T. Gowing

The Storming of the Town—A Description of the Assault—Capture of the Malakoff and Redan—Am left on the Field Wounded—Our Loss, the French Loss, and the Enemy’s Loss—The Spoil—The Aspect of the Interior of the Town after the Siege—Napoleon’s Opinion as to the Source of England’s Strength—Letter of 14th Sept., 1855.

SEBASTOPOL STORMED.

We fell in at 9 a.m.; a dram of rum was issued to each man as he stood in the ranks; all hands had previously been served with two days’ rations. There were in our ranks a great number of very young men, who had not much idea of the terrible work that lay before them; but there were others who knew only too well, having helped to unfurl the Standard of Old England, in conjunction with that of France, on the Heights of Alma, the 20th September, 1854; who had routed the enemy on the heights of Inkermann, and had had near twelve months’ hard wrestling with the foe—and no mean foe either; men who had proved themselves on many a hard-fought field worthy the name of Britons, for neither the storms of autumn, nor the snows of winter, nor the heat of a July sun, neither the sword nor bayonet, nor the musketry fire could subdue them. Although backed by a countless host, the Russians could not withstand “the astonishing infantry,”—which had not degenerated from their forefathers, who had stormed the bloody parapets of Badajoz, San Sebastian, and Ciudad Rodrigo, and England might well be proud of them; and I can say it was a pleasure to look upon and attend to the wants of such cool, determined men.

We were about to face the enemy in deadly conflict once more. The defence of Sebastopol had raised the Russians in the estimation of the bravest of the brave, and their Sovereign and country had no reason to regret entrusting that defence to their hands.

Before I proceed to describe the assault, I would point out that Sebastopol had for the first time in military history, since powder had been invented, defied the united fire of some 900 guns of the largest calibre, exclusive of mortars, which had been directed on the devoted city from early morning of the 5th September. When the final bombardment opened, the very earth trembled beneath the terrible crash. It was grand, but awful. But after it the enemy’s batteries looked as strong as ever. We might apparently have gone on bombarding until now. The Redan and Malakoff appeared to be much stronger than when we first looked at them, although no fewer than 1,600,000 shot and shell had been hurled at them. I say again, the Russian nation might well be proud of the manner their army had defended that fortress. At last cold steel had to do what artillery had been baffled at. If my readers are at all acquainted with military history, they will know that large breaches have invariably been made by artillery fire in the enemy’s fortifications before ever the “dogs of war” were let loose at them. But no breach was made in the fortifications of Sebastopol.

After remaining for a short time under arms, we marched off about 9·30 a.m. There was no pomp or martial music, no boasting; but all in that mighty throng moved with solemn tread to the places that had been assigned them; all, both old and young, seemed to be determined “to conquer or die.” The older hands were very quiet, but they had that set look of determination about them that speaks volumes.

The bombardment was still raging on that terrible 8th September; every gun and mortar that our people and our noble Allies, the French, could bring to bear upon the enemy’s works, was raining death and destruction upon them. The stormers had all got into their places—they consisted of about 1,000 men of the old Light and 2nd Division; the supports were formed up as closely as possible to them, and all appeared in readiness. History may well say the storming of a fortress is an awful task. There we stood, not a word being spoken; every one seemed to be full of thought; many a courageous heart, that was destined to be still in death in one short hour, was now beating high.

It was about 11·15 a.m., and our heavy guns were firing in such a way as I had never before heard. The batteries fired in volleys or salvoes as hard as they could load and fire, the balls passing a few feet above our heads, while the air seemed full of shell. The enemy were not idle; for round shot, shell, grape, and musket-balls, were bounding and whizzing all about us, and earth and stones were rattling about our heads like hail. Our poor fellows fell fast, but still our sailors and artillerymen stuck to it manfully. We knew well that this could not last long, but many a poor fellow’s career was cut short long before we advanced to the attack. The reader will, perhaps, hardly credit that a number of the older hands—both officers and men—were smoking, and taking not the slightest notice of the “dance of death.” Some men were being carried past dead, and others limping to the rear with mangled limbs, while their life’s blood was streaming fast away. We lost, as I have said, a number of officers and men before we advanced. We looked at each other with amazement, for we were now (about 11·30 a.m.) under such a fire as was without parallel in the history of the world. Even Leipsic (where the Allies alone had 1400 field guns, and the French 1000) was eclipsed. Upwards of 100,000 dead and wounded lay upon that field, but the contest lasted three days and nights. The people at home were complaining because we did not take Sebastopol! A number of visitors—ladies and gentlemen from England—now saw that we were trying to do our duty. The appalling and incessant roar of the thunderbolts of war was deafening, and our enemies were bidding us defiance, or, in other words, inviting us to the combat; and I have not the slightest hesitation in saying that some of our visitors, who came out to find fault, or “pick holes in our coats,” were horrified, and wished they had stayed at home. It was a warm reception for a number of lads that had just joined us; it really seemed a pity to send them out to meet such a fire.

As the hour of twelve drew near, all hands were on the alert; we knew well it was death for many of us. Several who had gone through the whole campaign shook hands, saying, “This is hot; good bye, old boy.” “Write to the old folks for me if I do not return,” was the request made by many.

At about fifteen minutes before twelve a number of our guns were brought to bear upon the chevaux-de-frise, and sent it into a thousand pieces; so that it should not stop us, as it had done on the 18th June. Many of us cherished doubts as to the result, although we dared not express them. Our numbers looked very small to attack such a place as the Redan, and the greater portion of the attacking and supporting columns too young and inexperienced for such a fiery ordeal. But, as one old hand said, “We can only die!” I know that I appealed to the Throne of Grace for strength of mind and body to do my duty to Queen and Country, and for the help of His protecting arm, which I knew well was not shortened.

DEMAND FOR COURAGE.

Nothing is more trying than to have to stand under a dropping fire of shell, and not be able to return a shot. The enemy had the range of our trenches to a nicety, and could drop their shells into them just as they liked. We lost a number of men, before we advanced to the attack, by this vertical fire. But the grand struggle was now close at hand, when the Muscovites’ greatest stronghold was to be torn from their grasp.

CAPTURE OF THE MALAKOFF.

I was close to one of our generals, who stood watch in hand,[7] when, suddenly, at 12 o’clock, the French drums and bugles sounded the charge, and, with a shout of Vive l’Empereur, repeated over and over again by some 50,000 men—a shout that was enough to strike terror into the enemy—the French sprang forward, headed by the Zouaves, at the Malakoff, like a lot of cats. On they went like a swarm of bees, or rather, like the dashing of the waves of the sea against a rock. We in our old advanced works had a splendid view—it was grand but terrible; the deafening shouts of the advancing hosts told us they were carrying all before them. They were now completely enveloped in smoke and fire, but column after column kept advancing, pouring volley after volley into the breasts of the defenders. They, the French, meant to have it, let the butcher’s bill be what it might. At about a quarter-past 12, up went the proud flag of France, with a shout that drowned for a time the roar of both cannon and musketry.

CAPTURE OF THE REDAN.

And now came our turn; we had waited for months for it, and at times almost longed for it. But it was a trying hour. As soon as the French flag was seen upon the Malakoff, our stormers sprang forward, led by Col. Windham; the old Light Division leading, consisting of 300 men of the 90th, about the same number of the 97th, and about 400 of the 2nd Batt. Rifle Brigade; and with various detachments of the 2nd and Light Division, and a number of Blue Jackets, carrying scaling ladders. Our men advanced splendidly, with a ringing British cheer, although the enemy poured a terrible fire of grape, canister, and musketry into them, which swept down whole companies at a time. We, the supports, moved forward to back up our comrades, but anyone with “half an eye” could see that we had not the same cool, resolute men, as at Alma and Inkermann; though some of the older hands were determined to make the best of a bad job; and I am happy to record that the old Inkermann men took it very coolly; some of them lit their pipes, I did the same. A brave young officer of ours, a Mr. Colt, told me he would give all he was worth to be able to take it as comfortably as some of our people did—it was his first time under fire—he was as pale as death and shaking from head to foot, yet he bravely faced the foe. The poor boy (for he was not much more) requested me not leave him; and he fell dead by my side, just outside the Redan.

COURAGE DEFINED.

Our people were now at it in front; we advanced as quickly as we could, until we came to the foremost trench, when we leaped the parapet, then made a rush at the blood-stained walls of the Redan—we had a clear run of over 200 yards, under a murderous fire of grape, canister, and musketry. However any one ever lived to pass that 200 yards seemed a miracle, for our poor fellows fell one on the top of the other; but nothing but death could stop us. The musket balls whistled by us more like hail than anything else I can describe, and the grape shot cut our poor fellows to pieces; for we had a front and two cross fires to meet. It seemed to me that we were rushing into the very jaws of death, but I for one reached the Redan without a scratch. While standing on the brink of the ditch, I considered for a moment how best to get into it, for it appeared to be about twenty feet deep, with no end of our poor fellows at the bottom, dead and dying, with their bayonets sticking up; but the mystery solved itself, our men came rushing on with a cheer for Old England, and in we went, neck or nothing, scrambled up the other side the best way we could, and into the redoubt we went with a shout truly English. The fighting inside the works was desperate—butt and bayonet, foot and fist; the enemy’s guns were at once spiked; some of the older hands did their best to get together sufficient men for one charge at the enemy, for we had often proved that they were no lovers of cold steel, but our poor fellows melted away almost as fast as they scaled those bloody parapets, from a cross-fire the enemy brought to bear upon us from the rear of that work. The moss of that field grew red with British blood.

The struggle at the Redan lasted about an hour-and-a-half, and the reader may form some idea of the fighting from our loss, which was as follows:—Killed and wounded of all ranks, 2,472, and 176 missing.[8] The mistake that our generals made was in not sending sufficient men. Twenty thousand men ought to have been let loose; we should not then have lost anything like the number we did, as very many officers and men were killed when retiring; but we had handled the enemy so roughly that they did not further attempt to molest us. The French officers and men were in ecstacies of admiration at the doings of our people at the Redan, and exclaimed, “English, you have covered yourselves with glory this day!” And I now fearlessly assert that the handful of men who undertook that blood-stained work earned a rich wreath of laurels that day. Yet we were but a handful when compared with the vast hordes of the enemy.[9] But with all their strength they hesitated about coming to close quarters. Had we had even ten thousand men with us, the Russians would have gone into the harbour at the point of the bayonet, or else been made to lay down their arms. But no; men were sent up in driblets, to be slaughtered in detail! The few hundreds who did enter that blood-stained fortification fought with butt end and bayonet, and not many returned without securing some token in the shape of wounds more or less severe. Still the few who did meet the enemy taught them to respect us, for they no more dared to follow us than they would a troop of lions. We had not been beaten, though we were crushed by cross-fires and heavy masses of men; yet all the time our trenches were crowded with men eager to be let loose at the enemy! We had a Wolseley with us, it is true, but he was only in a subordinate position. We wanted such a man as he, or Sir Colin Campbell, or a Roberts, and we should have carried all before us. Then, in all probability, we should have had a star, but not without some hard work for it. As it was, we got no star, though we had for twelve long dreary months to be continually fighting—and the fighting was such as would almost make the much-vaunted heroes of Tel-el-Kebir blush: not that I wish to rob them of the honours that a grateful country has bestowed upon them.

THE FALL OF SEBASTOPOL.

The night of the 8th September, 1855, is one long to be remembered. Our camp was startled by a series of terrible explosions, and we could not make out what was up, but at length discovered that the enemy were retiring under cover of the blowing up of their vast forts and magazines. Oh! what a night! It baffles all description. Many of our poor fellows were then lying on the ground, having been wounded in all sorts of ways, with the burning fortress all around them! The Redan was blown up, and a number of our men went up with it, or were buried alive! Reader, try and imagine the position of the wounded lying just outside the Redan. The renowned Redan Massey was there weltering in his blood, together with a number of others, while hundreds of tons of powder was exploding within 300 yards of them! Those of the wounded who managed to reach the camp were well looked after; our doctors worked incessantly, they threw their whole heart and soul into it, and all appeared to do their best. Men were continually being brought home to camp with every description of wounds. I myself was carried thither, having received five wounds in different parts of the body, my left hand shattered, and two nasty wounds in the head. I was totally unconscious when taken out of the Redan, and for some hours afterwards. At about 6 p.m., I found myself in our front trench, with a dead 33rd man lying across me; I got him off the best way I could, and then tried to get up, but found that I could not stand, for I had almost bled to death. Dr. Hale, V.C., did all he could for me; I then had to remain and take my chance or turn of being carried to camp, where I arrived about 7·30 p.m., when my wounds were dressed, and a good cup of beef tea revived me; there I had to remain for upwards of three months, but, with careful attendance, and a good, strong constitution, I was, by that time, ready for them again.[10]

THE TALE OF KILLED, WOUNDED, AND MISSING.

Our loss had been very heavy, but that of our noble Allies was fearful on that terrible 8th September. They acknowledged the following figures:—Killed, 5 generals, 24 field officers, 124 subalterns of various ranks, 2,898 non-commissioned officers and men; wounded, 10 generals, 26 field officers, 8 missing, 229 subaltern officers, 4,289 non-commissioned officers and men, and upwards of 1000 missing; the total killed, wounded, and missing, or the finishing stroke of the butcher’s bill, was, as regards the French, 8,613. Our loss in the different ranks was as follows:—Killed—officers 29, 1 missing; non-commissioned officers 42, 12 missing; privates 361, 168 missing. Wounded—officers, 144; non-commissioned officers, 154; privates, 1,918. A number of the missing were afterwards found to have been killed. Total killed, wounded, and missing, 2,839. Our loss, for the numbers engaged, was far greater than that of our Allies.

The enemy’s loss was something awful. They acknowledged a loss, from the 5th to the 8th September inclusive, of upwards of 25,000 officers, non-commissioned officers and men! Thus the final effort for the capture of this town cost in round numbers between 35,000 and 40,000 men. Such are some of the so-called “glories,” but I would rather say “horrors” of war.

THE SPOIL.

The extent of the spoil captured by the Allies was almost incredible, notwithstanding all that the Russians had expended or destroyed. The cannon of various sizes numbered 3,840, 128 of which were brass (a great number had been thrown into the harbour, in order to avoid their being taken); round shot, 407,314; shell, 101,755; canister cases, 24,080; gunpowder, 525,000 lb; ball cartridges, 670,000 rounds, and other articles too numerous to mention. The spoil was equally divided between our people and our gallant Allies.

This mighty contest was, for the time it occupied and for the means employed on both sides, without a parallel. The vast resources of the British Empire had been largely drawn upon before haughty Russia could be humbled. The forces employed, the greater portion of which were carried there and back by the fleets of Old England, were as follows:—210,000 French, 105,000 British, 40,000 Turks, 15,000 Piedmontese, with 1500 guns, and over 80,000 horses, to say nothing of the enormous quantity of war material and food required for that great host. This force had been confronted by far more than an equal number of Russians. The annals of war have nothing to compare with it, and all former campaigns sink into insignificance. Four great battles had been fought and won by the Allies, followed by an arduous and unparalleled siege of eleven months’ duration, terminating in a glorious victory, and the total destruction of 118 ships of war, the capture of a fortress defended by 6,000 pieces of cannon, and the final defeat of an army of 150,000 men which defended it. Old England may well be proud of her army and her navy, which enable her to bid defiance to the world. Shakespeare gave utterance to the simple truth, when he said:—

INSIDE SEBASTOPOL.

The horrors inside the town, where the enemy had established their hospitals, baffle all description. Some of our non-commissioned officers and men went into those places, and described the scenes as heart-rending and revolting in the extreme. Many of the buildings were full of dead and dying mutilated bodies, without anyone to give them even a drink of water! Poor fellows, they had well defended their country’s cause, and were now left to die in agony, unattended, uncared for, packed as closely as they could be stowed away, saturated with blood, and with the crash of the exploding forts all around them; they had served their loving friend and master, the Czar, but too well; there they lay, in a state of nudity, literally rolling in their blood. Many, when our men found them, were past all aid, others were out of their mind, driven mad by pain and the appalling sights in the midst of which they were. Our officers and men, both French and English, found their way there indiscriminately, and at once set to work to relieve them; medical aid was brought as quickly as possible to them, but hundreds had passed beyond all earthly assistance.

Such a Sunday! Our men were struck with wonderment and horror at the awful scenes—

These were the horrors of war! Though a soldier and fully embued with the spirit of patriotism, I would say with all my heart, “From war good Lord deliver us.” The man who delights in war is a madman; I would put him in the thick of it for just one day, and he would then know a little what war to the knife means. Our men, I am happy to relate, did everything they could for those of the enemy in whom a spark of life was found. Yes, the very men who only a few hours before had done all they could to destroy life, were now to be found, in their right minds, doing all that lay in their power for their unfortunate foes as well as friends.

A soldier, it matters not what his rank, must not for one moment, when engaged, think what the consequences are or may be. It is his duty to destroy all he can belonging to the enemy; in fact, he is often worked up to such a pitch that he becomes a perfect fiend, or, as the Russians called us at the Alma, “red devils in petticoats.” None but men who are mad could do in cold blood the deeds that were performed by some of our men.

It is an old saying that “if anything is to be done let it be done well,” and—I must again repeat it—our men now set to work with a will to do all that lay in their power to rescue from an untimely end as many as they could. The sights on all sides melted to tears many veterans who had resolutely stormed the heights of Alma, rode up the valley of death at Balaclava, and stood as conquerors on the field of Inkermann, which names will never be forgotten as long as language endures. Many bodies were fast decomposing, and had to be interred at once—one common grave answered for both friend and foe. The ditch in front of the Redan was utilised for all who fell anywhere near it; those that fell in our trenches were buried there, the parapets being in both cases thrown upon them; the stench was almost unbearable for weeks afterwards. Some two or three hundred rough-looking coffins were found in the town—they were full, it was supposed, of officers, but the enemy had not had time to bury them. A steamer came over from the north side on Monday, the 10th September, 1855, under a flag of truce, and begged to be allowed to remove the wounded. The request was at once granted, for our doctors were only too glad to get rid of them, as they had plenty in their own camps to attend to: a very great number of these poor fellows had been suffering intense agony for forty-eight hours, when, without even a drink of water, they were removed out of our sight. All our wounded found in the town were carried as quickly as possible to camp; and then the men set to work to get what they could for themselves out of the midst of the ruins—set to work plundering, if you choose to call it so. But it was dangerous work, and many of them lost their limbs, and some their lives, through their foolishness, by the fire from the enemy across the harbour. Some who were laden with all sorts of articles were stopped by the officers, who wanted to know what they were going to do with all that rubbish. The men would at once throw down their loads and salute the officers, who repeated the question, “What on earth do you want with all that rubbish, my men?” “An sure your ’onor don’t we mane to let furnished lodgings!” They were carrying chairs, tables, bed-cots, in fact, articles too numerous to mention; “Sure, your ’onor, we are not going to let the Zouaves have it all!” A stalwart Irish grenadier, when being rebuked for pilfering, answered, “Sure, an your ’onor, them nice gentlemen they call Zouaves have been after emptying the place clane out; troth if the divil would kindly go to sleep for only one minute them Zouaves would stale one of his horns, if it was only useful to keep his coffee in.” Truly these gentlemen were capital hands at fishing up all that was likely to be useful. Some of our Hibernian boys had got a good haul, and were making off as fast as possible, when a party of Zouaves stopped them and wanted to go halves; but Paddy was not half such a fool as he was taken for—he would not give up anything until he had found out which was the best man, so the load was thrown down, and the Frenchmen were very soon satisfied and only too glad to get out of the way. It was a common saying in camp that there was nothing too hot or too heavy for the Zouaves to walk off with, and where there was room for a rat there was room for one of these nimble little gentlemen to get in. They proved themselves all during the fighting troublesome customers to the enemy; and now that the fight was over they distinguished themselves by pilfering everything they could lay hands upon; but they did not get all—our huts were made very comfortable by the wood that our men brought out of the town. Although the second winter was far colder than the first, we had means to resist the cold with, any amount of clothing and good shelter, with plenty to eat and drink. By degrees our wounded began to recover so as to be able to walk about the camp, and to return to their duty; and had the war continued, we should have had upwards of 100,000 men in our army alone, to march against the enemy, but, thank God, it was ordered otherwise.

The following will prove that the enemy suffered a terrible loss during that long siege, particularly in the last three months that the town held out. The Invalide Russe (one of their principal papers), published their loss as follows; but I have every reason to believe that it is far below the truth. The report stated that in our final efforts to take Sebastopol from them, they suffered heavily; during the fifth bombardment, which was in August, 1855, they acknowledged a daily loss of 1,500 men, exclusive of officers; and then at the Tchernaya there was a loss of close upon 10,000 men dead and wounded—that was on the 16th August, 1855. It added that whole brigades disappeared, and the interior of the town was nothing but a slaughter house or a hell upon earth; then it went on to say that they lost 1,000 men daily until the last or final bombardment, and further, their loss was 18,000 men, exclusive of officers, from the 5th to the 8th of September! We know that they lost nearly double that number.

It is bad enough to be on the conqueror’s side, but what must it be to be on the side of the vanquished? The conquerors have something to keep up their spirits, but the defeated lack every source of consolation.

We knew well that a grateful and kind-hearted people in old England were watching every move we made. Mr. Bull does not mind how deeply he dives into his pocket, so long as he can sit with his pipe and glass over a good fire, and shout “We have beaten them again, my boys”: and we had given Mr. Bull something to talk about now that Sebastopol had been taken. The bells of old England we knew would clash for joy, in peal after peal, at the news of the fall of this town. But there is another side to the picture. Many a good, kind, fond mother lost her son, perhaps her only son; thousands were left fatherless; hundreds were left to mourn absent husbands; and many a heart-rending scene in many a formerly happy home was brought about by this terrible war.

REFLECTIONS.

I do hope that if ever we go to war again on account of Turkey, it will be to help to drive the “Sick Man” out of Europe; but, above all, that we shall always keep side by side with France, through thick and thin. I believe we shall find a great friend and useful ally in her. It is true what Napoleon I. said, that France and England united could dictate to the whole world; and the statesmen who keep them united will be wise, for none would then dare to attack us. “I have proved the strength of England,” said that great, little man; and when he came to die, he acknowledged where the strength of England lay. Calling one of his faithful followers to his bedside, he requested that the Book of Books should be brought to him. Placing his hand upon the book, he fastened his eyes upon those who stood speechless by his side—he that had made the whole of Europe tremble at his word (England excepted)—and said, “I have often wondered where the strength of England lay; but since I have come to this lonely spot, I have had time to think, and I have come to the conclusion that any thinking man must come to, that the strength of England lay in the great secret contained in this Book.” Reader, these are memorable words, especially when we consider that they came from the lips of one who had spent nearly all his days an infidel, and had had to go to the rock of St. Helena to find out the truth. He died there, professing Christianity, on the 5th May, 1821, aged 52 years; and the old East Suffolk Regiment carried him to his grave—twelve grenadiers of the 12th Regiment being selected to bear his remains to the place of interment. Conqueror as he was, he had to lay down his arms to King Death, comparatively young—

While in hospital wounded, I caused the following to be sent to my parents:—

OLD ENGLAND.