But the struggle had only just begun. Many more and still severer trials awaited our starving, weary, sorely-beset soldiers that day.
The enemy had numberless fresh and still untried troops at hand. Column after column had been moving steadily forward, some from the town, some from the eastern side of the Tchernaya, and already the Russian generals were in a position to renew the fight. A new onslaught was now organised, to be made by 19,000 men under cover of ninety guns.
So far in those early days of the battle the brunt of it had fallen upon the Second Division, supported by a portion of the Light. Stout old General Pennefather had had the supreme control throughout.
“I will not interfere with you,” Lord Raglan said, as, standing by his staff, he watched the progress of the fight from the ridge. “You know your ground, as you have occupied it so long with your camp. I’m sure I can trust you.”
“Thank you, my lord. I’ll do my best, never fear,” replied Pennefather.
“Their artillery fire is very troublesome, and must be over-mastered. If I could only get up some of the siege-train guns to help you. Let some one go back to the artillery park, and tell them I want a couple of eighteen pounders.”
An aide-de-camp at once galloped off with the order, but two or three eventful hours elapsed before these guns were brought to bear upon the action.
Pennefather’s men, although for the moment triumphant, had their hands full. They showed an undaunted front or “knotted line” of fighting-men: the remnants of the pickets, fragments, and odds-and-ends of many regiments, mixed up and intermingled, still in contact with the enemy, and so far still without supports.
Officers came back rather despondingly to ask for help.
“I cannot send you a single man,” was the firm reply to one applicant. “You must stand your ground somehow.”
“We should be all right, sir, but the men have run out of ammunition.”
“It’s no use. I can’t give you a round. What does it matter? Don’t make difficulties. Stick to your bayonets. And remember you’ve got to hold on where you are, or we shall be driven into the sea.”
The want of cartridges was what the troops felt most direly. They growled savagely and grumbled at the mismanagement that kept back these indispensable supplies.
Only here and there the energetic action of a few shrewd officers did something to mend the mischief.
Thus the Royal Picts benefited by the astute promptitude of long-headed Sergeant Hyde. He was acting as quartermaster, and as such had been left behind in camp, although sorely against his will, when the rest of the regiment went out to fight. But he had heard the long, well-sustained roll of musketry-fire, and it satisfied one not new to war that a very close contest had begun.
“They’ll soon fire away their cartridges at this rate,” he said to himself. “If I could only get the ammunition-reserves up to them! I’ll do it.” And on his own responsibility he laid hands on all the beasts in camp: spare chargers, officers’ ponies, and other animals, and quickly loaded them with the cartridge-boxes. Then, leading the cavalcade, he hurried to the front, asking as he went for the Royal Picts.