Born at Templehouse, Co. Cavan, Ireland, c.1821.
Enlisted into the 88th Foot at Dublin on the 2nd of March 1839.
Age: 18.
Height: 5' 7".
Trade: Slaughter-man.
Transferred to the 17th Lancers on the 1st of June 1839 — By Authority of the Adjutant General's Office, dated the 25th of March 1839.
He was married to Mary Vahey (she was recorded as his next-of-kin in 1854), to whom he sent money from the Crimea. Date of marriage unknown.
Of his children, Mary Ann was born at Newent in 1842 and Robert at Canterbury in 1845. This entry from the Army Chaplain's Baptismal Registers would appear to clarify just how his name should be spelt: it is shown in the GRO records as "Fahey".
His wife Mary may have died before 1860 as document WO/25/3251 in the National Archive shows his next of kin at the time of his death as a son, Robert, and a daughter, Mary Ann. (Address not known.)
Tried by a District Court-martial at on the 7th of February 1851 for "being drunk".
Sentenced to 60 days' imprisonment with hard labour, of which 20 days were remitted. (A Sgt Michael Vahey of the 17th Lancers was tried by a District Court martial for the same offence on the same day and reduced to Private. The two men were possibly related.)
He was a Regimental butcher during the Crimean campaign and rode in the Charge wearing his butcher's smock. See a full account of this in the book, "The Death or Glory Boys" by D.H. Parry, and also in the "Memoirs" of James Wightman. (There is a copy of the latter in the "Memoirs" file.)
Wightman recalled the events just prior to the Charge as a mix of high drama, tension, and farce:
As we stood halted here, Captain Nolan, of the 15th Hussars, whom we knew as an aide-de-camp of the head-quarters staff, suddenly galloped up to the front through the interval between us and the 13th, and called out to Captain Morris, who was directly in my front, 'Where is Lord Lucan?' 'There' replied Morris pointing — 'there, on the right front!' Then he added, 'What is it to be, Nolan? — are we going to charge?' Nolan was off already in Lord Lucan's direction, but as he galloped away he shouted to Morris over his shoulder 'You will see! you will see!'
Just then we had some amusement. Private John Vey, who was the regimental butcher and had been slaughtering down at Balaclava, came up at a gallop on a horse of a Heavy who had been killed, and whom Vey had stripped of his belt and arms and accoutred himself with them over his white canvas smock frock, which, as well as his canvas trousers tucked into his boots, were covered with blood-stains.
His shirt-sleeves were rolled up above his elbows, and his face, arms, and hands were smeared with blood, so that as he formed up on Lee's right shouting — he had some drink in him — that 'he'd be d----d if he was going to be left behind his regiment and so lose the fun', he was indeed a gruesome yet laughable figure.
Mr. Chadwick, the adjutant, ordered him to rein back and join his own troop in the 2nd squadron, and so I saw no more of him, but I afterwards knew that he rode the charge, had his horse shot, but came back unwounded, and was given the distinguish conduct medal.
[Source: John Wightman, "Balaclava and the Russian Captivity", The Nineteenth Century, May 1892, pp. 852.]
There are more accounts below, in Further information.
Next of kin (1854): his wife, Mary Vahey, to whom he also sent money from the Crimea.
He was tried at Dublin by a District Court-martial on the 29th of November 1856 on a charge of "being drunk on duty." Found "Not guilty."
Embarked for India from Cork aboard the S.S. Great Britain, 8th of October 1857.
The musters for July-September 1858 show him as being "On Detachment at Sholapoore" during the whole of the period.
Died of cholera, "on the march" in India, on the 8th of March 1860.
Entitled to the Crimean medal with clasps for Alma, Balaclava, Inkerman, Sebastopol, and the Turkish medal.
Can find no trace on the Mutiny medal roll.
Awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal during the Crimean campaign, but it is not known just when. In view of his known conduct at Balaclava however, one can only assume that it was for this occasion. (The Recommendation for it was dated the 19th of January 1855, with a gratuity of £5.)
Died of cholera, "on the march" in India, on the 8th of March 1860.
His death had a touch of irony about it in that being so fond of drink he was always willing, for a few extra rupees, to dig graves for those who had died. Dying only a few hours after being taken ill, he was himself buried in a grave that he had previously completed for someone else.
In the National Archive, document WO/25/3251 shows his next of kin at the time of his death as a son, Robert, and a daughter, Mary Ann. (Address not known.)
[PB: 655, Sergeant-Major William Barker, 17th Lancers, wrote an account.]
Although nearly forty years have passed, I still remember distinctly a very laughable circumstance that occurred just about ten minutes before the first line of the Light Brigade were ordered to charge the Russian batteries.
A man named John Vahey, formerly a butcher, who had been left in camp to assist in slaughtering bullocks, made his appearance in front of the regiment, in a most grotesque equipment, which he had found on the battle-field. He was mounted on a half-starved looking horse, with an old rusty sword and a lance; no tunic on his back; but an old red worsted night cap, and a dirty black pipe in his mouth.
On the commanding officer asking him how he dare! he replied, amidst roars of laughter from the ranks, that as he had lately been employed in slaughtering bullocks he would now like to join his regiment, and try his hand against the Russians.
The commanding officer said, though he disliked his appearance, still he admired his spirit, and ordered him to join the ranks of the regiment, which he didi, charging with them, and escaping unscathed.
[PB: Anthony Sheridan, 8th Hussars, wrote an account.]
"Our men were heroes indeed. There was not a coward in the whole brigade. I remember a man of the l7th Lancers riding to the charge in a curious dress, he was a butcher, and that morning had been employed slaughtering cattle for the commissariat. When the order was given be rushed from his work [LC: sic] and said that he'd be d___d if his regiment was going without him. Attired in a blood-bespattered smock-frock, he ran after and caught a stray horse, and then pulling over his head a red cap, something like those worn by foreign sailors, he took his place in the ranks, and, amidst the laughter and jeers of his comrades, dashed ahead. He was a big, powerful fellow. l have forgotten his name, but he was seen doing good service among the Russians, who were evidently puzzled to understand to what corps he belonged.
The following account, said to be "his own story", was published in 1872 in Soldiering and Scribbling, edited by Alexander Forbes, a selection of articles on various aspects of British and Continental military life that had previously appeared in a range of (mainly London-based) periodicals and magazines of the time. Of course, Forbes himself is in fact the author, as he admits in the Preface, and had adopted the first-person voice for the sake of "greater realism". Nonetheless, he asserts that "the statements made...are strictly true". [PB: But see below for a discussion of whether he had indeed ever interviewed John Vahey.]
"It was in the autumn of 1854 that the English and French armies were lying lovingly enough together in front of Sebastopol, that nut which it took such a long time to crack. Our cavalry had a camp of their own upon the hill-side near Kadikoi and the old "Death's Head and Cross-bones," to which I belonged, were there among the rest, forming part of the Light Brigade. We had a separate commissary of our own, and handy men from each corps were told-off to act as butchers.
I was never backward when there was any work to do; and when some fellows were moping helplessly in the tents, or going sick to the hospital, every morning I was knocking about as jolly as a sandboy, doing a job here and one there, and always contriving to get more or less tipsy before nightfall.
If you ever drop across any of the old Crimean Light Brigade, just you ask them if they remember "Butcher Jack" of the Lancers, and see what the answer will be. I was as well known in the Brigade as old Cardigan himself, and in my rough-and-tumble way got to be quite a popular character.
Indeed, had it not been for my inordinate fondness for the drink, I might have got promotion over and over again. But I used to find my way shoulder-high into the guard-tent pretty regularly once a week, and more than once I saved the skin off my back by being known as a willing, useful fellow when sober.
One "slaughtering day" at the Commissary we had killed, flayed, and cut up our number of beasts, and there was a lot of grog knocking about, for the Commissary Guard knew how to get at the grog, and were free enough with it among the butchers, for the sake of a nice tender steak. Paddy Heffernan, of the Royals, and I, managed to get as drunk as lords before we found time for a wash, and one of the Commissary-officers came across us in this state, and clapped us in the guard-room before you could say "knife".
One place was as good as another to us, so we lay there contented all night, taking an occasional tot out of a bottle which Paddy had managed to smuggle into the tent when we were confined. It was getting on for morning before we dropped off into a heavy drunken sleep, out of which the Commander-in-Chief himself would have had a tough job to have roused us. We must have had a long snooze, for it was broad day-light before we were awakened by the loud thundering of a tremendous cannonade close by, making the very tent poles quiver again.
I still felt decidedly muzzy, for Commissary rum, as you would know if you ever got tight on it, is hard stuff to get sober off, yet I managed to pull myself together enough to know where I was, and could give a shrewd guess as to what all the row was about. I sat up with the intention of hearing more about it from some of the guard; but to my surprise there was not a soul in the tent except Paddy and myself, and there was not even a sentry on the door. So we both got up and had a stretch, and then walked coolly out of the guard-tent, only to find the camp utterly deserted, not a man being apparently left in it.
Turning into our own tent, we sat down, and over a refresher out of the inexhaustible rum bottle, we tried, in a boozy sort of way, to argue out the position. From where the camp was we could not see what was going on down in the valley by reason of a low ridge which intercepted the view; but we could tell it must be pretty warm work from the hot and continuous firing which was kept up.
At last says I to Paddy, "Why the devil should we be out of all the fun? Let's go up to the sick horse lines, and see if there be anything fit to put one leg in front of the other." "Agreed," cries he, heartily enough, so I got hold of a butcher's axe for a weapon, and he a sword, and, half-drunk as we were, and just in the condition we had left off killing the night before, we started off for the sick horses. But it was no go for a moment here, for there were but two brutes left, and one of them had a leg like a pillar letter-box, while the other was down on his side and did not look much like rising again.
Determined not to be beaten, we started off on foot, and making our way round by the rear of the staff, who were on the edge of the little ridge, we dodged down into the valley just in the rear of the position of the heavy cavalry.
Fill the pot again, governor, and I may as well tell you it was Balaclava morning, and the heavies had already charged the Russian cavalry, and emptied a good many saddles.
Russian horses were galloping about riderless, and Paddy and myself parted company to give chase to a couple of these. With some trouble I captured my one, a tidy little iron-grey nag, which I judged from the saddle and accoutrements must have been an officer's charger. It was easy to see from the state of the saddle that the former rider had been very desperately wounded, and the reins were bloodier than a dainty man would have liked; but I was noways squeamish, and mounted the little horse in a twinkling.
The moment I had got my seat, I galloped up to the Heavy Brigade and formed up coolly on the left flank of the old Royals. They laughed at me as if I had been a clown in a pantomine; and I not been in position for a couple of minutes when up came Johnny Lee, their Adjutant, on his old bay mare, at a tearing gallop, and roared to me to "Go to h--- out of that."
There's no mistake, I was not much of a credit to them. I was bare-headed, and my hair was like a birch-broom in a fit. I was minus a coat, with my shirt-sleeves turned up to the shoulder, and my shirt, face, and bare hairy arms all splashed and darkened with blood, which I had picked up at the butchering the day before, and never bothered to wipe off. A pair of long, greasy jack-boots came up to the thigh, and instead of the sword I had the axe over my shoulder, as regimental as you please. The Russian must have ridden very short, for my knees were up to my nose in the stirrups, and so you may imagine that, taking me all in all, I was a hot-looking number, especially if you remember that I was half-seas over.
The heavies were in a position to support the Light Brigade, which had just got the word to advance. So when the adjutant of the Royals ordered me off, I looked straight before me, and saw the light bobs going out to the front at an easy trot, and on the right of the front rank I caught sight of the plumes of my own corps, the old seventeenth. My mind was made up on the instant. Ramming my spurless heels into the ribs of the little Russian horse, I started off in pursuit of the Light Brigade as fast as I could make him go, with shouts of laughter from the heavies ringing behind me, and chased unsuccessfully by a couple of officers of the Greys, who tried to stop me for decency's sake.
As the light bobs were only advancing at the trot, it wasn't long before I ranged up alongside their right flank, and there was old Nosey, as we used to call Cardigan, well out to the front, and in front of him again was young Nolan of the 15th, with his sword down at the "right engage" already, even though we were a long way off any enemy.
Just as I came up in line with the flank sergeant of the front rank, who looked at me sideways as if I had been a ghost, Cardigan turned round in his saddle to say a word to the field trumpeter riding at his heels, and then with a wave of his sword, went off at score out to the front. In another second, all the trumpets of the brigade sounded the "charge," and sitting down on our saddles and setting our teeth hard, off we went pell-mell across the valley as hard as ever horse could lay foot to ground.
Presently we got within range of the devilish Russian battery which was playing right into our teeth, and I saw Nolan, who was a long way out to the front, galloping as if for a wager, toss up his arms, and with a wild shriek fall from his horse. On still, on we went, faster and faster as our horses got excited and warmed to their work, heedless of the torrent of shot and shell that came tearing through us, and stopping for ever many a bold rider. As for myself, what with the drink in me, and the wild excitement of the headlong charge, I went stark mad, and sent the plucky Russian horse ahead at a pace which kept me in line with the very foremost.
Nearer and nearer we came to the dreadful battery, which kept vomiting death upon us like a volcano, till I seemed to feel on my cheek the hot air from the cannon's mouth. At last we were on it. Half a dozen of us leapt in among the guns at once, and I with one blow of my axe brained a Russian gunner just as he was clapping the linstock to the touch-hole of his piece. With another I split open the head of an officer who was trying to rally the artillery detachment in the rear; and then what were left of us went smack thorough the stragglers, cutting and slashing away like fiends, rode straight at the column of cavalry drawn up behind the battery.
What happened then, say you ? I can't tell you much more than this, that they were round us like a swarm of bees, and we, not more seemingly than a couple of dozen of us to the fore, were hacking and hewing away our hardest, each individual man the centre of a separate melee. I know I never troubled about guards myself, but kept whirling the axe about me, every now and then bringing it down to some purpose; and ever as it fell, the Russkies gave ground a bit, only to crush denser around me a minute after, They durs'nt come to close quarters with the sword, for the axe had a devil of a long reach; and they dursn't use pistols, for they were too thick themselves.
I'm hanged if I don't half think I should have been there till now had I not chanced to hear above the din a trumpet from somewhere in the rear sound "Three's about". Round I wheeled, still thrashing about me like a windmill, slap through the heart of the battery again, knocking over an artillery man or two as I passed, and presently overtook a small batch of men of various regiments who, under Colonel Sewell of the 8th Hussars, were trying to retreat in some kind of order.
I was as sober as a bishop at this time, take my word for it, amd I joined them right cheerfully; but the chances of getting back again to our own side of the valley looked very blue. The Russian cavalry were hard on our heels, and we suffered sorely from the devilish battery in our rear, which kept pelting into the thick of us, all without much discrimination between friend and foe. The guns of those forts on our left, out of which the cowardly Turks had sneaked, and which had been pounced on by the Russians, were not doing us much good neither, I assure you, and it was for all the world like being between the devil and the deep sea. Soon what little formation we had got was knocked to pieces, and then the word was, "Every man for himself, and God help the hindmost."
A young fellow of the 11th Hussars and I hung together for a while, both of us trying to make the best of our blown and jaded horses; but at last down he went, his horse shot under him and he himself wounded. As the lad's busby rolled off when he hit the ground, he gave a look up at me which went to my heart, rough as I was. God pity him, for he was little more than a boy, and I had a mother myself once. I was out of the saddle in a twinkling and had him across the holsters and myself in the seat again only just in time, for the damnable Cossacks were down upon us like so many wolves. Oh! he was a good plucked one, was that little Russian horse; right gamely did he struggle back with the double load upon his back, and hurrah! here were the heavies at last, and we were safe.
As I was riding back to the rear to give the wounded man up to the doctor, I passed close under the staff, who were on the brow of the hill just above me, but there was no notice taken of me that I perceived. I rode up to our own camp, and by and by a sergeant came and made a prisoner of me, for the crime of breaking out of the guard tent when confined there-to — a serious military offence, I can tell you.
I wasn't shot for it, though; for next day I was brought in front of Lord Lucan, who was in command of the cavalry, and who told me, that although he had a good mind to try me by court-martial, as, he said, I thoroughly deserved, he would let me off this time, in consideration of the use I had made of the liberty I had taken, amd perhaps he would do more for me if I kept sober. And that's how, sir, I came by this little medal, which is Britain's reward for distinguished conduct in the field. Thank you, sir, I'll be sure to drink your health."
A similar version to the above was printed in the Sotheby's auction catalogue, 6th of March 1986, in which his D.C.M. appeared.
[PB: Differences appear to be confined to editorial errors on Sotheby's part. I have checked it against a pdf and transcript created from the original book, in the archive.]
Sergeant Joseph J. Pardoe of the 1st Royal Dragoons records in his "Memoirs" what he says was the true story of how John Vahey joined his regiment in the Charge:
"I can at this point retell the true story of Butcher Jack. He came up between two squadrons of the 1st Dragoons and joined us as we advanced, in fact, he was on my right hand. Colonel Yorke looked round and said to me "Sergeant, that man does not belong to my regiment. Who is he? The man answered "I belong to the 17th Lancers, Sir." Colonel Yorke replied, "I admire your spirit my man, but you had better join your own regiment." He replied , "All right, Sir," and galloped away.
That was the last I saw of him that day. He was not mounted on a grey horse, nor had he an axe in his hand, he had no coat on and his shirt sleeves were turned up. He had one sword in his hand and one in a scabbard buckled around his waist. He had been made a prisoner the night before for having taken too much rum.
I was told by one of the 17th that he was not seen or heard of for three days and it was thought he was killed, but when he found out by some means he would be pardoned for breaking his arrest, turned up.
Butcher Jack's story as told by Mr Archibald Forbes reads very well, but old soldiers have the name for throwing the hatchet and Jack threw his to perfection when interviewed by Mr. Forbes."
See also the record of 1057 Charles Macaulay, 8th Hussars, who claimed that it was he who John Vahey brought off the field at Balaclava.
In May 1897 a Mr G.H. Powell wrote an article on John Vahey — "Butcher Jack" of the 17th Lancers — which appeared in the magazine The Regiment. In this he stated that John Vahey had served in the 13th Light Dragoons.
1209 William Bird, 8th Hussars, commented in a letter to the Editor that this was wrong. In his reply, Powell referred him to the article by Archibald Forbes [above] which said that Forbes had had an interview with Vahey a few years before this [impossible, because Vahey had been dead many years, dying in India soon after the Mutiny campaign] and that the latter had stated that he definitely belonged to the 13th Light Dragoons.
[PB: Is it possible that Forbes had indeed interviewed John Vahey a few years before publication in a periodical, which may have been some time before it was collected in the book, in 1872? Forbes does not say where the article first appeared.]
A letter from Charles Macauley of the 8th Hussars followed shortly after:
"In connection with the previous correspondence concerning John Veigh, I beg to state that he was one of the 17th Lancers and not of the 13th Light Dragoons...
I have every reason to know, as I was the "boy" referred to as the one he picked up on the field.
I was lying under my second horse, a Russian one, my first having been shot under me. He was on foot, in his shirt-sleeves, and held his naked sword-blade in his hand, not his axe, as stated.
He assisted me from under the second horse and put me on another which was passing (being without a rider) and brought me off the field.
The Brigade was dismounted when we got in, and we were some of the last who came out of the "Charge."
In 1857 the 8th and the 17th embarked aboard the "Great Britain" for the Indian Mutiny campaign and my old comrade and I were amongst the passengers. The last I heard of him was about 4 years after the Crimea, when I received a letter from him... Shortly afterwards I heard that he had died in India."
[PB: J Wren, 10th Hussars — his recollections of "Vye" [Vahey] in the Charge.]
TO THE EDITOR OF "THE DAILY TELEGRAPH"
Sir — I can vouch for the authenticity of the following:
On the morning of the charge a butcher of the 17th Lancers, named Vyle [sic?], asked a comrade. "What's the row over there?" and he was told that the Russians "were playing the very d____ with them." Attired as he was in his blue blouse, red cap, jack boots, and with his sleeves tucked up, he immediately borrowed a horse of one of the Scots Greys, and rode up his own troop, who were just preparing for the charge. "Who is that?" said the colonel. "That is the butcher," was the reply. "Send him away at once," remarked the officer.
He then went to the 11th Hussars, but he was sent away from them also. He also then made his way to another troop in his own regiment, and on the captain inquiring of the sergeant-major who he was, and being told it was the butcher, he said, "Oh, let him alone; I wish I had a hundred such men."
This Vye of his own free will charged with the Six Hundred into the valley, and not only returned alive, but brought in a prisoner. When the meritorious medals were being distributed Vye's name was mentioned to the officer, as one who was more deserving of the medal than those who had been compelled to take part in the awful ride, because his avocation demanded his presence elsewhere, and the action upon his part purely voluntary.
The medal was eventually awarded to him, and at the presentation the colonel asked him what he could do for him, as he could not promote the man on account of his being a bad scholar, but the butcher said he didn't know what they could do for him, unless it was "to always let him drink as much grog as he liked," upon hearing which the colonel said, "Well, as there really does not appear to be anything else I suppose it must be so."
If this man Vye is alive he is entitled to be present at the banquet, where he would meet with many of his old comrades, who can corroborate the facts I have narrated. I thought this little episode might be interesting to your readers, and therefore worthy of publication.
I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
J. WREN, late 10th Hussars,
19, Hack-road, Woolwich, Oct. 19.
[PB: Doug Austin has published this transcription [where did DA publish it? Where did he find it? Very probably DA found this in the special ILN edition, p.29. Check].
How could Wren "vouch for the authenticity"? Was he there? Did he learn the story from Vahey himself? Hearsay? Perhaps he was recalling Forbes's account, which appeared to be in Vahey's voice, and therefore seemingly authoritative?]
[PB: See also this marvellously colourful account by an anonymous friend of 871, Private Arthur Berkleman. It was published in Australia in 1904, where both had been living.]
...I told [Berkleman] the story of the regimental butcher leaving his slaughtering, slinging his long legs over a bare-backed troop-horse and joining in the pursuit of a marauding troop of Cossacks, with his arms crimsoned in blood, and both hands clasping two sabres — one his regulation weapon — the other an old one which he had been using as a cleaver — the old horse knew his way about, and needed neither bit nor spur, and the pressure of the butcher-trooper's knees steered him into the thick of it, much to the consternation of the Cossacks, who, seeing a huge red-headed, red-moustached "Inglese man" (by the way I believe he was an Irishman) waving two swords and with bloody arms bared to the shoulder, and yelling out the regimental war cry "Death or Glory, boys," must have thought that all hell had broken loose — the old trooper's martial ardour was so aroused that he exclaimed, as he gripped me by the arm, "Bedad, you have got it pat; I was there and saw it all — just as you say." He then entered into further details and gave me the man's name, which began with either an "O" or a "Mac." [PB: it didn't, of course.]
[Source: The Richmond & Windsor Gazette, 6th of February 1904.]
[PB: TO FOLLOW UP: In a EJBA 17L file is a short (cropped) cutting from Sheldrake's Aldershot Gazette (date 1875?) that identifies Butcher Jack not as John Vahey but 579 John Duggan, 17th Lancers.]
[PB: See Anon newspaper account, THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE, Newcastle Morning Herald (NSW), 18 mar 1899, p.10, in ACCOUNTS_database.]
"The regimental butcher of the 17th Lancers was engaged in killing a sheep when he heard the trumpets sound for the charge. He leaped on a horse, in shirt-sleeves, with bare and arms, and pipe in mouth, rode straight through the whole charge, slew, it is said, six men with his own hand, and came back again, pipe still in mouth. A private of the 11th was under arrest for drunkenness when the charge began; but he broke out, followed his troop on a spare horse, picked up a sword as he rode, and shared in the rapture and perils of the charge."
See W. Britain's Figures - Crimean War Archive for a remarkable collection of Britain's toy soldiers, including a number depicting the Charge. Saved in the folder "britains_toy_soldiers" in the EJBA. See also Notes 12 April 2018 for a list of models.