A fine, fearless horseman, he
galloped at a breakneck pace down the steep and rocky sides of the
plateau, and quickly reached Lord Lucan's side.
The general read his orders, with lips compressed and lowering brow.
"You come straight from Lord Raglan? But, surely, you are General
Airey's aide-de-camp?"
"Lord Raglan himself entrusted me with the message."
"I can't believe it. It is utterly impracticable: for any useful
purpose. Quite unequal, quite inadequate, to the risks and frightful
loss it must entail."
The impetuous aide-de-camp showed visible signs of impatience. While
the general debated and discussed his orders, instead of executing
them with instant, unquestioning despatch, a great opportunity was
flitting quickly by.
"Lord Raglan's orders are"--Nolan spoke with an irritation that was
disrespectful, almost insubordinate--"his lordship's orders are that
the cavalry should attack immediately."
"Attack, sir!" replied Lord Lucan, petulantly; "attack what? What
guns?"
"There, my lord, is your enemy," replied Nolan, with an excited wave
of his arm; "there are your guns!"
The exact meaning of the gesture no man survived to tell, but its
direction was unhappily towards a formidable Russian battery which
closed the gorge of the north valley, and not to the heights crowned
by the captured redoubts.
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