The rider came on, rocks and gravel and dust kicking up behind his horse’s hooves, and once he had reached the plain below, he spurred his horse on ever faster. Lord Lucan, in his white-plumed hat, trotted toward the approaching figure and reined in his horse not more than ten yards in front of Sinclair, between the tight formations of the Light and the Heavy Brigades which he commanded.
Nolan galloped up, sweat streaming from his horse’s flanks, and pulled a communiqué from his sabretache, slapping it into Lord Lucan’s hand. Though Sinclair was well aware of Nolan’s low regard for Lord Lucan (shared by most of the cavalry), still he was surprised at the peremptory manner in which he had delivered the message. Lucan had a famously bad temper, and any such misstep could lead to arrest for insubordination.
Lucan, glowering, read the orders, then looked up at Nolan, whose horse was still pacing anxiously about, and challenged him in some way. Sinclair could not make out all the words, but he heard something to the effect of “Attack what? Attack what guns, sir?”
Sinclair traded a look with Rutherford. Was Lord Lucan—“Lord Look-On” to his idled troops—once again going to keep his men from entering the fray?
Nolan urgently repeated something, his dark curls shaking about his head, and gestured at the paper in Lord Lucan’s hand. And then, with his arm thrown out toward the Russian batteries at the far end of the North Valley, and in a voice that even Sinclair could clearly hear, Nolan shouted, “There, my lord, is your enemy. There are your guns!”
Sinclair expected to see Lord Lucan go into a rage at this further impertinence and order Captain Nolan to be arrested on the spot, but instead he simply shrugged, turned his horse away, and trotted off to consult with his archenemy, Lord Cardigan. Whatever had been written in that communiqué, it was sufficiently important that he did not wish to ignore it or to take some unilateral action.
After several minutes of intense deliberation, Lord Cardigan saluted, not once but twice, and galloped back toward Sinclair and his fellow Lancers. Quickly, he ordered the brigade to form up in two lines, with the first line composed of the 17th Lancers, the 13th Light Dragoons, and the 11th Hussars; the second line was made up of the 4th Light Dragoons and most of the 8th Hussars. The Heavy Brigade, meanwhile, was being drawn up to their rear. The Horse Artillery, which might have been expected to follow under normal circumstances, was not ordered up—perhaps, Sinclair concluded, because the valley before them was partly plowed and consequently hard to traverse.
If he’d had to guess, Sinclair would have said that the North Valley, into which the brigade was entering, was about a mile and a quarter long, and not even a mile wide. It was a flat plain, offering no sort of cover, and on all three sides it was under the control of the Russian forces. On the Fedioukine Hills to the north, Sinclair could make out at least a dozen gun emplacements, along with several battalions of infantry. To the south, the Causeway Heights were even more fearsome, with as many as thirty guns and a field battery that had captured the redoubts earlier in the day. But it was at the end of the valley that the greatest danger of all lay. If the Light Brigade was to attack that point, it would not only have to pass through a gauntlet of fire the entire way, it would then have to ride straight up into the muzzles of a dozen cannons, backed by several lines of densely packed Russian cavalry.
For the first time in his life, Sinclair had a distinct premonition of death. It came not as a shiver, or even as an urge to flee, but as a cold, stark fact. Up until then, even as others had fallen by the wayside with cholera or fever, or been picked off by snipers in the hills, he had never truly considered his own vulnerability. He had felt impervious. But no one, staring down the bore of the North Valley, could continue in such an illusion.
Sinclair was riding in the first line with Rutherford on his left, and a young chap named Owens on his right. Sergeant Hatch had been conscripted into the second line.
“Five quid,” Sinclair said to Rutherford, “that I reach the gun battery first.”
“You’re on,” Rutherford said. “But have you got five quid?”
Sinclair laughed, and Owens managed a weak smile at overhearing the exchange. He had a receding chin and a thin face, and his skin had gone as white as whey. His hand trembled on the upright lance.
A trumpet sounded, and Sinclair fell silent, as did all of those around him. Lord Cardigan had ridden several lengths in front of the entire company, and all alone he drew his sword and raised it. In a calm voice that nonetheless carried to the men behind him, he said, “The Brigade will advance. Walk, march, trot.”