Mad King Ruprecht and the Charge of the Light Brigade.
Created | Updated Nov 2, 2002
Balaclava, 1854.
Owing to circumstances beyond my ability to control I had discovered myself immersed in the broiling conflict of the Crimean War; locking horns with the fearful Russian to uphold the honour of the honest Turk; which in my limited experience of being assaulted by a knife wielding Houri after a price disagreement, I would hazard does not exist.
Erstwhile of the 17th Lancers and promoted in error on the field of battle I had availed myself of a cavalry command alongside the fatuous and irredeemably inept Lord Cardigan. Together we had taken to the plains of Balaclava with five entire regiments of horse bearing the orders,
'Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front and prevent the enemy carrying away the guns. Troop of horse artillery may accompany. French cavalry is on your left. Immediate.'
My hands itched for the feel of the sabre. How I longed to charge forth and inflict dramatic casualties. Naturally, should these dramatic casualties be inflicted amongst the enemy muster then so much the better.
The glare of the midday sun was fuelling my impetuous nature and slowly broiling my brain, not to mention my ridiculously embroidered pelisse that was adding volumes to my general discomfiture. Loops of lace, standing mink collars, elaborate gold braiding and umpteen fiddly brass buttons were sending me on a gilt trip from which I may never return.
However, as I squinted through the eyepiece of my field telescope I observed the imposing rows of Russian artillery that contrary to military intelligence were far from being towed to the rear and indeed lined the valley before us on all sides, leading me to the working hypothesis that a frontal assault would be tantamount to suicide.
Based on this premise I decided that I ought to respond to our questionable orders to the effect of,
'Dear Lord Raglan, cavalry have advanced as instructed. Guns unlimbered, loaded and about to get carried away. Please go bugger yourself. Troop of horse artillery may accompany. French cavalry have left. Immediate.'
I lowered my spyglass a fraction and took an inventory of my command. To my left the 13th Light Dragoons were champing impatiently at the bit and to my immediate right the 11th Cherrypicker Hussars looked liable to take off down the valley at the first note of the bugle. Out on the wings, the 8th Hussars were clandestinely shuffling closer to the Russian position with all the nonchalance that one hundred and twenty gaudily attired cavalrymen were able to muster. The 4th Light Dragoons were violently convincing their bugler to play something simple via experimental poking manouvres with numerous standard pattern Dragoon carbines about his shako pom pom.
It was this accursed heat that was fraying the tempers of the men; that and the merciless baking rays of the sun overhead.
It was then that my nostrils caught the sharp and unmistakeable aroma of burning flesh and it was with no small measure of alarm that I observed my telescope had set my chargers mane ablaze. The poor creature bolted in terror as I clung desperately to the reins for fear of being thrown and trampled; directly into the valley of death.
On cue, the entire Light Brigade followed in my wake.
Forward the Light Brigade.
Was there a man dismayed?
Yes, there bloody was.
Owing to circumstances beyond my ability to control I had discovered myself immersed in the broiling conflict of the Crimean War; locking horns with the fearful Russian to uphold the honour of the honest Turk; which in my limited experience of being assaulted by a knife wielding Houri after a price disagreement, I would hazard does not exist.
Erstwhile of the 17th Lancers and promoted in error on the field of battle I had availed myself of a cavalry command alongside the fatuous and irredeemably inept Lord Cardigan. Together we had taken to the plains of Balaclava with five entire regiments of horse bearing the orders,
'Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front and prevent the enemy carrying away the guns. Troop of horse artillery may accompany. French cavalry is on your left. Immediate.'
My hands itched for the feel of the sabre. How I longed to charge forth and inflict dramatic casualties. Naturally, should these dramatic casualties be inflicted amongst the enemy muster then so much the better.
The glare of the midday sun was fuelling my impetuous nature and slowly broiling my brain, not to mention my ridiculously embroidered pelisse that was adding volumes to my general discomfiture. Loops of lace, standing mink collars, elaborate gold braiding and umpteen fiddly brass buttons were sending me on a gilt trip from which I may never return.
However, as I squinted through the eyepiece of my field telescope I observed the imposing rows of Russian artillery that contrary to military intelligence were far from being towed to the rear and indeed lined the valley before us on all sides, leading me to the working hypothesis that a frontal assault would be tantamount to suicide.
Based on this premise I decided that I ought to respond to our questionable orders to the effect of,
'Dear Lord Raglan, cavalry have advanced as instructed. Guns unlimbered, loaded and about to get carried away. Please go bugger yourself. Troop of horse artillery may accompany. French cavalry have left. Immediate.'
I lowered my spyglass a fraction and took an inventory of my command. To my left the 13th Light Dragoons were champing impatiently at the bit and to my immediate right the 11th Cherrypicker Hussars looked liable to take off down the valley at the first note of the bugle. Out on the wings, the 8th Hussars were clandestinely shuffling closer to the Russian position with all the nonchalance that one hundred and twenty gaudily attired cavalrymen were able to muster. The 4th Light Dragoons were violently convincing their bugler to play something simple via experimental poking manouvres with numerous standard pattern Dragoon carbines about his shako pom pom.
It was this accursed heat that was fraying the tempers of the men; that and the merciless baking rays of the sun overhead.
It was then that my nostrils caught the sharp and unmistakeable aroma of burning flesh and it was with no small measure of alarm that I observed my telescope had set my chargers mane ablaze. The poor creature bolted in terror as I clung desperately to the reins for fear of being thrown and trampled; directly into the valley of death.
On cue, the entire Light Brigade followed in my wake.
Forward the Light Brigade.
Was there a man dismayed?
Yes, there bloody was.
