I first saw the light of day in the quiet little town of Halesworth, in Suffolk, on the 5th of April, 1834; my parents were good Christian people, my father a Baptist minister. I remained with them in Halesworth until I was about five years old, when I removed with them to Norwich. I was brought up very comfortably; my boyish days being spent at school, and, like many more, I was for ever getting out of one scrape into another; evil companions led me into a number of things which when I came to my senses I knew well to be wrong, and I was fast breaking the hearts of those who wished me well; but, thank God, I was spared to bind up some of the wounds that I then caused. I had my own way to a dangerous length, through having a fond mother, who did all that lay in her power to hide my mis-doings—which is a fault that most boys will in after life forgive, and with gratitude remember. Thus, year after year rolled on. As a youth I admired much the appearance of a soldier, little thinking of all that lay behind the scenes. I had read Nelson’s exploits from boyhood, studied all his principal battles, and learned how he had forced our old enemies the French to tremble before him, till his glorious deeds made the whole Nation love and adore him, while his last thrilling words to his men will be remembered as long as our language endures—“England expects that every man will do his duty,”—a watchword that to this day inspires thousands in whose veins runs some of the best blood of Britain. I also read with eagerness Wellington’s brilliant career through life, how he first beat the Indians, ten and twelve to one, on various fields, and then rolled them up in a masterly style at the battles of Assaye and Argaum, returning home shortly afterwards to find more employment for his master-mind in Spain, Portugal, and France, and, eventually, striking down his spiteful enemy, Napoleon, on the ever-memorable field of Waterloo. The reader may, perhaps, from the foregoing form some idea as to the bent of my mind,—“Death before dishonour.”

In 1853 and the early part of 1854, as those of my readers who are old enough will remember, the Turks were trying to defend themselves against their ancient foes the Russians, and thrilling accounts were appearing in our newspapers about the different fights at the seat of war on the Danube. In March, 1854, the Western Powers, England and France, declared war against Russia, and at once rushed to the assistance of “the sick man,” soon putting a different aspect upon the face of affairs, and justifying the saying of that astute, though unscrupulous, general, Napoleon I.—England and France united could dictate to the whole world.

The fighting had been raging between the “Big Bully” (Russia) and the “Sick Man” (Turkey) for upwards of twelve long months; and, although the Turks then fought desperately for hearths and homes, numbers began to prevail, and in despair he called upon England and France to assist him. All was done that could be thought of to try and avert a general war; kind words were used both by England and France, but these did not avail. Russia was finally requested to withdraw her vast armies from Turkish soil. But, no! despotic Russia was blinded by fury. The hereditary policy of Peter the Great was being carried out; the prey was at her feet, and, rather than relinquish it, she would dare the two strongest nations on the face of the globe. The “holy will” of Peter the Great, I would here remind the reader, is always before the eyes of the Czars and Statesmen of Russia; and their over-mastering policy, let the consequences be what they may, is, therefore, animated by a spirit of aggrandisement. This will is worth reading, and I have taken the liberty of transcribing it, as it supplies the key to that crafty policy which the Muscovite power is for ever steadily pursuing.

WILL OF PETER THE GREAT.

He then lays down the following rules for the attainment of that object:—

RULES.

In the spirit of this extraordinary document, the Czars of Russia have ruled and plotted ever since the days of Peter; but the sequel of this little book will help to prove how Holy Russia was chastised and checkmated upon field after field, the strongest fortress in her Empire torn from her grasp, and eventually, in spite of her vast army, she was compelled to eat a large amount of humble pie, made by a pastry-cook that Peter the Great had not thought much of, viz:—Mr. John Bull. The lesson thus read to her was severe enough; but it would appear as if in the lapse of time much of it has been forgotten. If so, Britain’s sons may be called upon to repeat it—and they will, too, if ever Russia attempts to interfere with India. Mr. Bull has a “pretty rod in pickle” for Russia or any other power that should dare to encroach upon our Indian Empire; for, if roused, we could put more men into the field in India than Russia, with all her boasted strength, could muster.

For the solemn sentence this day confronts Russia on the frontier of Afghanistan, “Hitherto shalt thou come, but no farther.” The proud and dauntless Briton exclaims, “Behind this boundary all is mine; back!” or take the consequence of confronting a free, happy and united people who number 300,000,000, that do not want to find a pretext for a quarrel with its neighbours; but the voice of millions of faithful British subjects proclaims with determination we will not yield one inch of soil to any despotic power; “we offer you peace with one hand with sincerity, and war to the knife with the other rather than dishonour.”

I was now fast approaching my twentieth year—a dangerous age to many unsettled in mind; and the thrilling accounts that were constantly coming home from the East, worked me up to try my luck as others had done before me, so, in the early part of January 1854, I enlisted into one of the smartest regiments of our army, the Royal Fusiliers. I selected this regiment for its noble deeds of valour under Lord Wellington, in the Peninsula. They, the old Fusiliers, had made our enemies, the French, shake on many a hard-fought field. Let the reader just look over the record of the “Battles of the British Army,” or “Napier’s Peninsula,” and he will remember the Royal Fusiliers, as a Briton, with pride, as long as he lives. View them at Albuera, 16th May, 1811. I would borrow Napier’s pithy language about them—“Nothing could stop the astonishing Infantry: how, inch by inch and foot by foot, they gained the heights of Albuera with a horrid carnage; swept the entire host of France from before them; gave them a parting volley, and then stood triumphant, fifteen hundred unconquerable British soldiers left out of the proud army of England, which that morning had exceeded six thousand combatants.” “They had not died for nothing,” for the French military historians acknowledged that ever after that they approached the British Infantry with a scared feeling of distrust, for these never knew when they were beaten. A corps like that might be destroyed, but not easily defeated. Thus, my lot was cast with a regiment that had in days of yore planted the Standard of Old England in many a “hot corner,” and was destined to do it again. The deeds of the good loyal old corps had been handed down from father to son; and I found some of the right sort of stuff in it, men that would do or die, and dare everything that lay in their power to keep up the reputation of the regiment, whose motto was “Death or Victory.”

On joining I was about 6ft. high, very active and steady, was soon brought to the notice of my officers, and went up the ladder of promotion pretty quickly. A month or two after I had joined, had got over the goose step, and had been taught how to “catch flies,” war was declared by our Government, in conjunction with France, against Russia. All regiments were at once put upon a war footing, and thousands who had an appetite for a little excitement or hard knocks, rushed to the Standard; while those who only liked pipe-claying and playing at soldiers, soon got out of the way by retiring upon “urgent private affairs.”

Those of my readers who are old enough will remember the pitch of excitement to which the blood of Old England was worked up: the eyes of the whole world were turned upon us; the deeds of our forefathers had not been forgotten—their exploits had astonished the civilised world; both by land and sea they had been the admiration of all, whether friend or foe, when led by such commanders as the immortal Nelson and the Iron Duke. We, their descendants, were about to face in deadly conflict the strongest and most subtle nation of the civilized world, that could bring into the field one million of bayonets, swayed by despotic power. But numbers were not taken into consideration, our only cry was “Let’s get at them.” The Fusiliers were quickly made up to about one thousand strong, and embarked at Southampton on the 5th of April, 1854, for the East, under command of an officer who afterwards proved himself one of the bravest of the brave, Col. Lacy Walter Yea, a soldier in every sense of the word, both in the field and out of it; just the right man in the right place to command such a corps as the Royal Fusiliers.

In marching out of the Barracks at Manchester to the railway station, one could have walked over the heads of the people, who were wrought up to such a pitch of excitement as almost amounted to madness. Our inspiring band in front struck up “The British Grenadiers,” “The Girl I left behind me,” “We are going far away.” Fathers shook hands with their sons, and bade them farewell, while mothers embraced them; and then the bands struck up “Cheer! boys, cheer!” which seemed to have a thrilling effect upon the multitude, and to give fresh animation to the men. The expressions from the vast crowd as our men marched along were, “Pur them, Bill,” “Remember Old England depends upon you,” “Give them plenty of cold steel and then pur them,” “Keep up your pecker, old boy—never say die,” “Leave your mark upon them if you get a chance.” At last the noble old corps reached the railway station, and then there were deafening shouts. Some cried, “We’ll meet again, and give you a warm reception when you come back;” then, after one hearty “God bless you” from a vast multitude, away they went behind the iron horse. We had a number of Manchester men in our ranks, and, although that town is noted for its peace principles, they let the enemy know at the Alma, Inkermann, and throughout the Campaign, that they knew how to fight.

Well, reader, the old Fusiliers have gone to help to carry out the orders of our Government and Her Most Gracious Majesty—“God bless her.” But your humble servant is left behind to have a little more knocked into his head in the way of marching and counter-marching, and the young idea had to be taught how to shoot. It did not matter much where one went—all the talk was about the gallant old corps, wishing them God-speed and a safe return to their native isle. The depÔt was soon removed from Manchester to Winchester, where I completed my drill, and with steadiness went up to the rank of corporal; and, about the 15th of June, a strong draft was selected to join the service companies then in Turkey. After having passed a close medical inspection, corporal T. G. was told off for the draft; and it is not an easy thing to describe my feelings. I deemed myself, I must acknowledge, a proud man; and felt that the honour of our dear old isle hung upon my shoulders; I pictured myself coming home much higher in rank, and with my breast covered with honours, the gifts of a grateful country; but I little dreamed of the hardships that were before me. My comrade, a good honest Christian, quoted the following lines with a sparkling eye, at the same time brandishing a stick over his head:—

He fell at the Alma. The Searcher of all hearts knew well that he was more fit to face Him than I was; his whole life was that of a Christian from the day I first knew him, and he was never ashamed of his colours.

We marched out of Winchester about twelve hundred strong, detachments of various regiments, with a light heart, nearly the whole of the good people of that city marching with us. The same scenes were enacted as at Manchester, when the regiment went off; we had hard work to get through the people; there was many a fond farewell from broken-hearted mothers, and many a tear was shed, for all that was near and dear to many were just off to a foreign land, to back up the comrades who had gone before. With a ringing cheer from some thousands of people wishing us God-speed and a safe return to our native homes, away we went, and were conveyed to Portsmouth in safety, duly arriving at the Port which had in days of yore witnessed the departure of thousands of the bravest sons of England to return no more. We found the people of Portsmouth a warm-hearted set, and they gave us a genuine reception in sailor-like fashion. In marching through the streets, which were thronged with pretty girls, the bands in front struck up “The Girl I left behind me.” We had various greetings as we passed on to the Dock-yard, such as, “Stick to them, my boys,” “Give it them if you get a chance,” “Remember old England depends upon you,” “We’ll not forget you.” With one tremendous cheer we passed on into the Dock-yard, and thousands of voices joined in shouting “Farewell, God bless you.” We soon found ourselves on board a noble ship—about twelve hundred fine young fellows determined to “do or die,” little dreaming of the hardships we should have to encounter, hardships that no pen or tongue can adequately describe. We cheered heartily for Old England and England’s Queen. An old General Officer told us to cheer when we came back, and we replied that we would, for we were just in the right frame of mind to carry the Standard of Old England through thick and thin, prepared to dare all the legions that the “Czar of all the Russias” could bring against us, and to stand shoulder to shoulder with our allies the French, in a foreign land. Napoleon’s words were now to be verified. The strongest nation in the world had thrown down the gauntlet at the feet of France and England, and Waterloo was now to be avenged by our uniting against the disturber of the peace of Europe. The following pages will prove that, with all their boasted strength, and that although fighting behind one of the strongest fortifications in the whole world, the Russians came off second best, and had to submit to the dictates of the flag that for near one thousand years has proved itself, under good guidance, second to none. Peter the Great, though he mentioned the gold of England, forgot her steel and her “dumplings” that were so hard to digest, and the haughty legions of Russia soon had to endure such a pounding at the hands of the sons of Albion and Gaul, that they were glad to relinquish the prey which they had almost within their grasp.

Well, off we went, steaming and sailing, out of Portsmouth, with any amount of cheering and shouting. Next morning some of our fellows appeared as if one good man could beat a dozen of them; they looked in a most pitiable plight. They had not brought their sea legs with them and it was blowing rather fresh—what the sailors call a nice breeze—and those who could work and eat might do so for about forty-eight hours; but the greater portion of those who had, only a few hours previous, been making all the row they could, were lying all over the decks, huddled up like so many dying ducks. I never was sea-sick, but I have every reason to believe, from what I have seen of it, that it is not at all desirable; my comrade, a strong young man of some twenty-four years, was quite knocked up for some days, so I suppose I must not be too hard upon the poor victims of mal-de-mer. In a few days, most of the men were all right again; we passed two or three of our ocean bull-dogs and plenty of other ships homeward-bound; had nothing particular to note, but that we were going out to defend a rotten cause, a race that almost every Christian despises. However, as soldiers we had nothing to do with politics,—we had simply to carry out the orders of Her Most Gracious Majesty and her Government.

We called at the Rock and took in coal, staying there one day, so that we had a good look at that wonderful place, which is the eyesore of Spain, and likely to remain so, for she will never get it again. It is immensely strong, nature and art having combined to render it well-nigh impregnable, and our people are not likely to be starved into a capitulation, as we constantly keep there some seven years’ food for about ten thousand troops. I do not believe an enemy’s ship could float near it, while on the land side the approach is very narrow and most securely defended. At any rate, the Spaniards will scarcely be foolhardy enough to make the attempt; if they do, they will find it a very hard nut to crack.

Off we went again, up the Mediterranean and on to Malta. We found it unpleasantly hot, but there was plenty of life—the place seemed full of Maltese, English, French, Germans, Swiss, Italians, in fact representatives of all nations of the earth, except Russians, and these we were on the way to look up. Malta appears to be admirably defended; we had a good look around it and at some of its huge forts. The Maltese boys, or I should rather say children, much amused us by their smartness in diving right under the ship and coming up with a piece of the coin of the realm in their mouths, immediately going down again after another. I never witnessed any one staying under water so long as these boys did, they seemed to be quite at home paddling on their side around the ship, in fact they appeared to have quite an amphibious nature.

As soon as we got coal, off we went again—on to Varna. They quickly put us on shore, and right glad were we to get there, for it is not very comfortable in a troopship—shut up, with scarcely standing room, constantly being pitched and tossed about, especially if you should happen to lose your balance and come down “soft upon the hard,” with your face in contact with some of the blocks, and have a lot of sailors grinning at you—for they do not seem to have any pity for a poor fellow staggering about like a drunken man.

Well, we parted with our sailors on the best of terms; we had found them a fine jolly lot. At Varna we found ourselves mixed up with Turks, Egyptians, French, English, Maltese, Jews, Greeks, &c., it was a regular Babel. Our new allies, the French, were remarkably civil, and their artillery were fine-looking men. We were at once marched off to join our regiments. The old 7th formed a part of the Light Division under Sir G. Brown, at Monistier, about twenty miles from Varna. Sir G. Brown was a veteran who had won his spurs on many a hard fought field against our old enemies the French; but we were now allies, and all old sores must be forgotten and buried six feet deep; we had now one common foe—the Russians—to face; and shoulder to shoulder we were about to fight. Monistier appeared a very pleasant place. There were all sorts of sports got up in the camp to keep up the men’s spirits, which was much needed; we had an unseen enemy in the midst of us—cholera—that was daily finding and carrying off its victims. We were soon away, cholera-dodging, from camp to camp, or place to place; it was sweeping off our poor fellows so very fast. Our colonel looked well after his Regiment, particularly the draft. We were equally divided amongst the companies; they found us plenty of work to do, making trenches, batteries, gabions, marching and counter-marching. The French and ourselves got on capitally, particularly the Zouaves, whom we found a very jolly set, though they afterwards proved themselves a troublesome lot to the enemy. It did not matter much where we went, we everywhere found Turkey a most unhealthy place; while the Turks and Bashi-Bazouks were a cut-throat looking crew, particularly the latter. We marched back to Varna, and it began to be rumoured that we should soon be off somewhere else. In the early part of August, the harbour of Varna was partly full of transports, ready to ship us off again, and we were heartily glad to get out of that; for we had lost a very great number of men through cholera and fever. We lost the first English officer in Turkey, Captain A. Wallace, who died from an injury received in a fall from his horse while out hunting. The Turks struck me as a queer lot, particularly the women, who did not seem to put themselves out in the least, but were dirty and lazy-looking.

THE LEADER OF THE CRIMEAN ARMY.

In the hour of need Britons will ever do their duty. Our gallant Commander, Lord Raglan, K.C.B., or, as he was known for many years, Lord FitzRoy Somerset, was of noble blood, being the eighth son of the late Duke of Beaufort, and was born in 1788. He entered the army in 1804, being then a mere boy. Having wealth and plenty of influence at his back, and a brilliant spirit, he soon brought himself into notice. He was a captain in one of the finest disciplined regiments in our army (the 43rd Light Infantry), which has proved itself on many a hard-fought field second to none. At Vimiera (August 21st, 1808) this regiment contributed largely towards routing the proud legions of France from the field. That great General, Wellington, with the eye of an eagle, soon detected our young hero’s worth, and placed him on his staff, and we find him by the side of his chief through field after field. It was on grim Busaco’s iron ridge (September 27th, 1810) that his Lordship received his first wound, and it was there that the tide of French glory was rolled back with terrible slaughter, upwards of 2000 being killed by the British conquering bayonet alone. Again we find our hero on the field of Fuentes de OÑoro, May 3rd and 5th, 1811, distinguishing himself most brilliantly—again wounded but not subdued. We next find him, on the 6th April, 1812, foremost among the storming party at the bloody parapets of Badajoz, fighting with determination, and encouraging the 43rd to desperate deeds of valor. How he escaped that terrible night’s slaughter was almost a miracle, for near 5000 of our poor fellows lay in front of those deadly breaches. Then we find him beside his chief on the field of Salamanca, July 22nd, 1812, taking a distinguished part on that memorable occasion. A French officer stated that 40,000 of his unfortunate countrymen had been rolled up and routed from the field in forty minutes. Wellington was one too many for Marshall Mormant, who was completely out-generalled, and his army defeated in detail by the conquering sons of Albion, side by side with the heroic boys of the Emerald Isle. It was on this field that the 88th, or Connaught Rangers, immortalized themselves. Lord FitzRoy Somerset was to be seen in all parts of the field, delivering orders from his commander. Next we hear of him on the plains of Vittoria, June 21st, 1813, by the side of his chief wherever the fight was hottest, doing all that he could to encourage and animate the men. Here it was that the legions of France were completely routed, leaving all their guns in the hands of the victors. This was the most disastrous defeat the French had as yet received; they lost all, including their honour, for they ran like a flock of frightened sheep, throwing away their arms in order to escape the devouring swords of our Cavalry, who chased them for miles from the field. We next trace his lordship through all the battles of the Pyrenees—ten in number. At times Wellington moved so quickly that Lord FitzRoy was the only one of all his brilliant staff who could keep up with him. Napoleon’s pet General, Soult, had to bow before the all-conquering British bayonets. Our young hero still kept by the side of his chief, and we find him on the fields of Nivelle, Orthes, and Toulouse, adding to his renown through all those memorable struggles, ever prompt in performing his duties, and amongst the foremost and the bravest of the brave; not second, even to the fiery Picton, Crawford, Evans, Brown, Campbell, or Napier. He was a true type of a Briton. If there was a “hot corner” he was sure to find it. He had now fought his last fight in the Peninsula. Buonaparte had been crushed by combined Europe, whose armies had been kept in the field by English gold through two campaigns, viz., 1813-14. Napoleon’s wings being clipped, he was sent to the Isle of Elba, as a state prisoner, with an annual revenue of 6,000,000 francs to be paid by France. Peace was signed on the 30th May, 1814, between the allied Powers—England, Austria, Russia, and Prussia on the one hand, and France on the other; and our young hero returned home with his commander. But the peace was of short duration. Napoleon burst from his narrow prison, and once more landing in France, set the whole of Europe in a blaze. An army was consequently sent into Belgium, under command of the Iron Duke. Lord Somerset again accompanied him, and was present at the memorable battles of Quatre-Bras and Waterloo, where the conqueror of nations, backed by an army of grim Veterans, again essayed to bid defiance to the British hosts. I must not, however, attempt to go into the details of those lights now. Some of the best blood of Britain was spilt there, and Lord Somerset was desperately wounded; but he helped to strike the tyrant down to rise no more. After the lapse of only a few months, our hero, though he left his right arm on the field of Waterloo, again joined his chief in France, and remained at his post till the conclusion of peace. Subsequently he was employed in various capacities at the Horse Guards, until the breaking out of the Crimean War, when he was selected to command the army sent out to Turkey, and from thence to the Crimea. I have not the slightest hesitation in saying that his lordship was looked up to by the whole army with veneration. Under fire he was as “cool as a cucumber”—did not seem to put himself out in the least; he was very kind in his manner, but yet as brave as lion. At the Alma his lordship was in the thick of the fight, giving his orders as calmly as if no bullets or shells were flying around him. At Inkermann he sat his horse as collectedly as on parade, although death was raging around. But, I must not here attempt to enumerate his deeds through that trying campaign. On the return of the victorious troops, after taking the Quarries and the Circular Trench, his lordship thanked us for the manner in which we had done our duty, and promised to report all for the information of Her Most Gracious Majesty. Such words when uttered by a Commander-in-Chief are always grateful to soldiers’ ears, and go far to reward them for any arduous labour they may have undergone; but praise coming from Lord Raglan was felt to be more than ordinarily inspiring, for his lordship was no stranger to the trying ordeal we had just passed through. The fighting had been terrible, and he could appreciate the manner in which his orders had been carried out; all had been left to the bayonet. It was then, as it had often been in his lordship’s younger days, England and Ireland side by side. But our noble commander’s end was now fast approaching. His lordship was not at all well, although his indomitable spirit would not yield; but the weighty responsibility of the disastrous mishap, or repulse, of the 18th June, 1855, was too much for him: it broke his heart, and he sank rapidly. But, reader, “his end was peace.” He could say with Job, “I know that my Redeemer liveth;” and he quietly sank into the arms of that Lord and Master, whom he had not been ashamed to acknowledge before men.

THE GENERALS OF DIVISION.

The following is a brief statement of the vast amount of service of the gallant veterans who commanded the three divisions (Light, 1st, and 2nd) that were destined to bear the brunt of the fighting from the Alma to the fall of Sebastopol; and under this head we will include the hero of Inkermann, Sir G. Cathcart, the commander of the 4th division.

LIEUT.-GENERAL SIR GEORGE BROWN.

The commander of the Light Division was Lieut.-General Sir George Brown, K.C.B. Sir George was a Scotchman. He joined the army in 1806, and his first service was in Sicily. He went all through the Peninsular War, under our great captain, Wellington, and frequently distinguished himself; but as he was a poor man, and had none to help him on, he was “left out in the cold.” Others who had plenty of cash and influence jumped over his head, although they had never smelt powder. Sir George was present at the following battles in Portugal:—RoliÇa, 17th August, 1808; Vimiera, 21st August, 1808; Almeida, September, 1808. At these places he showed the metal he was made of. The Duke acknowledged that he had “done his duty,” and there it ended. At Busaco (September 27th, 1810), he was engaged in a severe hand-to-hand conflict with one of the staff of Marshal Massena, and proved the victor. At Badajoz he greatly distinguished himself, proving to the whole army that he was one of the bravest of the brave. Here he was wounded, and the Duke again acknowledged that he had done his duty. From RoliÇa (1808) to Toulouse (10th April, 1814), in storming parties and battles in Spain, Portugal, America, and the Netherlands, he had proved himself a cool, determined man, but was still only a captain; his crime was that he was poor; talent and bravery were not in those days taken into consideration. But still he held on and served his country faithfully wherever he was sent, and the sequel will show that the fire was not all out of him; his conduct at the Alma was grand, and at Inkermann he gave his orders as coolly as if he had been talking to his gardener, and firmly faced the foe until he fell wounded and reluctantly left the field.

LIEUT.-GENERAL SIR DE LACY EVANS.

This General had proved himself second to none on many a hard-fought field in India, Spain, Portugal, America, the Netherlands, and Spain again—where all were brave he would lead the way. He was an Irishman; and his drawback, under the old dispensation, was his obscure position. Mr. Evans entered the army as a volunteer, and by his dauntless bravery obtained a commission on the 1st February, 1807. He was present at the taking of Mauritius, and for his valour was promoted to a Lieutenancy, in December, 1808. But here he was destined to stop for years, although his conduct had been brought to the notice of the then Commander-in-Chief and the public at large, but a “piece of red tape” had got in front of him. He could lead the way through the deadly breach repeatedly, but that bit of red tape he could not get over. The facts may seem incredible, but they are true, and history will attest it. His next service was in India, in the Deccan. He remained in India until 1810; was engaged against Ameer Khan, and was once more brought to notice for his talents and bravery, but still he remained a plain Lieutenant. In 1812 he joined the army in Spain, and greatly distinguished himself at the retreat from Burgas; he was wounded, but kept his post throughout the battle. At Vittoria, June 21st, 1813, his conduct was such that he was the admiration of his whole regiment—the 3rd Dragoons. At Salamanca he attracted the notice of Wellington, who, unfortunately, never troubled himself much about daring obscure men. All he got was, “Evans has done his duty;” but he remained a Lieutenant still. Shortly afterwards his horse was killed under him, and he received a contusion in the fall. At Badajoz, he led the forlorn hope, and was wounded. At San Sebastian, he volunteered to lead the assault and was wounded. At Toulouse (April 10th, 1814) he had two horses killed under him, and was twice wounded. Will it be believed that this gallant veteran, so often wounded, after all his brilliant services, remained at the end of the Peninsular War still a Lieutenant? Peace having been made with France, our hero sailed for America with General Ross, his fellow-countryman. At the battle of Bladensburg Mr. Evans had two horses killed under him, and was again wounded. He received the thanks of his commander for his conduct. The same day, Lieut. Evans led the stormers at Washington, and took it, with an enormous booty; the upshot was the complete rout of the enemy and the American Government: and although General Ross did his best to obtain promotion for Mr. Evans, the hero of Washington remained a Lieutenant still. At Baltimore the Americans were again defeated, and Mr. Evans was once more thanked by his commander for the dashing manner in which he had led a portion of the 3rd Dragoons, but no promotion followed, although strongly recommended by the General commanding. The next exploit of our hero was to lead a boarding expedition at a part of the American fleet. Mr. Evans was the only military man employed; he was thanked for his conduct, but there it ended. At New Orleans our arms suffered a reverse, but Mr. Evans was said to have nobly done his duty. He shortly afterwards returned to England, and was made a captain in (what do you think, reader?) a black, or West Indian regiment—thus adding insult to injury. Well, well, those days are past, but if this is a sample of the “good old times,” it is a happy thing that they are long gone by. War soon again broke out with Napoleon, and Captain Evans’s services were requisitioned. On the field of Waterloo, he was again wounded; and it was acknowledged by those in high position that Captain Evans fought with conspicuous gallantry, leading our heavy cavalry on against Napoleon’s Cuirassiers; but no further promotion followed. He next entered the Spanish service, commanding a British Legion, and there he carried all before him. He reached the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel in 1835, after twenty-eight years’ service (it took Wellington only twenty-six years to reach the rank of Field Marshal). This was the “grand old man,” who commanded us at Little Inkermann, October 26th, 1854. His conduct at the Alma and the two Inkermanns, was that of a tried veteran, cool and determined to conquer or die; the music of shot, shell, grape, canister, and musketry, had not much effect upon his nerves; but he would not throw his men’s lives away unnecessarily. On the morning of the 5th November, he was on board ship at Balaclava sick, but when he heard the booming of the guns, his practised ear knew well that something serious was going on; the honour of the flag he loved so well was in danger, and, as a true and loyal son of Emerald’s Isle, he at once landed and rode on to the memorable field of Inkermann. Although his arm was feeble he could assist with his counsel, for nothing could disturb his iron will but death. He passed through that fiery ordeal without a scratch. He was in all parts of the field, but as tranquil as if he was out for a country ride. Such was the hero of a hundred fights.

MAJOR-GENERAL SIR COLIN CAMPBELL.

This hero joined the army in 1808, and few lived to see more hard fighting—he was a regular fire-eater. He started from humble life, and, by dint of rough soldiering and an unconquerable spirit, fought his way to the top of the tree; and I may say honestly that few officers in our army, or any other, have been in half the number of battles. From 1808 to 1858 his was one continual blaze of triumph in all parts of the globe. We trace him from the field of Corunna, on which his noble countryman, Sir John Moore, met a soldier’s death, to the final relief and capture of Lucknow. Neither Sir De Lacy Evans, Sir George Brown, Sir Charles Napier, nor the great Dukes of Marlborough and Wellington, ever fought more battles than Lord Clyde; and I might almost challenge the admirers of the great Napoleon I. to show such a catalogue of victories as this gallant son of Scotland. In his maiden fight he proved he was of the right sort of stuff to make a soldier. He was cool and collected, and evidently determined to achieve victory or perish in the attempt. He joined the Walcheren expedition, participating in the cruel sufferings that destroyed nearly the whole army. It was an ill-fated enterprise, and badly commanded—so much for favouritism; but the less we say about it the better. However, even here Sir Colin Campbell contrived to reap some “glory”—as our neighbours delight to call it. From 1809 to 1814 he served under Wellington, in the Peninsula, upon field after field, from Vimiera through such fights as would make the much-lauded heroes of Tel-el-Kebir blush. We trace him through all the great conflicts that won for his commander a dukedom, and compelled the nations of Europe to respect our glorious old flag. The so-called “invincible” sons of France had to yield the palm to the sons of Albion, and in struggle after struggle their much-vaunted battalions had to give way before our irresistible wall of steel. Shoulder to shoulder with Napier, Evans, and Brown, Sir Colin Campbell was among the foremost in the forlorn hope at Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, and at the deadly breach of San Sebastian,—leading on to almost certain death; and, although repeatedly wounded, nothing could daunt, nothing dismay, this valiant Highland Laddie. He was ever prominent, and helped very materially to achieve some of the grandest victories ever won by British soldiers. But he was poor, and little notice was taken of him; it was recorded of him that he had done his duty, and there it ceased. Nevertheless, he carved out for himself a name that will not readily be forgotten. The hero of San Sebastian, Chillianwallah, Alma, Balaclava, and Lucknow will be remembered, I fearlessly assert, not only in Scotland, but throughout the British Empire, with pride for ages to come; for he was ever prominent wherever hard knocks were to be served out, and he was acknowledged by those who were competent to judge to be a most brilliant, heroic, and dashing soldier. He led no end of storming parties, and some of the most desperate forlorn hopes that ever man undertook, in all parts of the world. Repeatedly wounded, as I have said, his spirit was not subdued. This gallant soldier appeared to have a charmed life, for he always turned up at the right time and place, to have the lion’s share of the fighting. He had a good share of fights in India, as Colonel Campbell, under Lord Gough. It was he who decided the doubtful field of Chillianwallah by leading the 61st regiment on to a rapid, though prolonged and headlong, bayonet charge. He was wounded, but kept his post, as he had often done before. Again, on the field of Goojerat he fought with the same dauntless courage, which elicited the highest applause from the hero of Barrosa, Lord Gough. We next find him beside the conqueror of Scinde, Sir C. Napier. We shortly after trace him up to Peshawur, fighting the lawless hill tribes, subduing them, and returning to England just in time to take part in the Crimean expedition. At the Alma, he gave the finishing stroke to the Russians, exclaiming, with all the fire of youth, and waving his sword high in the air—“We’ll have none but Highland bonnets here.” After the enemy had been routed, Lord Raglan, in thanking him for his conduct, asked him if there was anything he could do for him, and his only request was to be allowed to wear a Highland bonnet, which was granted. And ever after that, Sir Colin might be seen wearing his Highland bonnet (to the great delight of the Highland regiments) instead of the usual head-dress of a General. He fought throughout that campaign, and returned home—one would have thought, to end his days in peace, having spent nearly half a century in the service of his country; but no, in 1857 the Indian Mutiny broke out. The brightest gem in Her Most Gracious Majesty’s diadem was threatening to break loose. It was held only by a few desperate men, who might die, but would never surrender. Men of Sir Colin’s stamp were wanting. He was sent for; and when asked how long it would take him to prepare to proceed to India to assume the command, his answer was—“In twenty-four hours;” history will tell how he rolled back the Mutineers on field after field—all had to yield to his conquering sword. He left the Empire safe, and won for himself a Field-Marshal’s baton and a Peerage. But his end was now fast approaching; he had fought his last fight and made his way to the top of the tree in his old days. The only thing that had kept this grand old hero back, had been, as they say in India, “pice, pice,” or money, money. Red-tape is never friendly to the poor man, no matter how brave, or what his talents are. Sir Colin Campbell had displayed a dauntless contempt of danger, wherever his country’s honour was at stake; and he lived to receive from his countrymen addresses of the highest thanks and some of the most eloquent eulogies that were ever penned or spoken about a British soldier. But at last he had to ground his arms to King Death; and we may be sure he was ready for the change.

LIEUT.-GENERAL SIR GEO. CATHCART.

It can be truly said of him that he was another of Britain’s bravest sons. He was born in the year 1794; at the age of sixteen he joined the army, and was appointed to the 2nd Life Guards, remaining with them a little over one year, when he exchanged into the 6th Dragoons, or Carabineers. His whole soul was alive to the honour of the flag of Old England, and he seemed to long to measure his sword with the enemies of that flag. Napoleon Buonaparte was then at the summit of his power; and, as he was backed up by upwards of 1,000,000 bayonets, it took brave hearts with strong arms to subdue him. We first find young Cathcart in Russia, by the side of his father, who had been appointed British Ambassador to the Court of St. Petersburg. He went out as aide-de-camp to his sire, and as such had various duties to perform. During the invasion of Russia by Napoleon in 1812, young Cathcart attended upon the Emperor, and engaged in some exciting and important scenes. He was continually employed carrying despatches at the peril of his life, and during that momentous period was never known to shirk his duties, but ever courageously pressed forward, having frequently to swim his horses across deep and rapid rivers, and to ride them until they dropped dead beneath him. The Emperor of Russia often expressed both his astonishment and his approbation at the fortitude of our young hero. At the battles of Lutzen and Bautzen he showed prodigious strength, activity, and courage. At the battle of Dresden he fought desperately, and was by the side of one of the greatest generals of the day (Moreau), when he met a soldier’s death. Lieut. Cathcart had now shared in eight pitched battles, and any number of combats. Napoleon had at last been baffled by Russia’s snow and England’s gold, had to bow to the dictates of combined Europe, and retire to the Isle of Elba, with the empty title of Emperor. Lieut. Cathcart, although of a noble stock, had no friend in the red-tape office, and the excuse for not promoting him was that he had not served with the British army—although the Russian, Prussian, and Austrian armies had been kept in the field by means of British gold. But when the disturber of the world broke from his prison-house, on the Isle of Elba, young George was again called upon to face his old enemy, and we next find him on the fields of Quatre-Bras and Waterloo. For his valor he was promoted, as was the hero of Washington, into a West India or black regiment. But he was as true as steel; he was skilful in times of peace, and as brave as a lion in the presence of the foe. He well-merited the highest eulogy that could be bestowed upon a Briton. He had only just returned from the Cape of Good Hope, after subjugating the lawless Kaffir tribes, when the Crimean War broke out. He had served his country for forty-four years, had passed through many a hard-fought field, and had lived to trample beneath his feet and silence some of the red-tape gentlemen. Sir George was now well-known, and those at the head of affairs appointed him to command a division in the East. He had been made a Knight Companion of the Bath, and had only just time to pay his homage to Her Most Gracious Majesty and depart. His division was not engaged at the Alma, but at Inkermann it fought courageously, and it was on this field that our hero met a glorious death. He fell while engaged in repulsing one of the bloodiest attacks made by the enemy on that memorable field. Thus fell, in the hour of victory, one of Britain’s bravest sons; and if a chariot of fire had been sent to carry him to the skies, he could not have departed in a brighter blaze of glory.

Sir George had sprung from a family of warriors, who had often cheered their men on to victory; and in him Britain lost a true hero, while posterity will point to the field on which, for England’s home and glory, General Sir George Cathcart victoriously fell. Inkermann will never be forgotten.

Before I close this branch of my subject, I must say a few words about another of the commanders, and then my non-military readers will be able to see more clearly the advantages which money and position in life could secure in our army.

The Earl of Cardigan did not enter the army until he was about twenty-seven years of age. He joined the 8th Hussars, in May, 1824, and had scarcely learnt his drill when he was promoted Lieutenant; in eighteen months more was advanced to a Captaincy (but not in a black regiment). He smoothly passed through the different grades, and in six years from the date of joining, found himself a Lieutenant-Colonel and commander of a regiment. He had never smelt powder, and, in fact, had never seen the enemies of his country; influence and money had done the whole. I think the reader will agree with me that it was not a bit too soon that the purchase system was discontinued. When the army was formed for Turkey, in the early part of 1854, this distinguished veteran of the ball-room was selected to command our light cavalry brigade; and right gallantly did he lead that brigade at Balaclava, October 25th, 1854. It was a dashing piece of work, and he did it well; but that was the sum and substance of his lordship’s services in the field, and of which we shall never hear the end. Poor old Sir George Brown, Sir De Lacy Evans, Sir Colin Campbell, Sir George Cathcart, and a host of others too numerous to mention, had gone through and seen ten times as much service long before they had reached the ripe age of twenty-one. So much for money and position.

Punch, in 1855, might well put it that the Crimean army was an army of lions led by donkeys. More than half the officers did not know how to manoeuvre a company; all, or nearly so, had to be left to non-commissioned officers; but yet it would be impossible to dispute their bravery, for they were brave unto madness. The writer has seen them lead at the deadly bayonet charges, and at the walls and blood-stained parapets of Sebastopol, as freely as they would have led off in a ball-room; and our officers at Inkermann let the enemy see that they knew how to fight as well as to dance, for there was no manoeuvring, nothing but plain hard-hitting, and fair English fighting (not cooking).

There are none more loyal than the sons of Albion, and none more fond of seeing royalty at the head of their fleets and armies. As far back as Cressy, fought on the 26th August, 1346, when we gained a glorious victory over the French, Edward III. commanded, and there his son, the Black Prince (as he was named from the colour of his armour) had to, and did, win his spurs. The last action when royalty was in command, was Dettingen, fought 27th June, 1743. There George II. commanded. His son, the Duke of Cumberland, was with him and was wounded. The King and his son were in the thick of the fight, setting a bright example; and the same language as he used was adopted by the Duke of Cambridge at Inkermann, to animate the men, namely, “Stick to them, my boys; now for the honour of old England.” The gallant bearing of the Black Prince, particularly his behaviour to his prisoners after the battle, was well imitated by the Duke of Cumberland and the present Duke of Cambridge, for they showed on each occasion the greatest attention to the poor wounded prisoners. The Duke of Cumberland refused to have his wounds dressed or attended to in any way until the French officers who had been wounded and taken prisoners were first looked after. “Begin,” said His Royal Highness, “with that poor man, for he is more dangerously hurt than I am.” The Duke of Cambridge, at Inkermann, was in the midst of the battle and it was almost a miracle how His Royal Highness escaped; but the British soldier has good cause to thank God for throwing His protecting arm around him. His Royal Highness has for many years proved himself a good soldier’s friend, both in the field and out of it; and, when those of royal blood will lead, the enemy, whether black or white, may look out, for they are going to get it hot. At Inkermann things looked desperate. Our weak battalions were being fairly mobbed off the field. We had no support, except the Almighty, and He defended the right. At times the day appeared to us to be lost; but our troops quickly recovered themselves, at last closed upon the enemy with the queen of weapons, and then was seen with what determination Britons can fight. At a critical moment, when almost surrounded by the overwhelming numbers of the foe, His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge and a few other officers again rallied the men, and on they went with a desperate headlong charge. The bayonet was then used with effect; the vast columns of the enemy came on and on again, to be repeatedly hurled back by those who would die rather than yield an inch. Such was Inkermann, with the soldier’s friend in the thick of it. The Guards had a warm corner of it: if there was one place hotter than another on that field they got into it.

A slight digression may here he pardoned. The reader may not be aware of it, but, strange to say, the most desperate battles that have ever been fought have been fought on Sundays, particularly Palm, Easter, and Whit Sundays. The following are a few of them, showing day and date:—The battle of Ravenna was fought on Easter Sunday, 1512. There are two instances of battles between the Houses of York and Lancaster. The battle of Towton was fought on Palm Sunday. It was there that Warwick slew his horse, and swore to stand by Edward to his last gasp. The victory was gained by Edward, March 29th, 1461. Ten years after, the two parties met again, at Barnet, on Easter Sunday, April 14th, 1471. Warwick here fought his last fight, and was mortally wounded, exclaiming—

One of the battles between Charles I. and his Parliament was fought on Sunday, October 23rd, 1642. I cannot pass this over without noticing a noble act of a loving son. Sir G. Scroope fell fighting for his king, with twenty-six wounds. Next day his son obtained leave from the king to find and fetch his poor father’s remains. After a long search, the boy found his father’s body in a state of nudity, in the midst of a heap of others; there was some warmth in it, and, after rubbing it for some time, he improved it to motion; from motion to sense, and from sense to speech. He lived for ten years afterwards, a monument to his son’s filial affection, care, and perseverance.

The battle of Loddon Hill was fought on Sunday, June 1st, 1679. The battle of Aghrain or Boyne was fought on Sunday, July 12th, 1691. It was there decided by force of arms that His Holiness the Pope of Rome should no longer reign supreme over the sons of Albion. Ramillies was fought on Whit Sunday, May 12th, 1706. There the French were routed from the field by the Duke of Marlborough. There was an incident in this battle, which proves that there is nothing lost by politeness. During the heat of the action, an officer kept bowing and taking off his hat to His Grace the Duke of Marlborough. He was requested to waive ceremony. While thus bowing and scraping, a cannon ball passed over him, and took the head off one of the Duke’s staff. The officer at once remarked: “Your Grace perceives that one loses nothing by politeness.” It was at this battle that the greatest General that England had ever produced had a very narrow escape. Colonel Bingfield’s head was carried off by a cannon ball, while holding the stirrup for the Duke to re-mount. He (the Duke) turned to those about him, and said, jocosely, “Gentlemen, that’s close shaving, but we’ll see if we cannot pay them for it before night.” The battle of Almawza was fought on Easter Sunday, April 25th, 1707, at which an incident occurred not generally known. The English army was commanded by a Frenchman, and the French army by an Englishman; but the Frenchmen beat the English. The battle of Bal, or Lafield, was fought on Sunday, July 2nd, 1747. It was here that Wolfe, the general who afterwards won Quebec for the British Crown, let them see what a military genius he was. This is the man whom some of the red-tape gentlemen wanted to make George II. believe was mad! “Mad, is he?” exclaimed the King, “I wish, then, that he would bite some of my other generals.” The Peninsular War was fruitful of Sunday fighting. The battle of Vimiera was fought on Sunday, August 21st, 1808. Fuentes de OÑoro was decided on Sunday, May 5th, 1811. Ciudad Rodrigo was stormed on Sunday, January 19th, 1812, with frightful slaughter. Orthes was fought on Sunday, February 27th, 1814, when the French were fairly driven from the field, 10,000 prisoners being captured. It was here that Marshal Soult made sure that he had Wellington for once; and in exultation smote his thigh, exclaiming—“At last I have him.” But he counted his chickens before they were hatched, for the then Light Division snatched his expected victory from his hands. Toulouse, the last battle in this war, was fought on Easter Sunday, April 10th, 1814. The Netherlands campaign was decided at Waterloo; which battle was fought on Sunday, June 18th, 1815. The Burmese War has two examples of Sunday fighting. Rangoon was taken on Easter Sunday, April 11th, 1852; and Pague on Sunday, November 21st, 1852. Then, in the Crimea, Inkermann, the soldiers’ battle, was fought on Sunday, November 5th, 1854. There we kept up “Gunpowder Plot” with a vengeance. Sebastopol fell into the hands of the Allies, after an unparalleled siege of nearly twelve months, on Sunday, September 9th, 1855. The Indian Mutiny fairly broke out at Meerut on Sunday, May 10th, 1857; and it was followed by the most atrocious deeds that ever disgraced the earth. The first battle resulting in the relief of Cawnpore by Sir H. Havelock, took place on Sunday, July 12th, 1857. This, I would remark, is the most astonishing battle on record. The enemy were routed from the field, their whole army driven from a strong position, eleven guns captured, and the whole force scattered to the winds, without the loss of a single British soldier. To what is this astonishing effect to be attributed? Our Christian hero, Havelock, attributed it to the blessing of Almighty God in a righteous cause—the cause of justice, humanity, and truth. At all events the enemy found out at Futtehpore, that even in the heat of a July sun, British soldiers could and would fight with valour and effect.

In the early part of the present century, when Napoleon had collected an army of veterans on the coast of France (opposite Dover), for the purpose of invading and carrying death and destruction into this our highly-favoured isle, our forefathers looked on with calm indifference, putting their trust in God. All—from the highest in the land to the humblest cottager, were prepared to meet the then mighty legions of France; and, although our united population did not exceed 18,500,000, we had 1,056,000 men in arms, ready to give Buonaparte and his followers a warm reception; but he was a long-headed man, and, for all his boasting, thought better of it. Out of this host of 1,056,000 soldiers, over 950,000 of them were British-born subjects, the remainder being made up by the King’s German legions. In addition to that army, we had a fleet of upwards of 900 sail-of-the-line, fully manned and equipped; and all this vast armament was exclusive of our armies in India. At the present date the population of Great Britain numbers 35,246,562, backed up by upwards of 25,000 at Gibraltar, 150,000 at Malta, 2,337,085 at the Cape of Good Hope; the Dominion of Canada, 4,506,800; Newfoundland, nearly 200,000; West India Islands, 1,260,000; the Falkland Islands, nearly 254,000; Australia and its dependencies, nearly 3,000,000; and last, but not least, India, with its 240,933,000 of people, hundreds of thousands of whom would rather be cut to pieces than forsake our glorious Standard; for they have proved us well since the Mutiny. That country is no longer held by a company of merchants, who try to squeeze all they can out of the natives; but the people are ruled by laws as equal as those under which we are privileged to live at home, and the same gracious Sovereign is looked up to by its teeming millions. Then there are our settlements in China; Ceylon with its happy and contended population of 4,386,000 souls; besides numerous other colonies, stations, and possessions scattered over the face of the globe. All these hosts are British subjects, and Her Most Gracious Majesty—God bless her—sways the sceptre of love over all. Now, where there is unity there is strength. God is evidently blessing this little isle, and whilst she remains faithful, He will help her. In round figures the population of the British Empire numbers nearly 300,000,000: and, although we do not keep up an army one quarter as vast as the armies on the Continent, I think I may well say that any of the other Powers would think twice—nay, thrice—before they venture to attack us. Let us be true to ourselves, loyal to our beloved Sovereign, and faithful to the God that hath protected His people in all ages. For, reader, mark it well, we enjoy blessings in this island, under our glorious constitution, that other nations of the earth know nothing of.

I have spoken in plain language, or I have tried to do so, and truth will go the furthest. It is an old saying, that in a long war, like that we had with the French at the end of the last and the commencement of the present century, ending with Waterloo, good men will shoulder themselves to the front, in spite of all obstacles, “and now-a-days none dare fight the time,” while the last few months have proved that there are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught. Old England will not go down the hill of fame while she can produce such true-hearted sons as Wolseley, Roberts, Wood, Seymour, Graham, and he who has stepped forward to lead the sons of Albion, H.R.H. the Duke of Connaught. Nelson’s last signal will always be present to the minds of his countrymen. In the hour of need Britons will, as I have before observed, do their duty. Some alarmists would have us believe that England is going down the hill, and becoming an object of derision and contempt to our Continental neighbours; but no—

I must get on with my story. The time was now fast approaching for us to depart, and towards the latter end of August we began to get ready for a move. On the 7th of September, 1854, we sailed under sealed orders, and left Turkey behind us.

We were now off, and it was a grand sight. Each steamer towed two transports; a part of the fleet was in front, a part on either side, and part behind us. We had some eight hundred ships of various sizes, and it seemed as if no power on earth were capable of stopping us. The Russian fleet might well keep out of our way. This voyage was truly a source of delight to the proud and warlike feelings of a Briton. As each ship with her consort steamed majestically out of the harbour of Varna, the hills on either side echoed for the first time with the loyal strains of England and France. The bands in a number of ships played “Rule Britannia,” “God Save the Queen,” and the French and Turkish National Anthems. We dashed past the huge forts on either side of us, with the Turkish, English, and French flags floating proudly to the wind, and the guns at each fort saluting us. I had a good look at them with a capital glass; they appeared of an enormous size, and the guns large enough to creep into. I have heard that no fewer than six midshipmen crawled into one of them to get out of the wet; but I will not vouch for the truth of the story. The guns are about thirty inches in diameter, and some of them unscrew in the centre; they are shotted with a granite ball, which is raised by a crane and weighs about 800 lbs.; while the charge consists of about 110 lbs., of powder. Sir John Duckworth had some of his squadron sunk or destroyed by these nice “little pills,” when he forced the Dardanelles, in 1807, and was compelled to beat a retreat. We were only too glad to get away from Turkey; their towns look very well at a distance, but none of them will stand a close inspection, for they are filthy beyond description. We steamed up the Black Sea, bidding defiance to the Russian Fleet. It was the first time that a British Fleet had ever entered these waters. We spent a few days very pleasantly—our bands every evening playing a selection of lively airs; but at length we cast anchor and got ready for landing. Two days’ rations were served out to each man, the meat being cooked on board.

The composition of the Russian Fleet, which fled at our approach, and took shelter under the guns of Sebastopol, was as follows:—

Nearly all these ships were built in British waters, and all on the capture of Sebastopol were sent to the bottom, either by our guns or by the Russians to prevent them falling into our hands. A few that took shelter at Nicolaieff only escaped.

We were now approaching the enemy’s shore for soldiering in reality, and about to find out whether the sons of Albion had degenerated since the days of their forefathers, who had carried our proud flag into all parts of the world, and had proved victorious both by sea and land. The honour of old England was, we realised, now in our hands. One good look at the older men was quite enough, they meant to do or die; while our commander, Lord Raglan, inspired us with confidence that he would lead us on to victory.

The reader may now prepare himself for some rough, hard soldiering and fighting.

A TRUE BRITON WHEN THE HONOUR OF THE NATION
IS AT STAKE.