly, ‘what explanation have you got? Be careful what you say, for you may yet find yourself in the police-court, and{4} any admission now, although spoken in hot blood, may be used against you.’

Jack Blair looked the contempt he could not express, for he cordially detested Mr Phogg.

‘I have no explanation,’ he said shortly; ‘ask your nephew for his version. I dare say it will be more to your taste than mine would be.’

Mr Phogg gave a sort of gasp—that is, he opened his mouth like a fish suddenly taken from the water, but he made no sound. Astonishment kept him silent. Had he heard aright? Had John Blair, the junior clerk, the youth who was dependent on his bounty, the ungrateful being whom he fed and lodged and paid—had he dared to be impudent to him, Anthony Phogg, senior partner of the firm of Phogg and Cheetham?

He paused for a moment; then a kind of painful smile crossed his features. ‘Very well, Silvester,’ he said, ‘very well; proceed with your narrative. Relate the facts;’ and he sat on the edge of the high stool Blair had just vacated, folding his arms and stretching out his long legs before him.

‘That young brute of a Mallinson’—— began Jenkins.

‘Nothing libellous, please,’ said Mr Phogg, holding up one lean, yellow hand; ‘plain facts only. I will draw my own conclusions.’

‘Well, sir, Mallinson then, crossing the office just now, deliberately upset an inkpot on my trousers, completely spoiling them.’

‘We can recover the value if we find motive,’ said Mr Phogg, making a pencil note on a scrap of paper lying on Blair’s desk. ‘Proceed.’

‘I was just showing Mallinson what he had done,{5} and was telling him to be more careful another time, when he began cheeking me’——

‘Being insolent, say,’ corrected Mr Phogg.

‘He has been most insolent ever since he got that new job and gave us notice. I was checking him for being chee—insolent, when that bully Blair seized his ruler, rushed at me, and attacked me like a mad-man. I struggled to get the ruler from him, when he threw it at me and smashed the window, afterwards punching me about the face like a prize-fighter. Just look at me.’ And indeed Mr Jenkins did look in a pretty plight, with one eye nearly closed, his nose swollen, his mouth cut, and his hands smeared with blacklead and soot off the grate.

‘Ha,’ said Mr Phogg, ‘just what I expected! You are a low, common bully, Blair; a worthless, lazy brat, whom I kept only out of charity,’ he continued, his thin lips curling back from his teeth as he spoke. ‘Now you shall go—do you hear?—you shall go, be bundled, without a reference, neck and crop out into the gutter, where you can starve, or sell matches, or thieve. I dare say you’re a thief as well as’——

‘Stop!’ cried Blair, his eyes flashing fire. ‘Discharge me you can; but insult me you shall not. I am ready to go, for I’m sick to death of this place and its shady business, of you and your ape of a nephew. Give me my money and I’ll go at once.’

‘Oh Mr Phogg, please, please!’ cried poor little Mallinson, coming forward and holding out his hands appealingly; ‘it wasn’t Blair’s fault, on my honour it wasn’t. Jenkins—Mr Jenkins, I mean—boxed my ears and pinched me, and twisted my arm till I had to scream, I couldn’t help it. And I didn’t upset the ink on him on purpose. Blair only interfered because{6} Mr Jenkins was hurting me, and he’s always at it, and Blair told him last time he wouldn’t have any more of it. Oh, please, Mr Phogg, don’t sack Blair.’

‘Silence, you little sneak!’ roared Mr Phogg; ‘leave the house, and depend upon it I’ll mention this occurrence in the character I shall give you.—Silvester, come into my room.’

Mr Phogg and his worthy nephew disappeared into the inner sanctum together; then Blair and Mallinson looked at one another, the latter almost on the verge of tears.

‘Oh Blair, what shall I do? It’s all my fault, and now you’ll have to go. I shall never, never forgive myself. What shall I do?’

Jack Blair placed an arm caressingly round the neck of the delicate-looking boy.

‘Don’t you worry, Cecil,’ he said; ‘it isn’t your fault. Ever since you got that nomination for Lidsdale’s Bank and gave Phogg notice to leave they’ve been down on you and me. There was bound to be a row, and I’m glad it’s over. I could not have stopped here much longer. I feel as though the very air of this office, with its pettifogging business, and dark, underhand methods, would choke me. I’m glad the burst-up has come. Now, cut away home, and I’ll give you a look up in the morning on the way to church.’

‘But—but—aren’t you afraid to be left here with those?’ and he pointed to the door of the private room.

Blair laughed grimly just as the door was opened and Mr Phogg shot out.

‘What! not gone, Mallinson?’ he cried. ‘Put on your hat at once. Here’s your money. Now go,{7} and never darken my doors again!’ and, giving the boy a small envelope, he bundled him out of the door, which he banged behind him.

‘You’d better tidy up the place,’ he said to Blair; then again retired to his own room.

Blair did as he was bidden; then climbed up on to his high stool, and sat looking at the brilliant sunlight outside. His mind wandered back twelve months—to his old school and the pleasant cricket-meadow where probably the fellows were then playing, or perhaps his own old particular chums were having a pull up the river. The recollection made him sigh, for the last twelve months had held nothing but trouble and hard work for him. He looked round the dismal office, seeming ten times more dismal, he thought, now young Mallinson had gone, and his head fell forward on his hands, for the future looked dark indeed before him.

Less than fifteen months ago he had lost his father. At the end of the summer term he had gone home to find his mother and sisters removed from the great, rambling old house in Hampshire, where he had been born, to a humble lodging in London. There nothing but bad news met him. Mr Bailey, the old lawyer who had managed his father’s business for years, had stated that Mr Blair’s affairs were in a far from flourishing state. Unfortunate speculations had dissipated his fortune; his property was mortgaged, and most of his securities had to be disposed of to meet his liabilities. The house and best part of the furniture were sold, and the proceeds, being invested, were just sufficient to bring in a bare pittance, enough to keep a roof over the widow’s head. Jack Blair had to turn out into the world to earn his own living.{8}

His first place had been in a wholesale drapery establishment, where he worked twelve hours a day. The hard work and the confinement, together with the bad and insufficient food, had in a few months made him but a ghost of his former self, and his mother had insisted upon his leaving. His second situation had been with a firm of merchants who in less than two months went bankrupt, and Jack Blair was once more thrown on his mother’s hands. Then the family lawyer had procured him his present situation with Messrs Phogg & Cheetham, a place where he worked from eight in the morning till eight or often nine at night, Saturdays included. He lived on the premises, and, besides his board, received the magnificent sum of four shillings a week for his services.

The old lawyer had told him that at any cost he must keep that situation, as he must not be a burden to his mother, who had as much as she could do to keep herself.