Lord Cardigan: The Model of a Modern Major General

Lieutenant-General James Thomas Brudenell, 7th Earl of Cardigan KCB is one of those improbable characters more likely to be found in a Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon than in a history book.  Lord Cardigan was a hot-tempered, duel-happy brain-damage snob of an aristocrat who blundered into history by leading a disastrous cavalry charge—yet somehow left his name forever stitched into the cozy cardigan sweater.

James Brudenell was born in a “modest home” in Buckinghamshire in 1797.  In this case, modest means several stories, a dozen or so bedrooms—a manor just barely large enough that King Charles I once visited it.  Thankfully, for young James, his father soon inherited the earldom of Cardigan, which besides the title came with huge estates, a large income, and a house large enough to befit the lifestyle that the now Lord Cardigan, the son of the Earl of Cardigan, would grow to consider his due.

Though James had suffered a bad fall from a horse in childhood that resulted in brain damage, he was sent to Harrow for an education that was cut short after a violent fistfight with another student.  Educated at home with his seven sisters, James became something of a bully, who was used to getting his own way.  To further his education, where else could such an obvious rising star be sent, but to Oxford, where aristocrats were automatically accepted without examination.  Furthermore, it won’t surprise you to learn that he left Oxford after 3 years, without completing a degree.

During his first year at Oxford, the Earl thought his son should gain some experience in Parliament, since as the only male heir, James would eventually become a member of the House of Lords.  Luckily, his cousin owned a pocket borough, a parliamentary constituency where the few voters either worked for an aristocrat or lived at his pleasure, on his land.  Effectively, the voters were in his pocket.  As a member of the House of Commons, Brudenell was chiefly noted for his defense of the rights of the aristocracy.  When he voted against the wishes of his cousin, his safe seat was withdrawn, so with his father’s funds, he bought a rotten district, a constituency with so few voters that they could be easily bribed.  When this district was abolished in a reform movement, Lord Cardigan spent £20,000 (equivalent to £2,000,000 in 2023) to bribe the voters in a third district. 

All of this was not exactly legal, but as a Galveston policeman once told me, “You can’t break the law when you is the law.”

By now, you may have the impression—utterly correct—that Lord Cardigan was constantly fighting with everyone.  In the 1820s, he began courting Elizabeth Tollemache Johnstone, despite the fact that she was married to his childhood friend, Lt.-Col. Christian Johnstone.  Eventually, his friend divorced his wife, calling her "the most damned bad-tempered and extravagant bitch in the kingdom".  Cardigan married Elizabeth, paying Johnstone £1,000 in damages.  After 11 years, they separated and Brudenell openly began a notorious relationship with Adeline de Horsey (I swear I did not make up her name!), whom he eventually married after his first wife’s death.  Adeline was evidently an agreeable soul, even remaining friends with the Lord’s many mistresses.

More than anything else, Lord Cardigan is remembered for his military career.  His extraordinary, rapid rise through the officer ranks was not due to merit, but the result', of the practice of aristocrats’ purchasing positions in the army.  In just five years, he was a lieutenant, a captain, a major, and finally a lieutenant-colonel of the Hussars (a form of cavalry).  Despite his youth and lack of experience, this put him in command of officers who had fought at Waterloo and who had been serving in the Army from before Cardigan had acquired his first mistress.

Lord Cardigan’s career in the army was not trouble free, either:  He was involved in frequent duels, arguments and newspaper scandals.  Known for having his men flogged for the slightest infractions, he also brought spurious charges against his junior officers.  The “Black Bottle Affair” was one of those gloriously absurd Victorian military squabbles, in which Lord Cardigan, ever the stickler for appearances, discovered that an officer of his beloved 11th Hussars had dared to bring a bottle of wine in a black glass decanter to the mess table—an unthinkable breach of regimental etiquette, since only brown bottles were deemed suitably distinguished.  Outraged, Cardigan treated this vinous misdemeanor as though it were high treason, summoning courts-martial and blackening reputations over nothing more sinister than the shade of the glass.  The public roared with laughter, Punch had a field day, and “the Black Bottle Affair” became shorthand for Cardigan’s ability to turn a dinner-table trifle into a scandal fit for Parliament.

After Lieutenant Tuckett repeated some of the criticism in the London papers, Cardigan challenged him to yet another duel, in which he wounded the lieutenant and for which he was tried in the House of Lords.  He was found not guilty on a dubious technicality; (the House of Lords being unwilling to convict one of their own).

All of the above made Lord Cardigan a colorful character, but there is one more story that will secure his place in British history books.

When history hands out its memorable moments, few are as gloriously doomed as Lord Cardigan’s gallop into legend at the Charge of the Light Brigade.  Cardigan was not famous for brilliance, for warmth, or even for good humor.  What he had, however, was impeccable tailoring, an impressive set of whiskers, and a talent for quarreling with just about everyone—including his own brother-in-law, Lord Lucan.  In October 1854, at the Battle of Balaclava, those traits were not especially helpful when he was ordered (through a muddled chain of command) to lead his 600-member light cavalry straight down a valley bristling with Russian cannon.

Since Cardigan and Lucan were furious at each other and would only communicate through a third and junior officer, we are still uncertain exactly who misinterpreted the orders that day…But everyone in the Light Brigade (even Lord Cardigan) knew that cavalry is never launched in a frontal charge into artillery.  Well, that day it was.

With all the certainty of a man who never doubted his own correctness, Cardigan rode at the head of his brigade, scarlet jacket gleaming, sword flashing, mustache blowing dramatically in the Crimean wind.  His men, knowing perfectly well the order was madness, followed because that’s what cavalrymen did.  The result was predictable: cannon roared, horses fell, sabers clashed, and by the time it was over, half the brigade was dead, wounded, or horseless.  Cardigan, himself, was the first to reach the enemy cannon, then he immediately turned around and trotted back, alive and entirely unruffled, as though he’d just been on a brisk morning ride.  He was one of the lucky 107 still fit for duty after the battle.

After the battle, Cardigan retired to his private yacht in the bay and had dinner.  The next day, he declared himself medically unfit for further service and returned to England aboard his yacht.  As one of the first high ranking officers to return to London, his version of the battle was the first to be widely printed in the papers.  Welcomed by cheering crowds, he was presented to Queen Victoria.

Back in Britain, the disaster was miraculously transformed into a stirring tale of duty and gallantry, thanks in no small part to Alfred Tennyson’s thunderous verse.  The Light Brigade became immortal, and Cardigan—despite his highly questionable leadership—soaked up the applause like a man convinced it had all been his idea.  Even though the charge was the most hopeless cavalry action in British history, it was also one of the most heroic, and Cardigan’s place in memory is forever astride that doomed ride: half a legend, half a punchline, and wholly unforgettable.

In the months that followed, a better understanding of the battle was eventually reported.  To much of the press, Cardigan became the symbol of aristocratic military buffoon, a walking caricature.  The truth didn’t  really matter:  the Earl of Cardigan remained in royal favor, he was promoted to Lieutenant General, he became a Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath, he published his self-serving memoir, and then he retired back to his grand estate. 

In 1868, at the age of 70, the man who led the Charge of the Light Brigade without receiving so much as a scratch, fell off his horse while riding across his estate and died.