The Young Dragoon: Every Day Life of a SoldierDrayson, Alfred W. (Alfred Wilks)
History
The Young Dragoon: Every Day Life of a Soldier
Drayson, Alfred W. (Alfred Wilks)
Soldiers -- Juvenile fiction
Placing himself at the head of the brigade, without waiting for any
supports, he commanded the trumpeter to sound the "advance," which we
did, in two lines, as we were formed before the order was given. We
galloped on for more than half-a-mile before we came within range of the
enemy's guns, which we now found raked the valley by an oblique fire
from guns posted on the hills, as well as from those planted across the
valley.
Onwards we dashed at an increased pace, men and horses tumbling dead at
every bound, thus sadly impeding our progress. At length, however, we
reached the guns, and could see the whites of our enemy's eyes through
the smoke. They met us with a horrible yell, and we answered with a
ringing cheer. I felt still unhurt, although bespattered with blood. A
forest of bayonets was behind the guns; but neither looking on my right
nor left, I pressed my legs to my gallant horse (a powerful, three-parts
bred chestnut); he rose beautifully, cleared the field-piece in front of
him, and dropped with a crash that I shall never forget, on the other
side. Simultaneous with my horse's leap, three hundred more of my
comrades had jumped their horses over the guns, and dropped among the
Russian infantry. Others had managed to get through the narrow spaces
between each gun; and now we were fighting, with little more than five
hundred men, a whole army, hemmed in on every side by artillery,
infantry, and cavalry. There was little or no smoke; and, beyond an
occasional shot from an officer's revolver, firing had ceased; but the
carnage was extraordinary. Still we rode on, cleaving our way through
solid blocks of human flesh: the sabre cuts one and two, with the
corresponding points, were most used. Every cut told a horrible tale,
and every point extinguished a life. The shrieking infantry, unable to
fly, thrust their bayonets up to the musket muzzles into our horses'
breasts, and down the noble animals fell, in quivering heaps; the rider,
clearing his stirrups as he fell, would sometimes drop on his legs, and
fight like a demon until cut to pieces.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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