CHAPTER VI.

Previous
T. Gowing

Numerical List of Killed and Wounded in the various Regiments forming the Crimean Army—Loss of the Light and Second Divisions—Loss by Neglect, Hardships, and Starvation—List of the Regiments that formed the various Divisions of the Army—After the Siege—A Dreadful Explosion in the Camp and its consequences—Lieut. Hope and the Fusiliers again leading to almost certain death—A Peep behind the Scenes—Lines on Miss Florence Nightingale—My letter of 26th December, 1855, to my Parents—Concluding Remarks, and Return Home to be nearly Killed with Kindness—Irish Anecdotes—The Royal Fusiliers—A sketch of the “Holy Boys”—The Connaught Rangers not to be despised—Lines on the Campaign.

THE BRITISH KILLED AND WOUNDED.

The following tabular statement will, I feel confident, prove of much interest. The facts and figures it contains are from official records, and will show upon what regiments the brunt of the fighting fell throughout that arduous campaign, from the 14th September, 1854, until the 8th of September, 1855, or, in other words, from our landing till the fall of Sebastopol.

Those regiments marked with the letters LD. formed the Light Division, and those marked 2nd formed the 2nd Division. The reader will be able to see at once by their losses that the brunt of the fighting fell upon those two Divisions. A number of men fell afterwards by the fire from the enemy across the harbour; and again the old Light Division sustained heavy loss at the explosion of the right siege train in November, 1855, which is not included in these figures.

I have never been able to ascertain the exact loss of our blue jackets and marines, which was very heavy; they fought well all through the campaign, as they always do, and helped to acheive the crowning victory—the capture of Sebastopol.

REGIMENTS. Killed. Wounded. Missing.
O S T p R F O S T p R F O S T p R F G T
f r r e a i f r r e a i f r r e a i r o
f g u t n l f g u t n l f g u t n l a t
i t m e k e i t m e k e i t m e k e n a
r s - r & r s - r & r s - r & d l
s s s s s s
Staff 9 ... ... ... 29 ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 38
1st King’s Dragoon Guards [A] ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 4 ... ... ... ... 4
4th Royal Irish Guards [B] ... ... ... 1 ... 2 ... 13 ... ... ... ... 16
5th Dragoon Guards [B] ... ... ... 2 3 ... ... 9 ... ... ... ... 14
6th Carabineers [A] ... ... ... 1 ... ... ... 4 ... ... ... ... 5
1st Royal Dragoons [B] 1 ... ... 12 4 1 1 15 ... ... ... ... 34
2nd Scots Greys [B] ... ... ... 14 4 5 ... 48 ... ... ... ... 71
4th Hussars [C] 2 5 3 24 2 1 ... 33 ... ... ... 6 76
6th Inniskillings [B] 1 1 ... 8 2 1 ... 14 ... ... ... ... 27
8th Hussars (Royal Irish) [C] 2 3 ... 28 3 2 1 19 ... ... ... 8 66
10th Hussars [A] ... ... ... ... 1 ... ... 6 ... ... ... 2 9
11th Hussars [C] 2 2 ... 36 3 3 1 31 ... ... ... 11 89
12th Lancers [A] ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 2 ... ... ... ... 2
13th Hussars [C] 3 3 1 25 3 2 1 16 ... 1 ... 6 61
17th Lancers 3 1 1 32 5 3 2 38 ... 1 1 12 99
Royal Artillery 12 10 ... 94 26 22 ... 428 ... ... ... ... 592
Engineers 12 1 ... 29 16 8 ... 70 1 ... ... ... 137
Land Transport ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 3 ... ... ... ... 3
Ambulance Corps ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 3 ... ... ... ... 3
3rd Batt. Grenadier Guards 5 3 1 51 15 16 1 348 ... ... ... 30 470

REGIMENTS. Killed. Wounded. Missing.
O S D m R F O S D m R F O S D m R F G T
f r r e a i f r r e a i f r r e a i r o
f g u r n l f g u r n l f g u r n l a t
i t m s k e i t m s k e i t m s k e n a
r s - & r s - & r s - & d l
s s s
1st Batt. Coldstream Guards 10 4 1 28 8 7 1 210 ... 1 ... 53 323
1st Batt. Scots Fus. Guards 4 2 ... 82 24 20 2 300 ... ... ... 19 453
1st Batt. 1st Foot 1 ... ... 15 3 5 ... 74 ... ... ... ... 98
2nd Batt. 1st Foot ... 1 ... 13 7 5 1 92 ... ... ... ... 119
3rd Foot (Buffs) [A] 2nd 1 6 ... 44 13 16 3 224 ... ... ... 2 310
4th Foot 1 ... ... 26 4 3 ... 122 ... ... ... 2 159
7th Royal Fusiliers LD 14 15 2 78 36 34 3 429 ... ... ... 18 632
9th Foot (Holy Boys) [A] 1 ... ... 7 2 5 ... 83 ... ... ... ... 98
13th Foot [A] 2 1 ... 14 4 6 1 112 ... ... ... 6 147
14th Foot [A] ... ... ... 10 ... 2 ... 46 ... ... ... ... 58
17th Foot [A] 1 1 ... 20 4 8 ... 108 ... ... ... 1 143
18th Royal Irish [A] 1 1 ... 50 11 26 ... 270 ... ... ... 1 360
19th Foot LD 4 4 1 76 20 15 3 419 ... ... ... 7 549
20th Foot 1 1 ... 24 13 17 2 171 ... 1 ... 29 259
21st N.B. Fusiliers 1 1 ... 31 9 18 ... 80 ... 1 1 13 153
23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers LD 11 7 1 116 20 24 7 398 ... ... ... 46 634
28th Foot 1 ... ... 20 8 3 1 48 1 ... ... 3 84
30th Foot 2nd 8 1 2 101 20 15 4 363 ... ... ... 1 515
31st Foot [A] 2 2 ... 14 1 6 1 86 ... ... ... ... 112
33rd Foot LD 5 5 ... 96 23 25 2 350 ... ... ... 3 510
34th Foot [A] LD 5 2 ... 66 17 22 4 308 2 ... ... 10 436
38th Foot 2 4 ... 22 8 12 ... 212 ... ... ... 5 265
39th Foot [A] 1 ... ... 3 ... 2 ... 42 ... ... ... ... 48
41st Foot 2nd 8 7 ... 116 16 27 4 387 ... ... ... 16 581
42nd Highlanders [D] 1 ... ... 20 2 5 1 111 ... ... ... 1 141
44th Foot 5 3 2 24 10 13 2 169 ... ... ... 7 235
46th Foot [A] 1 1 ... 9 4 5 1 100 ... ... ... 12 133
47th Foot 2nd 2 4 ... 49 13 6 1 246 ... 1 ... 8 330
48th Foot [A] ... ... ... 6 2 5 ... 54 ... ... ... 1 68
49th Foot 2nd 4 5 1 44 12 20 3 279 ... 1 ... 11 370
50th Foot (Blind Half Hundred) 2 3 ... 36 4 3 1 79 2 ... ... 9 141
55th Foot 2nd 5 1 ... 68 20 23 1 366 ... ... ... ... 493
56th Foot [A] ... ... 3 76 1 1 ... 8 ... ... ... 3 13
57th Foot (Die Hards) 5 10 1 45 11 21 1 224 ... 2 ... 11 323
62nd Foot [A] 2nd 6 3 1 24 7 4 ... 117 1 1 ... ... 175
63rd Foot 4 ... ... 17 10 9 2 111 ... ... ... 39 153
68th Foot 5 ... ... 23 4 4 2 114 ... 4 ... ... 195
71st Highlanders [A] 1 ... ... 14 2 2 ... 27 ... ... ... ... 46
72nd Highlanders [A] ... ... ... 6 2 1 ... 47 ... ... ... ... 56
77th Foot LD 5 7 ... 61 8 18 1 242 ... 1 ... 11 354
79th Highlanders [D] 1 ... ... 8 2 7 ... 52 ... ... ... ... 70
82nd Foot [A] 2nd ... Not Engaged
88th Connaught Rangers LD 6 7 ... 62 18 27 2 332 ... ... ... 21 475
89th Foot [A] ... ... ... 2 ... 4 ... 77 1 ... ... ... 84
90th Foot [A] LD 4 1 ... 24 17 15 ... 236 ... 4 ... 33 334
93rd Highlands [D] 1 ... ... 16 1 4 1 106 1 ... ... ... 130
95th Foot 2nd 7 7 ... 69 20 21 1 271 ... ... ... 3 399
97th Foot [A] LD 6 3 2 43 11 16 ... 220 ... 4 ... 36 341
1st Batt. Rifle Brigade 2 6 1 52 6 7 1 214 ... 3 ... 10 302
2nd Batt. Rifle Brigade LD 5 9 ... 81 15 22 7 462 ... ... ... 8 609
Loss of the Light Division 65 60 6 703 185 218 29 3396 5 12 2 193 4874
Loss of the Second Division 39 34 4 515 121 132 17 2253 2 3 ... 51 3171

LD Regiments that formed the Light Division.2nd Those that formed the Second Division.[A] Joined the Army after Inkermann.[B] The Regiments under General Scarlett that rode through and through the enemy, and routed them from the plains of Balaclava.[C] Formed the Light Brigade under the Earl of Cardigan.[D] Were not engaged at Inkermann, although they were in the Crimea.

The Light Division was near being blown up to a man in November, 1855. The Magazines, just in rear of our camp, caught fire and went up with a terrible crash, killing and wounding a number of men.

LOSS OF THE ROYAL FUSILIERS

DURING THE CRIMEAN CAMPAIGN.

Killed or died of wounds in the Crimea.

Colonel L. W. Yea, Lieutenant-Colonel F. Mills,
Capt. the Hon. W. Monk, Capt. the Hon. G. L. Hare,
Capt. A. Wallace, Capt. the Hon. C. Brown,
Lieut. Molesworth, Lieut. and Adjt. Hobson,
Lieut. the Hon. E. FitzClarence, Lieut. O. Colt,
Lieut. W. L. Wright, Lieut. Beauchamp,
Qurtr-Mstr. J. Hogan, Asst.-Surgn. J. P. Langham,
AND
559 Non-Commissioned Officers and Privates, who fell
in action, or died of wounds or disease, during the
Campaign.

LOSS OF THE ARMY FROM DISEASE, &c.

The following is the total number of Officers, Non-Com. Officers, and men, who died of disease, hardships, and starvation, in the Crimean Campaign, from 14th of September, 1854, to the 30th April, 1856. This table does not include those who died at home, almost as soon as they landed, nor those who died of wounds, nor the losses of the Marines or Sailors manning our heavy guns on shore—and their loss was heavy. If we put the total loss from causes other than were incidental to actual fighting, at 21,000, we should not be overstating it.

Cavalry. Artillery. Enginrs. Infantry. G
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Died of Disease, &c. 23 1007 16 1398 5 177 115 15866 18647

THE CRIMEAN ARMY.

The following was the composition of the various Divisions of the Crimean Army:—

Cavalry Division.

1st, 4th, and 5th Dragoon Guards, 1st, 2nd, and 6th Dragoons—Heavy Brigade.

6th Dragoon Guards, 4th and 13th Light Dragoons, 12th Lancers, 8th, 10th, and 11th Hussars, and 17th Lancers—Two Light Brigades.

First Division.

3rd Batt. Grenadier Guards, 1st Batt. Coldstream Guards, 1st Batt. Scots Fusiliers Guards—First Brigade.

9th, 13th, 31st, and 56th Foot—Second Brigade.

Highland Division.

42nd, 79th, 92nd, 93rd—First Brigade.

1st-2nd Batt. 1st Foot, 71st, 91st and 72nd—Second Brigade.

Second Division.

3rd, 30th, 55th, and 95th Foot—First Brigade.

41st, 47th, 49th, 62nd, and 82nd—Second Brigade.

Third Division.

4th, 14th, 39th, 50th, and 89th Foot—First Brigade.

18th, 28th, 38th, and 44th Foot—Second Brigade.

Fourth Division.

17th, 20th, 21st, 57th, and 63rd Foot—First Brigade.

46th, 48th, 68th, 1st Batt. Rifle Brigade—Second Brigade.

Light Division.

7th Royal Fusiliers, 23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers, 33rd, 34th, and 2nd Batt. Rifle Brigade—First Brigade.

19th, 77th, 88th, 90th, and 97th Foot—Second Brigade.

Artillery.

Royal Horse Artillery, A. C. and I. Troops.

Batteries A. B. E. F. G. H. I. Q. W. Y. and Z.

Engineers.

Companies 1, 2, 3, 4, 7, 8, 9, 10, and 11.

Loss of English Horses in six months, during the winters of 1854 and 1855—Strength, 5048, Died, 2122.

AFTER THE SIEGE

The remainder of September and October, 1855, passed off pretty quietly. After the dead had been buried and the wounded removed to camp, our commanders were at liberty to turn their thoughts towards the enemy still on the north side of the harbour; the south side was well guarded by British troops and those of our allies (the French). There were as yet no signs of peace; we were still frowning at each other across the water. The enemy’s fleets had all been sent to the bottom, but the booming of their heavy guns told us that although defeated the Muscovites were not yet subdued, and that if we wanted the north side we should have to fight for it. Our people were now making preparations for destroying the huge forts, barracks, and docks of Sebastopol. This had sometimes to be carried on under a heavy fire from the north side, but still the work did not cease. Not a day passed without our losing a number of men and some good officers. By the end of October many of our wounded began to recover and to return to their duties; some, discharged from hospital convalescent, might be seen walking about the camps with their arms in splints, or with their heads bandaged, others limping about with the assistance of a stick or crutch—but all appeared in high spirits. That indomitable British pluck had been in no wise quenched, in spite of the wounds that had been received. Our men were burning to have another “shy” at the enemy on a grand scale, in order to wipe out the stain of the repulse at the Redan, although that was not all their fault. The first anniversary of the Alma was kept in camp in grand style, as far as our means would allow, and wine was sent to all the wounded Alma men then in hospital. When we looked back, what an eventful twelve months that had been! Victory after victory had been added to our already long and glorious roll; but, alas! where were the noble sons of Britain who had gained them? Had all fallen? Had all been food for powder or succumbed to the deadly thrust of the bayonet? No! Hundreds, yea thousands, had been sacrificed by cruel hardships—little or no food, hardly sufficient clothing to cover their nakedness, in the trenches for twelve hours at a stretch, up to their ankles (or sometimes knees) in mud, half drowned, frozen to death, their limbs dropping off through frost-bite! There is hardly one of those men now living who does not feel the effects of that terrible winter of 1854. Thousands have since perished, through diseases contracted during that awful time; but the excitement, supported by an invincible spirit, kept them up then and for some time after. The first anniversary of Balaclava and Inkermann found me still in hospital, slowly recovering, able to walk about, but very shaky. Inkermann was another anniversary duly observed by the whole army. We had by this time got into capital huts, and had plenty of good clothing, in fact, more than we could stand under; and we had as much food as we required—thousands of tons of potted beef, mutton, and all kinds of vegetables, having been sent out by the kind-hearted people at home. Indeed, it looked very much as though we were being fattened before being let loose at the enemy again. We could now almost bid defiance to a Russian winter. Each man’s wardrobe consisted of the following:—A tunic, well lined with flannel; a shell-jacket, well lined; a fur coat, a rough sandbag coat, a summer coat, made of tweed; an overcoat, a waterproof coat that came below the knees, a forage cap and a fur cap, two pairs of cloth trousers, one sandbag ditto, one pair of waterproof leggings, two pairs of ankle boots, one pair of long ditto to go outside the trousers and come nearly up to the fork; three woollen jerseys, three linen shirts, two pairs of good flannel drawers, three ditto worsted stockings, and two cholera belts made of flannel. It would have been rather a difficult matter to find out what regiment a man belonged to. The greater portion of these things had been sent us by our sympathising fellow countrymen and countrywomen; and we who received them were deeply grateful for the kindness shown. Had those gallant men who fought and conquered at the Alma, rode through and through the enemy on the plains of Balaclava, rolled their proud legions back time after time from the heights of Inkermann, and sent them headlong into Sebastopol in indescribable confusion—had they been supplied with one quarter of the clothing that we now had, we should have had them with us to help to storm the Redan, and a far different tale would have been told. The Bells of Old England would have clashed again for victory, as at the Alma, Balaclava, and Inkermann. But, alas! the bones of the greater portion of those victorious Britons were rotting in the Valley of Death—

I saw the Valley of Death, where thousands lay low,
 Not half of whom e’er fell by the hands of the foe;
 The causes are many, as well known to the State,
 But I might give offence if the truth I relate.

A BRITISH HEROINE.

I must not leave this subject without just reminding the reader that the Sick and Wounded in the Crimea owed much to gentle English ladies, who bravely came out as nurses, but foremost amongst this devoted band was one whose name has since remained a synonym for kindly sympathy, tenderness, and grace—Miss Florence Nightingale. I cannot forbear quoting the following lines written in praise of this estimable lady:—

MISS FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.

Britain has welcomed home with open hand
 Her gallant soldiers to their native land;
 But one alone the Nation’s thanks did shun,
 Though Europe rings with all that she hath done;
 For when will ‘shadow on the wall’ e’er fail
 To picture forth fair Florence Nightingale?
 Her deeds are blazon’d on the scroll of fame,
 And England well may prize her deathless name.

A NIGHTINGALE IN THE CAMP.

The men before Sebastopol—a more heroic host
 There never stood, in hardship and in peril, at their post.
 The foremost of these warriors ’twas a famous thing to be,
 And there the first among them goes, if thou hast eyes to see.
It’s not the good Lord Raglan, nor yet the great Omar,
 No, nor the fierce PÉlissier, though thunderbolts of war.
 Behold the Soldier who in worth excels above the rest—
 That English maiden yonder is our bravest and our best.
Brave men, so called, are plentiful, the most of men are brave;
 So, truly, are the most of dogs, who reck not of a grave:
 Their valour’s not self-sacrifice, but simple want of heed,
 But courage in a woman’s heart is bravery indeed.
And there is Mercy’s Amazon, within whose little breast
 Burns the great spirit that has dared the fever and the pest;
 And she has grappled with grim Death, that maid so bold and meek,
 There is the mark of battle, fresh upon her pallid cheek.
That gallant, gentle lady the camp would fain review,
 Throughout the Chief exhorts her with such honour as is due.
 How many a prayer attends on her, how many a blessing greets;
 How many a glad and grateful eye among that host she meets;
Among the world’s great women thou hast made thy glorious mark,
 Men will hereafter mention make of thee with Joan of Arc;
 And fathers, who relate the Maid of Saragossa’s tale,
 Will tell their little children, too, of Florence Nightingale.

A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES.

BY AN OLD FUSILIER.

The following will, we trust, prove interesting to all classes of the community:—

On the memorable foggy morning of November 5th, 1854, I went on picquet with my company, No. 1 of the Royal Fusiliers, to relieve a company of the Royal Welsh, in the White-house ravine. An officer of the 77th[11] commanded us, as we had not sufficient officers of our own, after our heavy loss at the Alma. We arrived at our post about the usual hour (a little before daylight), and relieved the Royal Welsh, who retired a short distance to wait for clear daylight before returning to camp—a practice observed when in presence of an enemy. Shortly afterwards our sentries came running in with the news that the enemy were advancing in great force. Our officer at once disposed his picquet to the best advantage to resist them. They were soon upon us in overwhelming numbers, but were received with a fire that staggered them. The Royal Welsh at once rushed to our assistance; every rock and stone was hotly disputed, and the enemy received such a warm reception that they were compelled to fall back for a time. All ranks in the two Fusilier companies seemed to vie with each other in deeds of valour. This was only the first scene in that unequal contest that no native in our sea-girt isle need blush at, but remember with pride. The picquets on our right, composed of the Second Division, fought with desperation, hurling the Muscovites over the rocks in grand style. It has been acknowledged by all ranks that the picquets this morning nobly did their duty, and checked the massive Muscovite drunken columns until the main body of our army had time to get under arms. The cool intrepidity of a mere handful of men had saved the allied army; our principal magazine was just in our rear, and our orders were to hold this position to the last, and then retire to the five-gun battery; the massive columns of the enemy were gradually forcing back the picquet on our right, who retired in good order, disputing every inch of ground, but compelled to leave their poor wounded comrades behind, who were bayoneted to a man by the cruel enemy. Our flank was now exposed, and the enemy got in rear of us, unobserved in the dense fog. As soon as we found that we were surrounded, we were ordered to make the best of our way towards the five-gun battery; a general rush was made in that direction, the enemy pouring volley after volley into us. A number of our poor fellows were shot dead or wounded. The wounded who were found afterwards were all bayoneted. I was in the act of loading when a number of them rushed at me with the bayonet. I at once fired, and one of the enemy fell. I was the next moment knocked down with the butt end and stunned. When I came to, I found my arms tied behind me. They hurried me off under a strong escort. I had not proceeded far when I found they had another of the picquet, a corporal of the Royal Welsh. His arms were bound in like manner. We had not gone many yards when one of the cowardly brutes shot him dead. Every moment I expected the same treatment; but, thank God, my escort were more merciful (being Poles). I was taken to that part of the field where all the Russian staff were stationed. I was surprised when I arrived to see a number of my comrades of the White-house ravine picquet; the officer (Captain Duff, Royal Welsh Fusiliers) and twenty of his men had been cut off, and taken, likewise seven of the Royal Fusiliers. I did not now feel so lonely; the officer who commanded our company was also taken, but his escort marched him towards Sebastopol. As soon as he got clear of the enemy’s columns, he took out his revolver from an inside pocket of his overcoat, knocked the man down on his right senseless, shot the one on his left dead, and the third man at once surrendered himself his prisoner, whom he brought into our camp. Most of the prisoners taken were shamefully treated, particularly the captain of the 23rd R. W. His uniform was torn off his back, and he was robbed of all articles of value, but recovered them by explaining in French to a General officer, and pointing out the men who had robbed him. The General gave them all a good thrashing, which quite amused us; but we soon found that this was a usual practice, the senior boxing the ear of the junior. During the whole of that dreadful day we were kept under fire from our own little army. The attacking columns of the enemy were driven back with fearful slaughter. Liquor vodkie was freely used, until they were mad drunk. But, drunk or sober, our comrades hurled them back from the field time after time. Their princes and generals were mad with rage, to see their huge columns driven from the field, time after time, by a mere handful of men (they knew our strength); they were in such a rage we expected every moment they would turn upon us defenceless prisoners.

The attacking columns of the enemy numbered thirty thousand men, and their supports and reserves thirty thousand more. These columns were in such a state of disorder from the repeated vehement charges of the British that they had not the slightest chance of victory. They were nothing more nor less than a confused and enraged mob. Our men, and the French, who had come up to our assistance, continued pouring volley after volley into them, and some of our heavy siege guns were ploughing roads through them. Their loss at this stage of the battle was enormous. Their massive columns of supports and reserves were mowed down wholesale, until the dead lay in heaps. When the retreat of this confused and enraged Muscovite mob commenced we expected every moment to be despatched by these well-thrashed drunken brutes. They carried as many of their wounded away as possible. Noticing the confusion all round, the captain of the 23rd passed the word for us to make a dash for our liberty, saying, “We can but die, my boys.” We instantly got on the alert, but our good intentions were stopped. We were then doubly guarded, and hurried from the field. The retreat was in no formation, but a complete rabble, our huge Lancaster guns cutting lanes through them. There was but one column we saw leave the field in anything like order. We were a little on their flank, when an officer of the leading company perceived us. He came over to us and addressed us in good English as follows, “Well, Englishmen, if you are prisoners, there is one consolation for you, you have given us a sound good thrashing to-day,” and then rejoined his company. As soon as he left, our captain said, “Men, I believe that officer to be an English gentleman serving in the Russian army, and is delighted his countrymen have gained such a glorious victory.” The enemy captured no more prisoners, except a few wounded who escaped being bayoneted, and those were placed in carts with other wounded. I was one of those appointed to look after the poor wounded. My care was a Guardsman, shot under the left breast, passing out under the left shoulder blade; the poor fellow was bleeding inwardly, and I had to keep him in a sitting position. We were at this time in the centre of the retiring mass, when a wounded Russian drummer tried to get into the cart, and, in endeavouring to do so, placed his arm on the wounded knee of one of the men of the 47th whose knee-cap had been shot away. He instantly struck the wounded Russian under the chin and sent him headlong amongst his retiring comrades. We then made sure that we should be all bayoneted; but no, all the pluck and vodkie was fairly thrashed out of them. In crossing to the north side of Sebastopol on bridges of boats, the enemy suffered dreadfully. Our heavy siege guns mowed them down wholesale. How we escaped was a miracle. Our officer spoke to some of the Russian officers about our wounded, and one in particular he wished a doctor to see at once, viz., the Guardsman. Our officer’s request was quickly attended to; a doctor dressed the poor fellow’s wound, passing a long piece of lint through the wound right through his body, causing the blood to flow outwards, not inwards. After the doctor had finished dressing the poor fellow, he said to our officer in French, “I thought the Russians were soldiers, but I never witnessed anything like this in the Russian army; I really believe an Englishman would bear to be cut to pieces and show no symptoms of pain.” This poor fellow during the operation did not show the slightest symptom of pain.

Our wounded were sent into hospital in Sebastopol; not one of them left there alive, at least we never heard of them again. The whole of the night after the battle the handful of prisoners (thirty) were marched through their camp from regiment to regiment, and from one division to another, to exhibit to their troops what a great capture they had made. We had a little kindness showed us by these heathen Muscovites; they brought us some of their vodkie, but nothing to eat, which we wanted most. We had had nothing to eat up to the present. Next day we were placed in Fort Paul, and kept there three days. It was not till the third day, the 8th, that we received anything to eat. On the second day the two Grand Dukes visited us, and questioned us respecting our army, trying to pump all they could out of us. But the sucker was dry. An old General said, “You think to deceive us, but we can tell even to the conversation that takes place in your tents.” When they had done questioning us, the two Grand Dukes Constantine and St. Michael addressed us as follows, “We must admit that England is possessed of the finest infantry in Europe, but we do not care for your cavalry or artillery;” and informed us that we should next day commence our march to the place appointed for us while we were their prisoners, which place was about 1500 miles from Sebastopol; that we should find the people of the country very hospitable; also that we were classified,—the English first-class prisoners, French second, Turks third; and would receive allowance for support accordingly. Before they left us we reported that we had had nothing to eat since taken. They said that we should have something at once, and gave instructions accordingly, but, nevertheless, we did not receive any till next day. We commenced this long and dreary march under great disadvantage, and with a Russian winter to contend against. We were very poorly clad, our clothing and boots nearly worn out, working in the trenches night and day, and our hardships were terrible to relate. We were allowed ten kopecks daily, which is equal to fourpence. Every article of food in Russia is very cheap, but they imposed on us, as we did not know the language, therefore we were nearly starved. Our first halt was at Peracoff; here we remained a few days, and then proceeded to Simperopol. We had a few days halt here, and were joined by thirty Turks, taken at Balaclava. The whole of us here received one sheepskin coat and one pair of long boots, the only articles of clothing given to us whilst we were prisoners until the day of our exchange, when we received an overcoat and cap, similar to those worn by their infantry. We marched from Simperopol with a gang of convicts for Siberia. It was pitiful to see the way they were treated. They were classified according to crime. Some had the whole of their hair shaved off the front part of the head, the remainder left long; others the right half of the head shaved, some the left half shaved, and others the back part of the head. All wore irons on their legs, male and female. They were placed in two ranks at three paces apart. A long chain was placed between them, one rank handcuffed by the right hand to this chain, the other rank by the left. Each of the prisoners had a certain number of lashes to receive annually during the term of imprisonment, of which they received a number daily before they marched. We witnessed this punishment. Every morning the culprit was placed face downwards on the ground, two soldiers held him or her whilst another administered the punishment with birch rods tied together. We often pitied them this long march, with the irons cutting to the very bone; the blood marking the prints in the snow. These poor creatures, we were told, scarcely ever reach their destination. In every large town we picked up fresh convicts, whilst others were left behind to die. I often thanked God that I was born under the British flag. Every day’s march was very nearly alike, except when entering large towns. Our guard sent word ahead to acquaint the inhabitants about the time of our arrival, and we were met at the entrance to the town by large crowds of people; some of whom spit at us and called us English dogs. I must say that the people who offered these insults to us were of the poor and ignorant class. The better class treated us with much civility, and visited us in prison after our arrival, and obtained permission from the Governor to take us out to dine with them. The gentry and middle class admired the English prisoners for their fine military bearing, and often compared us with their own slovenly soldiers.

We continued our march day after day, till we arrived at their University town, Kharcoff, a magnificent place with any number of colleges. We had a week’s halt here, and were visited by many of our own country people and French people, all in good positions. Some of them were professors of languages in the colleges. We were out visiting daily; we likewise received a great many presents from our people, and from French and Russian gentry, in the shape of warm clothing, woollen and leather gloves, tea, and sugar, and a few roubles each. We had completed 500 miles, and during that long march seldom had a hot meal. This we mentioned to the Governor of Kharcoff prison. He asked us what our usual meals consisted of. We told him bread and butter. “Well,” he said, “You can have a change; have butter and bread to-day, and bread and butter to-morrow.” This was all the pity we got from this gentleman. We received good news here. It got to the knowledge of our Government that we were badly off, and nearly starving with the small amount allowed us to live upon. Our Government requested the Emperor to raise our allowance to twenty kopeks daily—this is equal to eight pence—and we were usually paid this allowance seven days in advance. We had now plenty of food, and picking up a little of their language, were able to make our purchases without being imposed upon; but the cold at night was something terrible. We were allowed no covering of any sort, and nothing but our wet clothing to lie down in. Sometimes a little wet straw would be thrown in to keep us from the bare ground, after a long fatiguing march. Often the snow would be two or three feet deep. We left a number of men behind in towns where there would be a hospital, frost-bitten. Shortly after leaving Kharcoff, one day our march was thirty versts (a verst is three-quarters of a mile English). On the morning before starting we were paid our seven days’ allowance. We had completed half the distance, when an occurrence happened which was near the cause of us all visiting Siberia with our chain gang. There was what we call a half-way house here, and not another house within three versts. Our guard acquainted us of this, and told us we could have anything we wanted in the way of vodkie. We were delighted at this, for the snow at the time was over two feet deep, and hot grog was quite acceptable. The whole of the prisoners, Turks excepted, had refreshments, the guards receiving the same at our (the English) expense. All went as merry as a marriage bell till the French did not want to stop any longer, but push on, and complete the journey. Our guard did not feel inclined to do so, and we were of their opinion. The French would persist in marching, and made a start to go by themselves. The guard would not allow them till all marched together, and struck one of the French on the head with the butt end of his rifle, knocking him down. Although we were on good terms with the guard, we could not see our allies, the French, beaten; so at it we went, a regular hand to hand fight, the Turks remaining quietly looking on. The guard used their rifles and bayonets freely, we and the French our sticks. We disarmed our guard, and broke their rifles and bayonets, after giving them a good thrashing. Both sides had their casualties: one Frenchman, three English, and seven Russians had to be taken to the next town in carts, and placed in hospital. One Russian was very badly wounded, his jaw-bone being broken. Had we been near a village not one of us would have told the tale. Another lucky thing for us was that the guard had sent on their ammunition with their knapsacks. The surrounding villagers had to be summoned to escort us to the next town, armed with every description of weapon they could lay their hands upon, such as pitchforks, reap-hooks, scythes, &c. (This was the result of indulging in vodkie.) The next day the affair was investigated by a Russian officer or magistrate. After hearing the guard’s statement, he told us we should all be sent to Siberia; but we turned the tables on the guard. One of the French asked the officer if he spoke French, and being answered in the affirmative, the Frenchman explained all truthfully as above quoted, and the guard came off second best. The magistrate, when in possession of the true facts, had the whole of the guard placed in irons, and sent back under escort whence they came.

We had then a fresh escort, commanded by an officer, but were deprived of our sticks for the remainder of the march, as they considered us dangerous even with that weapon. The weather was now getting more severe every day, which contributed a great deal to our hardships, having often to face a blinding, drifting snow all day, and then lie down in our frozen clothing. We still continued to receive great kindness from the better class of Russians. In due course we arrived in Veronidge, a distance of 1,500 miles from Sebastopol. We remained here until our exchange took place. We were all located in a large house expressly taken for our quarters. A guard mounted daily over us, and we were allowed our liberty through the town, but had to be in our quarters at night. We had no work to do, and the gentlefolk of Veronidge vied with each other in having us at their homes to eat and sup with them. I must say that we were very comfortable here until bed time came. We had no bedding of any sort except a little straw, and our clothing was nothing but a bundle of rags. We were not very long here before we were supplied with a good suit of uniform by our countrymen, residents in Russia. The clothing was nearly a fac-simile of our own. Our men now looked quite smart with this new rig-out, and the inhabitants of the town seemed to admire us. We were not long before each of us had his sweetheart. After a time another party of English prisoners arrived, men who had recovered from sickness, who had been left behind on the road. Of course we must repair to a public-house to have a meeting glass. It was night time when four of us went in to enjoy ourselves, all peaceably inclined. We found the house full of Russian soldiers. We had only partaken of one glass when they insulted and struck us, but the white feather was not to be shown here any more than on former occasions, no matter what their strength might be. As soon as the Russians commenced the disturbance one of our men extinguished the lights: this added greatly to our advantage, as the enemy were numerous, and pitched into each other in the darkness. Our small party being equal to the occasion, one of them broke up a sleigh (a cart without wheels). I got possession of a portion of this and my comrades the remainder, which we used in good style, and soon cleared the house; upon our opponents gaining the street others quickly came to their assistance. One of them made a thrust at me with a sword. I warded it off my head, but received a wound in the right hand. The fellow who delivered the cut the next moment was biting the dust. I was as unfortunate here as at Inkermann—was taken prisoner, and conveyed to the police-station, covered with blood from my own wound, as well as that of our adversaries. Next morning I looked much like a man just coming out of a slaughter-yard. I was taken before the magistrates just as I was, not being allowed to wash. The court was well filled with military officers. I had not the slightest knowledge what the charge preferred against me was, being ignorant of their language. The magistrate believed every word of the witnesses against me, left his seat on the bench, came forward to me, and was in the act of slapping my face (a usual custom with their own prisoners), when I at once placed myself in position to resist it (a fighting attitude, English style). This took the old gentleman by surprise, and set the whole court in roars of laughter, the military officers in particular. He retired a few paces, cursing and swearing at me, and again came forward to strike me. I again placed myself in defence; the laughter was greater than before. He never expected this from a prisoner. He had been used to despotic authority with his own people. He immediately sentenced me to seven days’ imprisonment with black bread and water, and 500 lashes at the expiration of my imprisonment. I had done six days of it, when, fortunately for me, a General Officer was sent from the Emperor Nicholas to visit the prisoners, and to ascertain if we were treated according to his instructions. I was brought out of my cell to muster with the remainder, to show the number the authorities were issuing pay for. There is no trust to be placed in any Russian in authority; they rob each other from the highest to the lowest. This state of things is pretty well known, but through their despotic laws cannot be stopped. (The Emperor Nicholas once said to an English nobleman, he believed he was the only honest man in Russia.) The General asked us several questions as to the amount of pay we received, and if we received it regularly, and how we were treated by the authorities. I took a pace to my front and saluted him in English military style, which took his fancy, as the salute of the Russian soldier is to stand cap in hand when addressing an officer. I asked him if he would allow me to have a word or two with him, which was at once granted. I explained what had occurred, and how I was treated by the very gentleman standing by his side, and also the sentence he passed upon me, that I had one day more to finish my confinement on black bread and water, when I should receive the corporal punishment of 500 lashes. The officer seemed delighted with my explanation, and the straightforward manner in which I told him everything. He at once placed his hand on my shoulder, and said, “You are a fine fellow, you are a good soldier; I remit the remainder of your punishment; you are released, join your comrades.” I have not the slightest doubt that the 500 lashes would have killed me. This is one instance of the severity of their despotic laws.

One day on going to the bazaar, or market, with a comrade of my own regiment, we had to pass through a large square, and in this were mustered 15,000 men, new levies to join the army in the Crimea. Clergymen were present blessing their new colours, and also giving them their blessing previous to marching. One of the soldiers saluted my comrade with the compliments of the day, which he politely returned. Another of them deliberately spit in his face, calling him an “English dog.” The words were hardly uttered by him when my comrade, a powerfully built man, knocked the fellow down like a bullock in their midst. We were instantly surrounded by numbers of them, and would soon have been made short work of only for the timely interference of an officer, who had witnessed the whole. This officer, with sword drawn, stepped in between us and them, and ordered them to stand back and clear the way for us to pass, saying at the same time to my comrade (malidates), “You are a fine fellow.” Instances like this show plainly, no matter how British soldiers are situated, that indomitable pluck cannot be stamped out of them. During our stay in Veronidge a police officer was appointed our paymaster. He was very irregular in issuing our pay or allowance. On one occasion he left us fourteen days in arrear. The consequence was we were in distress. We all marched in military order to his quarters and formed in line in front of his house. When he observed us he made his appearance at his front door, enquiring our business there, and came forward towards the right of the line. A tall, powerfully built Irishman, belonging to the 4th R. I. Dragoon Guards, stood on the extreme right, seemingly taking very little notice of what was going on, as we had appointed one to make our complaint. He walked straight up to this dragoon, and gave him a slap in the face. The blow was no sooner delivered than the dragoon returned the compliment with a straight one from the shoulder. He fell as if he had a kick from a horse. In an instant a number of police rushed forward to arrest the dragoon, but we were equal to the occasion, and would not allow him to be arrested. This caused the affair to be officially reported and duly investigated, when it was proved the police officer was at fault. They cancelled his appointment, and severely reprimanded him; and also issued a ukase (a special order from the Czar) that no Russian officer was in future to attempt to strike an English soldier, as it was not a custom in the English army for officers to strike their men; and the Russian officer that struck an Englishman must put up with the consequence. This order had the desired effect, for they never attempted it after this. The daily papers took it up, it ran thus, “the French are too polite to kick up a row, the Turks too frightened, but the English are neither one or the other. Whenever they think they are insulted or imposed upon, they resent it in grand style, no matter the odds against them.” We were informed by an English gentleman of an occurrence that took place in St. Petersburg, with one of our officers, a prisoner of war, who was in company with a Russian gentleman of rank, walking in the streets, when he was met by a Russian noble, who grossly insulted him, and spit in his face. It was at once resented in true English style; our officer’s friend made it known to the Czar, who had this brave noble summoned before him. The Czar said, “I am informed you very much dislike the English, that you have already given proof of the same, by insulting an English officer and gentleman. I require such people as you; you shall have a good opportunity of giving vent to your dislike, you will be deprived of rank, all your property confiscated, and join immediately our army at Sebastopol, as a private soldier.” This is another instance of their despotic laws. We might well say, “O! England with all thy faults I love thee still.” After a few months stay at Veronidge, we were visited a second time by an officer of rank from St. Petersburg. He informed us that our exchange had been arranged, and that we should start next day for Odessa. The names of all the prisoners were called over, and those cowardly ruffians called deserters, separated from the men lawfully taken in action. Addressing the latter, he said, “I am commissioned by our Government to inform you, that any who wish to remain can do so; all who remain in our country will receive two years’ pay at the same rate as you receive now, a piece of ground will be given you, and house rent free for your lives; should you marry and have children they will be all free subjects of Russia.” After coaxing us a little time, he said, “Step to the front all who wish to remain in Russia.” I am proud to say not a man embraced the offer. He next addressed the deserters, informing them that they were at liberty to return to their own people. At the same time he reminded them of the severity of the English martial law against deserters. “It is death, as no doubt you are aware. When peace is settled, you will be sent to some country where your own language is spoken; you will not be allowed to remain in Russia; you are traitors to your own country, and no ornament to ours.” Two of the deserters stepped to the front, and expressed a wish to return to their own army. He again reminded them of the consequence. One man said he did not care, that he would sooner be blown away from the guns of his own army than stay a day longer in their d——d country. The other man was of the same opinion. These two men returned with us, and strange to say neither of them were deserters, but out of their lines skirmishing for grog, lost their way and got nabbed by the enemy’s outposts, but through some mistake of the Russians were returned as deserters. The punishment awarded them was, on rejoining, to forfeit their pay and service whilst in the hands of the Russians. We did not march this time, but were conveyed in cars covering from ninety to one hundred miles per diem, changing horses every twenty-five miles. We were not long before we arrived at Odessa; there were ninety of us all told, but only fifty fighting men, the remainder being camp followers. But the crafty Muscovite returned them all as English soldiers and exchanged as such. We had to remain a few days in Odessa for a ship to receive us. One morning whilst there, the combined fleets of England and France assembled before the town, and a small steamer with a flag of truce put off from the fleet. She was met by one from Odessa also bearing a truce; this was to give notice to the authorities that the Allied fleets would open fire on the town next morning. When this information was announced to the inhabitants, I never shall forget the confusion that followed, old and young, rich and poor, male and female, carrying their movable property inland, out of the range of fire. The whole town was lighted up with torch lights, to enable the soldiers and press-gang to erect barricades in the streets. The authorities at Odessa at once wired to Kinburn for assistance. A strong force was at once put in motion from that garrison, which was three days’ march from the threatened town. Next morning not a ship of war was to be seen; all disappeared during the night. The force from Kinburn had just got half way when the bombarding of that town could be distinctly heard. This was a capital game of war-chess by the Allied fleets. They had no intention of bombarding Odessa from the first, British and French capital being largely invested there, but it had the desired effect of weakening the Kinburn garrison. After bombarding the forts in grand style for a couple of hours, troops were landed and the garrison surrendered. Next day the Agamemnon came to Odessa for us in all the majesty of war, when we were duly handed over, and right royally did these Trafalgar Lambs and Nile Chickens treat us. She at once steamed off to Kemish Bay and landed us, where we were directed to find our respective regiments, and once more faced the enemy till the conclusion of the war. I need hardly say we got a warm reception from all ranks on rejoining from those who had escaped the carnage of war during our absence from the front.

James Walsh,
 Sergeant, 7th Royal Fusiliers.

AWFUL EXPLOSION IN THE CAMP.

LIEUT. HOPE AND THE 7TH FUSILIERS.

But I must proceed. We were, as I have said, now very comfortable. Sir W. Codrington, the former commander of the First Brigade of the Light Division, was appointed our Commander-in-Chief in the beginning of November, 1855. Sir William had no sooner assumed the command than a terrible catastrophe occurred, that for a time threatened to destroy the whole of the old Light Division. About 3·30 p.m. on the 14th November, our camp was startled by a terrible explosion close to the Fusiliers’ Hospital. We could not conceive what was up, but all at once, shot, shell, grape, canister, &c., were sent flying in all directions. One of the principal magazines in the French artillery park, just in rear of us, had exploded. Some hundreds of guns that had been captured from the enemy—some loaded with shot, some with shell, some with grape, and pointed in all directions—had been fired by the heat or the concussion, sending death and destruction all around for upwards of a mile. Wounded men were killed as they lay, and others wounded again. Some 500 shell were up in the air at one time, and about 60,000 ball cartridges were flying about the camp like hail. Huts were smashed to pieces and tents blown into the air. A number of poor fellows were so shattered that we could not tell who they were, or what regiment they belonged to. Our Allies suffered heavily. Their loss was 19 officers, and nearly 400 non-commissioned officers and men killed and wounded. Our loss, in a few seconds, was 5 officers and 116 non-commissioned officers and men. It was truly a horrible scene—men going about with baskets or skeps, picking up the remains of their comrades who had been blown to atoms. But, even in the midst of all this, men could be found ready to face almost certain death. A large windmill close by had been converted into a powder magazine by our people. Close upon 200 tons of powder and other explosives were lodged in it; the roof, doors, and windows were blown in, and the contents thus exposed, with tons of powder going off, and hundreds of rockets flying in all directions. The peril was imminent. Had one spark dropped into the mill, or had one of the fiery rockets fallen or burnt into it, another explosion would have ensued, and all within a radius of at least half a mile must have been destroyed. In the midst of the excitement, General Straubenzee exclaimed: “If the mill goes up, all is lost.” Then, he called, in a voice of thunder, for volunteers from the 7th Royal Fusiliers, for an enterprise more hazardous than a forlorn hope—to climb the walls of the powder mill, and to cover it with tarpaulins and wet blankets. “It must be done, or all is lost!” Lieutenant Hope, and 25 men of the Fusiliers, immediately stepped to the front, and the gallant Lieutenant led his Fusiliers up to the top of the mill and covered it; while another party, consisting of men of the 34th regiment, the 2nd Battalion Rifle Brigade, and Artillerymen, courageously volunteered to block up the doors and windows with sandbags. Lieutenant Hope was presented with the Victoria Cross for his conduct,—and he deserved it. But surely every man of that noble band ought to have had something, if not the Cross! Had the mill gone up, our hospital, huts, and marquees, would have been destroyed, with every wounded and unwounded man in or near them, as we were only about 300 yards from the scene. As it was, we lost several men in killed and wounded, and would probably have lost many more, but for the fact that the greater portion were out on fatigue some three miles away. One man who has within the last few years made himself famous was dangerously wounded that day—Lieutenant F. C. Roberts, now Lieutenant General Sir F. C. Roberts, V.C. Thank God, I escaped once more, although it seemed as if all would have been destroyed. Our camping ground was covered with fragments of shell, and musket balls lay about in thousands. The hut that I should most likely have been in, had I not been in hospital, was blown to pieces with shell, the only man in it being dangerously wounded.

Once more I wrote home as follows:—

My Dear Parents,

Just a few lines from this cold, bleak corner once more. I am happy to inform you that, thanks to the good people at home, we had a good day yesterday; Christmas was kept up in camp in grand style, with plenty of good beef and pudding, and a good fire or two in our huts; the day passed off very comfortably, the only drawback being that both the geese intended for my sub-division of the company, were walked off with by some hungry Frenchman—the Zouaves got the credit of it. I for one hope they did them good, as we had plenty to eat without them. It’s bitterly cold, but we have all got plenty of warm clothing and waterproofs, and can almost bid defiance even to a Crimean winter. If last year we had only had half what we now have, many an aching heart at home would be rejoicing, for men whose bones are now rotting in the valley of Death, would most likely have been with us. Our men look well and cheerful. We have got all sorts of things out of the town, and are making ourselves quite at home; the enemy treat us now and again to a long ranger, just to let us know, I suppose, that we did not kill them all on the 8th September. I have done no duty yet, am still convalescent, my arm is in a sling and so is my head, but I am happy to inform you that I am getting on capitally, I must not walk about much, as it’s so slippery. There is any amount of life in the camp, and plenty of books to read; a great number of the men who have been wounded keep returning to their duty, and I do believe in the spring we shall march to the north side the Russians to bleed, that is, if they do not get out of the way. Our men are kept well in exercise, marching out two or three times a week, from ten to fifteen miles at a time; it would amuse you or any one else, to see our men returning to camp with icicles, some of them six or seven inches long, hanging to their beards and moustaches, but yet we have capital health. I have had two or three attempts at this letter. I hope you will be able to make out this scrawl. My hand, I am sorry to inform you, is very painful just now; the wounds in my head are rapidly healing. I hope you will not forget me at the Throne of Grace. I must now conclude,

Believe me ever, Dear Parents,
 Your affectionate Son,
 T. GOWING,
 Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

A FEW FACTS.

The following facts may be of interest. According to the statement of one in high position just after the war was over, Russia lost half-a-million of men by sword, sickness, and fatigue, in forced marches through the inhospitable regions they had to traverse. The expense of the war that England had to bear, up to February, 1856, exceeded sixty millions sterling; the British had to convey nearly the whole of the French and Sardinian Armies to and fro, and nearly 400,000 tons of military stores. Without our transports our Allies would have been powerless—and yet our own men were dying like rotten sheep for the want of a few tents! The Turks might well say afterwards that our Government looked to others and forgot their own! It was not the fault of the Government, but there was a great deal too much red tape. If men were dying by wholesale, and the requisition for stores or necessaries was not properly made out, or in accordance with some intricate form that some old maid had been driven nearly mad in trying to bring out during the forty years’ peace, the articles, it mattered not what they were, could not be had; “the return was incorrectly filled up,” the men that would go anywhere and do any thing might die! The cold was so bitter that one could hardly feel the pen, but the return must be correct or no stores would be sent! Thousands of tons of food, clothing, blankets, and everything that could be thought of by a kind-hearted people at home, were, as I have stated in an earlier chapter, lying rotting at Balaclava, and could not be brought up to the front, for the want of a few hundred mules, that could be procured in Asia Minor and elsewhere for about £5 each. But I will leave this painful subject, as the deeper we go into it, the more offensive it becomes.

AFTER THE PEACE.

After peace negotiations had been settled, the Russians, our late enemies, came into our camp in droves, and we entertained them as friends, regaling them with the best that our stores could produce. The exchange of prisoners had taken place, and some of our men who had been in Russian hands for upwards of twelve months, proved themselves very useful as interpreters. Our old enemies made themselves quite at home, walking about, arm in arm, with the very men they had so often confronted in deadly combat. The French and the Russians, however, did not get on well together; and whenever they were under the influence of drink this was manifest, for they often exchanged blows, and our people had to rush in and separate them. On two or three occasions a party of Russian sergeants, numbering from twelve to twenty, dined with us, and seemed delighted to think we were once more friends. We were repeatedly invited over to their camp to spend a day with them, and our non-commissioned officers and men went in numbers, and were hospitably entertained. On one occasion a wag of a sergeant of ours got up a party of some twenty-five non-commissioned officers (all picked men) from various regiments of the Light Division—not a man under six feet. We obtained permission from our respective commanding officers, met at the place of rendezvous, and away we started. We quietly walked into Sebastopol, crossed the harbour, and were welcomed by a party, who had on more than one occasion dined in our mess. We were taken first to Fort Constantine, and shown all over that noble structure, and from thence to other fortifications. All ranks seemed to vie with each other in showing us attention. The whole of our party had on their breasts the Crimean medal with three clasps, viz., Alma, Inkermann, and Sebastopol, which seemed to afford much attraction to all ranks, and, as far as we could see, the higher in rank the more courteous they were towards us. We all dined together, on the best the camp could afford. The greatest drawback was that we had not a sufficient number of interpreters. After we had dined there was a little speech-making, and many kind things were said, one half of which we did not understand. Our leader proposed the health of their Emperor, which was received with applause, and drunk with three times three, all standing uncovered. After a short time the chief of our hosts proposed the health of Her Most Gracious Majesty, which was drunk with tremendous applause. As we were about to resume our seats, some four or five French sergeants walked in, which seemed to have a very happy effect. After any amount of embracing and kissing, they were requested to take their seats, and make themselves at home. The health of the Emperor Napoleon was now proposed, and responded to in flowing glasses, with cheers that could be heard for a mile. Some two or three Russian officers entered, one of them a very venerable-looking gentleman. He shook hands all round, and embraced one of our party, expressing a hope that we should never again meet as foes, and that those who made the quarrels might do the fighting. A number of our party at once surrounded the old gentleman. He eyed us from head to foot and inquired what Division we belonged to; and when it was explained to him that we all belonged to the Light Division, it seemed to tickle him, for he wanted to know, if we were specimens of the Light, what the Heavies were like—several of our party being considerably over six feet, and stout in proportion. The old gentleman then proposed the health of the Light Division, which was responded to, and drunk with tremendous cheering. After a time he inquired about the regiment that rode grey horses,[12] and what they were, “for,” said he, with his eyes flashing, “they are noble fellows, and I should like to embrace one of them.” He took but little notice of the French. After embracing some eight or ten of our party (the writer being one of them) he took his leave. He had not been gone more than half-an-hour, when two men brought up a case of brandy from the old general (for that was his rank), with a note requesting that we would drink the Emperor’s health, and his also, if we thought him worthy—a request that was, I need not say, at once complied with. Before we parted we found it required no small amount of generalship to keep ourselves sober; for, had we drunk one quarter of what they wanted us to do, we should not have slept with the Light Division that night. As it was, however, we parted with our friends on the best of terms, perfectly sober, they coming down to the water’s edge with us; and after much embracing we jumped into our boats, bidding them farewell, and asking them to come and see us whenever they pleased.

Shortly after this we had a review in our camp on a grand scale before Prince Gortschakoff. With French, English, Sardinians, and Turks, we mustered nearly 300,000 men. It took us from morning till late at night to march past. It was a grand sight. As far as the Light Division was concerned we were nearly up to our full strength—not made up with boys, but with men who had been frequently wounded, but had recovered, and returned to their duty—and went by the Prince with trailed arms, at a swinging pace, to the tune of “Ninety-five—I’m Ninety-five.” This was one of the greatest military sights that has been beheld during the present century.

THE RUSSIAN PRIEST’S WIFE.

In Russia it is a common mode of expression to say: “As happy as a priest’s wife.” The reason why she is so happy is because her husband’s position depends upon her. If she dies, he is deposed and becomes a layman, and his property is taken away from him and distributed, half to his children and half to the Government. This dreadful contingency makes the Russian priest careful to get a healthy wife if he can, and to take extraordinary good care of her after he has secured her. He waits upon her in the most abject way. She must never get her feet wet, and she is petted and put in hot blankets if she has so much as a cold in the head. It is the greatest possible good fortune for a girl to marry a priest—infinitely better than to be the wife of a noble.

THE ROYAL FUSILIERS.

We will claim for this noble regiment the honour of being second to none—either in the field for its dashing intrepidity, or in quarters for its steady, soldier-like qualities. It is one of the most famous regiments in the British army. It has fought and conquered in all quarters of the globe, and has proved that neither the storms of autumn, the snows of winter, nor the heat of an Indian summer—that neither the sword nor the bayonet, nor musketry fire, can subdue them. Napier might well call them “the astonishing infantry.” It has traditions of glory which inspire and maintain that esprit de corps so valuable in the hour of peril—so animating in the crisis of battle. The Royal Fusiliers was raised in June, 1685, as an ordnance regiment, not from any particular county, but from every part of the United Kingdom. Some of the noblest sons of Albion and Erin’s Isle have served in its ranks, and the haughtiest sons of Adam’s race have had to bow before them, and give up the palm to the matchless Fusiliers.

We find that Lord George Dartmouth was appointed its first colonel; its second was no other than the brave and talented nobleman, the Duke of Marlborough, who made the French to quail before him on field after field. Its third colonel was Lord George Hamilton. And on the 9th of April, 1789, His Royal Highness Prince Edward, Duke of Kent (Her Most Gracious Majesty’s father) was appointed its commander. The following pages will show that his Royal Highness was a soldier of no mean sort, and his courage knew no bounds.

In their maiden fight with the French (25th August, 1689) the regiment evinced firmness and intrepidity, for they rolled the enemy up in a masterly style, killing some 2000 of the frog-eaters. King William was well satisfied with the conduct of his Fusiliers. This was the first field, but not the last, on which they well stamped their initials upon the French. On the field of Steenkirk (24th July, 1692) they again confronted the foe, and taught the French to respect our flag. On the field of Landen (19th July, 1693) they again displayed the stern valour of British soldiers. Their loss was heavy, but they proved that they were worth their title, and taught the French such a lesson that they did not forget it for some time to come. In the battles following they proved by their contempt of danger, when the honour of the nation was at stake, that they were determined to overcome all difficulties or perish in the attempt. And, reader, when a fine body of men have so made up their minds, it is better to build a bridge of gold for them to pass over than to try and stop them.

At the siege of Nemur, in 1695, the old corps fought with desperation. The French here got a taste, and a good taste too, of what they were destined to have plenty from this dashing corps, viz., the bayonet. We next find them at Vigo, in 1702, dressing the Spaniards down, and they did it well. In 1703 we find the old regiment afloat, acting with the fleet; but the enemy kept out of their way. Again, we find the Fusiliers defending the deadly breach at Lerida, in 1707, with admirable courage. Once more we find the gallant old regiment afloat, acting as marines. They were in the action with the French fleet on the 20th May, 1756, and proved that they could fight for the honour of old England on the raging billows as well as on land. We next find them, in 1775, defending Quebec, and repulsing the Americans with a terrible slaughter. We also find them on a number of battle fields against the Americans, ever prompt in performing their duty, throughout the unfortunate War of Independence.

The Fusiliers again were in collision with their old hereditary enemy, the French, in March, 1794, at Martinique, commanded by His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent. The old regiment went at the enemy in masterly style. His Royal Highness addressed the storming column as follows: “Grenadiers, this is St. Patrick’s Day. The English will do their duty in compliment to the Irish, and the Irish in compliment to the Saint. Forward, Grenadiers!” And away went the Fusiliers. And a number of poor Gauls paid the penalty for opposing such a dashing body of men. During the five years that His Royal Highness was in command of the Fusiliers, no fewer than eight non-commissioned officers were rewarded with commissions, as suitable acknowledgments for meritorious service. His Highness endeared his name to the grateful remembrances of both officers and men.

The Fusiliers were next employed at Copenhagen, in 1807. Napoleon’s plans had been frustrated by the destruction of his fleets at the Nile and Trafalgar, by the immortal Nelson, and the Corsican tyrant was determined, if possible, to obtain possession of the Danish fleet to help to carry out his plans. But our Government were not to be caught napping; a strong fleet and a nice little land force was despatched, and demanded the whole of the Danish fleet, by treaty or by force. The brave Danes fought for it, and lost all—“except their honour;” and the Fusiliers returned to England with the victorious fleet.

We will now trace the gallant old Fusiliers through one of the brightest pages in the history of our dear old isle—the Peninsular War. No heavier effort had been made by our army since the days of Marlborough. Our noble Jack Tars had carried all before them, and their gallant deeds resounded throughout the world. All were compelled to admire. But the time was now approaching when the matchless “thin red line” taught Europe to beware; for all the brave sons of Albion and Erin’s Isle were not yet afloat. The proud and haughty Imperial Guards had stood as conquerors on field after field, and had polluted every capital in Europe except ours. But the usurper met his match for the first time on a grand scale on the 27th and 28th July, 1809, on the bloody field of Talavera; and the so-called “invincible pets of a tiger” were, so to speak, lifted or pitchforked from the field by this dashing old corps. The old “second-to-none” boys took the conceit out of the haughty legions of Napoleon, and captured seven guns from them; and all the attempts of the enemy to re-take them were in vain. The bayonet was used with terrible effect, and the guns remained in the hands of the Fusiliers. Wellington, with the eye of an eagle, watched the desperate fighting, and thanked the Fusiliers on the field for their conduct.

The next field on which the Fusiliers made the acquaintance of the French was that of Busaco (27th September, 1810)—“Grim Busaco’s iron ridge,” as Napier, the military historian, terms it. Here the enemy were driven from crag to crag and rock to rock, and the “thin red line” followed them up. All the regiments engaged seemed to take delight in thrashing the invincibility out of the boasting enemy. The grim-faced old veterans had been victorious on the fields of Austerlitz, Jena, Wagram, and Eylan, and had never once been defeated; but they had now met their match, and more than their match, in the “contemptible” sons of Albion. The columns of attack came rushing forward with such impetuosity that it appeared impossible to stop them; but they were all driven back with fearful slaughter, and the Fusiliers had a good hand in the pie. Thus ended the vain boasting of the French that they would drive all the English leopards into the sea. So they would if weight of numbers could have done it; but that nasty piece of cold steel was in the way, and in the hands of men who might die, but who had a strong objection to a watery grave; and at the close of the desperate fight the Fusiliers were one of the regiments that stood triumphant on that grim rocky ridge. About this time the 23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers joined the army from America, and the famous Fusilier Brigade was formed, which was destined to shake the bullies of the continent out of their boots, and play “Rule Britannia” on the field. The Fusiliers were engaged in a number of minor affairs about this time. Our conquering commander was determined, after the fall of Ciudad Rodrigo, to wrench Badajoz from the hands of the enemy, and the Fusiliers assembled under its walls. But Marshal Soult was not asleep, and a strong army under that crafty commander flew to the rescue of the brave General Phillipon, and Marshal Beresford was compelled to raise the siege, and retire to the heights of Albuera—a name that shortly afterwards resounded from one end of Europe to the other. Again we would repeat, the fame of the mere handful of Fusiliers echoed throughout the civilized world, and Europe stood amazed at their doings. Lo! the Fusiliers had in a desperate struggle routed a host—an entire army—of the proudest and haughtiest sons of Adam’s race from the blood-stained heights of Albuera. They rushed upon the enemy with vehement courage; bayonet crossed bayonet; sword clashed against sword. Backwards and forwards rolled the eddying fight. The din was terrible, the carnage awful. But in the end, although the Marshal of France did all he could to encourage and animate his countrymen, they had to yield to the Fusiliers. The conduct of the Fusilier Brigade on this field was the admiration of both friend and foe. “Gallantry,” says one of the bravest of the brave (Lord Hardinge) “is hardly a name for it. In this terrible charge, which swept the veterans of France from the field, the Fusiliers lost 638 men, 34 sergeants, and 32 officers. It was here Sir William Myers fell, and no man died that day with more glory, yet many died; and there was much glory.” Happy the nation which can find such true-hearted men to meet the foe. But the remainder stood triumphant on that fatal hill (see p. 434). The list of killed and wounded proclaim with dreadful eloquence the sanguinary character of the contest the Fusiliers had just decided. Decided what? A doubtful field? No; but won back a lost field, and once more fastened victory to our glorious old standard. The word “Fusilier” after this was almost enough for a Frenchman’s breakfast. We again find the old regiment advancing with rapid steps to assist their hard-pressed comrades, the 5th Fusiliers, on the field of El-BodÓn (see p. 436). And on this occasion the determined appearance of the Fusilier Brigade was enough. They stopped the pursuit of the boasting steel-clad squadrons of France. Again, at Aldea de Pont, the dear old corps charged the enemy with such vehemence as to drive them from the field. And now we retrace our steps to Badajoz. After no end of hardships in the trenches, the hour of assault draws near. Everything that could be thought of was done to repel an assault. It was known that the enterprise was a desperate one; powder-barrels and live shells by hundreds were embedded in the earth just at the foot of the deadly breach, all ready for an explosion. A large chevaux-de-frise was placed across the breach, and at the bottom of the ditch long planks with spikes, bayonets, and sword-blades fastened into them, and pointing upwards, ready for our poor fellows to jump upon. The Fusiliers led the way at the deadly breach of Trinidad with heroic valour. The fires of hell seemed to have broken upon them to destroy the old regiment. With a tremendous cheer, however, they mounted the deadly breach, only to fall back into the ditch below. Others then rushed up, nothing daunted, to be hurled back upon their comrades. The enemy fought with desperation. More men pressed forward while the dying and wounded were struggling in the ditch. At other places the ladders were too short, while, to add to the horror of the scene, a mine was sprung. But the Fusiliers never quailed. At length an entrance was forced, and in a short time Badajoz was at the conqueror’s feet. But, alas! five thousand poor fellows lay in front of those deadly breaches. The loss to the Fusiliers was heavy—18 officers, 14 sergeants, and 200 men.

After a number of minor combats, in all of which they came off victorious, we trace the old corps to the field of Salamanca. The enemy were taught a short but sharp lesson on this field. The Fusiliers were in the thick of it, but they were determined to maintain the honour of the corps, and, with cheer after cheer, they rushed at the enemy with levelled steel. Here again their loss was heavy—12 officers, 8 sergeants, and 199 men; but the remainder stood as conquerors. Then, after a lot of marching and counter-marching, we again find the old regiment on the field of Vittoria. On this field they had the post of honour, and were the admiration of all except the foe. It was here that the French lost all, including their honour. It was a most decisive victory for the English.

We now trace the Fusiliers to the sanguinary battles of the Pyrenees, where, with rapid and headlong charges, and with shouts of victory, they stormed position after position which appeared almost impregnable, hurling the enemy down the mountain sides. The old regiment, side by side with the 20th, 23rd Welsh Fusiliers, and the 40th, fought valiantly. As the ranks of conquering bayonets rushed at them, the shock of cold steel was too much for Napoleon’s spoilt invincibles. Each column was met in mid-onset, and forced back with great slaughter. Four times the Fusiliers precipitated themselves on a host of fresh opponents, and in each case proved victorious. Here our Commander again thanked the men on the spot, and in his despatch to the Government expressed his admiration of the deeds of the gallant old Fusiliers; for his Grace openly affirmed that the Royal Fusiliers had surpassed all former good conduct, and that the valour of the Fusiliers had won his approbation. His Grace might well say, “With British soldiers I will go anywhere and do anything.” The loss of the old regiment was heavy, being 11 officers, 14 sergeants, and 188 men; but they inflicted a terrible loss upon the enemy. They had been forced from ten strong mountain positions, and all had been carried with the queen of weapons—the bayonet. The passage of the Bidassoa followed. Then the enemy’s army was driven from a strong position on the Neville. The gallant regiment now stood triumphant, firmly established on the “sacred soil” of France. Retribution had overtaken guilty, haughty, insulting France. The tyrant Napoleon had hurled the thunderbolts of war against the nations of Europe. The whole of the sovereigns of the continent had been on their knees before this tyrannical usurper, but he now saw them attack him with fury. The enemy took up a formidable position at Orthes, but no advantage of position could stop our victorious army. Marshal Soult (Napoleon’s pet General) here got a sound drubbing.

The old Fusiliers are again side by side with the Royal Welsh, well to the front, for our victorious General opened the ball with them. The enemy were beaten at all points, and routed from the field. After a number of minor engagements, in all of which they were victorious, we come to the closing scene—the field of Toulouse. But Dame Fortune would not smile upon the French eagle, for the enemy got another sound beating, and had to retire from the field, leaving it in the hands of the conquering sons of Albion. Thus the Fusiliers had carried our triumphant standard from victory to victory. We pass from one brilliant deed to another with almost breathless rapidity. The succession of victories had dazzled the whole of Europe, who stood amazed at the gallant deeds of the “astonishing infantry.” Peace was now declared, and the Fusiliers returned home, after an absence of nearly seven long years of toil and triumph. We need hardly say that they got a worthy reception, being greeted with hearty cheers from crowds of their fellow countrymen. They had frequently been acknowledged to be a most brilliant, heroic, and dashing body of men by those who were competent judges. Their conduct had often been the admiration of all, for where all were brave, they were acknowledged to be “the bravest of the brave.”

The Fusiliers’ stay at home was of short duration. Our big cousins across the Atlantic, thinking our hands were full, must “kick up a row” with us; so the Fusiliers were despatched to teach them better behaviour. After a number of engagements with our kinsmen, with but little honour on their part (and it is not at all pleasant to thrash one’s own flesh and blood), peace was patched up, and the Fusiliers returned home; for the disturber of the world was again in the field, and on the red field of Waterloo. The conqueror of nations, backed by an army of old and grim veterans, threw down the gauntlet at the feet of our conquering chief, Wellington, and the bright dream of the “hundred days” was rudely dissipated. But the old Fusiliers this time were not in it; they landed at Ostend on the day of the battle, and pushed on rapidly, but all was over with Napoleon before they reached the field. They marched on into France with the victorious army, and remained with the Army of Occupation until 1818. A long period of peace and tranquility followed. Europe had had enough of war. And the old Fusiliers, as the sequel of this book will show, nobly maintained, on the heights of Alma, and Inkermann, and throughout the siege of Sebastopol, the reputation acquired by their forefathers. Lord Raglan knew well what he was about when he selected the Royal Fusiliers, together with the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, to lead the way at the Alma. The two old regiments had often been shoulder to shoulder; and his lordship on this field was not disappointed, for they urged each other on to desperate deeds of valour. Up they went, forcing back a huge column of the enemy, until they gained the blood-stained heights, and then stood triumphant. And repeatedly during that trying campaign the Royal Fusiliers led the way. Since then the mutineers could not say that the Fusiliers were napping when wanted; and I am confident that their countrymen are well satisfied with their conduct in the Afghan campaigns of 1863 and the late go-in at Candahar; and that the honour of our dear old flag may still with safety be left in the hands of the Royal Fusiliers.

Their mettle has been well proved on the following fields:—Walcourt, Steenkirk, Landen, Namur, Cadiz, Rota, Vigo, Lindau, Minorca, Quebec, Satur, Montgomery, Clinton, Philadelphia, Newhaven, Charlestown, Cowpens, Copenhagen, Martingal, Oporto, Talavera, Busaco, Olivenze, Albuera, Aldea de Pont, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Montevite, Vittoria, Pampeluna, Pyrenees, Bidassoa, Orthes, Toulouse, New Orleans, Fort Bowyer, Alma, Inkermann, throughout the siege of Sebastopol, India (1857-8-9), Lalo, Umbeyla Pass, and Candahar (1880). Their valour was displayed on the heights of Alma and Inkermann in a manner most heroic. Multiplied and almost unheard-of proofs were given, I do not say merely of courage, but of devotion to their country, quite extraordinary and sublime.

The following are a few of the “Second to None” boys who have been presented by Her Most Gracious Majesty with that priceless decoration,

The Victoria Cross.

Lieut. H. M. Jones, 1st.
Lieut. W. Hope, 2nd.
Ass.-Surgeon T. E. Hale, 3rd.
Private W. Norman, 4th.
Private M. Hughes, 5th.

And during the Afghan campaign, at a sortie from Candahar, Private James Ashford won the cross by carrying wounded comrades from the field under a most tremendous fire, after all the troops had re-entered the fortress.

The Fusiliers have, as the records prove, been largely recruited from Norfolk, Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Yorkshire, and Lancashire, with a good sprinkling of the boys of the Green Isle.

We will now bid farewell to the Royal Fusiliers, or “second to none” boys, wishing them “God speed.”

THE VICTORIA CROSS.

“Worth! What is a ribbon worth to a soldier?
 Worth! Everything! Glory is priceless!”
“Every village has its hero,
 And every fire-side its story.”

SEVENTH ROYAL FUSILIERS.

Lieutenant Henry Mitchell Jones (afterwards Captain in the regiment; retired 28th August, 1857).—Date of act of bravery, 7th June, 1855.—For having distinguished himself while serving with the party which stormed and took the Quarries before Sebastopol, by repeatedly leading on his men to repel the continual assaults of the enemy during the night. Although wounded early in the evening, Captain Jones remained unflinchingly at his post until after daylight the following morning.

Lieutenant William Hope (retired 3rd March, 1857).—Date of act of bravery, 18th June, 1855.—After the troops had retreated on the morning of the 18th of June, 1855, Lieutenant W. Hope, being informed by the late Sergeant-Major William Bacon, who was himself wounded, that Lieutenant and Adjutant Hobson was lying outside the trenches, badly wounded, went out to look for him, and found him lying in an old agricultural ditch running towards the left flank of the Redan. He then returned and got four men to bring him in. Finding, however, that Lieutenant Hobson could not be removed without a stretcher, he then ran back across the open to Egerton’s Pit, where he procured one, and carried it to where Lieutenant Hobson was lying. All this was done under a very heavy fire from the Russian batteries.

Assistant-Surgeon Thomas E. Hale, M.D.—Date of act of bravery, 8th September, 1855.—1st. For remaining with an officer who was dangerously wounded, Capt. H. M. Jones, 7th Fusiliers, in the fifth parallel, on the 8th September, 1855, when all the men in the immediate neighbourhood retreated, excepting Lieutenant W. Hope and Dr. Hale; and for endeavouring to rally the men in conjunction with Lieutenant W. Hope, 7th Royal Fusiliers.—2nd. For having, on the 8th September, 1855, after the regiments had retired into the trenches, cleared the most advanced sap of the wounded, and carried into the sap, under a heavy fire, several wounded men from the open ground, being assisted by Sergeant Charles Fisher, 7th Royal Fusiliers.

Private (No. 3443) William Norman.—On the night of the 19th December, 1854, he was placed on single sentry some distance in front of the advanced sentries of an outlying picquet in the White Horse Ravine, a post of much danger, and requiring great vigilance; the Russian picquet was posted about 300 yards in his front; three Russian soldiers advanced, under cover of the brushwood, for the purpose of reconnoitring. Private William Norman, single-handed, took two of them prisoners, without alarming the Russian picquet.

Private (No. 1879) Matthew Hughes.—Private Matthew Hughes, 7th Royal Fusiliers, was noticed by Colonel Campbell, 90th Light Infantry, on the 7th June, 1855, at the storming of the Quarries, for twice going for ammunition, under a heavy fire, across the open ground; he also went to the front and brought in Private John Hampton, who was lying severely wounded; and on the 18th June, 1855, he volunteered to bring in Lieutenant Hobson, 7th Royal Fusiliers, who was lying severely wounded, and in the act of doing so was severely wounded himself.

THE 9th OR NORFOLK REGIMENT.

Some of our most distinguished commanders have served in this gallant regiment, that is “second to none.” This is the regiment that young Colin Campbell first joined in 1808—its colours, then virgin, being about to be decorated with the names of battles in which he first saw fire. It decided, or helped to decide, many a hard-fought battle. It boldly confronted the hitherto victorious Republicans on the field of RoliÇa; and in fight after fight in the Peninsula the North Folk’s blood was up, and the victors of Jena, Austerlitz, and Wagram had to bow before them and bolt—they did not even wait to accept a twenty minutes’ swimmer—from the hitherto contemptible sons of Albion. The Iron Duke did not give the enemy breathing time, but in four days closed with them on the field of Vimiera, when the old 9th again, with the queen of weapons, leaped upon the pets of Napoleon and routed them. On the memorable field of Corunna this regiment took a distinguished part; again, on the field of Busaco, the Imperial Guards of France were, so to speak, pitchforked over the rocks by this dashing regiment, and from crag to crag and rock to rock they followed them up, using the bayonet with fearful effect. The career of this fine regiment through “Salamanca,” “Vittoria,” “Saint[**San] Sebastian,” “Nive,” “Cabul, 1842,” “Moodkee,” “Ferozeshah,” and “Sobraon,” was one continued series of victories; and at the siege of Sebastopol it was clearly proved that the old 9th could hold its own, for the Russians were often glad to get out of its reach. Since then this regiment has made the acquaintance of the Afghans on several fields, taking another peep at “Cabul” without an invitation. And, more recently still, the Egyptians found that they had not forgotten the use of the bayonet. Therefore the honour of Old England might with safety be left in the hands of the old 9th, the Norfolk Regiment, “The Holy Boys.” I have heard that the nickname was given them during the Peninsular War, for selling their bibles for grog, but I will not vouch for the truth of the story.

THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS.

We now trace the honourable records of a most dashing regiment—the Connaught Rangers. Its motto is “Quis separabit”—Who shall divide us. The Connaught Rangers were raised at the outbreak of the French Revolutionary War in 1793, and was soon called upon to receive from the Republicans its “baptism of fire,” at Alost, 6th July, 1794. The sprigs from Connaught, although attacked with fury, repulsed the enemy with unshaken fortitude, and for the first time nobly upheld the honour of the flag of Old England, well stamping their motto, “who shall divide us,” upon the foe, and proving, under proper guidance, their fierce native bearing. Burning to meet the enemy, it endured with much patience the misery of a winterly retreat from overwhelming odds. Numbers dropped down completely overpowered by the intense cold, and were frozen to death. The Rangers in 1795 were quartered at Norwich, and a number of the wild boys of Norfolk helped to fill its ranks. Shortly after this the regiment sailed for the East Indies, but its stay there was of short duration. It formed a portion of Sir David Baird’s expedition to Egypt, and was one of the first regiments that marched across that long, dreary desert to measure its strength with Napoleon’s Invincibles. But it was all over with that usurper as far as Egypt was concerned before they reached the field. The regiment returned to England with Nelson’s victorious fleet, and some 250 of the Derbyshire Militia volunteered to join their ranks. On a number of fields in Portugal, Spain, France, and America it was proved that they were worthy to fight beside the wild boys of Connaught and Norfolk.

We will now pass on to the most glorious period in the present century, the Peninsular War, in which the Connaught Rangers immortalised themselves upon field after field. No regiment in the whole British army gained more glory than the Rangers, yet much was gained. The 88th first met the Imperial Guards of France on the memorable field of Talavera, and well thrashed them. The enemy advanced in broad and deep columns with the swiftness of a sand-storm, with drums beating and colours flying, in all the majesty of war, but the sons of Erin and Albion stood unmovable and dauntless, until they received the order to advance. They then defeated the hitherto victorious legions of France with a terrible slaughter, and with thrilling shouts of “Faugh-a-Ballagh” and “Hurrah for ould Ireland,” they rushed at the foe. Bayonet crossed bayonet, sword crossed sword; backwards and forwards rolled the eddying mass, but the French columns were routed. The conflict was renewed with fresh troops which had never before been beaten, but time after time this noble regiment largely contributed to hurl them from the field with terrible carnage. The next field on which this noble regiment took a conspicuous part was Busaco. The furious charges with the queen of weapons made by the Rangers won the admiration of all. The enemy were pitched over the rocks from crag to crag and from rock to rock. They followed the foe, and although the crafty French commander brought up the Irish brigade in the service of Napoleon, these noble sons of Erin proved that they were loyal sons, routing their unfortunate countrymen from the field by the side of the much vaunted “heroes of Austerlitz.” Wellington with the eye of an eagle watched the dreadful strife, and thanked the regiment on the spot for its conduct. We next find the Rangers on the hard-contested field of Fuentes de OÑoro, where the odds were heavy against us. Again they crossed bayonets with Napoleon’s old guards, and routed them from the field. The 79th Highlanders were by the side of them, and their brilliant conduct was the theme of general admiration. They put the finishing stroke on the “spoilt child of fortune,” and largely helped to nail victory to our glorious old flag. Again we find the gallant sons of Connaught under the walls of Ciudad Rodrigo. The hero of Assaye was determined to wrench that stronghold from the enemy, and with a masterpiece of generalship it was besieged. On the 19th January, 1812, the order was issued, “Ciudad Rodrigo must be stormed this evening.” The Rangers’ answer was, “We will do it;” and right well they did it. Their fire-eating commander, Picton, addressed them briefly: “Rangers of Connaught,” he exclaimed, “it is not my intention to expend any powder this evening, we will do this business with cold iron.” The word “Forward” was then given. After a fierce hand-to-hand fight the main breach was gained, the enemy driven from street to street, our proud old flag was floating from its walls, and the fortress lay at the conqueror’s feet. The “hero of a hundred fights” again thanked the Rangers for their heroic conduct.

We now trace the sprigs of Connaught to the walls of Badajoz, where they take a conspicuous part, planting our proud old flag on its lofty castle. The fiery Picton led them under a terrible fire of musketry, showers of heavy stones, logs of wood, and bursting shells. The ladders were quickly raised, and these undaunted veterans strove who should first climb them. The ladders were overthrown, the French shouted “Victory,” the stormers were baffled, but not defeated. The gallant Ridge of the 5th Fusiliers and the heroic Canch of the Rangers sprang forward, and called with the voice of thunder for their men to follow. The ladders were again raised, under a terrible fire, and in less than one minute those two heroic leaders stood conquerors on the ramparts of the castle, whilst the sons of Connaught with the sons of Albion rushed up the ladders. The garrison was amazed, not suspecting that an entrance could be made there. It was a most glorious achievement; the intrepid Ridge fell in the hour of victory. If a chariot of fire had been sent for him he could not have departed with more glory.

We now trace the Rangers to Salamanca, where they immortalised themselves; the brunt of the fighting fell on the third division. The Rangers for some time had been under a terrible fire of artillery, and becoming impatient, their commander, Major-General the Hon. Pakenham, noticed it, and called out to their colonel to let them loose. The noble regiment at once dashed with a headlong charge at the enemy; the fighting was desperate but short; the enemy were completely overthrown, and routed from the field. An incident occurred here worth recording. The Duke of Wellington knew well how and where to hit, and ordered General Pakenham to take the hill in his front. “I will, my Lord,” was the reply of that noble soldier, “if you will give me a grasp of that conquering right hand,” and, parting with a true English grasp, Pakenham swept all before him, although the enemy advanced to meet him with drums beating and colours flying until they came close enough to mark the frown on our men’s faces. It was too late then; the Rangers dashed at them, side by side with the Sherwood Foresters. The boldest of the French officers rushed to the front to inspire the quailing souls of their countrymen. The commander of the Rangers was shot dead, and the men were mad to revenge their beloved chief. Albuera was here repeated, but all had to yield to the vehement charge, as this noble regiment closed with the enemy. Then was seen with what determination our men fight. They smote that mighty column into fragments, and rolled it back in indescribable confusion. At this moment the gallant Le Merchant’s heavy brigade of cuirassed cavalry burst through, and went straight at the reeling masses of the enemy. The column was cut to pieces, and two eagles, eleven pieces of cannon, and seven thousand prisoners were captured on the spot. Our commander, Wellington, might well thank the commander of the fighting third division on the spot. The Connaught Rangers and Sherwood Foresters had knocked all the conceit of fighting man-to-man out of the enemy, and, as at Albuera with the Fusiliers, and at Busaco, the conceit was taken out of them. But we must pass on to the field of Vittoria. Here, again, the Rangers were as firm as the rocks of their native shore, and with fortitude this glorious old regiment came out in all their native lustre, proving that nothing could daunt and nothing dismay them, for Picton’s heroes on this field swept all before them. We note that it was on this field that Picton led his division on with his night-cap on, and did not find it out until he was in the thick of the fight, and both officers and men laughing at him, when he exclaimed, waving his plumed hat, “Come on, you fighting devils, come on;” and the pride of France were swept from the field, leaving all their guns, 151, in the hands of the victors. They bolted from the field like a well-greased flash of lightning, our cavalry chasing them for miles, capturing prisoners at every stride. King Joseph’s coach and all his State papers fell into our hands. One million sterling was the booty of this field. It was a most crushing defeat. The fighting third division had suffered fearfully, and largely contributed in nailing the victory to our glorious standard.

But we must pass on to note that throughout the battles of the Pyrenees and on the field of Neville, this dashing regiment well sustained the reputation of our flag. At Orthes it especially distinguished itself, by routing the legions of Napoleon from the field, side by side with the gallant old 52nd, snatching victory from the hands of the crafty Marshal of France, Soult. Their loss on this field attested the brilliancy of its services; nearly half the regiment fell.

We now come to the closing scene of the Peninsular War—the field of Toulouse. Only three companies of the Rangers were engaged, but they well sustained the reputation of the good old corps. We now emphatically say that the Rangers of Connaught have on field after field proved their loyalty to our beloved Sovereign, and have often maintained the honour of our glorious old flag. After the battle of Toulouse the regiment, like a number of others, was drafted off to America, to help to teach our big cousins better manners; and to the honour of the Rangers be it said, not a man did they lose by desertion, although hundreds deserted and went over to the enemy. On Napoleon bursting from his narrow prison at Elba, the Rangers were ordered home, but too late for the crowning victory of Waterloo.

Colonel A. J. Wallace, who had so often led this noble regiment on to victory, obtained permission from His Royal Highness the Duke of York, in 1818, to present to the surviving veterans of the Peninsular War silver medals and clasps, as a testimony of their unshaken fortitude. These were divided into three classes. The first class were composed of men who had been present in twelve general actions; the second class, men who had been present in from six to eleven actions; and the third class, men who had been present in any number less than six. The following are the numbers of the different ranks that received and wore them with pride:—

Sergts. Corpls. Drumrs. Privates.
First Class 13 6 6 45
Second Class 7 9 3 126
Third Class 19 10 3 185
— — — ——
Total 39 25 12 356

We would here note that the only medal issued to the non-commissioned officers and privates up to 1848 by our Government was one for Waterloo. In 1848 the surviving veterans of the Peninsula campaigns were served with medals and clasps to commemorate the brightest military page in our history. The Rangers were stationed in all parts of our vast empire during the “piping times of peace” from 1815 to 1854. When Russia disturbed the peace of Europe the boys of Connaught were once more called upon to uphold the honour of our dear old flag, and the writer can testify that they had not degenerated from their unconquerable forefathers, who fought and vanquished on field after field under the immortal Picton and Wellington. As far as the Alma was concerned, the Rangers had not much to do with it, but, reader, it was not their fault, or they would have been by the side of us, the Fusiliers, at the great redoubt. But at Inkermann they nobly revenged themselves; they advanced with level steel with such vehemence as to hurl the enemy’s huge columns from the field time after time. At one period they were completely surrounded by the assailing drunken multitudes, and a desperate hand-to-hand encounter ensued, which proved their valour. Their loss was terrible, but the Connaught loyal boys yielded not one inch of ground on this bloody field. As fast as one column of the enemy was broken into fragments another took its place, to share the same fate from these gallant heroes. The carnage was terrible, the dead and wounded of both friend and foe lying in piles. All regiments seemed to vie with each other in fortitude, but the Rangers would not be second to any. At one time one of our batteries was captured and the gunners were all shot down or bayoneted, but the Connaught boys were close at hand. The enemy were exulting over their victory with wild yellings, when the “two eights” were let loose at them, and rushed at the foe with a wild shout of “Faugh-a-Ballagh” and “Hurrah for ould Ireland,” which soon stopped their crowing. The enemy were fairly lifted from the field with the rush of cold steel, the guns were re-captured, and handed over to some of our artillery officers. I have heard a good tit-bit about this, and feel I must give it. A big grenadier of the 88th, profusely bleeding, addressing an artilleryman just after, said, “Now just see if yer can take better care of your thundering guns this time, for, be jabers, I am kilt entirely in takin’ them back for yers.” The battle was raging, and our men were almost exhausted, when our noble Allies, the French, rushed to the rescue with a ringing cheer of “Vive l’Empereur” and “Bon Anglais;” but a resolve was taken by all hands—“death or victory.” We say again that the eight thousand grim bearded Britons had made up their minds not to be beaten, although the odds against them were on some parts of the field twelve to one; and no love of peace will ever deaden in the hearts of true and honest Britons an admiration for such stubborn intrepidity, for the fame of the deeds of the handful of the sons of Albion, side by side of the boys of the Green Isle, who fought and conquered on grim Inkermann’s rocky ridge, will surround our standard with a halo of glory, and will live in the page of history to the end of time; and now, March, 1885, it is stimulating their descendants under Sir G. Graham, on the burning plains of Egypt. Under the greatest difficulties the British soldier or sailor will shine forth in all his native splendour that nothing can daunt, nothing dismay. We say it is the bounden duty of every Briton to help to keep up that esprit de corps which no danger can appal. We claim for the Rangers of Connaught all that makes a true soldier—an unconquerable spirit, patience in fatigue and privation, and cheerful obedience to his superiors. Throughout the terrible winter of 1854 they were ever prompt in performing their duty, and ready to meet the foe under all circumstances. On the night of the 22nd March, 1855, the night on which some of the best blood of Britain was spilt, the “two eights” helped to avenge the death of one who was beloved by all, Captain Hedley Vicars. The enemy were driven back with the bayonet with a terrible slaughter. “Faugh-a-Ballagh” could be distinctly heard amid the din of fight. Day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month, the unconquerable sons of Connaught fought to desperation to uphold the honour of our flag. On the 7th June, 1855, the Rangers of Connaught were let loose side by side the Royal Fusiliers. “At them, my lads,” could be heard, and at them they went, and the enemy were lifted out of the Quarries, although they came on in overwhelming numbers to try and re-take the position from us. The Rangers and Fusiliers routed them. All the officers of the 88th fell dead or wounded; the sergeants then took command of companies, and led the men on. On the morning of the 8th this heroic band stood triumphant; the fighting had been of the Inkermann stamp, stones being freely used by our men when ammunition failed, and the bayonet was used with fearful effect. The same valour and constancy which glowed in the breasts of the heroes of Albuera and Busaco animated the Rangers and Fusiliers that night to desperate deeds of valour. The eyes of Europe were upon them, and it was acknowledged that they were worthy descendants of the conquerors of Salamanca. Fight followed fight night after night from the 7th to the 18th of June. The enemy on every occasion were driven back from our batteries by that nasty piece of cold steel, the bayonet. The hitherto victorious “red line” had carried all before them. On the morning of the 18th June the Connaught boys were on tiptoe to be let loose at the great Redan. About 2 a.m. the signal for attack was thrown up; away went the Fusiliers, well supported by the Rangers and other regiments. But we were doomed to disappointment. The column was met with a perfect hail of fire from hundreds of guns loaded with grape and canister, whilst broadside after broadside from some of the largest ships afloat in any waters carried death and destruction into that noble band. The brave fellows fell in heaps. The retreat was sounded all over the field, but that heroic column stood sullen, and would not turn their backs on the foe. The officers had, so to speak, to drag their men from the devouring cross fires. I noticed a powerfully built man of the Rangers had, in advancing across the plain up to the Redan, trod upon an infernal machine, as we called them. Off it went, blowing every stitch of clothing off the poor fellow, but not hurting him otherwise. When I saw him he was in a state of nudity swearing vengeance against the cowardly Russians. But, reader, we had to pocket it; it was a defeat for us. But wait a while, and you will find we soon got out of debt, giving them good interest, for it only roused us the more, and set us longing to get to close quarters with them. The enemy were delighted to think they had beaten us for once. There was no holding them, and they openly boasted that they would drive us all into the sea (see attack 26th June). The Rangers was one of the regiments that held the post of honour that night, nobly doing their duty, and hurling the boasting enemy from the field with fearful slaughter. The Fusiliers and Connaught Rangers again, as on the 7th June, vied with each other in desperate deeds of valour. The vast columns of the enemy were driven back completely bewildered by the determined rushes of our men. We pretty well knocked all the conceit for fighting out of them. But I must pass on. The attention of Europe was directed to that renowned fortress; the honour of our flag was at stake. We had been kept at bay for nearly twelve months, and, let the consequence be what it might, it must fall; and fall it did. It is not my intention to go into details now, as they will be found in other parts of the book. The Rangers was one of the regiments that went at the great Redan, and they nobly sustained their reputation. Again, we find the Connaught boys taking tea with the mutineers at Cawnpore, Lucknow, and Central India, in fight after fight. Since then the 88th have been stationed in all parts of our vast empire, and both in the field and out of it the Rangers of Connaught have proved good loyal sons of the Emerald Isle; and should it ever be our lot to face the Muscovite battalions, let us go shoulder to shoulder at them by the side of the heroic sons of Erin’s loyal boys—“Quis separabit.” The haughty sons of Adam’s race could not do it, so let us do justice, and give the right hand of fellowship to the “bravest of the brave.” We will now bid adieu, wishing the Rangers of Connaught a hearty God speed.—T. G.

EMBARKED FOR HOME.

Well, we at last broke up camp, and embarked for dear old England, leaving those cold, bleak, inhospitable regions behind. The first night on board ship, homeward bound—what a night for reflection! A flood of thoughts came across my mind regarding the different fields I had fought on, and the many hairbreadth escapes I had had. I thought of the Alma, and my Christian comrade who lay buried beside the river; I thought of the wild charge of our handful of Cavalry at Balaclava, of our desperate fight at Inkermann, of our terrible work in the trenches—night after night, day after day, up to our ankles in mud, half frozen, half dead, as hungry as hunters, with nothing to eat, but yet having to fight like a lot of lions. And after all I had gone through—death in a thousand shapes, both in the field and camp, for upwards of twelve long months staring me in the face—truly I had much for meditation, verily I had much to be thankful for. Thousands had fallen all around me, heap upon heap, and pile upon pile; and yet I had been spared. I thought of poor Captain Vicars, and what a noble fellow he was—he fell in almost his first fight; and yet a merciful God had thought fit to throw His protecting arm of love around me. What a night of reflection! I found myself on board a noble ship—homeward bound. I knew well that a grateful country was waiting to receive us, and that we should most likely have a warm reception, to say nothing of the affectionate greetings from those who were near and dear to us by the ties of nature. I will pass over the voyage home as quickly as possible, for it was a very pleasant one; every morning brought us nearer to that dear old isle that many of us had shed our blood for. At last we arrived in Portsmouth Harbour, on the 26th July, 1856. We at once landed and marched to the Railway Station, or rather we eventually found ourselves there safe, for how we got there it would be difficult to say—one would have thought that the good people had gone mad. They had witnessed hundreds come home from the seat of war, maimed in a most frightful manner, mere wrecks of humanity. They had now got hold of the men that they had read so much of. In their excitement they lifted us right out of the ranks, and carried us on their shoulders through the streets, which were packed by thousands of people, who were determined to give us a cordial welcome. They wanted to kill us with kindness, for as soon as they got hold of us, it was brandy in front of us, rum to the right of us, whiskey to the left of us, gin in rear of us, and a cross-fire of all kinds of ales and lemonades—to say nothing of the pretty girls, and we got many a broadside from them. It did not matter much which way one went, all appeared determined to give the men who had stormed the Heights of Alma, defended against such odds the Heights of Inkermann, routed the hordes of Muscovites from the Plains of Balaclava, and twice stormed the bloody parapets of the Redan—a hearty reception, and well they did it! We did not want to tell them what hardships we had to endure in the trenches; we did not want to tell them how often we had faced the foe—they knew it all.

Many a loving wife embraced her fond but rough-looking husband. The dear children did not in many cases know their long-bearded fathers. Mothers that had come for miles fell fainting into the arms of their soldierly but affectionate sons: many brothers and sisters, too, had come great distances to meet and welcome long absent brethren,—all helped to swell that mighty throng that were only too happy to welcome home the conquering sons of Albion. As for sweethearts, I will leave my young readers to guess all about that, for the “pretty little dears” were as warm-hearted and had as long tongues in 1856 as they have now; but we could not get on well without them. The whole nation appeared to have made up its mind to do honour to the Crimean Army. Hundreds, yea, thousands had previously come home maimed, and many had since found rest in the quiet grave, but all were looked after by the nation at large. Her Most Gracious Majesty shewed a kind motherly feeling, shedding many a tear as she looked at her maimed soldiers. This evidence of Her Majesty’s sympathy was most touching, and as a rough loyal old soldier from the Emerald Isle called out at Aldershot, after the Queen had said a few kind words to the troops, and thanked us for doing our duty, “Where is the man who would not fight for such a Queen?” I would re-echo that cry and add “Where is the Briton who would not do or die to uphold our glorious old flag?”

One of the most touching scenes, that melted many to tears, was witnessed on the 18th of May, 1856, when Her Most Gracious Majesty, accompanied by the late Prince Consort, the then young Prince of Wales, the Duke of Cambridge, and a host of others, assembled to witness the presentation of the Crimean Medals to a number of Officers, Non-commissioned officers and Men that had faced the foe on many hard-fought fields. Her Majesty betrayed much emotion, her whole frame indicating the deep throbbing of her heart. When each maimed warrior was brought into the presence of Her Majesty, the whole mighty assembly gave utterance to their feelings, but not in cheers; it was as if an audible throb broke from the heart of Queen and people at once; the people felt that they had a Sovereign worth battling and bleeding for. Three officers were wheeled up in chairs, Sir Thomas Troubridge, of the 7th Royal Fusiliers, was the first; he had lost both his feet at Inkermann; that kind motherly heart could not stand that, it was too much for her, and she burst into tears. The other two were both of the Light Division, Captain Soyer of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, and Captain Cuming of the 19th Foot. During this scene Her Majesty must have been amused by Jack’s dumbfounded expression and bearing—he appeared to be out of his latitude, but there was no mistaking his proud look after receiving the distinction. A number of officers and men had to move slowly along by the aid of a stick, or the assistance of a comrade; others could only approach Her Majesty on crutches. Queen and people were deeply affected.

And now, before closing this narrative, as far as the Crimean campaign is concerned, I wish just to relate a few amusing incidents that came under my own observation, and in which I was an actor.

ANECDOTES.

Paddy isn’t half such a fool as he is often taken to be. During the Crimean campaign, a genuine son of the Emerald Isle was brought before his Commanding officer for stealing his comrade’s ration of liquor. Being (as most of his countrymen are) witty, he was not at a loss for a defence when brought before the green baize covered table, and the charge was read out to him. His Commanding officer asked him what he had to say for himself. “Well, sur, I’d be sorry indade, sur, to be called a thief. The Quartermaster sergeant put the liquor into the same bottle that mine was in, and shure enough I was obliged to drink his, to get at my own. Och! shure sur, I’d scorn the action; a thief I never was.” This ingenious defence got him over it, with a fool’s pardon.

Another, a man of my company, was continually getting himself into trouble. He had proved himself, from the commencement of the campaign, a valiant soldier. About a month before Sebastopol fell, I gave him some money with which to go and purchase some soap; at the same time Pat asked for the loan of a couple of shillings. He did not turn up any more that day. Next morning he was a prisoner in the guard tent. We all knew that he was on his last legs; but as he was a general favourite with the company, the men pitied him. Some were of opinion that his wit would not forsake him when brought before the Commanding officer, and he told the man who brought his breakfast to him that morning that he would get over it with flying colours. In due course he was brought before the tribunal and the charge read out—“Absent from camp, from 10 a.m. on the 15th August, until 5 a.m. 16th August.” “Well, Welsh, you have heard the charge. What have you got to say for yourself?” The old rogue pulled a long face, and then commenced: “Shure, yer honour, the whole regiment, you know, was very fond of our poor old Colonel Yea, that was kilt on the 18th of June, and shure, yer honour, I wouldn’t tell ye a word of a lie, but I wint and sat on the poor old jintleman’s grave, and I sobbed and sobbed, till I thought my heart would break, for sur, he was a sodjur every inch of him; and shure, I fell asleep and slept till morning, and then got up and walked to the guard tent.” “Now Welsh, are you telling the truth? for you know I promised you a Court Martial, if ever you came before me again for absence.” With both hands uplifted, he exclaimed—“Och! shure yer honour, never a word of a lie in it.” Some of the young officers came to the rescue, and stated that they had frequently seen men standing and sitting around the Colonel’s grave; and thus he got over it without punishment.

Private Patrick Lee was a “Manchester Irishman,” that is to say, his parents were both from the “land of praties and butter-milk,” but he himself was born at Manchester. He was a powerful athletic fellow, and knew well how to use his hands, feet, or stick. Some six months after Sebastopol had fallen, I was Sergeant in charge of the Quarter Guard. Pat had, contrary to orders, gone into the French camp to look up some cognac, for he was fond of “his drops.” It appears that he had paid for two bottles of liquor, but could neither get the liquor nor his money returned. But Paddy was not such a fool as to put up with that without knowing the reason why, so he quickly took the change out of the Frenchman by knocking him head-over-heels, and with the unearthly row the delinquent Frenchman made, he soon brought others to the rescue. In less time than it takes me to write it, Pat had some half-dozen Frenchmen sprawling on the ground like a lot of “nine-pins.” They had each received one straight from the shoulder. Pat then armed himself with a good cudgel which he had picked up, as by this time he was surrounded by enough “frog-eaters” to eat him. They appeared determined either to kill him or take him prisoner, but he fought his way through them all, and like a deer bounded into our camp and gave himself up a prisoner to me. He was covered with blood, and appeared much exhausted. Next morning he was brought before the Commanding officer on the charge of trying to obtain liquor in the French camp. Some fifteen or sixteen Frenchmen, with their arms in slings, and their heads bandaged, appeared to testify to Paddy’s rough usage; and a French officer stated that some of his men had been so fearfully kicked and knocked about, that they were unable to appear against him. The man was sentenced to be severely punished, and the Frenchmen left our camp apparently satisfied. But when Pat came out of the tent from the presence of his Commanding officer, he gave the Frenchmen such a horrible look that one needn’t ask how men appear when they are frightened. After the Frenchmen had cleared our camp, the prisoner was recalled and asked why he had disgraced himself and his Regiment in such a manner, when he told the whole story in true Irish brogue—“that the blackguards robbed him, and then set to to bate him, but he floored them all as fast as they came up to him. They wanted to take him prisoner. He found it was getting rather hot, so he gave them all leg bail, and ne’er a one, nor the whole French army, could catch him.” The Colonel then told the prisoner that, had he allowed himself to be taken prisoner by the French, he would have tried him by Court Martial, but as it was he mitigated his punishment.

COMMISSARIAT MULES.

One day in March, 1855, I was one of the sergeants, with a party of men, that had been sent to Balaclava to bring up supplies, in the way of biscuit and pork, or salt junk (salt beef). We had a young officer with us, well mounted, who had but little compassion for poor fellows who were doing their best, trudging through the mud up to their ankles, with a heavy load upon their backs. The party were not going fast enough to suit the whim of our young and inexperienced commander, who called out to the writer, “Take this man’s name, sergeant, and make a prisoner of him when we get home.” The unfortunate man was doing his best to keep up, and he gave our young officer such a contemptuous look as I shall not forget as long as I live. Throwing his load of biscuit down in the mud, he exclaimed, “Man indade! soger indade!—I am only a poor broken-down commissariat mule.” Here a light-hearted fellow burst out with—

The poor fellow was made a prisoner of at once, for insubordination; but when I explained the case to our gallant, noble-hearted colonel, he took quite a different view of the matter, forgave the man, and presented him with a pair of good warm socks and a pair of new boots; for the poor fellow had nothing but uppers, and no soles on his old ones; and, in order to teach our smart young officer how to respect men who were trying to do their duty, sentenced him to three extra fatigues to Balaclava, and to walk it the same as any other man. On another occasion, I had to take charge of a party of men (about forty), march them to Balaclava, to bring up blankets. In due course, after trudging through the mud for nine miles, I presented my requisition to the Deputy-Assistant Quartermaster-General, who informed me that it was not signed by the Quartermaster-General of the Division, and that I should not have an article until it was duly signed. I informed him that the men were dying daily for the want of blankets. He ordered me to be silent, and, with language that is not parliamentary, he informed me he did not care—(a correct return, or no stores)—shouting like a half-mad man: “Here, take this document back, and when it is correctly signed you can then have the blankets.” I informed him that I had a party of forty men with me, and that if he gave me the blankets, the return should be sent back, correctly signed. But, no! He had not the feelings of humanity in him. I was ordered out like a dog. I at once handed my men over to another sergeant of ours, that was stationed at Balaclava to look after the interests of the regiment, and, with a little coaxing, managed to borrow a good strong mule; and away I went back to camp, as fast as the poor brute could move, straight to the colonel’s tent. The first salute I got, from one that had the feelings of humanity, and who had frequently proved himself as brave as a lion (Col. L. W. Yea), was: “What’s up, Gowing?” I at once explained all, handing the document to him. As quick as thought he called to his servant: “Brock, get this sergeant something to eat and drink.” Mounting his old cob, that had carried him through the fields of the Alma (where he was bravely followed by his Grenadiers, whilst shot and shell flew like hail about their ears), Little Inkermann, and throughout that memorable foggy morn at Inkermann, away he went, and in less than fifteen minutes was back again. Rushing into the tent, he exclaimed: “Well, sergeant, what are you going to do now?” “Go back; sir, and get the blankets, if you have got the signature of the Quartermaster-General.” “Here you are, then.” I was up and out of camp before he had time to say more. I found my mule had a lot of pluck in him, so I gave him his head and let him go. We looked a pair of beauties when I pulled up at our young swell’s hut, and presented the signature. I at once got my stores of priceless blankets, and marched back. I found that a number of my men had been taking water well diluted during my absence. A wild youth from the Green Isle said that that was the best fatigue he had had since he left ould Ireland—handing me a bottle to whet my eye with. I found that most of my party had something besides blankets to keep out the cold; but we got home all right, without any trouble. In less than a month after, I had the pleasure of meeting our gallant Deputy-Assistant Quartermaster-General in the trenches, up to his knees in mud and water, like the remainder. He had been sent to his duty. I thought at once of his treatment of me and my party. He appeared such a shiftless creature, shrivelled up with cold, that I felt compelled to offer him my tin pot of hot coffee, to revive him a little. He, poor lad, recognised me, and apologised for his treatment, which I knew well arose from want of experience and thought.

HEAVY ODDS.

The true Briton generally comes out in his proper colours when under difficulty. During the Crimean campaign, a man joined us who had some little experience in the prize ring. There was nothing particular to note about him, further than that he was a fine specimen of humanity, about five feet eleven inches, and forty-six in. round the chest; he was strong as Hercules, and knew it. But he was as meek as a lamb unless well roused, and it took not a little to accomplish that. Only once during that trying campaign was he ever known to stand upon his dignity, and that was with a big bully, whom he settled in less than five minutes. Whilst the fighting lasted, our gallant allies, the French, got on well with us. It was nothing strange to hear them applauding us with Bon Anglais, Bon Anglais. They were loud in their expressions of admiration at our conduct at Balaclava, and after Inkermann their exultation was beyond all bounds. They looked at our men in wonderment; they knew well we were but a handful against a host; and with thrilling shouts of Vive l’Empereur and Bon Anglais, they threw their arms around many a grim face covered with powder, blood, and mud, and impressed kiss after kiss in token of admiration. But what a lot of faces some people carry under one hat; and we proved before we parted with our excitable little neighbours that we could not stake horses well together. After the fall of that far-famed town, Sebastopol, we had but little to do but drink each other’s health, which often ended in a row; and it was nothing strange to see one of our men defending himself against half-a-dozen half drunken Frenchmen, and proving the victor. If they started to kick, some of our Lancashire lads would soon give them a lesson in “pausing” and “purring.” So things went on week after week.

A YORKSHIRE BITE.

Some six months after the fall of Sebastopol, when peace negotiations were being carried on, some four or five non-commissioned officers (I being one of them) had been out for a walk on a Sunday afternoon. Returning home to camp up one of the ravines that had been the scene of the desperate strife at Inkermann, we met a party of some fifteen half-drunken Frenchmen coming down the hill. It was an awkward place for a row. The road was narrow; on one side was a solid rock, and the other a nasty slope of some thirty or forty feet, like an ugly railway embankment. As soon as the French caught sight of us they commenced to shout Anglais non bon; non bon Anglais—“English, you are no good; you are no good.” One of our party was the gallant bruiser, to whom I have before alluded. He was what is called a well-scienced man, and of tremendous strength—“Yorkshire bite,” we had nick-named him, as he hailed from Leeds. He immediately took command of us, directing us to sit down under the rocks. “Now lads, set thee doon,” said he. “If these fellows interfere with us, you set still, and leave this little lot to me, and if I cannot settle them, my name is not Jacky Frith.” They were rapidly approaching us, still shouting like madmen, “Anglais non bon; non bon,” and cursing us with all the most filthy oaths they could muster, which we all understood, having been mixed up with them for two years. Well, we all sat still under the embankment, with the exception of our Yorkshire sprig. A monster of a French artilleryman was the first to come up—and the first to go down. He deliberately spat in our hero’s face, shouting disdainfully Anglais non bon. The Yorkshireman’s arm at once came into play,[13] with a blow that lifted him clean off his feet and sent him rolling from top to the bottom of the cudd. Another, or two, went at him, and he sent them to look after their comrade. Others rushed at him, but he proved himself more than a match for the lot. As far as we could see, one blow was quite enough. We all sat looking at the fun, almost bursting our sides with laughter, until the last had disappeared down the cudd. Our hero then put his hands into his pockets, and, looking over the cudd, shouted out that the English were bon enough for them on the field of Waterloo, and were so now; and turning round to us with “Come on, boys, let’s go home,” left the French to get out the best way they could. Next day there was a parade for all hands, in order to pick out the men who had so disgraced themselves and the regiment, as our friends had stated that they had been overpowered by numbers, and that those who had attacked them belonged to the Fusiliers. I must say they all looked in a most pitiable plight; some with their heads bandaged, some with black eyes, others with their arms in slings, and some limping with the assistance of a stick. They were accompanied by a French general officer (I think MacMahon). After a minute inspection up and down the ranks, not a man could be picked out, but they still persisted that the party that had given them such an unmerciful beating belonged to us. The colonel then formed square, with this nice little party in the centre. He then addressed us, expressing a hope that those who had disgraced themselves would step to the front. Four out of the five who had constituted our party at once complied. We were made prisoners, and the colonel proceeded to question us; but when it was made known to him that we had been attacked and grossly insulted, and that one man, who was not then on parade, had settled the whole, without any assistance from us, the regiment was at once dismissed, and our gallant pioneer corporal sent for. As soon as our friends caught sight of him, there was no need to ask if they recognized him, for they at once commenced to jabber like a lot of magpies. When Gen. Mac Mahon had satisfied himself that we had been the injured party, and that this solitary man had settled the lot, and further stated that he was ready for as many more, provided they came singly, the general laughed heartily, and applauded the man’s conduct, requesting the colonel not to punish any of us. We were at once released, and the case dismissed.

THE HORRORS OF WAR.

The following incident occurred at the Campo Mayor affair, on the 25th of March, 1811. “A French captain of dragoons demanded permission, under a flag of truce, to search among the dead for his colonel. His regiment was a fine one, with bright brass helmets and black horsehair. It was truly a bloody scene, being almost all sabre wounds. It was long before he could find the French colonel, for he was lying on his face, his naked body weltering in blood; and as soon as he was turned up, the officer knew him: he gave a sort of scream and sprang off his horse, dashed his helmet on the ground, knelt by the body, took the bloody hand and kissed it many times in an agony of grief: it was an affecting and awful scene. There were about six hundred naked dead bodies lying on the ground at one view. The French colonel was killed by a corporal of the Thirteenth. This corporal had killed one of his men, and he was so enraged, that he sallied out himself and attacked the corporal, who was well mounted and a good swordsman, as was the colonel himself. Both defended for some time; the corporal cut him twice across the face; his helmet came off at the second, when the corporal slew him by a cut which nearly cleft his skull asunder, cutting in as deep as the nose through the brain.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS.

Private Stevenson, of Ligonier’s Horse, having had his horse shot under him shortly after the commencement of the battle of Fontenoy, on the 11th May, 1745, did not rejoin his regiment until the evening of the following day. A court-martial was demanded by the man, before which he produced Lieutenant Izard, of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, who deposed that the prisoner acquainted him with the death of his horse, and requested permission to carry a firelock in the grenadier company under him. His request was granted; he behaved throughout the day with uncommon intrepidity, and was one of the nine grenadiers which he brought out of action. He was then promoted to a lieutenancy in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers.

WHAT HAVE YOU SEEN IN THE CRIMEA?

I have seen majestic nature in grandeur displayed,
 With the hills and the valleys which the ocean hath made;
 I’ve seen the eagle and vulture with pinions extended,
 And battles so well fought that no hero could mend it.
I saw the Light Division leading the van
 With their Allies, who also would die to a man
 Before they would yield to an Autocrat’s rule,
 Or turn back on their march to Sebastopol.
I saw the Heights of Alma, on the 20th September,
 There the maiden British army first faced the foe,
 There the Russian, bear, with all his ugly cubs,
 Was taught to use his heels as fast as he could go.
I saw Inkermann’s Heights, on that memorable foggy morn,
 A name now respected by Britons not then born;
 The odds were seven to one, but no desponding cry—
 Remember the Heights of Alma, boys, we conquer or we die!
I’ve seen Inkermann’s Heights and its Valleys of snow,
 Where many a brave soldier a rooting did go,
 In search of some fuel his breakfast to cook,
 With a pick on his shoulder, and axe or bill-hook.
I’ve seen the Mamelon and the Malakoff tower,
 When the grape shot and shell on our trenches did pour.
 While Mars sat in triumph to test our renown,
 And meet us with laurels as we stormed the great town.
I’ve seen the Quarantine Battery, Fort Paul, and the docks;
 With the Bear and the Eagle contending for rocks,
 And vultures in numbers near the Worrensoff road,
 That once was the highway to the Russian’s abode.
I’ve seen sorties and struggles by the Russians, ’tis true,
 But their banners were stained by the Red, White and Blue,
 We sent them some pills their system to cool,
 Which worked them in thousands from Sebastopol.
I’ve seen Lord Raglan, PÉlissier, and their brilliant staff,
 While the band of the 7th played “Larry O’Gaff;”
 I’ve seen Lord Brown in the trenches, for war he was ripe,
 Dressed as plain as a ploughman, with a little short pipe.
I’ve seen the great English battery upon the green hill,
 Work with deadly precision the Russians to kill;
 With terrific grandeur the balls they did fly,
 Illuminating the heavens like stars in the sky.
I’ve seen Arabs, Frenchmen, and Bashi-Bazouks,
 Russians made prisoners, and sad were their looks;
 Their pitiful tales I’ve heard them unfold
 Of the hardships they suffered from hunger and cold.
I’ve seen General Codrington on his charger so grey,
 Riding out on the bills at the dawning of day,
 With an eye like an eagle and a heart like a lion,
 Inspecting the trenches where soldiers were dying.
On June the 7th I saw the Allies in action,
 Their heroic deeds were the source of attraction;
 They fought and fought bravely, their cause to maintain,
 They took the great Mamelon, but thousands were slain.
On that 7th day of June I saw the English too.
 Not far from their Allies, combat with the foe;
 Their deeds were praiseworthy, they never did flinch,
 They took the great Quarries and the Circular Trench.
On the 18th of June I saw that disastrous fight,
 Led on by young Waller, Fitzclarence, and Wright;
 When our Colonel got shot, the brave daring Yea,
 And many were the victims of that bloody affray.
I’ve seen Kazatch Bay and the great combined fleet,
 Where the French and the English each other did greet;
 They mixed and they mingled, the ships and ship’s crew,
 The Blue, White, and Red, and the Red, White, and Blue.
I’ve seen those interesting and gay Vivandiers
 March with their soldiers with smiles and with cheers;
 I’ve seen them on horseback astride like a man,
 To describe their attractions is more than I can.
I’ve seen the explosion of a French magazine,
 With great loss to the Emperor and our lady the Queen;
 It knocked down our huts and our tents it turned o’er,
 And numbers of men were never seen more.
Our troops were alarmed as the explosion it spread,
 And for self-preservation from the camp they fled;
 But Young Hope was active, and his part he played well,
 As the missiles were flying, the round shot and shell.
Near the scene of excitement, on the top of the hill,
 Stood the great magazine which they call the Windmill;
 Had it once taken fire our loss had been great,
 And Britain would have mourned her army’s sad fate.
I’ve seen the brave Turner and his friend Major Peck,
 Who sailed from old England to make an attack;
 Though Boreas did buffet our weather-beaten screw,
 She skipped o’er the billows with her Crimean-bound crew.
I’ve seen Monsieur FranÇais, his eyes beaming with pride,
 Take our young lads on the spree to drink his cognac;
 I’ve seen the triangles to which men were fast tied.
 While the drummers served fifty upon their bare back.
I’ve seen Balaclava, a magnificent sight,
 With its cloud-covered castle high up on the right,
 Once embellished by art, and built on the great rock,
 A shelter for shipping and Nature’s wild flock.
I’ve seen Balaclava by night and by day,
 With its lofty rough mountains and foaming black sea—
 The billows embracing the proud bosomed rock,
 Where the porpoises sport and the seagulls do flock.
I’ve seen Balaclava all covered with snow,
 On a cold winter’s night when on sentry I’d go;
 The scene it was lovely, the stars glittered bright,
 Fair Luna was shining, Nature’s mantle was white.
I saw the Valley of Death, where thousands lay low,
 Not half of whom ever fell by the hands of the foe;
 The causes are many, as well known to the State,
 But I might give offence if the truth I relate.
I saw the Valley of Death, and going to the trenches,
 I looked on the graves and thought of the wenches[14]
 In silence lamenting some dear friend or brother,
 I thought of the orphan and the heart-broken mother.
I’ve seen the Valley of Death, the cross and the tomb,
 O’er the graves of those heroes—oh, sad was their doom;
 Where the wild dogs are prowling—what a horrible sight!
 Where the carrion-crows gather, and owls screech by night.
I’ve seen the Valley of Death—but here I will not dwell,
 It would take me too long my sad story to tell;
 ’Tis like some pandemonium—cursed region below—
 Sometimes hot like a furnace, then covered with snow.
I’ve seen Colonel Wellesley, who had lately come here,
 A man much respected by each bold Fusilier;
 His discipline was gentle, his mind was serene,
 A friend to the 7th, his country, and Queen.
I’ve heard that our Colonel will open a school,
 To teach art and science near Sebastopol;
 The soldiers to cipher, to write, and to read,
 Then march to the north side the Russians to bleed.
The arts and the sciences, what wonderful things,
 They open up coal-beds and artesian springs;
 We are going to Cronstadt in scientific tubs,
 To take the old bear and all his young cubs.
I’ve seen one rare thing—the right man in his right place,
 One Sergeant Silvester, who has charge of the peace;
 He is cock of the walk, and a gander ’mong geese;
 He keeps down bad morals with his rural police.
The brave sons of Britain, they never did flinch
 From the bullet-swept plains, or the cold bloody trench;
 They have planted their standard—who dares pull it down?
 In conjunction with France, in Sebastopol town.
And now, to conclude my short but truthful tale,
 I’ve seen those kind sisters, and the famed Nightingale,
 Attending the wounded on beds that were gory,
 And this is the end of my Crimean story.
By Sergt. T. Gowing,
 And Private A. Crawford.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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