The next morning, soon after six a.m., we were awakened by the roar of cannon, and running on deck to ascertain the cause, found that the yacht was dashing along under a fresh breeze, and rapidly approaching the entrance to Sevastopol.

Wreaths of smoke were curling round Fort Constantine. We could hear the hissing of the shot as it fell into the sea, and such warlike sights and sounds almost made one fancy we had come in time for the siege; but drawing near, the ruins that lay around, the masts, and the bits of wreck sticking up in all parts of the harbour (making the navigation both difficult and dangerous), showed we had but arrived to see the effects of war.

Even after the lapse of so many years, the scene of desolation was extraordinary. The forts are not even in ruins. So completely have they been destroyed, that only masses of broken stones show the sites where they once stood. On the heights are rows of handsome houses, or palace-like barracks, still roofless, the walls shattered, and grass growing thickly between the stones.

The Russians seem to have had as yet no heart or inclination to attempt seriously the work of restoration. A few houses have been made habitable, some rebuilt, but whole quarters have been left as they were at the termination of the siege. In some streets, where apparently a perfect storm of shot and shell must have descended, the walls of the houses left are so shattered that it seems almost unsafe to walk about amongst them—they look as if a gust of wind must bring them down.

The principal church of St. Nicholas has been restored, and houses have been built for the governor, admiral, and principal officials; but of the beautiful public buildings and magnificent palaces of which Sevastopol was once so proud nothing now is left but the scorched, battered, and defaced skeletons. Some of these poor remains still retain traces of their former grandeur. Here and there a bit of tarnished gilding, pieces of what was once rich sculpture, traces of painting, the remains of stone or marble staircases, still cling to the crumbling walls. Never again, in all probability, will this once beautiful city regain the prosperity and position she enjoyed before the fatal war that brought about her destruction.

Sevastopol was the pet child of several successive Emperors, and unheard-of were the sums expended, not only on the naval and military defences of a place for many years deemed impregnable, but also for the decoration and improvements of her streets and public buildings.

To insure the houses being well and handsomely built, and to assist also many of the naval and military officials, whose pay is generally so small that they can barely subsist upon it, the Russian government had for many years adopted the following system:—

The land, both in the town and immediately around it, was Crown property. Supposing an officer wished to build a house, he sent a plan of it to the Minister of the Interior, and an estimate made by the government architect. Should the plan be approved, and if the house would cost, say, 20,000 roubles, the government would advance at once 10,000 roubles, and in two years time 10,000 more. This money was lent without interest for five years, but had then to be repaid by instalments.

Should the whole sum of 20,000 roubles not have been repaid within ten years, the house then became the property of the Crown. This regulation, however, was seldom carried into effect, and the borrower was generally permitted to pay interest for the money until he could pay off the principal. As the houses were large and let in apartments, as in Paris, the rents obtained were in most cases far greater than necessary to repay the interest of the money expended.

In the old, merry days Sevastopol was a very gay place. Being the principal port of the Black Sea, the Plymouth in fact of the Empire of the Czar, it was the great rendezvous of the fleet, and a large number of naval officers and their families were always resident. The immense garrison also made an important addition to the society, and many of the South Russian families passed their winter in Sevastopol, the climate being much more temperate than at either Odessa or Simpheropol.

Sevastopol, therefore, was considered, after St. Petersburg and Moscow, the gayest and most brilliant town in Russia. Its nearness also to the imperial villa at Yalta made the official appointments eagerly sought after.

But these gay balls, dinners, concerts, &c., are now only things of the past. The inhabitants can be counted by tens instead of by thousands, and but for the families of those whose duty obliges them to remain, the town would speedily cease to be. Dull as Sevastopol generally is, it was duller than usual during our stay, for several of the principal officials had been summoned to Odessa to attend two of the imperial princes. Those who remained, however, seemed as if they could not be kind enough, or friendly enough, to travellers from a country who a few years back had been so terrible an enemy.

There has ever been such kind feeling and such friendship between Russia and England that it must always be painful to an Englishman to think circumstances should have forced us into a cruel war with an old and steady friend.

The day after our arrival we got three droskies to take us to the Redan and the neighbouring heights. Crimean droskies are like very low gigs, and hold two persons besides the driver, who sits upon a small box or perch high above the body of the carriage. One of the horses is in shafts, with a wooden arch hung with bells over his head, the other is in traces on the left side. When well driven this horse canters while the other trots, and however rough and uneven the road, the pace is generally tremendous.

The drivers were strange wild creatures, with long unkempt beards, and hair that flew out behind them like a cloud as we raced along. They wore coarse frieze coats, with long full skirts coming down to their heels, and loose trousers tucked into great Wellington boots, so redolent of musk and train oil that every time their owner kicked the plank beneath his feet, in his energy to overcome some unusual difficulty, an odour was wafted to us that was far from resembling those that come from Araby the Blest.

Our progress was both noisy and exciting. On coming to a bad place the drivers stood up, stamped with excitement, shouting to their team, and addressing them in a stream of terms both of endearment and abuse. The horses tossed their heads as they struggled and plunged, the bells jangling furiously, and we could only hold tight as the light carriage bounded over hole or mound.

Carriage-hire is dear, each drosky costing about one rouble and a half an hour; a rouble is nearly 3s. 4d. in English money.

The dust during the summer in and about Sevastopol is quite remarkable, and can be only equalled by the mud in winter. The soil is principally of a description of chalk that rapidly pulverises during dry weather, and equally rapidly dissolves during wet. The result is that in summer the town and country seem wrapped in clouds of fine penetrating dust, and during winter the mud is ancle-deep.

Within ten minutes of our start we were as white as millers, and half-choked besides, as, perfectly regardless of our wishes and requests, the drivers occasionally amused themselves by racing, or else insisted upon keeping close to the wheels of the preceding carriage.

After passing through street after street of ruins, we found ourselves in a narrow ravine immediately beneath the Redan, and at about a quarter of a mile from the town came to the first or most advanced English trench. Of course years have gradually levelled the soil, and now it is like a small dry ditch, but even had the mound raised been three times the height it now is, it seemed amazing that so slight an amount of earth could have been sufficient to protect the soldiers from the rain of shot so unceasingly poured from the town. Even with gabions on the top, the men could not have stood upright in the trench.

About fifty yards up the valley was a mound of earth with two “dents” in it. This had been an English battery of two guns, and the dents marked the places where the cannon had stood. Higher up was another trench, then another battery, and so on, until, the defile making a turn, the town was no longer commanded.

Now and then we passed a small enclosure surrounded by rough walls, or came to a heap of earth with a few stones piled upon its summit. These are the resting-places of many of our soldiers. There are no names, in a few more years even these slight traces will be obliterated, and the earth, once so deeply dyed with their blood, will give no token of the brave hearts she has taken to her bosom. These humble graves, the only record of so many unknown but gallant men, all of whom had died fighting for their country, appeal even more powerfully to the feelings than the long line of grand monuments on Cathcart’s Hill, though many great and distinguished names are recorded there.

Many can understand and share Lord Nelson’s feelings when he exclaimed, “A peerage, or Westminster Abbey;” but how hard to die for one’s country, knowing that that country will not even remember the name of its poor servant!

After winding up the valley for another mile and a half, we left the road, and ascending a little down or grass field found ourselves within half a mile of the Redan. Strange to say, though we had mounted to a considerable height, but very little of the town was visible from the spot where we were.

Seen from the sea, Sevastopol appears to stand in an amphitheatre of hills, that apparently command it on every side; but, in fact, there are only two heights that really do so—namely, those of the Malakoff and the Redan. The view was extensive, and we could see, for a considerable distance inland, over an undulating but now barren country. The ground around had been so torn and rent by the iron storm of shot and shell, that it looked as if it had been badly ploughed by awkward giants, but time has now covered the ugly wounds with a soft vesture of grass and thyme. Nature has done all the reparation that has been made. We could see no traces of cultivation in any direction, neither were any cattle or sheep to be seen feeding on the miles of short, sweet down grass that would have been so suitable for them; but where war lays her destroying hand, the labours and improvements of centuries are destroyed in as many hours.

A sandy track led to the Redan, the ground at every step giving more and more evidence of the deadly struggle that had taken place. In every direction huge ragged holes and fissures showed where mines had been sprung, and monstrous rents in the ground, close to the fort, marked where some battery had poured a stream of fiery shot, that had torn its way through earth, and stone, and iron with appalling strength.

Bullets and pieces of shot and shell are still to be found in abundance, and women and children are constantly employed in turning over the earth in search of these relics, and also of the small brass crosses, one of which is always worn by every Russian soldier.

Standing on the edge of the ditch, the desperate nature of the attack could be better appreciated. The ditch was about fifteen feet deep, with a tremendous chevaux-de-frise at the bottom, and the guns of the fort were so numerous that the embrasures were not more than a few feet apart. It is difficult to imagine a more appalling position than to have to lead troops on to such certain death. Our guide, who had belonged to the Land Transport Corps, saw the attack made.

The most advanced English trench was about a hundred and fifty feet from the Redan, and it was from here the final rush was made. On came the officers closely followed by the devoted regiments, and through the deadly hail of shot and grape that was pouring from the Russian guns, the attacking columns rushed up the fatal slope. But few of these gallant men entered the breach, the terrific fire mowed them down by hundreds, and in a few seconds the ground was covered with the dead and dying. “Never,” said our informant, “could he forget the hideous yells, shouts, and shrieks that filled the air.”

The first man who raised the English standard on the Russian bastion was Captain Robert Preston, but he had scarcely waved it in the air when he fell, pierced by twenty wounds. Our guide saw him fall, on a heap of dead Russians, with the gabions on fire by his side.

Inside the fort the number of mines that had been sprung had so riddled the ground that much caution was required to avoid falling into the great holes.

The sun had now set, twilight in these countries is very short, for darkness soon comes on, and just when the grey duskiness of evening gave additional gloom to the dreary scene of desolation and ruin around, quietly stealing from behind the broken wall of the nearest graveyard came creeping a lean, savage jackal. So noiseless and so stealthy were his movements, that at times his dark grey form could scarcely be distinguished from the dark grey stones by which he stole so cautiously. Breathlessly we watched the savage creature as he prowled along. The wind blowing strongly towards us, for a few minutes we were undetected, but very soon a slight rustle made by one of the party betrayed our neighbourhood, and in a second, with a vicious snarl and snap, the animal was bounding off, with long loping strides, towards the open country. In wild countries troops of jackals always form part of the camp-followers of a great army. As the vulture and the crow scent carrion, so does the instinct of the jackal tell him where human bodies are interred, and unless the surrounding walls are high and strong, many a burial-place has been desecrated by these savage and cowardly animals.