I think there is no more grateful man than your honest blue-jacket or marine if he receives a favour; and Paddy O'Rayne never forgot Dr. Reikie's kindness to him after that accident of his at Constantinople, when he went on shore to visit the "unspakeable Turk."
"He might have planked me for it," he told his messmates more than a dozen times, "and got my grog and my leave stopped for months, sure. But my jewel av a master didn't; and troth it's meself that lives in the hope of seeing him in the clutches of the lion or tiger, or drowning in the deep say before my very eyes, just that I may have the pleasure of saving his loife entoirely."
This might have been, and doubtless was intended as a good wish; still it was a somewhat strange one. Only Paddy meant it.
And the honest fellow, too, was constantly trying to do little things to please his master.
Knowing the fondness that the doctor had for getting hold of all kinds of natural history curios, never a time did Paddy go on shore without bringing him something. But most of these were of little use, and speedily found their way overboard.
One day, for example, Paddy came off from shore in great glee. He and a messmate had been spending the day in the woods.
"You'll niver guess, sorr, what I've brought you to-day. Sure, I'd have caught it alive if I could; but he wouldn't stop, so I shot it, and I've got it here in my cap right enough."
"And what is it, Paddy?"
"It's what they calls a hybrute [hybrid], sorr, and it's neither fish nor flesh nor good red herring. It's got the body of a snake, and two legs like a lizard. Och, sure, sorr, it's a quare, quare baste indade."
"Well, turn it out, Paddy, and don't excite my curiosity any more."
Paddy did as he was told, and carefully opened his cap on top of the skylight, and out dropped what certainly looked like a "very quare baste indeed." It was getting dusk, so this added to the uncanny appearance of the creature.
Sturdy, Jack, and even Captain Gillespie crowded round.
"Ugh!" said the latter; "I wouldn't touch it for the world."
Dr. Reikie was delighted.
"Paddy," he said, "you're a jewel."
"Me mother says the same, sorr."
"Gentlemen," said the doctor, "I have all along been a believer in hybrids. Granted, they may be accidental, even unnatural. Nevertheless, here you have a specimen before you—a hybrid between the snake and the lizard. You see the long body; you see the legs near the creature's shoulder—two legs only. Dissection may probably reveal two rudimentary limbs farther aft. This specimen, gentlemen, shall grace the museum at Edinburgh, and I—"
Here he picked the creature up by the tail, when, lo and behold, out tumbled a frog from the mouth of a snake. The latter had swallowed the frog, all but the hind quarters. Everybody roared with laughter, and the doctor's face grew a fathom long, more or less. The frog was alive, and rubbing one of its eyes; the snake was dead: but the doctor was never allowed to forget his hybrid.
* * * * *
Having in a former book described the scenery, the tree-scapes, and mountains and glens in Jamaica, and the beautiful ocean around—beautiful even in the grandeur of its storms—I have no desire to repeat, but I must say that Jack Mackenzie lost no opportunity of going on shore with Dr. Reikie. A day with him in the woods and wilds, if it were merely bird, beetle, or butterfly hunting, was a picnic never to be forgotten; and our young hero learned something every time, and was soon convinced that natural history is the most pleasant of all earthly studies. Nor did a day spent on shore ever pass without some little adventure or other worth remembering. Many of these were rather comical than otherwise.
During their escapades inland the two friends saw a good deal of black men's life. Dr. Reikie found some of these fellows handy in carrying specimens; they also acted as guides when the two explorers went far inland. As regards the ethics of these men, I think they were what the doctor called them—"honest with good looking after."
They were fond of "a dram," too, and would drink the white Jamaica rum fresh and hot from the stills. It used to make their eyes start almost out of their sockets. They liked it for that very reason. But Dr. Reikie had on board a dram, which he gave them when they helped him off with his curios, that they liked even better than this—namely, what is called "Cape smoke," about the strongest and vilest spirit there is. The surgeon found it handy for keeping small specimens in.
"Ah, dat is good, massa," a nigger would say as soon as he had recovered his breath after swallowing half a tumblerful neat—"dat is good; it makes me say 'Huh!'"
Fond of a good joke some of those niggers were, too. They seemed to know that man-o'-war sailors will eat almost anything.
One day when the cotton was in "pod" some niggers enticed a party of blue-jackets into a plantation.
"Dere is some bery good pea to eat heah, gentlemans," they said.
The jackie-tars did not require a second invitation, but began tearing the "pods" open. When, however, they got the fluff among their teeth, and the niggers began to laugh, they soon desisted, and the darkies had to fly.
Was it love of fun or love for cash, I wonder, that was to account for the following? The John Crow or Turkey buzzard (Vultur aura) is, like all his race, one of the most filthy and disgusting of birds. But one day, as an Irish merchant skipper was about to sail, a nigger boarded him.
"I sellee you cheap," he said, "some bery good turkey."
The head of this horrid buzzard, I should tell you, is very like that of the turkey, and the nigger had plucked the bodies.
After attempting to beat the man down in his price for a minute or two, the skipper bought these "turkeys," and the nigger came on shore chuckling to himself.
What the end of the story was I cannot say, but I should have liked to see that skipper's face when the buzzards were cooked and served up.
* * * * *
In his pursuit of science—as usual under difficulties—Dr. Reikie and his young friend Jack went once upon a cruise among some small tropical islands. They took with them a nigger who assured them he was an excellent cook.
They took the man on his own recommendation. On the first day this black cook presented them with an excellent fry of sea-gull and pork. I suppose the nigger must have skinned the gulls, for if not so treated they are apt to taste somewhat peculiar.
On the second day they returned to the beach, where they had pitched their little camp, hungrier than on the previous evening. The doctor had been successful in making a capital bag, and securing many specimens that he believed, when placed in Edinburgh Museum, would hand down his name to posterity. They were looking forward, therefore, to a good feed.
Sambo met them. He was grinning good-naturedly from ear to ear.
"Ah, massa," he cried, "you hab one bery good dinnah to-day."
So it was served. You will believe me it was a failure when I inform you that Sambo had made a kind of Irish stew of sea-gulls, pork, fish, and roots all boiled up together!
* * * * *
Just one other example of negro cookery and negro innocence.
In the grounds of Jamaica hospital there were some fine tamarind trees, in which the very smallest known species of humming-bird used to build its nest and rear its tiny young. I do not say it was not cruel of Dr. Reikie to shoot these birds, but he wanted some specimens very much. But the smallest shot blew the birds to the back of the north wind apparently, and the doctor was in despair.
Paddy O'Rayne stood by him. Paddy was scratching his poll in a considering kind of way.
"Have you got an idea, Paddy?" said the doctor.
"Indade and I have, sorr. If ye want to kill the burds, sorr, widout injuring them at all, troth it's a pinch of gunpowder and a thrifle of sago you must be after using."
Paddy was right for once. But now came a new difficulty. How should he preserve the lovely creatures? They were far too tiny to skin. He got over this by simply wrapping them in brown paper, and drying or desiccating them on the hob of the hospital kitchen.
Well, one day he gave three nicely-shot and beautiful specimens to the nigger cook to do for him. What were his surprise and disgust to have them brought to him by the black fellow on a plate!
"Him done now, massa," he said.
Yes, indeed, they were done, for he had removed the paper and cooked them, feathers and all.
* * * * *
There is a species of dove or pigeon out in Jamaica that the niggers themselves consider rather delicate eating, or at all events are very fond of. It (Zenaida amabilis) suffers much from the biting of mosquitoes. Well, the niggers know this, and so they make a fire under a tree and heap green wood thereon to make a smoke. This drives the insects off; and well the doves know it does, for they soon come and settle on the tree, preferring the smoke to the mosquito bites. But, alas! they are out of the frying-pan into the fire, as they speedily fall victims to the guns of the niggers.
* * * * *
But cases of cholera were getting rife, and so the Gurnet was ordered to sea at last. She now bore up for the lone Bermudas, a group of islands that lie many degrees to the north and east of the West Indies.
The Bermudas are said to be the loveliest islands on this earth. They are certainly very beautiful; but, strange to say, one always seems to think every group of tropical islands he comes to, while sailing here and there across the ocean, more lovely and fairy-like than the last. The words of the poet rise to my mind, however, as I think of Bermuda:—
"Where the remote Bermudas ride
In the ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat that rowed along,
The listening winds received this song,—
'What should we do but sing His praise
That led us through the watery maze
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?'"
There are more than a hundred islands here, great and small; but at the time of the visit thereto of the Gurnet, probably not more than a dozen were inhabited.
Steam was up in the ship when she first sighted lights, about four bells in the middle watch; and owing to the number of rocks and shoals about, it was deemed advisable to keep well off until morning.
Dr. Reikie and Jack were both on deck early, and the scene that met their view seemed like one of enchantment. Some of those verdant isles seemed to be floating in the clouds. But dark rocks were seen here and there like the backs of monster whales, and over these the sea-green water broke and moaned and boomed in long lines of snow-white surf. Farther off to the right and left the ocean was basking in the sunlight, a deep and cerulean blue, with here and there a patch of opal or green where the coral or weedy bottom showed through.
"Man," said Dr. Reikie, "isn't it fine?"
"Oh, it is charming!" cried Jack, with enthusiasm.
"And," added the doctor, "if we only stay here for a month, let alone two, as Captain Gillespie expects, the Edinburgh Museum will hardly be able to docket all my specimens."
"But see, on the flag-staff on the fort yonder they are making signals," said Jack Mackenzie.
"Ay, Jack; but no' to us. They're speaking to that wee vision of a gunboat far away yonder. I guess they'll talk to us presently."
* * * * *
For once in a way Dr. Reikie was disappointed, and the Edinburgh Museum must have been a very great loser indeed. For when Captain Gillespie returned from the flag-ship, the news he brought was very exciting indeed, not to say startling.
War had been declared against Russia, and the very gunboat they had seen had orders for the Gurnet—which her commander (a lieutenant he was) had not expected to meet here—to proceed eastwards with all speed, and wait further orders at Gibraltar.
END OF BOOK FIRST.
Book Second.
FOR HONOUR AND GLORY.
War, war, war! Yes; war was the cry, from Land's End to John o' Groat's. In England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, war, war, war! In the drawing-rooms of the wealthy, in the humblest cottar's hut far away on Highland hillsides, you heard that song; it was sung by prince and peer and peasant, in theatre and concert and gutter. And even in churches, bishops, in their sleeves of lawn, prayed to Heaven to bless our arms, and for the "God of battle" to fight on our behalf.
Oh, Britain was valiant, Britain was brave in those days, just as she would be were war to be declared to-morrow against any nation, no matter which.
And we were in the right, too. So everybody believed, so everybody said.
Turkey, for this once at all events, was a poor, down-trodden country; Russia the cowardly, Russia the aggressive and grasping, had her heel upon her neck.
"Holy Russia!" Yes, there were many who made use of those two little words, and spoke them with a sneer. Holy, indeed! Was she not the vilest, the most ignorant and tyrannical nation on earth—a nation of slaves and serfs domineered over by an emperor who, if he could find no one else to trample under foot, would make war upon his own people, would throw them into prison if they but dared to call their heads their own; who tore the newly-married wife from the arms of her husband, lacerated her tender flesh with the knout, and sent her in chains to die amidst the snows of Siberia?
Holy Russia, indeed! Nay, but Russia the despot. Every portion of her bygone history was raked up to help to fill the bill against her—so far, that is, as Britons knew anything about it; all that poets told us about poor Poland for instance, and sang to us about Warsaw's last champion; all about Ivan the Terrible, and goodness knows what else. And Russia was the same now—just as cruel, just as dark-hearted, as blood-thirsty, and tyrannical as ever. Down with her! Back with her to her own Siberian wilds! Crush her, annihilate her!
Yes, certainly; and after we had done all this we should return thanks to Him who had given us the victory—feast and fête our brave soldiers and sailors, or what remained of them—make a kind of a Christmas-time of it, even though it should be midsummer, and eat and drink until we should be ill. Hurrah for war!
But was Russia wholly to blame for the sad Crimean War? And was Russia really so bad as she was called? Did we not rather jump to the conclusion that this great kingdom was all vile and evil, just because we knew nothing at all about it? When I say "we," I of course refer to the ordinary British public.
Nowadays, be it remembered, dear reader, what with school boards, county councils, extra newspapers, and so on and so forth, the public is becoming more enlightened; and if we were going to war now, the people would probably ask their leaders, political and otherwise, what the quarrel was about, and why they were ordered to peel off their spare clothes and go for the enemy pell-mell. And their leaders would feel it incumbent upon them to supply the desired information—that is to say, if they themselves knew anything about it. But in old Crimean times the people were more easily pleased, and took everything for granted that was told them. They were led by the nose, not by the intellect. If you had asked any body of British workmen in those days why the country was going to war, their answer would have been, "'Cause we are. The Russians want whopping—the papers all say so—and we're going to whop them."
Then if you had said, "But what have they done? what have they done?" the workmen would have repeated, "Why, what is it they haven't done? What is it they ain't always a-doing of? Just read the Parleymintary reports for yourself. Is it likely we would go to war if we didn't oughter to? Anyhow we're goin' to fight. Fetch 'em out. Hurray!"
I am told—though personally I was but a boy then—that the ignorance displayed in what is called society, or the "upper circles," was about on a par with that of the British workman concerning the causes that led to the war, and that even some so-called statesmen were densely ignorant on this subject. They had to read up quite a deal before they dare submit themselves to a "heckling" at dinner-parties or over the walnuts and the wine.
Over the walnuts and wine, indeed, some of those great statesmen were less nervous, and could speak more freely, knowing from their own experience that very little of what was said would be remembered next day.
And now—although I should be very sorry indeed to hamper this story of mine by talking politics—it will do you, reader, no harm to know that at this time the Russian peasant or artisan in town or country was—and probably is even yet—an ignorant, good-natured, frequently drink-besotted, credulous, hard-working "sumph," with a good deal of poetry and romance in his nature, nevertheless, and not a little real piety. He lived, perhaps, very much the same sort of life as our own peasantry did before the days of education dawned and the press began to guide and sway public opinion. Next to things heavenly, this people considered it their duty to obey the behests of their emperor and those in authority above them. When I add that ignorance caused them to have just the same erroneous impressions of us as we had of them, I think I have said enough to bring the quality of the Russian peasant before your mind's eye. It was from his ranks that the soldiery were drawn; only after they joined their regiments they were led to believe that Britain was a nation of savages, and that the true faith was not in it; rather, indeed, would its people trample on the most holy things, murder priests at their altars, and desecrate and burn temples and shrines. The Russian soldier, if he thought at all, looked upon his country as a kind of Holy Land, and he himself as a soldier of the Faith and of the Cross.
Well, my own opinion is that the next best thing to fighting an enemy is to respect him, and I am quite sure that if we—the Russians and the British—had known more of each other in those old days, we would have loved each other a little more, even while cutting each other's throats. This reads a little paradoxical, does it not? But if my theory is carried a little further, how then? Why, we should have no bloody wars at all. For the more nations know each other, the more they sympathize with each other; sympathy makes us charitable, even to our neighbours' shortcomings; sympathy begets love, and love makes us sheathe the sword: so war becomes impossible. It is love of this kind that is to lead the millennium in; but knowledge has got to go before—we must not forget that.
* * * * *
"I say, sir," said Jack Mackenzie to Mr. Sturdy one night, as they sat together on the skylight, while the good ship Gurnet was speeding onwards and eastwards over the Atlantic, with every stitch of canvas drawing that she could bear, and stun'-sails alow and aloft,—"I say, sir, what is our immediate cause of quarrel with Russia?"
"A very pretty question, Jack; a parson couldn't have put it in better English. But really, lad, a parson might be a fitter man to answer it than a rough sailor like me. Seems to me, however, and from what I learned on board the Limpet, that Russia thinks it is high time to reform Turkey."
"To reform her with the sword?"
"Ay, ay, lad—the old fashion. To improve the greatest portion of her off the face of the earth, and to sweep all the Turks who won't turn Christian back into the land of heathendom—that is, clean out of Europe into Asia."
"Seems very mindful of Russia, doesn't it, sir? And if successful, does she expect no reward?"
"Reward? why, yes; and a proud reward too. She, and she alone, is to rule where Turkey now rules; to have complete possession of the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles—take a look at your map, lad, when you go below—and thus have the freedom of the Mediterranean, and a sea-board on the warmer and sunnier southern climes. No wonder that such a prospect dazzles the Czar, and even his people.
"And no more fitting time, he believes, could be than the present, Jack. Russia, you see, is trying her hand at the construction of a new map of Europe. It would be a very handy map for the Czar, but a very expensive one for other Powers. If we—the British, for instance—desired to hold our own, to keep Malta, Alexandria, or to open up a near route to our possessions in India, we should have then to maintain a fleet in the Mediterranean at least three times as large as it now is. But France, to say nothing of Prussia and Italy, has also interests to protect. It would suit neither to see Russia acquiring a splendid new capital—namely, Constantinople—and therefore holding the key of the Mediterranean."
"Ahem!" said Jack. "Of course I don't know enough to argue on either side. But, sir, doesn't it seem a little rough on Russia to be locked up in the icy north, and to have no outlet to the southern seas?"
"She might have, lad—she might have, if she could be trusted. But she won't play fair. She wants to eat all the pie, and give nobody else a plum. As for Austria, if Russia gets hold on Turkey, she gets command of the Danube at the same time, and would in time, no doubt, turn that country, nolens volens, into a province of her own."
"The Russians must be very ambitious and aspiring."
"Yes; and now the Czar, having, as he thinks, made a friend of the youthful or boyish Emperor of Austria, believes the time has come for a coup de main. Well, Jack, if one man desires to pick a quarrel with another, and to hit him across the bows, some excuse very soon presents itself. And so war between these two countries—Turkey and Russia—has been hinged upon some dispute concerning the holy places of Palestine."
"Holy Russia!" said Jack.
"Holy Russia may be right enough, Jack, as far as the innocent people are concerned; but I believe the Emperor Nicholas to be a sly, underhand dog. The dispute was of a very simple nature, lad. There are in Palestine a Greek Church and a Latin Church. Russia is champion of the Greek, France favours the Latin Church, and the question came to be which of these should hold the key of the Church of Bethlehem; and the Turks, in trying to please both Powers, so offended Holy Russia that she sent south two great army corps to the Danubian Principalities, and at the same time dispatched Prince Menschikoff as an envoy to Constantinople to intimidate, if not to coerce, the Sultan."
"And what did the Sultan do? bastinado the Prince?"
"That might certainly have precipitated matters. But the Turks are an indolent, easy-minded kind of a people, who fight well, but only when forced; so they caved in, as we call it."
"Acceded to Russia's demands?"
"That's better English. But listen, lad. The Czar, seeing now that he couldn't get ends to meet in one way, tried another. There are a very large number of Christians in Turkey, and over these the Emperor of all the Russias next demanded a complete protectorate!
"It was the delusion, Jack, therefore, that we did not see through his ultimate designs, and that the British lion was harnessed to the plough-stilts, and never likely to lift an angry paw, which led the Czar to be so threatening towards Turkey as to cause that country to declare war against Russia, which she did on the twenty-third of October 1853. The next thing that happened was that, with the view of protecting their interests, France and Britain sent their combined fleets off to the Bosphorus.
"'If,' thought the Czar to himself, 'we can get Britain to keep quiet, we may snap our fingers at the other Powers, and crush Turkey up like an empty egg-shell. And John Bull is far too busy attending to trade and making money to bother about the Ottoman Empire. If John Bull does, why, I can suggest his having Egypt and Candia.'
"The despatch of the fleets to the Bosphorus was not a declaration of war, but a kind of a display of physique under the title of moral suasion, just as when two men peel to fight, Jack.
"Meanwhile, you see the people of our isle have been watching the manoeuvres of the big bully. To begin with, they didn't like the insolent arrogance of Menschikoff in Constantinople; but when news came that the Russians, with six line-o'-battle ships, had attacked a squadron of light Turkish vessels at anchor in the harbour of Sinope in the Black Sea, and utterly destroyed them and their crews—a holocaust, my boy, of between 4,000 and 5,000 men—then Britain cried 'Shame!"'
"It was time," said Jack.
"Yes; and we now brought our moral suasion to bear even on the boy Kaiser of Austria. Russia must evacuate the Danubian Principalities. This demand was made by united Britain and France in February of this year, Jack (1854). At this time it was supposed that the war would be one on the Danube. But the Kaiser moved 50,000 men up to the frontier, which the Czar had seized—showing plainly that she means to join the scrimmage if need be.
"Well, Jack, of course we can't tell what is doing now out there, but very likely they are all at it hammer and tongs, for in March the French and British declared war."
"Terrible, isn't it, sir?"
"Well, yes, in a manner of speaking," said bold Sturdy; "only, you see, war means promotion for you and me. As far as I am concerned, lad, promotion has been a jolly long time of coming, and I'm not going to say a word against the war now that I see my captaincy heaving in sight above the horizon, Meanwhile, Jack—blow, good wind, and waft us east; for whatever happens, I should, I must confess, like to see a little of the fighting and a bit of the fun."
* * * * *
Lieutenant Sturdy was in all respects a true sailor, and a warrior at that. It is, indeed, a blessing for our country that our navy—which is still the best in the world, though far inferior, indeed, to what it ought to be—is manned by thousands of hearts as brave as his.
Fear the British sailor does not know—even death has few terrors for him; because Jack is really a thinking man, and he counts his chances, and he knows, too, that he has only once to die.
Where, then, can he die better than with cutlass or rifle in hand, fighting for his dearly-beloved country, either afloat or ashore?
Meanwhile the Gurnet speeds on, and so do events in the East.
In order to understand the first plan of campaign that the Russians had laid down for themselves, quite relying upon the acquiescence of Austria, I pray you to take a glance at the skeleton map of the Black Sea and its surroundings.
When I was a youngster myself I did not like maps, and remembering this, I have placed neither town, river, bay, nor cape that is unnecessary in this present map of mine, specially made for you, reader.
Map of Black Sea and surroundings
Well, you will easily find out Sinope, where the Russians massacred the Turkish sailors. I want you to remember that their fleet had sallied forth from Sebastopol for this purpose. Now, note the river Danube. It was by this route that the Russians had meant to make their advance against Turkey. Further south you will observe Silistria and Shumla, and south still the Balkan Mountains. It was through the passes of these that the Russians were to extend their march, and so on to Constantinople.
Our army and that of the French were therefore at first landed at Varna, and went into camp between that place and Shumla. It was believed at this time that the Russians would fight us here by land.
But after having laid siege to Silistria, which the Turks bravely defended, and being hard pressed by Austria, who seemed now determined to join the allied armies and declare war, the Czar withdrew his forces and recrossed the frontier.
The truth is that Russia had counted all along upon the friendship, or at least the neutrality, of Austria. As soon as the Russians had left the Principalities, the territory was occupied by the Austrians. They certainly had the most interest in the threatened invasion and conquest of Turkey by the Czar, and it is believed that even at this late date the whole business might have been settled without war, and that Russia could have been compelled, from the pressure put upon her, to indemnify Turkey for the injuries done her.
But Britain had not the slightest intention of so inglorious an ending to the great "weapon-show" she had commenced. Were our splendid troops, eager and burning for fight, to return to their own country and homes, with, figuratively speaking, their fingers in their mouths, and without having once drawn a trigger? Perish the thought!
The Russian Bear must be crushed and humbled, his fleet in the Black Sea must be destroyed, and Sebastopol, Russia's strongest fortress in this sea, laid in ashes.
War! war! war!
When I come to think of it now, reader, I don't altogether blame the people of Great Britain for desiring to humble the overbearing Emperor Nicholas. Even the Queen herself saw that he was in the wrong, and talked of the ambition and selfishness of one man and his immediate subordinates as being the cause of our having to draw the sword. On the other hand, I do not think that any one who has read the history of this great war could help pitying the Czar's subjects. The poet Cowper says,—
"War's a game which, were their subjects wise,
Kings would not play at."
But the sufferings of our own poor soldiers and sailors, all brought on by mismanagement, strike closer home to our hearts. We can pity these still more, while we cannot but be angry with those who were to account for all their misery, and for all the trials they so bravely bore.
We gained experience in the Crimea, however, and one might almost say that this is cheap at any price.
As soon as it was known in Britain that the Russians had retreated from the Danube, and that their forces would in all likelihood be poured into the Crimea to reinforce that great stronghold, every scrap of news from the seat of war was welcomed with the greatest enthusiasm. Every one, too, seemed to be listening breathlessly and in silence for the first shot to be fired. It was a silence, all made sure, that would soon be broken by the pæans of victory. Our soldiers near Varna were not idle. True, they were waiting for embarkation, and what a wearisome wait it was! It would have been irksome in the extreme had our troops not been kept busy collecting wood and manufacturing gabions and bastions for the siege-works before Sebastopol.
Even already, then, it will be noted that a siege was in contemplation. Nobody, however, had any idea it would be a long one. The allied fleets had complete possession of the Black Sea. In a manner of speaking, Sebastopol was already besieged or blockaded. Our object was, or rather ought to have been, to isolate the Crimea from Russia. (Vide map.) Seeing that the neck of land that joins it to the mainland is of no great width, this ought to have presented but few difficulties. We should thus have effectually prevented enforcements from pouring into Sebastopol.
But difficulties arose long before the allies were ready for embarkation that no one had dreamt of. While the French troops were still on their voyage from Marseilles, some cases of that terrible disease the cholera had broken out among the troops. The doctors made as light of it as they could, assuring those in command that, as soon as the army had landed and commenced active service, the plague would be stayed.
This was very far indeed from being the case. The cholera grew even more virulent after the men got under canvas. Here was an enemy, then, that seemed to fight on the side of "Holy Russia," and that, too, with terrible effect; for before the embarkation for the Crimea, the French army had about 10,000 dead or hors de combat, while nearly a thousand of our own brave soldiers had succumbed. The fleet, too, was attacked, and steamed away to sea in the hopes of safety. In vain. It was a terrible time on board some of our vessels; for the virulence of the plague seemed to know neither bounds nor limits, and the healthy part of the crews was engaged all day ministering to the sick, laying out the dead, or committing their bodies to the deep.
It was about this time that one beautiful morning—the sunshine glittering on the sea and casting a glamour over the greenery of hill and dale and woodland—our old friend the Gurnet steamed into the Bay of Balchik, some distance north of Varna. Embarkation was here busily going on, amidst a scene of such confusion and bustle as no one on board the Gurnet had ever before witnessed. The bay was covered with ships of every size and description—an immense forest of masts bearing flags of all kinds and colours, conspicuous among which were the British, French, and Turkish ensigns. In and out among the shipping plied the boats, with which the bay was so filled that scarcely could the water be seen. The noise and din were indescribable.
Well, if the embarkation of our troops was not conducted in so orderly a manner as one could wish to see, that of the French and Turks was confusion worse confounded.
Early that morning, before the Gurnet got in, and ere yet the grey clouds of the dawning day had changed to purple and gold, Jack Mackenzie, whose watch it was, had gone to the first lieutenant's cabin to make a report.
"Three men, sir," he said, "are swimming about a quarter of a mile off our weather-bow."
"What do they look like?" asked Sturdy.
"I can't quite make out, sir. Perhaps they are the survivors from some boat that has been capsized."
"Very well, Jack; lower the first whaler."
"Can I go myself, sir?"
"Certainly. The quartermaster is on deck?"
"Yes."
The Gurnet was hove to, and in a short time, rowed by its brawny crew, and steered by Jack himself, the whaler was bounding over the waves towards the men. Yes, men they had been; but now, horrible to relate, they were but hideous, grinning corpses. Buried they had been—that is, buried at sea, and hastily, too, with shot to sink them; but this had not been sufficient. It was a ghastly sight. The men lay on their oars for a time looking horrified. Silent, too, for a time, till one old sailor spoke out.
"Them's cholera corpses, sir. Hadn't we better put back?"
Jack had really been wondering whether it was not his duty to take them in tow, so that they might be properly buried. A cold shudder ran through him, however, when he learned the truth; and so the boat was put about and rowed swiftly back to the ship.
"I thought as much," said Sturdy, when Jack went below again to report. "Ah, lad! if the cholera has broken out among our troops and seamen, we'll be held in check by an enemy far more terrible than the Russians."
That evening Dr. Reikie and Jack went on shore to pay a visit to the camp of the Highlanders under the brave Sir Colin Campbell, who, years after this, became the hero of India during the awful mutiny. Everywhere they were met by troops on the march towards the hastily-constructed piers that our engineers had made to assist the embarkation. Slowly and sadly these troops marched; so weak and sickly did they appear, that scarce could they carry their knapsacks. It was but little wonder. The whole air had the odour of a charnel-house.
They found their way to the Highlanders' camp at last; and rushing out from his tent-door, the first to bid Jack welcome was his cousin Llewellyn. He had just come off duty, and had not had time to divest himself of his accoutrements.
"Duty," he said, smiling a little sadly; "why, Jack, it's all duty just at present. It is duty all day long and most of the night, and I'm never out of my war-paint. But perhaps our brave fellows have suffered as little as any from the scourge, though we have buried quite a number. At first, Jack, we used to play them to the grave with the 'Dead March,' you know. But la! lad, there is no music now.—Dr. Reikie, I have heard so much about you from Cousin Jack's letters that I appear to have known you all my life. But, bless me, boys, come under canvas. I and Lieutenant Murray are quartered here. Snug enough? Oh yes; we don't complain about anything but the delay in getting off. We want to fight. Oh, I feel sure when we get into grips with the Russians the cholera will be scared away."
"I hope so," said Reikie; "but I very much doubt it."
"Ah! well, don't frighten us, anyhow," said Llewellyn.
That bold young Highlander certainly did not look as if anything would frighten him. How handsome and strong he was, and how brave he seemed! I'm not at all sure that Jack did not envy him his superior stature—for he bordered on six feet. Perhaps Jack was boy enough yet to covet that feather bonnet, for he was barely seventeen.
But Llewellyn threw off his Highland bonnet, and ordered his servant to bustle about and get coffee ready.
It is no wonder that the conversation turned upon home. But at this stage of the happy meeting it hardly could be called a conversation; for Llewellyn had so much to say that in telling the news his tongue could scarcely rattle on fast enough. But the gist of what he said can, after all, be given in a few words:—
"Three years and over, Jack, since you were home. Never mind, lad; we've only got to smash the Russians, to raze to earth the battlements of Sebastopol, to annihilate the defenders, to hurl back the Bear to his icy den in the north, and, having covered ourselves with honour and glory, to return, as the good ships' parsons tell us, 'in safety to enjoy the blessings of the land with the fruits of our labours.'"
"Loot, eh?" said Dr. Reikie, quietly smiling; "and we have to thrash the Russians first?"
"Oh yes; that is part of the programme of this grand picnic."
"And mother and sister?" said Jack.
"Both happy and beautiful. And what think you, Jack? I went down to say good-bye, of course, before my regiment left, and Uncle Tom, who has all sorts of kindly messages to you, went with me, and your sister told me that she is coming out, if the war lasts over the autumn, to help to nurse the sick and wounded! A whole lot of ladies are coming, only I don't expect there will be any sick or wounded left to nurse by the time they think of coming out. Well, then, north I went to bonnie Drumglen, where my sister Tottie is at present, you know."
"My little sweetheart?"
"Yes: the old lady won't want her, and indeed we are all so happy to be friends again. As she gets older, Jack, she gets more forgiving and less severely aristocratic. Oh, she has a heart after all. She had tears in her eyes, Jack, when she bade me good-bye, loading me with tender messages to her own dear boy, as she still calls you."
"God bless her!"
"Yes, Jack, and Uncle Tom and I went to see the Malonies. Poor Peter is just the same, only he no longer plays on the street, for, through uncle's influence, he has adopted teaching music as a profession. The Malonies haven't altered a bit, and your old cat is still first favourite at the fireside. And Mrs. Malony told me tell you she prayed for you every morning and night of her life, and made Malony himself do the same under penalty of feeling the weight of the potato-masher in case of forgetting."
It was late that night before the doctor and Jack got back to the Gurnet; but nevertheless they found everything on board in an uproar, preparations being made to receive for passage a contingent of one of the regiments.
Storm and tempest delayed the sailing of the great armada for some time after it was quite ready. But at last it got to sea; and when once fairly away from the bay, and bearing up for the unknown land, then as Jack and Sturdy stood side by side on the quarter-deck, the brave lieutenant confessed that never in all his experience had he beheld so grand a spectacle.
The whole peninsula of the Crimea is hardly twice the size of Aberdeenshire or Yorks; and broadening out from the Isthmus of Perekop in the north, its whole length to Balaklava in the south (vide map) is not more than 120 miles as the crow flies. The entire population of the Crimean peninsula at the time of the invasion is said to have numbered about 220,000. But looking at a map, although it gives one a good idea of the lie of the land and water, is not very instructive as far as the features of the country are concerned; so, just in a sentence or two, let me tell you what these are like. The northern and the middle portions, then, are a kind of barren prairie land or steppes, and but sparsely inhabited by Tartars, who dwell in tumble-down little villages, and tend their flocks and herds. Not so peacefully, however, as do our Highland shepherds. Those Tartars may be simple in their ways, but they are wild and uncouth in nature. But proceeding southward from Perekop, we come to a far more beautiful or bountiful land. Mountains shelter it from the storms of the north, and here are hills and glens and wide smiling valleys with woods of pine and oak, under the shelter of which, and on the sunny braes, grow olive trees, the pomegranate, and even sub-tropical fruits, while green grass waves plentiful in spring and summer, and wild flowers are everywhere.
The southern end of this peninsula is hilly and cliffy. It is indented on the west by the great harbour of Sebastopol, and on the south by that of Balaklava. The capital is Simferopol, lying away to the north and east of the virtual capital, Sebastopol.
It was on the north and west of the peninsula that the allied armies landed and commenced their memorable march upon the great Russian stronghold. In the map you will note the streams or rivers they had to cross. The first is the Bulganak, and is but a "drumlie" rivulet or burn. The hills that range here with valleys between are from 400 to 500 feet high.
Well, the Bulganak flows west, so does the Alma seven miles further on, and also the Katcha and Belbek, the latter being nearest to Sebastopol. But the Tchernaya, I wish you to observe, runs north and west, and falls into the head of the harbour of the great stronghold.
There is but one other point I wish to draw your attention to, and that is what is called the Upland between Sebastopol and Balaklava. The extreme western point is called Cape Kherson.
The distance from Varna to Sebastopol is about 300 miles, and had this city been made, in every sense of the word, a base of supplies, much of the suffering during the terrible winter of 1854-55 would have been spared our ill-starred soldiers.
The coast had been well reconnoitred by H.M.S. Caradoc and Agamemnon, on board of which were not only Lord Raglan himself, the one-armed hero and commander of the British forces, but General Canrobert and Sir John Burgoyne.
At last the beach to the north of Bulganak was selected as a landing-place, owing to its position; being defended inland by two small lakes, so that the enemy, had they wished to attack, could only have done so by the narrow strip of beach betwixt these lakes and the sea.
The French and Turks were first got on shore on the fourteenth day of September; and they landed unopposed by the enemy, but not by the elements, for a heavy swell tumbled roaring in upon the beach, and the surf and breakers were so high that boats and rafts were dashed to pieces.
Had a terrible gale from the west come on, this allied fleet might have suffered as disastrous a fate as the Spanish Armada of olden times.
On the 15th the British landed.
How small in comparison with the forces and huge armies of the present day was the whole combined force! The Turks numbered but 7,000—they had sixty-eight guns, but no cavalry; the French were infantry, 28,000 in all; and we ourselves had but 26,000, added to which was that brave and splendid Light Brigade of cavalry 1,000 strong. Ah! we shall hear of them again.
The knapsacks of our brave fellows were left on board, for many were so low and ill that they could not have carried them. Nothing, indeed, was carried that could be dispensed with—not even tents, bar those for the sick and for the head officers. Blankets to cover them they had, and in these were wrapped up only the bare necessaries of life.
Nor was there any available transport landed save a few horses. The army, however, soon captured country carts from the Tartars to the number of about 400, and they drove in all the live stock that they could find.
But on the whole, instead of being prepared for a long and exhausting war, our soldiers stood on the beach hardly equipped for a review or picnic.
Providence probably fought on our side, else the Russians, who had a free hand and a very large force of cavalry, might have terribly harassed us and rendered our victories impossible. The whole army of the allies was, be it remembered, a "movable column." It had no base behind it to which it could send back its sick or wounded. These must be carried onwards day after day, or left to the tender mercies of a foe that, under the circumstances, one cannot marvel at being implacable. Moreover, a movable line of battle must hurry on to death or victory; for if it be harassed by the enemy's cavalry, and by guerilla bands of the peasantry, and people whose country is invaded, the limited supplies are soon exhausted, and there is nothing to fall back upon.
The march of the allied armies, then, onwards to Sebastopol, a distance of about twenty-five miles, was indeed a daring and adventuresome one. But the many hopes of the invading army lay in at once inflicting upon the Russians a defeat that should stagger and paralyze their whole force.
On the afternoon of the nineteenth of September, our forces in battle array reached the first of the streams, the Bulganak, and here, for sake of water, they bivouacked for the night.
It might have been said that the whole force slept upon their arms; for on the hills, at no great distance beyond them, the Russians were espied, apparently about 10,000 strong in all, and well supplied with horses and artillery.
But the night passed quietly by. The hour of battle had not yet arrived.
It was nearly ten o'clock next day when the allies again moved forward.
Every heart beat high as the order was given to advance, for it was known all along the line that the day of battle had dawned. Yes, every heart beat high; but long ere eventide many of those brave fellows would be lying still and stark on the bare hillsides.
The enemy had indeed withdrawn from the ridges in front; but no one doubted that he lay further on awaiting the attack, and on ground that had been carefully selected.
On and on and on they marched, tired enough already, many faint and obliged to fall out.
In the regiment of brave Highlanders, the 93rd, in which Llewellyn Morgan held his commission, every man seemed burning for the fray. The certainty of battle had raised their spirits, and even those among them that but the day before had felt weak and sickly, now marched on with heads erect. Llewellyn was certain in his own mind that, were it not for the fact that they had to keep in alignment with the vast army which stretched from their right away towards the sea, the Highlanders would soon have been far in advance.
It was not, however, until nearly noon that the sound of great guns came booming towards them from the west.
"What do you make of it, Grant?" said Llewellyn to a lieutenant who marched by his side.
"Oh," said Grant, "those are the guns of the allied fleet. They have found the enemy on the heights beyond the river Alma, and have opened fire. How do you feel, Morgan?" he added.
Llewellyn smiled. "Well," replied the brave young fellow, "I cannot say that I feel afraid; but I suppose what I do feel is something very like it. I am burning with anxiety, and now and then my heart goes pit-a-pat."
Grant laughed. "You are very candid," he said; "and your feelings are just mine. Confound those French fellows! why don't they come on?"
"Well, a short while ago they had to halt for us. Come, Grant, time about is fair play."
"Yes, halt the beggars did to make their coffee. But now when we get to the top of this grassy slope we shall see the river Alma, and see the enemy also."
And this was so.
I wish, reader, we could remain with bold young Llewellyn and his friend Grant throughout all the fearful battle of Alma. But we must take a glance at the whole field.
The plain on which the allies made their last halt swept smooth and green down to the winding river side. (Vide plan.)
If a small boat at sea were sailing north from the direction of Sebastopol, she would find on her right a high wall of rugged rocks. Well, on coming to and entering the river, these cliffs are still continued up the south side of the stream for a mile and a half. After this the wall of rocks ends in a range of hills or heights, subsides into these, as it were, and the braes are now climbable even to Englishmen, and far more so, of course, to the Scottish mountaineers.
Now for the villages on the northern bank of the stream. The first is Alma Tamak, higher up is Bourliouk, and higher up still the little village of Tarkhanlar. As to the roads leading up through the cliffs or up the hills, the first is near to the mouth of the stream, which is here fordable, and the path goes up the cliff. At Alma Tamak there is, when you get over the river, a road up a kind of glen in the wall of rocks, and along this guns may be taken with difficulty. Further up still, and near to a farm, is a third road; then a better and wider one not far from Bourliouk, which takes the traveller right away up to Telegraph Hill.
Having ascended the wall of rocks through the gaps, or climbed the braelands, our troops would find themselves on a rugged tableland which stretched south and away as far as the next river—Katcha—which, with Belbek, lay between them and the goal of their expectations, Sebastopol.
The disposition of the forces is plainly laid down in the plan herewith presented, so I need not describe it in the text. As to the fleets, the Turkish squadron was farthest south, then came the French, and next the British.
It will be noticed that the whole front of battle fell to the share of the British, the French having undertaken to reach the heights between the enemy and the sea, and so turn the Russian left flank. But the main portion of the enemy's forces was massed to the east of the road from Eupatoria to Sebastopol. Observe, please, their batteries, their cavalry stretching along from Kourgané Hill, and note the position of the Vladimir Regiment. When you have done so, we are ready for the great fight.
Lord Raglan himself, in company with brave St. Arnaud, reconnoitred the enemy's position during the last halt, and after that, towards one o'clock, the signal for battle was given. We must follow the French, for they had the honour of commencing this bloody affray.
General Bosquet's division, then, which had been hugging the sea-shore, was divided into two brigades. One of these was ordered to leave their knapsacks behind—alas! many a poor fellow never saw knapsack more—and, fording the stream, ascend the first path I have mentioned. This brigade was followed by the Turks. The other brigade ascended opposite Alma Tamak, and the artillery were taken up this road also. Farther inland, General Canrobert's division got on by the road opposite the farm, and, next to Canrobert's, Prince Napoleon's division.
But note this early: that the seaside brigade of Bosquet's and the Turks never got near enough to the enemy to fire a shot. So that disposes of them. Indeed, if you imagine the field of Alma to be a chess-board, you can suppose this brigade and the Turks as useless.
Canrobert's guns had to follow Bosquet's left brigade a mile to the west of him, and he himself was a mile to the west of Telegraph Hill.
He has seized the colours, and his wild slogan can be heard high above the roar.
He has seized the colours, and his wild slogan can
be heard high above the roar.
Well, now, many of my readers will at once ask the question: Why didn't the Russian general destroy, block up, or defend these roads? Perhaps he forbore to defend them because he would have placed himself within reach of the ships' guns; but a little engineering skill might have rendered them entirely impassable, to artillery at all events.
While the French were ascending to the right then, even as it was, the guns of their fleet were throwing their shot and shell far on to the plateau beyond them.
And now the British began to move onwards to take up the ground they were to occupy. There were, therefore, confronting our British soldiers at least 21,000 men, with eighty-four guns on hastily-constructed batteries.
I should be sorry to ask the reader to burden his memory unnecessarily; but as the Second Division and Light Division took such a prominent part in the battle, it is well to remember of what regiments they were made up.
The Second Division, then, which was on the right, with the Light on the left, was composed of the 30th, 55th, and 95th regiments, under Pennefather; and the 41st, 47th, and 49th, under Adams. It was commanded by Sir De Lacy Evans, who was a true hero and a good soldier. He had fought in the Peninsula, in America, and at Waterloo.
The Light Division (Sir George Brown's) had also six regiments—the 7th, 23rd, and 33rd, under brave Codrington; and the 19th, 77th, and 88th, under Buller.
Between the villages of Bourliouk and Tarkhanlar were many enclosed gardens, their stone walls running towards the river. Many of these were all a-tangle with vines. Right opposite, on the other side of the river, was the famous Kourgané Hill, and its batteries some distance back.
Our skirmishers, going on at the double, first encountered the Russian fire from the village of Bourliouk and those vineyards; but the enemy was driven from there after setting fire to the little town, the flames and smoke of which added much to the terrible character of the scene. Our Light and Second Divisions began to deploy as the shot and shell from the Kourgané battery tore through their ranks and burst over them. There was here another delay, owing, I believe, to our right being too close to and hampered by the French.
This delay, it is said, was not accidental but part of the plan, and our divisions were waiting to let the French artillery get up by the road I have already mentioned. For Canrobert's infantry and Prince Napoleon's division could not advance without the support of its guns.
Soon, however, and before the proper time, a staff officer rode from the French commander asking Lord Raglan to push on.
Then, indeed, the tug of war began in deadly earnest; for the order to advance was given, and on dashed our troops.
About the same time Lord Raglan, singularly enough, with a few of his staff, rode round the right of the village, crossed the Alma, and stationed himself on a height well within the enemy's lines, from which, while he could observe what was going on, he could scarcely be expected to issue orders. Moreover, he was in a position of danger. This certainly proved him a brave man, but was not quite in accordance with the tactics of the best generals.
But come, reader, you and I shall, for a time, join Brown's command on the left, for it is the first to advance; and like Llewellyn yonder with his Highlanders, we are burning to fight. He, however, has not the chance afforded him yet. We have, so hurrah!
Here we are at the first low wall, which we leap nimbly, and find ourselves among the tanglement of bushes and vines. We must cut and fight our way through these till we reach the river. Did ever you pause on the banks of a stream and wonder whether it was fordable or not, or whether it would be unadvisable to wet your feet! Whiz! That was a round shot, that flew close over us; and shells are now tearing up the vineyard behind us, and shattering the stone walls. The bullets from above are pattering on the water, and men are falling here and there. So we hesitate not, but dash into the stream. The swords of our brave young officers are pointing onwards. Yonder is the hill. Up we must charge!
Now over the stream, we find a little shelter, for a few moments only, under the opposite bank. Some of us, weak from illness, are already pumped. All are glad to have this breathing spell. We look back across the stream. Yonder is the blazing village, flames leaping in tongues high in air through the clouds of smoke and sparks that roll slowly to leeward. Evans's men, their belts and accoutrements glittering here and there in the sunshine, are half hidden by the smoke, but soon they too reach the stream and commence to ford.
"On, lads, on!"
It is the bold voice of Sir George Brown, who, on horseback, is the first to clamber up the bank. We draw a deep breath, and nerve ourselves to follow. Nay, but it needs but little power of will to get up nerve. Are we not Englishmen?
So we answer our general with a blood-rousing cheer.
We are up! The fight is raging now all around us. Last night, as we lay under the stars wrapped in our humble blankets, we wondered if in the heat of battle we should experience aught of fear. Fear? no, no, here is none of it. We hardly know just at present what is going on. We hear no orders. The din of battle—the shouts of rage or agony, the clash of arms, and the roar of artillery—deafens us. The air is filled with smoke and flame. At times we are in touch with our companies, and charging two deep against the four-deep masses of the grey-clad foe in front of us; but as often as not do we find ourselves in no line at all, only fighting in daring groups. We in the Light Division, though at present we know it not, are supported by the 95th, one of Codrington's regiments.
This is awful work! Not three hundred yards ahead and above, the shot from the Russians' greatest battery is tearing through our ranks. Again and again we stumble, sometimes on the blood-slippery glacis, sometimes over a fallen friend. Yet on we dash towards the fiery mouths of those roaring guns. Away to our right the 7th Regiment is hurling all its force against the left wing of the Kazan Regiment. That was indeed a terrible tulzie!
Hurrah! It is a wilder shout than ever. Just for a moment we see the impetuous Codrington urging his regiment even to greater speed. It was their war-cry we heard, and it steels our every nerve.
But see, the guns above us give no longer voice. Have we won? We know not. The guns, however, are rapidly being withdrawn. And we know afterwards that a greater mistake could not have been made by our surly foe. Yet every gun is valuable, and I suppose they knew we would take them anyhow.
But bravery is not everything in battle. The guns, it is true, hurl no more their deadly missiles, to decimate our ranks, but there are now rushing on to meet our four regiments the brave Vladimir Regiment, supported by a field battery, and another great regiment, with the right wing of the Kazan.
Can we stand it? Our men are falling on every side—officers, sword in hand, sergeants, rank and file, piled here and there, or crawling in agony and writhing in anguish and pain.
How hot the fire! how wild the din! We are being annihilated. Where are our supports, and why do they not make haste to help us? We know not. We do not know that the Guards are even then hurrying up to our support. Yet Codrington seems to have done about all a brave man could do.
He is outnumbered—beaten and flying. Ah! there was no fear before, but now as we are hurled down the hills, something more than fear, and akin to the nightmare terror that seizes a runaway horse, fills our breast, and it is sauve qui peut.
A few minutes more and our supports would have been on the field of battle.
There come the Guards. They have advanced in good order. They have forded the stream, and are bravely rushing on up the hill thus:—
Left Battalion. | Centre Battalion. | Right Battalion.
THE COLDSTREAMS. | SCOTS FUSILIERS. | GRENADIERS.
Now, what happens? Alas! our broken and retreating ranks sweep down on that centre battalion, and carry it right before us to the banks of the stream.
Are we beaten? Is the battle lost? These questions we may put to ourselves, even to each other, but we cannot answer.
Personally—that is, as far as our four regiments are concerned, to say nothing of the Scots Fusiliers that were hurled back by us—we are defeated. There is no other name for it.
Our losses, though we are ignorant of this at present, are fifty commissioned officers, about the same number of sergeants, not including twelve officers of the daring 7th. In rank and file altogether over one thousand men lie dead or wounded.
But see, although the Scots Fusiliers are swept down by our pell-mell retreat, the Coldstreams and Grenadiers continue their advance in splendid lines and quite unbroken.
Ah! there is something in bravery and daring that at times leads on to victory against odds too fearful for the mere tactician to contemplate.
At this stage of the battle all our available forces were being hurried into action.
The three regiments that had remained with Evans were terribly cut up in attempting to hurl back the Russian infantry, supported by batteries that disputed possession of the post-road.
The 41st and 49th were advancing towards the eminence on which Lord Raglan and his staff were situated; while the Third Division, under General England, with six regiments and two field batteries, was crossing the Alma to their support.
But we must leave General Codrington doing his best to rally his regiments and form another division to advance, while we seek adventure farther to the left. Not, however, till I tell you one incident of this heroic fight. As I have already said, then, the centre battalion of the Guards—namely, the Scots Fusiliers—was hurled back with Codrington's beaten men, and with, alas! a loss to the Scots of Lord Clinton and three sergeants killed, ten officers and thirteen sergeants wounded, and 154 rank and file lying dead or wounded on the brae side. This left a gap between the Grenadiers and the Coldstreams. Well, having got together some of his brigade, Codrington sent forward to ask Colonel Hood of the Grenadiers if he should place his newly-formed men between the two battalions to fill up this gap.
One cannot help feeling for Codrington, for the answer from Hood was a snappish one. "No; certainly not," he said.
Colonel Hood, with his now-open left bravely advancing to the attack, was in reality disobeying the last order he had received. This was that he should conform to any movement on his left.
"Mercy!" he exclaimed, when the centre battalion was swept down the hill, "the movement on my left is defeat and retreat. Am I to conform to that? I'll be hanged if I do. On, men. Forward!"
"Thank Heaven!" he afterwards said, "I disobeyed orders."
So might our sailor-hero Nelson have said, for he disobeyed orders, and put the glass to his blind eye.
Let Hood continue to advance with his Grenadiers; and the cool, courageous, precise Coldstreams go onwards too. Both have deadly work before them.
But here we are among the Highlanders; and is it not true what Scott says?—
"Ne'er in battle-field throbbed heart more brave
Than that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid."
And now they were going into action—to do or to die. Yes, to do or to die. They have never been in battle before—that is, in a real fight like this. But it never occurred to them that they might or could be beaten. They were nearly all young soldiers those kilted warriors of the north—of the 42nd or Black Watch, the 93rd or Sutherland Highlanders, and the 79th or Camerons. Most of them spoke their native Doric, broad and harsh, yet kindly even in the ear of an Englishman, or the Gaelic; and many of them had left the plough-stilts or the flail, to flail the Russians in another fashion, with that bravest of soldier-Scots, Sir Colin Campbell, at their head.
These men were strong and tough as the heather on their native hills, lithesome too, swinging in step, and with no end of courage, go, and stay.
No wonder that Campbell was proud of his Highlanders on this day of all days; and it was a leader like him they needed, and nothing else, to take them straight forward into the cauldron of fire and death.
But not only was Campbell proud of them, but the whole army also, just as they were of the Guards.
It will be observed, too, that theirs was the most select situation in the battle—that is, as a brave soldier would select it. For what more likely than that the Russians should mass on their own right, and with cavalry, infantry, and artillery attempt, when opportunity offered, to turn the left of our whole formation.
"Now, lads," cries Campbell, waving his sword, "up and at them."
And on we dash towards the hills. We, you and I, reader, are attached to the 93rd. Our three regiments find it not easy to get through the rough ground and over the river.
We are across now, though. Our formation is figured below. It is in échelon, the 42nd leading.
——————
Black Watch.
———————
Sutherland Highlanders.
——————
Camerons.
We pass the 88th, who are in square, as if expecting a charge of cavalry; also the 77th, in line. Both are falling back.
Sir Colin cannot restrain his indignation at what he looks upon as arrant cowardice. His Scotch blood leaps in all his veins, and he shouts something like a command to the 88th to form line and advance.
"Go on, Scotties," cries some one in the square. "You can do the work."
Sir Colin and his regiments do rush on.
The hero of the day soon has the 42nd in alignment with, and in advance of, the Guards. Our regiment and the Camerons, still in echelon, are rapidly hurrying up.
The left of the Coldstreams have their staff officers near to where the grenadier company of the 42nd now are, with Sir Colin at their head.