EARLY on the 3rd of September we started for Kamiesch; but, as usual, Bornet could not forget his old trade, and love for his fellow-soldiers. “Governor,” said he, “the 3rd Zouaves who were on duty in the trenches last night are on their return to camp. It is eight o’clock, and if we take this ravine we shall meet some of them, and learn what is going on.”

Having the whole day before us, I consented to go; we took the road called the French Ravine, which led from the French head-quarters to the trenches before Sebastopol. The returning Zouaves we met, but the cannon balls also met us. Being in the ravine, we were not in great danger, as they passed over our heads and fell on our left side. The principal danger was when they struck a large stone, causing it to roll down the side of the ravine, sometimes at a terrific rate.

The shells were far more objectionable; but, thanks to Providence, none hit us. While retreating, Bornet said, “By a thousand bombs, governor, it must be a fresh battery they are firing from: we always used to go this way to the trenches.”

“Well,” said I, “new or old, let us get out of it.”

Putting our horses to a gallop, we were soon out of danger, and on the road to Kamiesch. Near the French head-quarters we met two Zouaves. They told us the French trenches were now within twenty yards of the Malakhoff tower. “The cannon,” they said, “project about twenty feet over our heads, and cannot touch us; but the grenades, which the Russians throw among us by hundreds, cause the loss of many men, though we extinguish a great number when they fall.”

Bornet now proposed the vin blanc, but to his regret and my delight, they refused, or we should probably not have seen Kamiesch that day. In many instances I have known French soldiers refuse.

At length we arrived at Kamiesch, which I had so long seen from my quarters, but could not reach before, owing to the engrossing nature of my occupations. This French town of pasteboard, or light wood, was so different from Balaklava, that I cannot give my readers a better idea of it than by stating that it bears the same resemblance to Balaklava that Ramsgate does to Boulogne in the height of the season. The traffic, business, markets, restaurants, cafÉs, billiard-rooms, theatre, &c., display the difference of character between the French and English, as forcibly as Balaklava does the English from the French.

It was really remarkable to see the type of two great nations, such near neighbours, on the same foreign soil, so far from their native homes, so distinctly preserved, while the people agreed so well together. Some of the restaurants were pretty good, very expensive, not very clean, but always full. Money seemed of no consequence, as every one tried to get it out of you if you were rash enough to eat, drink, or purchase anything.

The sea-port was very fine; Kamiesch, flat, sandy, and unpicturesque. Balaklava was a perfect garden; Kamiesch a well populated desert.

The evening of the 7th of September was a memorable one. Each mind was animated; men of the most pacific disposition were transformed into lions or tigers, furiously seeking to devour their prey.

Amidst the most terrible discharges of cannon, the order for the general attack was announced to the troops for the following day. The news acted like an electric spark, and inspired all hearts. Each soldier appeared to breathe more freely; hope, the enchantress, filled the hearts of the brave with enthusiasm; fear was unknown; all faces were radiant with lust of glory and vengeance.

Having heard that the attack was to take place, at midday I visited the French camp with my Zouave, where we found the same animation and excitement. One of the soldiers said to my Zouave:

“By all the camels in Arabia, Bornet, are you coming to join in the dance? If you are, I invite you for the first quadrille; but you must play the clarionet (slang term for gun). Here’s a chance of having your portrait spoiled—it just suits me.”

“What do you think of it, governor—shall I go?”

“It is impossible, my dear fellow, for me to oblige you upon this occasion, as your services will be more useful to-morrow, when no doubt, whichever way the victory may turn, the hospitals will be full. Therefore I hope you will forgive me for saving your life against your will. I am sure, if you had a chance, you would be the first to mount the breach, and consequently the first to be knocked over.”

His late comrades in arms did not see the force of this. They knew he had some money, and did not like to part with him. The idea struck me to order a few bottles of wine at the canteen near their tents, in return for their hospitality in offering us their ration rum and brandy. About five-and-twenty more joined us when I gave the invitation. I knew that Bornet had only a few shillings in his pocket, which shillings, by-the-bye, were very liberally taken by the vivandiÈre as a great favour, at the value of a French franc. After several farewells we parted.

The morning of the 8th of September, 1855, arrived. Aurora smiled gaily upon the far-famed city, the sentinels on all sides were at their posts, and in the Russian camp no doubt the watchword circulated as usual. It was thus in the allied camps, but pronounced quicker; the step of the relief guard was that of quick march, every nerve was in action, and strained to the utmost. The scene at the race for the Derby alone could give the reader an idea of the sudden energy which filled every bosom, on hearing that the attack was to take place, with this difference, that life seemed of less consequence to every one in the Crimea than the loss of money on that terrible day of chance. All had a share in the lottery. Glory was to turn the wheel of fortune, and every one seemed sure of winning. All hoped to gather laurels from the arid soil so long moistened with blood.

At four o’clock we were all up; about five the Guards were on their march towards the besieged city; troops from all quarters were silently marching in the same direction; every heart was beating high; the day had at last arrived which was to decide a great question. At seven all were at their post. Bornet and myself started on horseback directly, after seeing the Scots Fusiliers pass through the Guards’ camp, close to our tents. On catching sight of them, my Zouave exclaimed, “What a splendid regiment, gouverneur, que ces Montagnards Ecossais! I have a great mind to follow them: I shall, too!”

“I am sure you sha’n’t,” said I, clutching him by the coat collar.

After making a long dÉtour, a sentinel let us pass. As we were nearer the Woronzoff Road than the Cathcart Hill Cemetery, we went in that direction, and took up our position to witness the grand spectacle. For some time a profound silence reigned amongst the troops, who seemed as though they were buried in the trenches. The weather, which had been fine the preceding days, and even till sunrise on that eventful morning, suddenly changed. In a short time the elements assumed a threatening aspect, and a furious tempest raged in every direction. A clouded sky had replaced the azure blue, the fierce gusts of wind raised thick clouds of dust, which rolled majestically towards us like a moving castle, blinding every one for a time. The cold air chilled everybody, and was so violent that one could scarcely keep one’s saddle, or see twenty yards in advance. Showers of hail burst here and there over the now excited and infuriated camp and Sebastopol; the scene of action was almost invisible. It appeared as though the evil genius of the storm had on that glorious day attached his seal of destruction to that desecrated spot. Even the sun (l’ami Soleil), the world’s friend, seemed to fear to face this scene of horror and desolation, and while smiling upon the remainder of the mighty globe, had, in appearance, withdrawn from the harrowed city of Sebastopol.

Suddenly the batteries opened fire in every direction, shaking the very soil on which we stood. Clouds of smoke enveloped the besieged city. Not a thing could be seen or heard but a continuous rolling noise similar to that of an earthquake. All at once the noise ceased, and the rattle of musketry was heard, with, at intervals, cannon and mortar shot. By degrees, thanks to the heavy gale, the atmosphere got clearer, and by the aid of a telescope one could distinctly see the French flag floating from the Malakhoff, and the troops mounting to the assault. An hour had scarcely elapsed when the news was brought of the capture of the Malakhoff by the French, and of the Redan by the English. Aides-de-camp were flying in every direction; and numbers of wounded were on their way to the hospitals. We quitted our post to go to the General Hospital, in order to see whether our services were required. As we were crossing the English camp, a corpse was borne past us, carried by four soldiers. Upon inquiry I learned, with sorrow, that it was the body of Colonel H. R. Handcock, whom, a few days before, I had had the pleasure of entertaining at my kitchens, with his young and very interesting wife.

The latter had been an eye-witness of the assault, and I was informed that, by the greatest imprudence, the mutilated body of her husband had just been uncovered before her. She fainted at the sight, and was borne to her residence, where she lay for some time dangerously ill. This will account for the sudden alteration in her appearance before mentioned.

The fight still raged, the weather was a little calmer, and we left the field of battle, intending to gallop at once to the hospital. On reaching the line of sentries, we met two naval officers who were trying to pass, in order to obtain a view of the action from Cathcart’s Hill. They were having a rather warm discussion, the sentry doing his duty by stopping them. I pulled up my horse, and told them that unless they had an order from head-quarters they could not pass. Though much vexed, they thanked me, and submitted to the disappointment. I was about leaving them, when I heard one say to the other—

“What shall we do? I would give any money for a glass of wine or a cup of coffee.”

“So would I,” said the other. “Where is there a Canteen, sentry?”

“It would be of no use my telling you,” the sentry replied, “as they are all closed during the siege, or at least for to-day, in order to prevent men left in the camp from quitting their post. Several robberies were perpetrated in camp upon former occasions.”

I overheard their conversation, in which they stated that they had started without breakfast, and been a long way round—nearly seven miles among the hills—and had seen nothing after all, as the pickets would not let them pass the line of Balaklava.

“Gentlemen,” said I, “if you will come with me to my tent, I think I can keep you from starving, and have no doubt you will fare there as well, if not better, than in a Canteen. I can also give you a description of the siege, having been an eyewitness of the same.”

They thanked me, and accepted my offer. On our way to quarters, I recounted the melancholy death of Colonel Handcock. My Zouave had by this time arrived—no one but the groom was at home, and he could speak neither French nor English, being a Greek—so I set my Zouave to lay the table; and with my magic stove I cooked some ration-mutton, made an omelette, brought out a piece of cold beef, bread, &c., and gave them a bottle of ale and a glass of sherry. In twenty minutes their hunger was appeased, and I told them they were welcome to stay, but that I must proceed to my duty. At the same time I informed them, that at six o’clock dinner would be ready, and they were welcome to partake of it if they happened to be about the camp; but that they were on no account to wait for me in case I did not return, as I did not know what I might have to do in the hospitals. They thanked me for my hospitality, and said they would try and see something of the battle, and if anywhere about my quarters, would be too happy to return to dinner.

We then parted; they proceeding towards Sebastopol, and I to the hospital. On my arrival I found, to my surprise, that not one wounded man had been brought in. After waiting some time I saw Dr. Mouatt, and inquired if anything extra was wanted; his reply was, “We have all that is needed for their reception.”

I then went to the purveyor, and to the kitchen; but fearing, as the battle was raging fiercely, the number of wounded might exceed the means at their disposal, I remained about the hospitals. I did this in case my services might be required, as I was well aware of the importance of speedy relief to the sufferers.

Towards evening the wounded began to arrive, though not in great numbers. I left my Zouave there and returned to the camp, telling him if anything was required, to ride home at once and inform me, as the doctors would be so much engaged—and in particular Dr. Mouatt, who would most probably not be able to devote his time to the culinary department. As I rode towards Sebastopol, to have another look at the battle, I met only a few wounded. Upon inquiring of the orderlies in charge whether there were many more, they replied that they could not say, but they believed that there were a great number. I then returned to my tent, and a few minutes afterwards my naval friends arrived. The dinner was served up, and they told me that they had had a good view of the besieged city from the French lines. In the course of conversation, they informed me that Colonel (now General) Wyndham had invited them to dinner that day. I replied, “I am very anxious about him, as he led the storming party in the Redan, and I have heard the attack has been very severe, and many were killed and wounded on both sides.” I also heard that it had been retaken by the Russians, and feared he might have been taken prisoner, if not wounded or killed.

When dinner was over, I proposed to pass them through the lines and make inquiry about him. We proceeded to Cathcart’s Hill—it was then nearly dusk—I on horseback, they on foot. The camp around us was as still and deserted as in the morning; scarcely any one was to be seen till we reached the lines. Very few shots were heard, but every one was at his post. Upon reaching Cathcart’s Hill, I alighted to speak with his Grace the Duke of Newcastle, who had been in the trenches all day and had just returned. He was kind enough to give me the details of the attacks on both sides, and said that he was waiting for General Bentinck, who had not yet been seen, and that he hoped nothing had happened to him. I observed, “This is a most anxious hour for all who have friends engaged in so serious and dangerous an encounter.”

While conversing with the Duke, I missed my two companions. Thinking they knew the position of Colonel Wyndham’s quarters, I went there expecting to find them. My first and most anxious inquiry of the servant, who knew me well, was, “What news of the Colonel?”

“Oh, all right, Monsieur Soyer,” he replied with great satisfaction. “If you wish to see him, he is gone to Colonel Wood’s tent—you know where it is.”

“No I don’t.”

“Then I’ll show you—he will be glad to see you.”

“I will not trouble you, as I would not disturb him on such a day for the world. I am glad to hear he is safe; but have you seen two gentlemen?”

“No one excepting yourself, sir. You must come with me; my master is alone, waiting for the Colonel, and I’m sure they will both be happy to see you.”

Colonel Wyndham had just changed his clothes before going to the Colonel’s to dine. His servant showed them to me; they were covered with blood and dust. I followed him to Colonel Wood’s hut, and found Colonel Wyndham walking quickly to and fro in the hut, apparently much preoccupied and excited. His eyes emitted flashes of fire, his open countenance had assumed its usual majestic calm and dignity, his lips were parched, his proud brow betokened much restlessness, and though his forehead was covered with glory, you could perceive through the wreath of laurel which had only a few hours before been deposited there by Mars, a deep shadow of thoughtfulness and care. His physiognomy told a tale. Victory had of him made a great hero, without having had time to put her final seal to his martial and petulant ardour. Another battle was yet to be fought.

Seeing me, he came forward and shook me by the hand, inviting me to enter. We were together about half-an-hour, and he related to me the great events of the attack upon the Redan, now so well known to the public. Colonel Wood came in, also free from wounds, to the delight of all, and invited me to dine with them. I told him that I had already dined, but could not refuse the honour upon so memorable an occasion.

We then sat down to dinner. FranÇois,[20] the Colonel’s French cook, with whose culinary capacities I was well acquainted, having dined several times with the Colonel, told me he never felt less interest, or prepared a dinner with so much reluctance, fearing no one would return to eat it after such a sanguinary battle. Highly delighted was he when Colonel Wyndham came in, and more so when he found that his excellent governor (as he called him) had returned safe and sound. Every officer in the camp knew FranÇois, and the Colonel’s table got quite in repute through the exertions of this culinary disciple of Vattel. He used to go to the trenches, leaving his own batteries to brave those of the enemy, and all this for the comfort of his excellent governor. He was much liked by all, and always had a budget of anecdotes, some of them very interesting. He had lived as cook and major domo for several years with Madame Grisi. The last time I saw him he was in daily expectation of the Sebastopol medal.

The dinner was served, but I must say it was not so recherchÉ as on former occasions; it seemed to have been prepared for sick epicures, or at least those who hovered between life and death. The conversation upon the events of the day was so animated that no one but myself perceived the difference. The Colonel’s excellent wine was highly relished, and in drinking the health of Colonels Wyndham and Wood, I requested the former to make a note of the fact that I had the honour of dining with him and Colonel Wood a few hours after the battle, as probably no one would credit it. This the Colonel immediately did, and Colonel Wood added his autograph, of which the following is a copy:—

8th September, 1855, 9 P.M.

I had the pleasure, after my return from leading the storming party of the 2nd Division to the Redan, of dining with Colonel D. Wood, and meeting at dinner Monsieur Soyer.