Chapter 1: One Stop on the River of Time

Nolan was the best horseman in the army. So, the toffs were using him as a galloper. He’d been up on the Sapouné Heights all morning. Now, he was lathering his horse, as he rode helter-skelter down the escarpment. Whatever had gotten up his ass was important.

It was chilly and overcast, like most fall days in the Crimea, and the Brigade was sitting in the grey and humid weather; nervously awaiting our fate. The Heavies had just seen off a swarm of Russian cavalry up on the Causeway and it looked like it would be our turn next.

Nolan was headed directly for that fat clown Bingham. I thought, “This isn’t going to go well,” since Nolan had nothing but contempt for George Bingham, third Earl of Lucan. Nolan’s scorn was well placed. Neither Lucan, nor his preening weasel of a brother-in-law Cardigan, should have been leading a troop of blind monkeys, let alone the entire cavalry corps. But a corrupt system, one that valued aristocracy over ability, had put both of them in charge.

Nolan skidded his horse to a melodramatic stop and handed Lucan the order. It was clear that Lucan didn’t like it. He said, “This order is useless and dangerous without infantry support.” Nolan said sneeringly, “Lord Raglan’s orders are that the cavalry should attack immediately.”

Lucan blustered, “Attack, sir! Attack what? What guns, sir?” Nolan waved his hand vaguely up the valley and said with disrespect dripping off of every syllable: “There, my lord, is your enemy! There are your guns!” Lucan peered in the direction Nolan indicated. There was a Russian battery visible at the far end of the valley, perhaps a mile distant.

Lucan was stupid, even by hereditary lord standards, and Nolan’s insolent tone clearly infuriated him. So, rather than ordering the galloper to clarify Raglan’s intent, as he should have; the bungling fool nodded in Cardigan’s direction and simply told Nolan to deliver it. That sealed our fate.

Normally, orders are handed directly from the superior to the recipient. That way their purpose can be explained. But Lucan and Cardigan cordially hated each other. Cardigan’s view of Lucan had something to do with Lucan’s fondness for touching up his wife; who was Cardigan’s sister. While, Lucan detested Cardigan because he was an all-around profligate sod.

I had already had far too much experience with James Brudenell, 7th Earl of Cardigan. That was the reason why I was sitting in front of the “Death or Glory” boys when Nolan, rather than Lucan, gave the order to Cardigan.

Cardigan, quite rightly, objected to what was plainly a very bad idea. The valley that we were being ordered to charge down, was lined with Russian artillery. Raglan couldn’t have possibly expected a successful attack. However, instead of clarifying Raglan’s ACTUAL intentions Nolan asked Cardigan if he was afraid to carry the order out.

That was the worst thing Nolan could have said. I heard Cardigan shout, “By God!! If I come through this alive, I’ll have you court-martialed for speaking to me in that manner.” Nolan laughed disdainfully, turned and trotted over to his friend Morris, who was next to me in front of the Light Brigade. Nolan asked Morris for permission to accompany the charge. I would’ve gladly given up my place. Since it was clear that the north valley at Balaclava was a potential slaughterhouse.

Meanwhile, Cardigan sent an aide-de-camp over to query Lucan about what to do. That brought Lucan back in a huff. Old fiddle-faddle came riding up sputtering angrily, pointed at the distant Russian guns and shouted, “Lord Cardigan. You will attack the Russians in the valley.” Cardigan answered back with irritation in his voice, “Certainly, my Lord. But allow me to point out that there is a battery in front, a battery on each flank, and the ground is covered with Russian riflemen.” In other words, it was a death trap.

Lucan replied, “I cannot help that. It is Lord Raglan’s positive order that the Light Brigade is to attack the enemy.” So, Cardigan sighed exasperated, turned to his trumpeter and said. “Sound the advance!” The 17th Lancers, were at the front of the brigade, wearing our tight-fitting blue uniforms and striking czapka style Uhlan helmets. A lot of choices about regiment were based on the cut of the uniform and the 17th’s was extraordinarily dashing. We carried long lances instead of carbines. They looked impressive at the charge. But they were unwieldy in a fight.

The process was well-understood; walk–trot–gallop-charge. We’d just accelerated to the trot when Nolan raced in front of the ranks agitatedly waving his sword. He yelled, “Wheel to the right my Lord. The guns are up there.” He must have realized that Cardigan didn’t plan to attack up the Causeway heights to our south; as Raglan had intended. The right-wheel would have saved us. But just then, a shell burst next to Nolan. He gave a girlish shriek and his horse turned and galloped back through the advancing squadrons. Nolan was slumped limp in the saddle. He slid to the ground as we advanced past him.

The Queen’s toady Tennyson tried to exalt the senselessness carnage, “Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon in front of them, volleyed and thundered.” Seems splendid doesn’t it? Well, that doesn’t come close to describing the reality of the situation. We were sitting ducks for the massed Russian artillery. But ours was not to reason why, ours was to do or die; and die we did.

I was frightened out of my wits. The only thing that kept me at the front of the charge was my greater fear of showing the white feather. Cowardice was the one unforgivable sin in Victorian society. Death was preferable. Hence, it was fear of dishonor, not bravery, that motivated me into the valley of death.

Reality blurred. My vision narrowed to the space between my horse’s ears. Even the maelstrom of noise was muted. I could hear the sound of balls and cannon shot hitting individual troopers. There were grunts, cries and even wails as men were shot out of their saddles. Macabre things happened. Big, bluff Troop-Sergeant-Major Thatcher had his head totally taken off by a solid shot. His headless corpse continued to ride for another fifty yards still holding his lance braced to the front. It was ghoulish.

We got to perhaps eighty yards from the battery, when the Russians fired a point-blank salvo of grapeshot. The sound of grape scything past was indescribable. It cut through our front-rank and any person’s survival was a matter of chance. Fortunately, it wasn’t my day. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Cardigan’s either.

Only the good die young. That must be true. Because Cardigan reached the guns unscathed. Then, he turned and blithely trotted back up the valley. As he passed through what was left of his Brigade, he exclaimed, “Men it was a mad-brained trick, but no fault of mine.” Then, he retired to his yacht, which was anchored in Balaclava Bay, for a bit of caviar and champagne with his friends. He never lived that craven act down.

There were perhaps forty men left in the squadron as we swept into the battery, cutting and lancing the Russian gunners. It was our turn now. I hacked one Russian in the back as he tried to run. Then, I turned and sabered an officer who was trying to rally his men. Unfortunately, I used the point, the sabre stuck and the weight of the man’s falling body knocked it out of my hand.

Suddenly, I found myself riding headlong into a teeming mass of Cossacks; holding nothing more lethal than the reins of my panicked horse. William Howard Russell, described it for the Times, “Gallant Lambert, his noble heart broken by the death of his comrades, charged alone into the Russian horde, and was lost.” It’s always nice to have the press on your side.

I was frantically yanking on the reins, desperately trying to turn my foolish animal around, when I was swarmed by a host of white uniforms and savage beards and a cultured voice said in perfect English, “You fought well. But now you are my prisoner.”

My old man bought me a Cornet’s commission in the Eleventh Hussars, on the day I turned sixteen. I was the second son. So, I wouldn’t inherit. Still, I was happy about my new career. A Cornet normally cost eight hundred pounds. But Father put up a cool thousand, to get me into the Cherrypickers. The nickname supposedly comes from an eponymous event during Wellington’s peninsular campaign. But the uniforms are so impressive that there was another meaning to the term “cherrypicker.” The 11th Hussars had by far the best turnout, black coat with a lot of gold facing, red trousers and jaunty black shako with a white plume.

Being a Cornet meant I carried the troop standard. It was the best place to begin my army career. It put me above all of the common soldiers. But it didn’t require much in the way of responsibility. So, I spent my time swanning around Aldershot and Whitehall and attending balls in Winchester and London.

I wanted to try it on with Ophelia the minute I laid eyes on her. My bloodlines are Saxon. So, I was taller than most, big, blond and sturdy. I must have looked splendid in my uniform. Ophelia was of Norman stock, slim and beautiful, with a delicate oval face, huge brown eyes and porcelain complexion.

She wore the fashion of the time, a scoop front dress that showed off her tiny waist and her pert little boobies. Her thick raven hair was pinned into loops and swirls like every other woman in attendance.

The orchestra was playing a country air. I sauntered over and asked if she would partner me in a reel. She blushed furiously as she said, “My pleasure gallant sir.” She never took her beautiful, luminous eyes off mine as we turned and wove our way through the intricacies of the dance. There was promise in them.

When the dance ended, I politely took her hand, bowed and said, “The regiment is being reviewed at Whitehall on the morrow. It would be my honor if you would attend it.” Her eyes sparkled as she said, “And what will become of me afterward kind sir?” I tried to keep a straight face as I said, “Perhaps you and your chaperone could visit me for a light dinner.”

Ophelia was sitting with the rest of the beauties as we wheeled our mounts around Horse Guards Parade. The band played martial airs. It was a hot, sunny summer day and the ladies were all shaded by frilly umbrellas. The servants ran back and forth with cool drinks as we did our mounted drills. We were all sweating buckets under our heavy gear.

As I sat in front of the eighty men in my troop, I caught Ophelia’s eye and winked. She blushed, gave me a coquettish smile and turned to the man and woman she was standing with. I already knew that the man was her brother-in-law and the woman was her sister. No proper Victorian lady would meet a man unaccompanied.

I joined the party after I’d handed my mount to the stable boy. As I mentioned, I’m taller than most. So, I towered over Ophelia in my knee-high riding boots and shako. She rushed up to me with her superb eyes full of wonderment and said, “You look splendid.” I said nonchalantly. Thank you m’dear;” trying to hide what had sprung up in my skin-tight cherrypicker pants.

She was in a frilly white empire-waisted dress that pushed her tits out like the backs of two particularly round and shapely nesting doves. I took the time to gander down the long narrow valley between those splendid peaks. She caught me looking hungrily at them. Instead of slapping my face she gave me an insolent smile. That was encouraging.

The four of us dined on eel pie at the Clarence, just off Whitehall and thence to St. James Park for a stroll in the splendid English summer evening. Ophelia seized my arm every chance she got. She would look at me soulfully with her beautiful brown eyes. I could feel her intense heat. Then afterward, she impulsively kissed me, as I was putting her in the hired coach to Belgravia. Proper Victorian ladies do not kiss strange men on a first date. That was promising indeed.

Over the next two months, I was a constant presence at Ophelia’s family house. It was important to get to know the family since we were officially courting, specifically her father. Ophelia’s father had earned his title the hard way; by leveraging his shady business practices into enough wealth to be “made” Baron by the Queen. He was a miserable old skinflint. But he loved his daughter.

He had reservations about me, because my family was only landed gentry. But at least he didn’t set the hounds loose when I visited; much as I suspected he would have liked to. One evening, we were taking brandy and cigars after dinner. That was suspicious in-and-of-itself. Since, the great man rarely condescended to recognize that I existed. As soon as the women withdrew, leaving just us fellows, the Baron said, “I need to ask you a question my good man.”

Nothing like starting out a conversation by insulting me. But he was a peer and I was a humble cavalry Cornet. So, I said in my best bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed voice, “Yes sir.” He continued condescendingly, “My brainless daughter claims she can’t live without you.” The little voice in my head capered and said, “I knew it!!”

He looked at me with the same gimlet stare he had used to cheat so many people out of their hard-earned coin and said, “So I must find out your intentions.” That shot a jolt of panic down my spine. How much did he know?

Ophelia and I had ridden out to picnic on Hampstead Heath the weekend before. It was a beautiful English summer day. We had chosen a shady grove to spread out the blanket and open the bubbly. We had consumed a bottle of Moet and were feeling a might peckish. So, Ophelia sent her servant back to the house to fetch a picnic lunch.

His absence left us unchaperoned for the first time in our relationship. Ophelia was lying back, bonnet off commenting on the cloud shapes in the bright blue English sky. I lay next to her mischievously contradicting her. She said, “Oh look darling. That one looks like an angel!!” I said gruffly, “Looks more like a sheep to me.”

She slapped my arm. I tickled her. She got an odd glassy-eyed look. I gazed into those eyes and I could see flaming lust. I glanced around. There was nobody in sight. I took her slim body in my arms and made a classic ravisher’s noise as I kissed her for real. There was no hesitation as her mouth opened and our tongues dueled.

She gave a little cry and tried to drag me between her widespread legs. I thought, “Finally!!” But that was just wishful thinking until we could clear the decks below. I said, “Are you sure?” Because it was going to take a little while before we would be able to properly come-to-grips.

Those first moments were NOT romantic. I was wearing my skintight Cherrypicker pants and she was fortified by vast ramparts of crinoline petticoats and frilly underthings. She was making inarticulate noises as she frantically shucked her impedimenta and it was good that she was doing that. Because I wouldn’t have known where to start. My pants were secured by a dozen buttons. I hurriedly unfastened enough to hastily drag them down my legs.

I positioned myself with the ram touching the wall. Under the classic rules of engagement, there would be no-quarter after that. I looked down on the loveliest sight a man has ever beheld. Ophelia’s eyes were wide open. She was staring at me with a need that was almost menacing. I was the big, bluff cavalry trooper and she was a mere slip of a fair maiden. But in that moment, it was clear that she was the predator and I was the prey.

Every man in that era viewed women as delicate things who only indulged in the obscenity of sex to satisfy men’s lustful urges. No virtuous woman was EVER supposed to enjoy it. Well Ophelia had obviously never read that chapter in the book of etiquette. She reached between us and impatiently jammed me into a passage that was lubricated by boiling hot honey. I slid right to the top without encountering any obstruction. That was a surprise. But what happened next snuffed out any thoughts about her virginity.

She gave a gasp that was probably heard down at Canary Wharf, her eyes rolled up in her head, she elevated her hips, wrapped her legs around my ass, like she was getting her riding seat, and we set off at the gallop. Once we’d set to partners, it was a long and arduous chase. Victorian gentlemen learned about sex from the ladies of the night. So, by my twentieth year I had accumulated extensive experience in the commercial act of love. Still, this was new and totally unexplored territory.

For one thing, Victorian whores don’t make the animal noises that my beloved was producing. They also don’t sing the praises of the act itself. I would occasionally get a “hurry up!!” from one of my rented rides, especially if I was taking up too much of the lady’s time. But I’d never heard one of them demand through gritted teeth, “Nearly there, don’t stop!!”

I’d also never experienced what came next. Ophelia made a loud cry and spasmed, her passage began chaotic fluttering and she started to tremble and shake like she had the ague. All-the-while her eyes were jammed shut and her mouth was open in a silent scream. It scared me to death. The only time I had seen a similar expression was when trooper Blake shattered his leg after his horse fell on him. Was she in that kind of agony?

At that precise moment though, I fired a roaring broadside that obliterated all rational thought. Our mutual shaking, hollering, shrieking, and quivering went on for an interminable period of time. Then there was the eerie stillness that descends on the battlefield after the shooting has stopped. Ophelia was lying on her fanned-out mass of raven hair, head cocked to one side and a rope of drool hanging out of her mouth. I was panting and blowing like a stud bull, sweat plastering my hair to my head, with a rip in my shirt that Ophelia had apparently created with her fingernails.

We reassembled our wardrobe to a point where there was a possibility that her father wouldn’t horsewhip me when I returned his daughter. But I still had to face the music. I turned to her; she was gazing at me with the unblinking eyes of a bird of prey. She said firmly, “Now we are married!!” Her utter certainty was intimidating. Victorian men considered women to be frivolous creatures. Maybe that was a misperception?

That was why I was in a panic one week later when Ophelia’s father, the Baron Litchfield, asked me about my intentions. I would have said anything to get myself out of the situation. But at least I was smart enough to do a little probing. I said, “My intentions Sir, are to do the honorable thing.”

I assumed he would take it as a statement of intent to marry his daughter after a long courtship. Rather than what I was actually saying, which was that I’d marry her if she was with child. The Baron looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “Ophelia told me that you asked her to marry her last Saturday. Did she misunderstand you?”

The question was posed with real menace in his voice. I was trapped. If I said, “Yes indeed, she mistook me.” I was going to sound like the sort of cad who makes offers to women that they don’t intend to keep. If I said, “No she didn’t,” I was going to be a married man.

I tried a diversion by stating the obvious. I said, “It would be my honor to marry your daughter and I will certainly do so as soon as we come to an agreement about the dowry.” I knew that would set the old miser down a new path. He blustered and said, “So is this attachment based on my money, Sir?”

I shrugged and said, “As you’ve pointed out many times, I am not well-off. You DO want to keep your daughter in the style to which she has become accustomed.” He could see that I was asking for a big bag of cash. He also might have considered me a gold-digging scoundrel. But the old reprobate loved his daughter. So, he said with hesitation, “All right then. I agree to ensure your livelihood and future.” With that, I was a married man.

What I’m describing might not sound romantic. But, in Victorian England, marriages within a certain social class were financial transactions. A gentleman never wanted to work in trade; or even worse, with his hands. So, what we had been discussing wasn’t odd for the times. What WAS odd was the fact that I had been manipulated into it by a mere slip of a girl.

Ophelia and I set up housekeeping in a lovely Bloomsbury mansion. It was a short walk to Horse Guards, where I was permanently posted. The Baron Litchfield’s money had ensured that. I was now a Lieutenant with the 11th. That was also purchased, not earned.

All-in-all married life was acceptable duty. Ophelia was a perfect wife, submissive in public and a wild animal in the bedroom. Victorians never discussed sexual topics, on pain of ostracism from society. But from whatever conversations I overheard, or drunken comments that were made, it was clear that my wife had an exceptional sexual appetite.

Her lack of a hymen was a bit suspicious. But then again, day-in-and-day-out she was a perfectly docile little Victorian spouse. Of course, she couldn’t cook, or clean. That was for the servants anyhow. Still, Ophelia was an asset at every ball and social event, flirting impeccably within the ironbound social dictates of our era. Even so, the ardent quality that the romantic poets raved about was totally lacking from our marriage.

I didn’t have any sense that I was missing out. Ophelia was a beauty and that added to my status with the other men. And she could sail nicely over all the jumps in the boudoir steeplechase. We got along companionably at the breakfast and dinner table. But then again; in Victorian England, men were men, and women were women. So, we had little to talk about outside of the contents of the Times.

Ophelia’s money underwrote my manly pursuits; drinking and gambling at Whites, horse betting at Epsom and the occasional drunken romp at a high-class London knocking shop. While she spent her time in womanly activities, which mostly involved tea and mindless chatter with the other wives. You might think we were a couple of self-involved, supercilious twits. That would probably be a fair assessment. But then again, marriage was something our class did to fit into society. I had seen very few marriages that were built around abiding love.

Ophelia, as was her duty, gave me all of the necessary respect. My opinions were her opinions and she was properly submissive in public. Yet, the money was Ophelia’s, not mine. So, I learned to tread lightly when it came to flaunting my status as the man of the house. The prior year had been full of excited speculation about the Russians and the Ottomans, who had been at each other’s throats since early 1853. Hence, not surprisingly, the word came down in March of 1854 that it was to be war.

The night of the 28th was rainy but the crowds were in the streets, all celebrating the declaration. The Regiment held a small fete, just the officers. Even Cardigan himself showed up. There was singing, toasting and extravagant boasts about how we would give those Ruskis a good hiding. As usual, I had liberally imbibed in the rum punch. Ophelia sat sipping champers in a cloud of ladies and acting like the belle of the ball. She would occasionally exchange companionable glances with me.

I was over in the corner, with Lieutenant Cooper and Captain Fairfield, wittily assessing the question of whether Cardigan had been dropped on his head as a baby. That was the point where James Brudenell, 7th Earl of Cardigan himself, condescended to join our lowly band.

He was a peacock; a little bandy rooster, who didn’t quite come up to my mustache. But his self-opinion and arrogance made him ten feet tall. The conceited ratbag said with forced jovially, “Wambert, Haw-haw!!” His lisp was one of his less attractive features. Of course, nobody had the balls to tell him that. I wondered alarmed, “What’s this all about?!!”

Brudenell looked in Ophelia’s direction and said covetously, “Quite a wovewy woman don’t cha know!!” If anybody else had made that remark I would have dunked him upside down in the punch bowl. But since Cardigan was my commanding officer, I meekly agreed.

He looked at me with meaning and said, “I’ll be getting awong now.” Then he walked purposely over to Ophelia bowed, and kissed her hand. She smiled politely as Cardigan indicated something on the other side of the room. They disappeared in the crowded ballroom. I just stood there. I was flabbergasted by the man’s cheek. But there was nothing I could do short of calling him out. And inviting a peer of the realm to walk out with you simply didn’t rise to the level of the offense. Plus, I knew that Ophelia could take care of herself.

Cooper said disgusted, “Let’s go somewhere else old man. This is getting preposterous.” I readily agreed and we finished the night at Whites. They were still reveling in the streets when I took a Hansom back to our place in Bloomsbury. Honestly; for all I would’ve noticed there could have been a Russian invasion going on. I’d had a skin-full.

I arrived home drunk most nights. But this was a personal best. I think Cardigan’s attentions to Ophelia had caused that. I really didn’t know what to think. 1850s society required women to be chaste and virtuous. Ophelia had exhibited nothing but Victorian rectitude in her daily life. Yet, she had an extreme fondness for pork and there was the troubling suspicion that she wasn’t a virgin when I married her.

I knew that Ophelia was prone to crushes, as she had originally been with me. And even though Cardigan was physically unimpressive, he was a clotheshorse, and a Peer of the Realm. I didn’t know what the man intended. But it was clear that he had set his sights on Ophelia and she wasn’t exactly discouraging him.

I was half shot. So, I didn’t bother to wake the staff, or let Ophelia know I was home. I just staggered upstairs and fell into bed, still clad in my tunic and breeches. I was woken an indeterminate period of time later, by the sound of a little night music. A woman was being absolutely rogered to death at the other end of the hall.

Like every Victorian couple of a certain social class, Ophelia and I slept in separate rooms and the wanton cries were coming from the direction of her bedroom. I was still drunk as I opened the door and weaved-my-way down the hall, trying not to lurch into any side-tables, or knock off any of the garish Victorian bric-a-brac. If I had been a bit more sober, I might have paused when I got to Ophelia’s chambers. But squiffy as I was, I just threw the door open and stood there swaying drunkenly, trying to grasp what I was seeing.

Blimey!! My wife’s bare legs were wrapped around the skinny ass of some half-naked chancer who was having at her like a demented Easter rabbit. She had her head thrown back, eyes screwed shut and mouth wide open in an obscene “O.” She was obviously experiencing an orgasm, thrashing in ecstasy and emitting loud shrieks as she came. Her noisy abandonment was what had alerted me to the presence of the fox in the henhouse.

The fact that I was being dishonored in my own abode sobered me up. I let out a roar of fury, strode three paces to the bed, seized the interloper by his waist. He was tiny. So, I easily lifted him off my wife and threw him backwards into the wall. He wavered there, stunned, rifle at present-arms. Then it discharged lewdly all over my fine Turkish rug. I could see in the lights from the streetlamps that it was Cardigan.

How many ways was this a total disaster? Let me count them. First and most obviously I had been cuckolded by my commanding officer. Second, although I would be well within my rights to beat the little bastard into a bloody pulp; I was a mere cavalry lieutenant. I would be trashing an influential member of the nobility. You can’t win with the nobs, once they circle the wagons. Finally, and not insignificantly, Ophelia was the one with the money.

We all knew that the next few seconds would have a profound impact on our lives. Victorian society was unforgiving on the matter of infidelity; which was hypocritical in the extreme. Since, with the possible exception of Victoria herself, shagging other people’s spouses was a common feature of Victorian life. I presume, that was the reason why exposing somebody else’s adultery was viewed as such an egregious breach of good manners.

Even worse, since I was the one who was cuckolded, and Ophelia was the slut in question; the person who would come off best in the ensuing scandal would be Cardigan. He might even be glorified in some of the more rakish circles, and Cardigan knew that.

The egotistical ass recovered quickly. He casually gathered his pants and boots, turned and walked out of the room. As his skinny butt vanished out the door he turned and cautioned with cool superiority, “Wambert, not a word.” His shrunken cock was coated with Ophelia’s juices. It dangled obscenely as he stepped into his Cherrypicker pants and departed.

I stood there fists clenched snorting like an angry bull. Ophelia was huddled at the head of her bed. She had gathered the bedclothes around her to hide her nakedness. She was glaring at me with a mixture of guilt, sadness and defiance. She thought that she had the whip hand when it came to our finances. She said accusingly, “What are you doing here? I thought you would spend the night at Whites.”