THE following day I begged Sir William Codrington to fix a day for my final trial, when I intended to place twelve stoves in the 56th Regiment, then quartered at the back of the vineyard facing head-quarters, and thus cook for the whole regiment. This would afford Sir W. Codrington an opportunity of judging of their efficacy, and enable him to give his opinion upon the subject. Lord Gough had arrived to distribute the Order of the Bath; and, as his lordship was to remain a couple of days longer in the Crimea, I was anxious that he should be present at the inspection. The following Sunday was fixed for the purpose, and the inspection was to take place after divine service. Accordingly, Lord Gough, Sir W. Codrington, General Wyndham, General Barnard, General Garrett, Colonel de Bathe, Colonel Blane, Colonel Walker, Captain Ponsonby, with their respective Staffs, were present, and tasted the various kinds of food I had caused to be prepared by two soldiers only for the whole regiment, about six hundred strong. About thirty gentlemen had assembled; and they all expressed in high terms their satisfaction and approval, not only of the quality of the food produced from the soldiers’ rations with so little trouble, but also of the small quantity of fuel consumed in its preparation. In corroboration of this, I the next day received the following letter from Lord Gough:—

The French as well as the English camps diminished daily. Each evening was ushered in by large bonfires, indicative of the early departure of either French or English troops. This style of farewell to the battle-field was generally adopted in both armies; but some of the French, not satisfied with burning their lumber and loose wood, which was very properly allowed by the authorities for those joyful volcanoes, commenced setting fire to their huts, kitchens, &c.; for which they were very severely reprimanded by their general, who, instead of allowing them to start the following day, as intended, kept them in camp to the last—compelling them to bivouac upon the spot, and thus fully enjoy the consequences of their folly, having no kitchens to cook in, nor huts to lie under. This was a good lesson for the remainder of the army.

The Fourth Division, under the command of Lord William Paulet, received orders to depart. Every regiment distinguished itself more or less by its peculiar style of bonfire. They were to be fired simultaneously on the eve of their departure. Some were raised to the height of thirty feet; one even exceeded that, with a base of at least sixty feet in circumference, being composed of not less than ten or twelve tons of wood and rubbish, brought together by the men of the 57th Regiment, who worked very hard for some days in getting it ready. The night arrived, all the bonfires, with the exception of the large one, which was kept for the last, were fired; and when the smaller ones were about half consumed, this monster was ignited in four places. The coup-d’oeil was indeed grand. The burning of Sebastopol had not offered such a column of fire in one spot; added to which, all the regiments composing the division had joined, and were dancing round that mountain of flame—shouting, singing, playing on marrow-bones and cleavers, and upon hundreds of tin camp-kettles as a substitute for drums. The camp was richly illuminated for miles around till about ten o’clock, when, as usual, all mustered in military order. The burning sky had recovered its former azure splendour; the stars were twinkling and shooting; and the next day nothing remained to tell the tale to the new-comers but a kind of large black seal, about eighty feet in circumference.

That evening I had the pleasure of joining a farewell party, given by Lord W. Paulet to a number of friends at his head-quarters. The time passed very merrily and agreeably, leaving a most delightful impression upon the minds of all.

The next morning, at daybreak, the whole of the division were on their way to Balaklava. A long red line was seen marching in the distance; the sound of the bands playing “Cheer, boys, cheer,” was faintly heard, gradually receding from both sight and hearing. Those brave fellows were then off for good. The Guards had left their camp some days before; but they went in detachments—the Coldstreams first, the Grenadier Guards next, and the Fusiliers last. I paid my respectful farewell visits to Lord Rokeby, General Craufurd, Colonels Drummond, Foley, &c. &c.

Upon this occasion, Colonel Foley invited me to lunch at their grand mess-room, which invitation I accepted with great pleasure. Every one being on the move, invitations to dinner entirely disappeared from the order of the day. The rations were the only provisions which graced the last day’s bill of fare. Still, the salt pork, beef, and the fresh meat were very good, and highly relished by a Crimean appetite: added to which, the remains of a good English cheese, a salad À la Zouave, and good English draught ale, completed the sumptuous gala. While freely partaking of the gallant colonel’s hospitality, a number of officers joined us; amongst whom I recognised the scion of a celebrated epicure, who sat next me, and commenced manipulating in his plate a most relishing sauce. Upon tasting this, I could not resist exclaiming—

“Oh! Sefton, Sefton! may your noble ashes repose in peace in your tomb! The glory of your name has not faded: your grandson, the youthful Lord Sefton, is an epicure!”

Some of my stoves remained in use in the Crimea till the day of the departure of the First Division. I was in duty bound to watch over and rescue them from the hands of the marauding Tartars, who seemed to claim as their own everything left behind by each regiment, even previous to the surrender of the Crimea by the Allied Governments.

All that remained of the British army consisted of the 20th with two Scotch regiments at Kamara, and a body of the Land Transport Corps at Cathcart’s Hill, (the Land Transport Corps were even at that time raising their bonfires); and the 56th Regiment at head-quarters, as Sir William Codrington’s body-guard. So few troops being left upon such a vast space, made it not only very dull, but also very unsafe, compelling us to keep loaded guns and revolvers at the head of our beds. The precaution was most necessary, for, with all our care, we were daily and nightly robbed by the Tartar Jews who infested the camp. Tents actually disappeared, and several huts were fired in the English camp; and no one could detect the authors of these outrages.

The Fourth Division retained its name and the ground, but that was all. The chief of that colossal body alone remained—General Garrett having to the last maintained his head-quarters upon the memorable spot. The loss most felt upon Cathcart’s Hill was the departure of Lord Alexander Russell’s brigade of Rifles, who were in the habit of parading and exercising daily upon the plateau. A parting dinner given to his lordship by General Garrett, and to which I was invited, closed merrily enough; but the day after their departure the camp was as desolate as a desert; only one regiment, the 20th, remained. General Garrett and myself were the only proprietors on that far-famed spot, Cathcart’s Hill, though no end of new tenants were arriving in shoals; I mean the rats from deserted camps, who boldly took possession of our head-quarters. All around had in a few days assumed such an aspect of desolation, that it appeared to me like a sudden exile from a lively and brilliant capital to a deserted rock: the beating of drums, sounding of trumpets, and the harmony of the bands; as well as the eternal morning parade catechism of the drill-serjeant, shouting with all his might, “Fall in! eyes fifteen paces to the front!”—or occasionally, as the French would say, “Les yeux fixes et la tÊte À quinze pas!” “Shoulder arms! slope arms!” Now and then, an awkward fellow would be thus apostrophized by the witty Serjeant: “Now, my man, has not your country been generous enough to present you with a musket? Then, do your country justice by learning the use of it.”

The profound silence which succeeded the tumult of camp life would have depressed the greatest philosopher. Stuart’s celebrated canteen, attached to the theatre, and which appeared in the series of engravings already published, was on the move; and Stuart’s head man, Joe, was at his last score of bottle-breaking, when I called and ordered half-a-dozen of pale ale.

“You may boast,” he exclaimed, “of being the last served here, for we are going off to Kadikoi immediately.” I then walked into the theatre. The stage offered a singular coup-d’oeil: the figure of a child, as well as a black doll, were hanging by the neck from a cross beam at the top of the stage; the elaborately-painted curtain was torn into ribbons, the scenery partly whitewashed over, and the furniture of the apartment of Serjeant Blowhard was thrust into Miss Greenfinch’s bedroom; while Slasher and Crasher had left the theatre in a most dilapidated state. Female attire, including wings, ringlets, caps, bonnets, bunches of flowers, crinolines, and toilets of all fashions, bedaubed with chalk, bismuth, vermilion, and red brickdust, instead of carmine, were scattered about the stage in such a state that a French chiffonnier would not have disgraced his hamper by including them amongst its contents. The painting-room floor was like a rainbow; all the powdered colours had been kicked in every direction, forming a mulligatawny of shades enough to puzzle an Owen Jones and his disciples. The benches in the stalls and pit were piled up into a formidable barricade. Nothing had been respected but her Majesty’s royal arms, which ornamented the centre of the proscenium. These had been painted by Major Dallas, General Garrett’s aide-de-camp.

By the aid of a ladder, I carefully removed them, with the intention of placing them amongst my Sebastopol trophies, as a memento of the dramatic art in the Crimea. Upon leaving this desolated skeleton temple of Melpomene, I inquired of Mr. Stuart’s bottle-breaker the cause of this awful disorder. He told me, frankly enough, that so far as the wardrobe was concerned, the rats had taken possession, but that for the remainder, himself and a few friends had done the work of devastation by way of closing the season. Thus terminated the dramatic performances in the Theatre Royal of the Fourth Division; and it was, no doubt, a fair specimen of what happened in other divisions, if left in the hands of similar good managers.

Indeed, I could not but feel hurt at this sudden devastation, for it was only a few evenings before that this tumble-down temple of Momus was gloriously shining through the resplendent glare of a dozen brown candles, and that the celebrated band of the Rifles (by permission of Lord A. Russell) was delighting a crowded audience numbering upwards of five hundred soldiers, when, at the end of the first piece, to the astonishment of all, and myself in particular, a distinguished artist and “non-commissioned” poet came forward, who, though not in the style of Victor Hugo or Moore, but rather in the poetless “or you-go-not style,” poured forth the following song, to the amusement of the audience, who at its conclusion encored it most lustily. The “poetry” (?) ran as follows:—

My presence being discovered, the whole of the troops rose en masse, and favoured me with three cheers, when, mounting a bench, I addressed them as follows:—

“My worthy friends and brave fellows, allow me to express to you my most profound gratitude for the honour you have conferred upon me thus unexpectedly. My humble services have often been approved of by your superior officers, but believe me, nothing can be more gratifying to me than your genuine and spontaneous approval of my endeavours to improve the cooking of the soldiers’ rations; and now that peace has re-established order amongst us all, I shall only be too happy to devote my time in instructing you in the plain art of cookery; for, believe me, it is the desire of her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen, and your superiors, that you should live well, long, grow fat, and die happy.”

Shouts of laughter and rounds of cheers terminated this unexpected dramatic impromptu. The performance in consequence terminated twenty minutes later than usual.

On leaving this heap of ruins, I felt as though haunted by a day-mare instead of one worthy of Young’s Night; but I persisted in conquering the feeling, and in continuing my sorrowful pilgrimage. As if to add to the gloomy appearance of the deserted camp, the sun, which long threw his burning rays upon the dry soil, disappeared behind vaporous clouds, and rain fell fast. Nevertheless, nothing could prevent me carrying out my first idea, which was to visit in all their loneliness the various camps. I reasoned thus with myself:—“I am probably the only person who has the chance of doing this, and, therefore, the only person who will be able to tell the tale.” In spite of the great desire I had to continue my journey, as evening was approaching, I was compelled, though reluctantly, to put an end to my camp review until the day prior to my evacuating the Crimea; therefore I returned to Balaklava, which place, together with Kamiesch, alone showed signs of martial movement, the latter less so than the former. The French troops got away before our own, and at last there were as many Russians as French at Kamiesch. I had scarcely anything to do, which was not amusing after having had so much business continually upon my hands. Mr. Crockford asked me whether I should like to take a trip to Odessa. I jumped at the proposal with delight. That gentleman kindly allowed me to invite a few friends, and assured me that the trip would only occupy five or six days, going and returning. In less than four hours the list was filled, and two days afterwards we were on board the Belle Alar, but under more prosperous circumstances than on our former pleasure expedition. The weather was fine, the vessel properly ballasted, and furnished with provisions of all sorts, besides a cargo of goods. Our appetites were first-rate; and after thirty-eight hours of fair steaming, we came in sight of the far-famed city of palaces—Odessa, into the harbour of which we were at once admitted.

Thanks to General LÜders, who obtained of the governor a suspension of quarantine, and Brigadier-General Staunton, whose arrival had been telegraphed, we were allowed to enter even without passports. Among the fortunate tourists were General Staunton, Colonel Smith, Major Earle, Mr. William Russell, Mr. Angel, Mr. Crockford, and myself.

During the trip, our party was as turbulent as the ocean was calm. Each day commenced and ended with shouts of laughter, contrasting singularly with the former melancholy days in the camp. I need not relate that which is so well known to every one—that the most successful parties are those which are got up À l’impromptu. This was the case with this delightful trip; so much so, indeed, that some who came on board at five o’clock were not aware of it till two or three.

I do not think I can give a better idea of this delightful trip than by republishing the following descriptive letter, which appeared in the Times:—

We left the far-famed city of Odessa, and thus joyfully terminated our trip to that land of new friends.

Upon our return to Cathcart’s Hill, we found that General Garrett and suite had removed to the commandant’s house at Balaklava, the general having succeeded to that important post at the departure of Colonel Hardinge, which post he retained till the final close of this great political and military drama. My majordomo, my engineer, and followers, were not able, with all their bravery, to resist the nightly attacks of the Tartar camp-rovers. Robbery it was impossible to prevent; for they in one night, as I heard, cleared off everything out of doors, as well as an old bell tent and a box with the servant’s clothes. The matter at last grew so critical, that my people were obliged to fire upon them in the night at random. Such Arabian marauders are worthy of the finest type of Zouaves for pillaging.

I found also, on my return, that my people had, immediately after I set off on my trip, left the hill, at the recommendation of General Garrett. He kindly sent word that he did not consider it safe for them to remain there any longer. They were quartered in one of the wards close to the General Hospital, where some of the Sardinian sick remained. They had all daring, adventurous, and extraordinary anecdotes of what had occurred during my absence to relate. Shell-proof, in particular, pretended to have wounded several in the nocturnal engagements.

On his departure for Odessa, Mr. Wm. Russell had left his iron castle, with his farm-house, stables, garden, and dependencies, in a most nourishing condition; but upon his return that gentleman found the castle pulled down, folded up, and packed ready for removal by land pirates. He thus describes his feelings on the occasion:—

Upon returning to Balaklava, we found it but a dismal place. Everybody you met—and the number was not great—quietly asked, “What, not gone yet!—when are you going?”

“In a few days,” was the general reply, or perhaps “to-day” or “to-morrow.”

For my part, I told every one who inquired that I had gone, and what they saw going about dressed like me was only my shadow. Joking apart, I may state, for the information of those whom I respect and who deserve to know the truth, my reason for remaining so long was this: I was in duty bound to see the remainder of my field-stoves, which were in use till the last moment of the campaign, shipped for England. Not only was I responsible for them, but I had to give my official report to Sir William Codrington, and close the mission entrusted to me by the British Government.

Glad was I to be once more at liberty, as my health, though partially restored, was anything but satisfactory. The Commander-in-chief had gone to Odessa only for a few days, it is true; but during his absence there was nothing doing. Balaklava was deserted, the camp lifeless; Kadikoi still more so—not a hut, tent, shed, store, canteen, shop, or stable, was inhabited. Brick and stone houses, as well as hospitals, were to let at the very moderate price of nothing at all, and glad to get tenants at that rather reduced rate. It was not at all extraordinary for one to rise a poor man in the morning, and at night find oneself a large proprietor. Every person, upon leaving, presented you with rows of houses, shops, &c., which they could not sell or take away. Nevertheless, all was stale, flat, and unprofitable, as a day or two after coming into possession you yourself had to give them up. Riding through the camp, even at mid-day, was a dangerous experiment, as it was invaded by hundreds of people of all kinds and tribes, who prowled about, pillaging everything they could put hands upon. Therefore Balaklava was the only safe quarter, and dull enough into the bargain. The heat was great, and amusement scanty. Like the song of the Manchester operatives, “we had no work to do-oo-oo.” Eating little, drinking much, and sleeping all day, was our principal occupation. I removed from the General Hospital to a very comfortable hut, then recently occupied by an officer of the Commissariat, comprising three rooms, a stable, and yard.

About noon one day, while in deep slumber, I was suddenly aroused by a joyful voice. It came from Captain Hall, General Codrington’s aide-de-camp. “Hallo!” said he, “I fear I am disturbing you.”

“Not at all, captain; pray walk in—I have nothing to do. I was taking an Oriental nap, which calms one’s senses, to that extent that I had in imagination travelled as far as England and back again to my duty in the East in less than half an hour.”

“I have done more extraordinary things than that,” said he. “By the same conveyance I have been as far as the East Indies and back to head-quarters in the Crimea in twenty minutes.”

“You have certainly beaten me; and I think the human mind can at any time beat the electric telegraph for speed.”

“What do you intend doing to-morrow?”

“The same as to-day, captain—nothing.”

“Captain Leyland and family have just arrived in the harbour in the beautiful yacht, the Sylphide. I have spoken to him about you, and he will be glad to make your acquaintance. They called upon you at Cathcart’s Hill, but you were at Odessa. If you like to see that gentleman at once, I will introduce you.”

“Most happy, captain.”

In a short time we were climbing up the side of the bulky Sylphide, an immense yacht. From her deck, her beauty was seen to the best advantage. The real Sylphide was, however just perceptible, surrounded by a group of gentlemen and ladies, beneath a large union-jack which formed an awning upon deck. This was no other than Miss Leydell, a beautiful lady eighteen years of age, with blue eyes, fair hair, rows of pearls for teeth—in fact, a real Sylphide, a sight of whom would have driven Taglioni to despair. After I had had the honour of an introduction to her sylphideship and the surrounding group, the conversation became animated. The topic was upon a monster gipsy party which was to take place the following day in the valley of Baidar, and to which I received an invitation, no sooner made than accepted by your humble servant. The captain then offered to show us over his yacht, which might be compared to a nobleman’s floating house, for elegance, perfection, and comfort.

The Land Transport Corps and Commissariat had all left, and only the General-in-chief and Staff remained, forming the last link of the chain which still bound them to the Crimean soil. They were at the time preparing for an excursion to Odessa, on a visit to General LÜders. The excellent account of the courteous reception we had received at his hands, as well as from the inhabitants of that beautiful city, rendered them more anxious to go. Miss Nightingale was preparing for her departure. I was waiting the closing of the Land Transport and General Hospitals, to see my field-stoves embarked; and after delivering them in person to Captain Gordon, I was anxious to follow. Balaklava church, now deprived of its sacerdotal character, was being prepared for the reception of the Commander-in-chief upon his return from Odessa, as head-quarters had been given up to the original proprietors. General Wyndham, accompanied by his aide-de-camp, had left for England.

The Algiers had arrived in port, to conduct Sir William Codrington to England, via, Constantinople and Malta. A few days afterwards, Miss Nightingale and nurses left for Scutari. All the hospitals in the Crimea were then closed.

A few days after the departure of Miss Nightingale, a marble monument of immense size arrived, and was erected, by an order left by that lady, between the Sanatorium heights and the Sardinian graveyard and monument, situated on the peak of a mountain. It is perceptible from a great distance at sea. The Nightingale Monument is a monster marble cross, twenty feet high, of beautiful Marmora marble. I believe it was ordered and paid for by that benevolent lady, and dedicated by her to the memory of the brave, and the deceased Sisters of Charity. Nothing was written upon it when we left; but the following line was, as I was informed, to be inscribed:—

Shortly after the return of Sir W. Codrington, Sir John Hall, the chief doctor, and Dr. Mouat departed. The only acting parties now left upon the Crimean shores after the awful struggle were, General Sir William Codrington, Admiral Freemantle, Rear-Admiral Stewart, General Garrett, Colonel Halliwell, Major Dallas, Captains Hollis and Barnard, Colonels Hugh Smith and Ross, and Captain Gordon; Mr. Osborn, the Commissariat officer, and Mr. Fitzgerald, the purveyor.

The last day, so anxiously waited for and so sweetly anticipated, had arrived. It was ushered in by nightly burnings of huts and canteens.

The day before our departure, and the one prior to the surrender of Balaklava to the Russians, being fixed for my grand review, after in vain endeavouring to induce several individuals to accompany me, I had to go alone, as nobody else took any interest in my solitary pilgrimage.

Even my Snow-hill Zouave at the same time pretended that he had too much to do to waste his valuable time, as he called it—valuable indeed was the word; for at that instant my Cockney Zouave, the brave, was busily engaged making a family drawing. A Stanfield would have been at a standstill at the ingenuity of this modern Joseph Vernet, as a marine painter. Miss Nightingale’s carriage had the night previous arrived at my domicile from a store in the Land Transport Corps camp, where I rescued it from a heap of vulgar wagons; it was now standing before the door of my hut, which faced the General Hospital, and had attracted the attention of Mr. Landells, the corresponding artist of the Illustrated London News, who was first struck at the many peculiarities of this vehicle, and afterwards more so with the production of my artist, when he broke out into a genuine shout of laughter, after gazing for an instant on my Zouave’s picture. Nothing for originality could have matched it, but a late Turner, in its demi-chef d’oeuvre, from which the halo of glory had departed, and age had left genius alone galavanting from his palette to its now immortal canvas. Turner did I say—yes, and without disgracing the name of that great man; for in the presence of Mr. Landells, my modern Stanfield, who was anxious to gather as much as he could for the edification of his large family on a small sheet of foolscap, and being compelled from the great heat of the morning sun to keep in-doors, would occasionally get up and peep round the corner. On being asked by Mr. Landells how he could see from where he was sitting the entire range of the harbour, and more particularly the Genoese Tower, which was situated directly opposite the back of my hut, my clever Zouave, disgusted with Mr. Landells’ ignorance of the rudiments of sketching, and vexed at being disturbed, quietly replied, “D—- n it! did you not see me turn round the corner.”

“Pray don’t, my dear sir,” I exclaimed, “interrupt my artist; as you may perceive he is a regular Turner—round the corner, I mean.”

With the courage of Don Quixote, but without a Sancho Panza, I undertook my grand military review. I could not but regret the absence of my brave travelling gent, Peter Morrison, who, through an assumed illness, had three months previous abandoned the field of glory, thus terminating his brave and brilliant military career; for had he been still with me, I might have depended upon his formal refusal to follow me.

It was six in the morning: the sun was shining feebly through watery clouds; the breeze blew freshly; the road was moist, my pony in good order, sandwich-case full, leather bottle filled with brandy-and-water, and my revolver loaded. My mind was full of anxiety and wild reverie, for I was about to pass a review of, to me, a defunct army, with the fortunes of which I had been so intimately connected during the war. I knew that upon my return to England I should only meet a few fragments of this splendid force, and not the entire mass, as I had done in the Crimea. I had twelve hours before me.

I commenced at the Sanatorium Hospital, which had been to me such a scene of animation and vivid interest. A mournful silence reigned in this small wooden city. My kitchens had suffered the least in the terrible ordeal; all the framework and brick stoves were still standing, and looked just as if waiting to be again put in action. The grand row of huts forming the various wards, without being much disturbed, were rather in a state of dilapidation. Lastly, I visited Miss Nightingale’s sanatorium residence, situated on the peak of a rock at the end of the row of huts. This wooden palace, with its rough verandah, was divided into three separate apartments, giving it a more cheerful appearance than the rest. The iron stove, and its rusty pipe, beds, &c., had been removed, but the remainder of the furniture was intact. Tables, benches, wooden stools, empty pots and bottles which had contained medical comforts, a few rags, a piece of an apron, no end of waste paper, a pair of wooden shoes, and a live cat that appeared to have lived upon the remnants of the kitchen-diets, or more likely the rats, met my inquiring gaze. I caught Miss Puss and closeted her in Miss Nightingale’s store-room, with the wooden stool in daily use, intending to send for both at night. The latter I proposed to keep as a relic, and to restore the former to society by either taking him on board ship or letting him loose in the town. I sent my servant; but the pillage had commenced—the cat was gone, and I only got the stool.

Anxious to continue my tour of inspection, I ascended the mountain towards the old Sardinian camp, lately occupied by a few English regiments shortly before embarkation. In the space of a few hundred yards I passed not less than six cemeteries—viz., the one for the Sisters of Mercy and doctors, Sailors’ Hospital, Sanatorium, a large Turkish one, and two belonging to the Sardinian troops. Leaving the Marmora Monument on the left and the Nightingale Cross on the right, I merely cast a coup-d’oeil to the tumble-down Sardinian hospital and fragment of camp, and took the road to Kamara. Not a soul did I meet for three miles while crossing the rustic road, cutting immediately through the peak of these lofty mountains, with their base in the Euxine on one side, and on the other, through deep ravines, solemnly reposing on Balaklava’s glorious plain. No, nothing but a poor horse, who had been ineffectually shot, was grazing near a pool of blood. Life, the mother of all, seemed to have rescued him from the grasp of Death—the animal was no longer bleeding, the perforation made by the bullet appeared to be healing up. I gathered him a heap of grass, gave him some water from an adjacent rocky rivulet, washed his wound, and to my regret abandoned him.

Shortly after, I crossed through the late camp of the Highland Division, through the vales, dales, and rocky mountains of Kamara. Russian officers and soldiers had taken possession of Sir Colin Campbell and General Cameron’s head-quarters, with its green turret. Although no sentries were posted, any quantity of Tartars were wandering about laden with spoils of the deserted camp. What a contrast! Only a few days ago this picturesque spot was all life and animation; indeed the cloth was hardly removed from the festive board, the echo of the shrill pibroch was still vibrating through the adjacent mountains. It was there, only a short time since, that I bade farewell to the brave generals, Sir Colin Campbell and Cameron. Space will not allow me further to descant on the past beauties of this scene; a volume could be filled with its splendours. Not a mile from there stand the fortifications, and mud-built huts of the Sardinians, looking more like a deserted rabbit-warren than the abode of an army; it was on this spot they bravely withstood the attack of the enemy at the battle of the Tchernaya on the 16th of August, 1855. Gipsy families had taken possession of a farm and small church on the left, which is so well known. I looked with amazement at the once blooming gardens of the French camp, and the myriads of wild flowers. Death and desolation seemed then to be the only attendants on this once fascinating scene. Crossing the plain of Balaklava at full gallop, over the celebrated ground where the grand charge of cavalry took place, a distance of several miles, I perceived a white speck: it was the remains of the grand ball-room built by the French in honour of the birth of the Imperial Prince. Heaps of ruins were perceptible at a great distance; this was the once over-populated, but now deserted, Kadikoi. A few minutes after I reached the plateau of Inkermann, arriving near the celebrated windmill where, at the time of this battle, his Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge and staff were encamped (see Addenda). I next proceeded through the park of artillery, and went direct to the Light Division’s head-quarters, carefully inspecting the late abode of Lord William Paulet, where once more I met with a most cheering reception, this time from a Tartar family who had taken possession, and they supplied myself and horse with refreshment. The only gloomy reminiscence from this spot was the sight of the numerous graveyards, where mother earth had wrapped in her bosom all that was mortal of many hundreds of her brave sons. At the bottom of the ravine the watering-place for the horses still remained. The water, as usual, was gurgling on its way from tub to tub; an abandoned mule was alone slaking his thirst where once hundreds of horses were to be seen drinking. From here it took me only a few seconds to reach the Second Division and General Barnard’s head-quarters. The Russians by this time had indeed taken possession of all he had left there, though still I must say that all things were here kept in good order; labouring men were making a garden close to the hut. Soon after this, roaming to the top of Cathcart’s Hill, I found the theatre and canteen in perfect keeping, both having been burnt to the ground. Soyer’s villarette, though very dilapidated, still remained. The green plot of grass was in great disorder, no doubt the work of the loose horses, who, anticipating a feed, had found to their disgust that art, for once, had been triumphant over nature, and they accordingly vented their spite upon the painted grass. The clergyman’s hut had been respected. General Garrett’s palazzo had been invaded by an indescribable miscellanea of animals. The rocky grotto, which had been severally tenanted by General Sir John Campbell, General Wyndham, General Paulet, General Bentinck, and his Grace the Duke of Newcastle, was left to the mercy of the rats, who here vegetated by hundreds; the floor was strewn with rags, paper, and other rubbish, which had been gathered by these industrious and destructive vermin.

Immediately after ascending and descending three steps, hat in hand, I paid my last solemn duty and respects to the resting-place of the dead brave. A picture indeed it was to see the respect paid to those who had so gloriously died for their country’s cause—PÈre la Chaise or Kensal Green could not look in better condition than this solitary cemetery. With my heart full of emotion I bade adieu to this consecrated spot, and retired. Once more, and for the last time, I gazed on the ruins of Sebastopol. Life seemed to have deserted this once mighty city; one solitary chimney alone emitted smoke; the sun was still shining on this defunct place, which a few days previous I had visited in detail, and found still in the deserted state so often described.

Crossing Lord A. Russell’s Rifle’s quarters, I soon arrived in the Third Division. General Adams’s villarette had been turned into a farmhouse; sheep and other cattle grazed in the ravine.

From this spot I visited the General Hospital located in this division; which I found in a similar state as the Sanatorium. Not a sign of life was perceptible in this mournful spot, where so lately I had witnessed so many painful scenes. From here I journeyed to the Brigade of Guards, the theatre of my semi-martial dÉbut, having previously inspected the intermediate camp. All was as silent as the grave. A line of obstruction lay on the ground where once the busy railway passed. The Rokeby Castle and its vicinity had the appearance of a travelling caravan of gipsies reposing; children in rags escaped from the group to solicit alms; a few halfpence contented them. In the camp, the kitchen and a number of huts had been burnt down; the mess-room of Colonel Foley was still ornamented with the rustic chandelier which had been bequeathed to me by the gallant colonel before his leaving. Colonels Walker, De Bathe, and the late Colonel Drummond’s habitations were selected as a home by the wandering tribe of gipsies.

General Craufurd’s head-quarters were uninhabited; a few loose horses were grazing near, on the celebrated cricket-ground. The close of my visit was to the English and French head-quarters; in the former I was informed the proprietor had reinstated himself on his domains. The turmoil and traffic of war had here given place to the quietude and repose of peace. The post-office, telegraph, and printing machines had ceased their movements; the vineyards alone appeared refreshing to the eye. Dr. Hall’s snuff-box hut was left open, and partly unroofed; General Wyndham’s quarters were quite deserted. The rope curtains taken from the Redan, and laid on the ground before the hut door, was all that remained which I could recognise, as they had upon my demand, been presented to me by the general’s aide-de-camp, whose name, to my regret, has escaped my memory.

The French head-quarters presented a similar aspect, but was more animated by crowds of adventurers.

Having on my way home taken a glimpse at the ruins of the Seacole Tavern, Land Transport Corps, Army Works Corps, and hospital, I arrived at Bleak House (the head-quarters of Mr. Doyne the engineer), which was drearier than ever, and, like a lost balloon in mid air, entirely deserted; all that remained was the almost indescribable view which, at one glance, stamped the scene as something more than beautiful. From the rock where I stood I could pass in review the remainder of the camp, as yet unexplored by me. On my left once lay Colonel Wood’s park of artillery, and towards it were a few mules clambering, led by Tartars. At the foot of the hill were Captain Gordon’s late quarters; further on, on the next mound, were the head-quarters of the Land Transport Corps, in the occupation of Colonel M’Murdo and Captain Evans; but the most striking object in view was the combined Railway Station and Engine House, once the focus of noise, but now the abode of repose. In abandoning this rural spot, and running my eye a few hundred yards below me, lay a most charmingly built villarette, most suitably called Prospect House, which was the private residence of Mr. Doyne. Science had here conquered what was wanting in material; the goddess Flora had, like the owner, abandoned this pretty landscape; the dry soil and the sun’s rays had “dishabilled” each root from its flower. The cavalry camp and its numerous rows of stables were the last I visited. Dusk gently stole over the horizon when I re-entered the Col of Balaklava. The stars were brightly shining; it was nine o’clock; every bell in the harbour was tolling. Before retiring to rest no less than thirty-seven cemeteries did I count on my daily tablet, which I had passed during my solitary wandering.

The night before the surrender of Balaklava, a large fire broke out in the village of Kadikoi, which, had the wind been high, would have destroyed more than a thousand huts. As usual, the miscreant who had done the mischief escaped detection. General Sir W. Codrington was much vexed at this, as some huts had been sold to the Russian officers. I was, in consequence, deputed by Mr. Bennett, of the Army Works Corps, who was just leaving in another vessel, (at that time I was on board the Argo, and ready to sail the following day) to accompany the Russian officer to Sir W. Codrington, to inform him of the fact that the money had been received, and to request that it might be returned. Sir William, though overwhelmed with business, it being the eve of his departure, kindly attended to the Russian officer’s request; and the next morning, as I was going on board the Argo, I had the pleasure of meeting the Commander-in-chief on his way to the spot where the fire had taken place, in order to assure himself that the huts burnt were those which had been paid for. I had a short walk and conversation with Sir William upon various subjects, and took the opportunity of thanking him for the following letter, with which he had kindly favoured me, containing his opinion of my culinary services during the war:—

We then parted, the general going to Kadikoi; and I, to select my berth, and see Miss Nightingale’s carriage shipped.

The day turned out fine, though rather gloomy in the early part, and very windy. As the last day of such a series of fine weather, it was anything but a promising farewell. At twelve precisely, the keys of Balaklava were to be given up. A picket of the Land Transport Corps were placed on the small bridge at the Col of Balaklava.

A few minutes after, three or four gentlemen sailors, accompanied by some parties whom we at first took for heroic Kadikoi tradesmen, arrived at full gallop, crying out—“The Russians are coming!” which report spread alarm through the camp, and in less than two minutes caused all the troops, twenty-five in number, to be under arms, and rush full speed upon the assailants, by whom they were entirely defeated—as in a few minutes Balaklava was retaken, and has ever since remained in the hands of the Russians. Thus ended that friendly battle of which I was so anxious to be an eye-witness, where champagne flowed freely in lieu of blood.

The grand reception and ceremony was to take place at the Commandant’s head-quarters. A few minutes after twelve, Captain Stamaki, the new governor of Balaklava, made his appearance, accompanied by only one aide-de-camp. Being met by the English authorities, he made a full stop, and the password was exchanged, I believe, in the Greek language. The governor of Balaklava then galloped into his new kingdom. In about twenty minutes a body-guard of about seventy men, some on foot and some mounted, made their appearance. The horsemen, upon nearer approach, we found to be a picket of Cossacks. When about one hundred yards from the bridge, the British picket went towards them—the Russians having halted. This conventional performance lasted but a few minutes; and then, the British posts were relieved by the Russians as they passed on their way to the commandant’s, where they were received by Sir W. Codrington, General Garrett, Admirals Freemantle, Stewart, Captain Codrington, &c. &c. A squadron of the 56th, the last regiment remaining in the Crimea, were in attendance with their band. On one side were the English, and the Russians opposite, for the first time on duty facing each other in friendly feeling. The centre was occupied by the authorities. Amongst the group of lookers-on was the illustrious Mrs. Seacole, dressed in a riding-habit; and for the last time this excellent mother was bidding farewell to all her sons, thus ending her benevolent exertions in the Crimea. Having given her my parting salute, I left the mÈre noire for the Black Sea. The sun shone brightly upon that animated group, now performing the last scene of the great drama enacted upon those shores.

A few minutes after the curtain had fallen, spectators and performers had separated, and all were entering upon their new duties. The last remnant of the British army was that day ordered to sail for home.

The weather, which had been rather boisterous, increased in violence; and in consequence, the captain of the Argo, with whom I had been in company since the morning to witness the grand closing scene, made sure that we should not sail till the next day. He therefore proposed inviting several of the Russian officers to dine on board. This I immediately communicated to them in French, and they politely accepted the invitation. The party was six in number: among those invited, was Monsieur le Conte de Maison, a French nobleman, who had lived many years in Russia, and was a large proprietor in the Crimea. After replying to several of his questions, I told him my name. He appeared doubly interested, having heard, as he said, so much about me in the Crimea. In Russia this gentleman was looked upon as an epicure, and probably the interest he felt in my acquaintance had something to do with the good dinner he anticipated. Dinner was to have been upon the table at six, and at half-past five the boat of the Argo was to fetch them on board. All was settled, and a pleasant evening with our new friends expected. A violent shower of rain scattered us in all directions, and, much to our sorrow, we never met again.

We had hardly regained the ship, when Admiral Stewart came on board and ordered the captain to sail immediately. I went home through the rain to inform my people of the sudden change of orders, and found they had already heard the news and had started. I arrived just in time to prevent a Tartar stealing one of my horses, of which I had made a present to Mr. Smith, a wine-merchant, as there was no possibility of selling him. Horse-dealing with the Russians about that time was pretty much after this fashion: a rather decent horse would fetch from three to five roubles—which latter sum makes a pound sterling. Under these circumstances, to place them in good hands was not only a charity, but a duty.

Everybody had got on board, and the new-comers were under shelter. The rain fell heavily, and not a soul did I meet in my way from the General Hospital to the Argo, which was lying at the other side of the harbour. Nobody was out but myself, my horse, and my umbrella, which I had much difficulty in holding up in the gale I was then braving. The thousands who had witnessed and mingled with the noisy crowd which for so many months had encumbered the place, can form but a faint idea of the gloomy appearance of the desolate Balaklava.