The Call of the Bugle – Part I: How It Came to Be Written
Charge of the Light Cavalry Brigade by William Simpson, Oct 25, 1854; Credit: Wikipedia
An interesting question, and the answer is that Bugle began in a silent room.
So let me start at the beginning.
As a boy in Illinois, I used to play card games with my family on cold winter eves. “Old Maid” was my favorite, but occasionally, we would play ”Authors.” Authors uses a special deck of cards named after famous 19th-century novelists and poets. The trick was to connect books or poems by the same author, an erudite version of poker. The game dates from the 1800s and now is considered a collectible antique.
I used to win regularly, because I had read most of the authors. You can see the 19th-century influence in my own writing.
Alfred Lord Tennyson was on the deck as author of the poem, “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” He was Poet Laureate of England when he wrote it, and the poem had a massive impact on public opinion.
But to a boy in Illinois, the stirring words:
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
didn’t mean anything, just words about some ancient historical event.
And there the matter rested for years.
Fast forward to the late 1960s.
My wife and I returned to England after spending a year at the American University in Cairo. The plan was to buy a sports car in Coventry and then drop down to Moreton to visit T. E. Lawrence’s grave. We picked up the car and rolled out of the factory gate, the salesman’s words ringing in our ears. “Be sure to turn left at the highway. If you turn right, you’ll have an accident.”
We drove south along the Cirencester Road, keeping carefully to the left lane. We intended to stop at Cirencester to have the car checked. In those days, the break-in oil had to be changed every couple of hundred miles. “We’ll be done in about two hours,” the smiling mechanic said. “Why don’t you visit our cathedral? It’s famous.” He pushed us toward the door. Other mechanics materialized and surrounded the dark blue car with its silver racing stripe.
Cirencester Cathedral, technically the Church of Saint John the Baptist, was a magnificent 12th-century Gothic. We walked down the nave, craning our necks to see the spiraling arches above us, testimony in stone to the medieval search for God. My wife continued to the altar, but I spied a small door. “Aha, a basement. Perhaps there’s a Dracula or two resting down there.”
I crept cautiously down the narrow steps. “Can’t be too careful, remember what happened to poor Renfield.” But alas, nothing, only a couple of broken pews and dust. Then I saw a dark opening: “A crypt, maybe Dracula is in here.”
I entered and found a light switch. The walls lit up with floor-to-ceiling bronze plaques that shone in the light of the bare bulbs. They stared at me in the dusty hush. I walked around the room, reading inscription after inscription in the oppressive silence.
They all read the same:
Name and rank
Her Majesty’s Light Horse
25 October 1854
The Crimea
“Curious.” I started to leave, and then I remembered the Authors game.
“Her Majesty’s Light Horse?”
The realization hit me with a thunderclap.
“Oh my God, I’m standing in the middle of the Light Brigade! They’re all around me.”
Lines of glittering horsemen trotted behind my eyes. My ears heard the brassy notes of bugles. Lord Tennyson’s words echoed in my mind:
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
I took a couple of unsteady steps, then knelt and cried.
For a moment, I was in another time.
I turned off the lights, took a last look at the darkened doorway, and climbed the stairs to sunlight and soaring arches. My wife gave me a quizzical look. “Are you all right? You’re shaking. Did you find a Dracula?”
“No, I found something else,” I mumbled. “Let’s go and get the car.”
“Remember to stay on the left.”
Years have passed.
But I will never forget that silent room with its mute plaques.
