On the sound of the firing, the First and Fourth Divisions moved down towards Balaklava, and moving parallel with them were the Light and Heavy Brigades, separated by a wide interval, the latter leading on the south side of the road towards Balaklava, the other on the north side nearer the Tchernaya. The scene of the two charges is therefore divided by the road, which runs along a low ridge. Just as the Heavy Brigade, 900 sabres strong, marching in a very irregular column without scouts, was nearing Kadikoi, a huge column of Russian cavalry, estimated at 3000 men, suddenly appeared on their left crossing the ridge. Scarlett did not hesitate: forming up the first troops (some 300) as they arrived, he dashed with the Greys and Inniskillings full at the centre of the mass, which, irresolute, halted to receive the shock; and the 4th and 5th coming up successively and taking the unwieldy column in flank, the Russians gave way in complete disorder, and fled headlong back to the head of the valley. The charge had cost the Heavy Brigade comparatively few men. Meanwhile, there had been an apparent intention on the part of the Russians to remove the guns captured in the Turkish redoubts. To prevent this, Lord Raglan sent his aide-de-camp, Captain Nolan, with directions to Lord Lucan to advance. Through misconception of his instructions, Captain Nolan, instead of indicating the intended objective, pointed to the heavy battery of guns a mile away, supported by masses of cavalry and infantry and other batteries on either flank. Lord Cardigan was to charge the whole of the Russian army. But there was as little hesitation with him as with Scarlett. Into the semicircle of fire the Light Brigade dashed on their “death ride.” They returned broken and in groups, having left 247 men killed and wounded, and with a mounted strength of but 195 men. The Heavy Brigade had moved in support, but was not employed; on the other side the Chasseurs d’Afrique gave timely aid by driving off the guns on the left of the advance. Nolan, the author of a misfortune the remembrance of which is still so glorious, was struck by a piece of shell in the breast, and though already lifeless, was carried through the ranks of the 13th before he fell from the saddle. Never was there recorded a more daring ride against dreadful odds, and all so practically useless. Well might the French officer looking down from the plateau on the battle panorama below, exclaim, “_C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre_.”