Where Love Shines Read online

  Where Love Shines

  Book 5,

  Where There is Love Series

  By

  Donna Fletcher Crow

  Where Love Shines

  Copyright © 2016 by Donna Fletcher Crow

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Publishing history

  Published as Encounter the Light

  1997

  By Crossway Books

  A Division of Good News Publishers

  Wheaton, Illinois 60187

  Where Love Shines

  By Verity Press

  an imprint of Publications Marketing, Inc.

  Box 972

  Boise, Idaho 83701

  Cover design by Ken Raney

  Layout design by eBooks By Barb for booknook.biz

  This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Published in the United States of America

  Contents

  Dedication

  Series Books and Characters

  Epigraph

  The Charge of the Light Brigade

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Afterword

  References

  The Complete Where There is Love Series

  About The Author

  In memory of John Kendrick,

  celebrating my friendship with his descendants

  John Burton,

  Valeri Dean,

  Joan Craig,

  Martin Craig,

  and

  Sandra Burton Barton

  The Where There is Love Series

  Where Love Begins

  (1749-1750)

  John and Charles Wesley

  George Whitefield

  William Law

  Countess of Huntingdon

  Where Love Illumines

  (1772-1773)

  Charles Wesley

  John Berridge

  Rowland Hill

  Countess of Huntingdon

  Where Love Triumphs

  (1824)

  Charles Simeon

  Robert Hall

  Where Love Restores

  (1823-1825)

  Charles Simeon

  William Wilberforce

  Earl of Harrowby

  Where Love Shines

  (1854-1856)

  Florence Nightingale

  Lord Shaftesbury

  Charles Spurgeon

  Where Love Calls

  (1883-1885)

  Dwight L. Moody

  Ira Sankey

  The Cambridge Seven

  Hudson Taylor

  “There are so few people now who want to have any inti­mate spiritual association with the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries…

  “Who bothers at all now about the work and achievement of our grandfathers, and how much of what they knew have we already forgotten?”

  —DIETRICH BONHOEFFER,

  Letters and Papers from Prison

  THE CHARGE

  OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

  Half a league, half a league,

  Half a league onward,

  All in the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  “Forward, the Light Brigade!

  Charge for the guns!” he said:

  Into the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  One

  This was the day. This day would live in history, The English would win their greatest victory of the Crimean War. And Lieutenant Richard Greyston would earn the glory he had yearned for all his life.

  At least that was the plan. But now Greyston was required to sit—he and his fellow soldiers of the Light Brigade. Sit and eat eggs and biscuits and wait. As impatient as his master, the finely bred black stallion moved restlessly under Greyston, requiring Dick to adjust his position in the saddle.

  Slowly, the chilly, misty autumn morning had turned into a day of extraordinary brilliance and clarity. Now as Greyston looked out on the long valley below the ridge of Causeway Heights, the scene was lit more brilliantly than any London stage. The lines were sharply drawn—British, French, and Turks at the west end of the valley; Russians at the east.

  Although it had been less than a year since Dick, bored to the screaming point by his reading at Cambridge, had persuaded his father to purchase him a commission in the 17th Lancers, he had already proven himself a ready and able officer at the Battle of Alma. And today would bring him the advancement that would secure his career.

  Anticipation made his impatience all the sharper. The goal was there—at the far end of that long, narrow valley. The Russian redoubts. Once they were in English hands, the day would be won. And all those who participated would be heroes. Dick closed his eyes and heard the shouts, pictured the waving flags.

  Suddenly real shouts sounded in the distance. His head jerked up and he saw the Heavy Dragoons taking the field. Dick Greyston ground his teeth. He would win no glory sheltering on the side while this thin red line of Highlanders advanced on the enemy. It was all very well for the Scots to have their fun, but when was the Light Brigade to take up the sword? Did Lord Cardigan intend to keep them standing here forever like the wives, camp followers, and tourists on the heights above them?

  Richard cracked a boiled egg against the hilt of his sword and peeled off the shell. Then, as his teeth bit into the firm, rich yolk, a miracle took place before his eyes. The vast horde of black-bear-hatted Russians bore down on the red-coated Dragoons. And the Highlanders held. A few hundred Scottish horsemen turned back the great gray mass of Russian cavalry. The watchers cheered wildly.

  Now the order would come for the Lights. Greyston turned to look at his superior. Impotent rage showed on Captain Morris’s face when the order to advance failed to come. The captain dug his spurs into his mount and jerked him round to face Lord Cardigan, commander of the Light Brigade. “Sir, permission to lead the 17th Lancers in pursuit?”

  Greyston held his breath. This would be the moment. Securing the Dragoons’ victory was an elementary tactic. Now. He gathered his reins and tensed his knees to spur Legend forward at the command.

  “Permission denied.” Cardigan’s voice was controlled, his face red.

  Richard dropped his reins in disbelief. What was Cardigan thinking? Stunned, Greyston watched while the Russian cavalry, which might have been swept from the fields of Balaclava—indeed from the entire Crimea—escaped. The soldiers muttered angrily to one another and cast dark glances at their commander. And before their very eyes, the Russians returned to the east end of the valley, taking possession of the embankments of English cannon along the way. The Dragoons’ valiant victory was wasted.

&
nbsp; Richard’s expectations of glory withered in the October air.

  He took a biscuit out of his pack and handed it to the sergeant behind him. Jamie Coke nodded his carrot-red head.

  Jamie took a fierce bite out of the hard biscuit. “I’ve had enough of this sitting around waiting for orders that never come. I’m going to take up the sporting life when I get back to England. Horse racing—that’s the thing. Start a small stable with good stock. One winner can make you.”

  Richard nodded, but did not speak. They ate together in silent, raging frustration.

  Growing warm in his blue tunic with its white-crossed front, Richard pulled off his hat to let the desert air blow through his blond hair. And then he sat up straighter on his horse. Something was happening. In a flurry of flying gravel Lord Raglan, from his command post on the heights, sent his aide-de-camp on a madcap plunge straight down the precipice. A few moments later the rider raced across the valley and arrived with his horse blown and sweating to thrust a sheet of paper toward Lord Lucan.

  The desert breeze whipped the paper as Lucan read it through for the second time. Lord Lucan, cavalry commander, lowered the sheet. Sounds carried readily on the light, dry air, and Richard heard the anger in Lucan’s voice as he turned on the courier. “Attack, sir? Attack what? What guns, sir?”

  The mere aide-de-camp threw back his head and flung out his arm in a furious gesture as he cried in a loud voice, “There, my lord, is your enemy. There are the guns.”

  Richard could see Lucan’s seething rage as he wheeled his horse and relayed the orders to Lord Cardigan. Richard tossed away his final bite of egg and nudged Legend a few paces to the right to watch. The two commanders reputedly hated each other.

  Cardigan brought down his sword in sharp military salute. “Certainly, sir, but allow me to point out to you that the Russians have a battery in the valley on our front and batteries and riflemen on both sides.”

  Lucan shrugged. “I know it. But Lord Raglan will have it. We have no choice but to obey.”

  Lord Cardigan saluted again and issued his orders. A single trumpet sounded. “The Brigade will advance. Walk, march, trot.” Lord Cardigan’s quiet voice showed no sign of agitation.

  But Lieutenant Richard Greyston felt the surge of excitement around him. This was the moment for which all of the Light Brigade had waited. The 17th Lancers and the 13th Light Dragoons rode first. Nolan, who had carried the orders from Raglan, requested a place in line from his friend Captain Morris. The aide-de-camp fell in in front of Richard, who was now fourth in line.

  The Brigade advanced with perfect precision. Lord Cardigan rode alone at the head, with the sun gleaming on the rich cherry and royal blue of his 11th Hussars uniform, splendid with fur, plumes, and gold lacings. He rode quietly at a trot, stiff and upright in the saddle, never once looking back.

  As the Brigade moved forward down the long valley, a sudden hush fell over the battlefield. For a moment gunfire ceased. The silence was so profound that Richard could hear the jingle of bits and accoutrements from all six divisions of the Brigade. They were the finest light horsemen in Europe, drilled and disciplined to perfection. Bold by nature, they had been held in check for hours, burning to show what they could do. Now was their chance. Richard heard Coke behind him encouraging his horse.

  Nothing existed for Richard except that moment. Frustrations of the past, dreams of the future vanished. And the high-spirited Legend needed no prodding.

  They had advanced no more than fifty yards, however, when an extraordinary thing happened. Nolan suddenly shot from the line, his horse’s hooves flinging turf in Legend’s face. He galloped diagonally across the front.

  Captain Morris shouted after his friend, “It won’t do, Nolan! We’ve a long way to go. Hold steady!”

  Nolan galloped madly ahead and crossed in front of Lord Cardigan—an unbelievable breach of military etiquette. Nolan turned in his saddle, shouted, and waved his sword as if he would address the Brigade—to turn them back—to countermand the orders he had carried.

  At that moment the Russians opened fire. A shell fragment tore into Nolan’s breast. It ripped open his fine blue uniform. The azure wool turned red as blood poured from the wound. The sword fell from his hand, but his right arm stayed erect. His body held rigid in the saddle. His horse wheeled and galloped back through the advancing Brigade. The gruesome specter was shoulder to shoulder with Richard when the stiff mouth suddenly opened. A strange and appalling cry burst forth. Richard felt his blood freeze at the unearthly howl. The horse ran on, carrying the still-shrieking body.

  Cardigan never looked around.

  But Richard looked. To his right were the redoubts of English guns, which the Russians had captured. The Russians stood ready to meet the English attack. Surely at any moment Cardigan would give the order to wheel and attack. Surely this was their objective—to regain the captured English guns. But no order came. Cardigan rode straight on past the redoubts. It seemed that even the Russian infantry gave a gasp of surprise.

  Richard looked ahead. He saw what apparently Nolan had seen and what, incredibly, Lord Cardigan did not see. Their small force of less than seven hundred men was trotting down the valley in perfect order into a three-sided battery of Russian cannon. They were to expose themselves to a cross-fire of the most deadly kind. And they had no possibility of replying. They were to charge a bank of loaded cannon armed only with swords.

  Richard looked to each side. Cannon on the left. Cannon on the right. Cannon ahead. Backed by battalion upon battalion of Russian riflemen, battery upon battery of guns. There was no escape. No hope of victory. The only chance was to charge. To break through that wall of death before the cannon could be fired. Recharged. Fired again. And again. Instinctively Richard tensed to spur Legend.

  But Cardigan restrained them. They were to advance with parade-ground perfection. “Steady, steady, the 17th Lancers,” Cardigan called. They steadied while the guns boomed around them.

  All Richard could see at the end of the valley toward which he rode was a white bank of smoke. From time to time great tongues of flame flashed through the smoke, marking the placement of the guns. Horses screamed. Men cried out. Then another flash. The Lancer to his left clutched his shoulder and pitched off his horse. Jamie Coke moved up to fill the space. A shell hit the plumed hat of the officer riding ahead. And not just the hat, but the head beneath. As each man or horse fell, the column swelled sideways to ride around him and then closed ranks again to resume their straight, steady lines.

  Now they were in range of the guns at the end of the valley. Restraint was impossible. The line broke and plunged forward in a gallop. Mad to get to the enemy, Richard seethed. He vowed to take two Russians for each comrade who had fallen beside him. This was to be the sum of his glorious military career. But he would not sell his life cheaply.

  Whistling bullets and crashing shells took their toll at every stride. Smoke stung Dick’s nose. His eyes watered. Sweat poured down his face, momentarily blinding him. He leaned close to Legend’s neck as the superb animal tore forward, the long black mane whipping in Dick’s face. The cheers and battle yells of the charging troopers behind and ahead rang in his ears as loudly as the repeated roar of the guns. And then the cheers changed to death cries. Men and horses fell screaming.

  Now Richard and those still advancing faced a new horror—riding over the bodies of their fallen comrades—and worst of all, those not yet dead. Richard swung sharply left, barely missing a fellow Lancer attempting to crawl to safety. The ground was so thickly strewn with wounded men it seemed there was no place to turn Legend. He swung to the right to avoid a billow of smoke.

  It was a terrible mistake. Through the haze the first Lancer Richard had made friends with on joining the regiment held the bloody stump of an arm out toward him as if imploring help. He swayed in his saddle, then wild-eyed, the man crashed forward, streaking Richard and Legend with his blood.

  Richard turned in his saddle at the sound of wildly t
hudding horse’s hooves. Mad with fear, eyeballs protruding, a riderless, fear-crazed horse bore down on him, seeking leadership. Yet through all the cheers, the groans, the ping of bullets whizzing through the air, the whirr and crash of shells and earth-shaking thunder of galloping horses, Richard had encountered not one Russian to attack.

  It seemed years—a lifetime. Yet it had been less than ten minutes since the advance had begun. Now they were within a few yards of the battery. Richard could see the face of a Russian gunner. “Close in! Close in!” Orders rang in his ears. Only a few more galloping strides, and he would be past the guns.

  At that moment a mighty roar split the air. The ground shook so that Richard first thought it was an earthquake. Huge flashes of flame shot out from the mouth of the nearest gun. The smoke was so dense it covered the sun.

  All went black.

  Two

  Jennifer Neville smoothed the skirt of her gray tweed uniform and pulled herself wearily to her feet. She had already been nursing for nine hours that day—feeding soldiers too ill or too desperately wounded to feed themselves, carrying slops along miles of corridors, changing bandages soaked through and caked stiff with blood, and scrubbing walls and floors in a futile attempt to reduce the persistent stench. And still the sick and wounded continued to pour across the Black Sea from the battlefields of the Crimea to the old army barracks-become-hospital in Scutari. They must do what they could to make ready.

  Jennifer and forty-some other nurses had arrived from London with Mary Stanley a few days earlier. Florence Nightingale had been furious. Jenny could still see her delicate features held in control, as rigid as her words. “There is not enough room for the wounded. Where do you expect me to put more nurses? Nurses I did not request. My own forty are crowded into three tiny rooms. There is no decent food.”

  “But, dearest Flo, that is precisely why we are here,” Mary Stanley gushed. “We know how dreadful it all is—what a heroine you are. We want to help.”

  “I barely have time and strength to train and direct the women already under my charge. I cannot take on a fresh batch.”