CHAPTER V.

A WALK ACROSS THE BATTLE-FIELD—GHASTLY
SIGHTS—BRAVE SURGEON THOMPSON OF THE
44TH—JACK'S STRANGE ADVENTURE.

So much for the glory of war; how about its ghastliness?

Ah! well, the glory, I suppose, is abiding; the ghastliness is soon hidden in the grave.

But oh, reader mine, is it not dreadful to read that on the very night that followed the battle men were sickening and dying with cholera in numbers as great as before?

It is no wonder, methinks, that as I write that sentence, tears that I fain would repress make dim the lines before me. Because I know something of the horror that cholera brings in its train, and the agony, despair, and suffering—a suffering so great that many times and oft the surgeon breathes a prayer of thankfulness to Heaven when his patient's eyes are closed in death. And, horrible to relate, even after death cramps and spasms sometimes come on, so that the ignorant would believe that the subject had once more come to life.

We naval and army surgeons are called non-combatant officers. Heaven help us! we have as many dangers, in ship or field, to encounter, as the men who, sword in hand, march at the head of their companies; and when the field is won our work is only beginning. And they, the so-called combatants, get nearly all the glory.

After the battle of Alma, fain would some of the generals have had their troops come down and bivouac beside the river, for sake of the water. But that plucky old soldier Raglan must have them sleep on the heights, in the field they had covered with glory—and dead.

The men were for the most part tired to excess, war-worn, and thirsty, yet seeming to want sleep more even than water, which they felt too far gone to drag uphill.

Llewellyn and Grant had escaped without injury, and together, in the cool of the evening, they strolled down to the river's bank. As far as the stripping of the wounded (which takes place after European battles by the ghastly hordes that hover in the rear intent on plunder) was concerned, it was conspicuous only by its absence. But here was a sight that caused the blood of those two young men almost to curdle with horror.

There were many men lying, or even sitting, dead, in the very position they had assumed just before the messenger of death came singing towards them. Many were lying on their backs, with arms upstretched as if appealing to Heaven for help or mercy. Llewellyn and his friend were standing near a corpse which lay in this position, with the musket across the chest, when their own surgeon came up.

"No," said the latter, with a sad kind of smile; "that man passed away painlessly, and at once. His arms are but outstretched as if still holding his gun."

Here was a headless trunk. Blood and brains had been spattered over the clothes and faces of other men who also had been killed. Here a dead body, with both legs torn off and flung to a distance. Here another, with one arm lying by its side, broken perhaps; the other, but a shattered and bloody stump, held aloft. Both eyes were open, and the face had a scared and awful look.

But for one dead man that Llewellyn saw there were at least a dozen wounded, and those for the most part lay sick and uncomplaining, as still almost as the dead. Or they would simply try to raise themselves on their arms and plead for a little water; sometimes the words would be but a whisper. Even as they did so it was no uncommon thing to note a spasm of agony come over the face, and a jerk to one side, then hands that drooped and eyes half shut, and gradually the placidity of death.

There were some wounded men dying even as the doctor bent over them.

Llewellyn tried to raise one poor fellow, whose whole shoulder had been torn away by part of a shell, and who seemed struggling to sit.

"Can I do anything for you?" said the young officer.

"Yes: tell her to come, and bring baby. I want to see baby. Where is the light?"

Ah! indeed, where was the light? His head drooped like a wounded bird's, the spirit fled, and Llewellyn laid him gently back.

Some of the faces of the wounded were so disfigured, so shot away I might call it, that they were fearful to behold. Some, they said, had scarcely mouths to eat or drink with, the lower jaws being carried clean away. Faces these were to live in one's dreams for ever and aye.

But enough of this picture—enough of the ghastliness of war.

The allied armies, who, some say, might have marched directly into Sebastopol on the day after their great victory, did not resume their advance until the 23rd.

The wounded of the enemy had at first been in great distress, and when our army went on, Dr. Thompson, assistant-surgeon of the 44th, volunteered to stay behind and look after them. And his servant, M'Grath, stayed also.

Thus was this brave fellow left behind in an enemy's country with 500 wounded Russians. An act like this surely speaks for itself, and tells of the true heroism and kind-heartedness which combined seem to belong specially to the medical staff of our army. The doctor and his servant, I may add, had neither tent nor accommodation of any kind.

The story of the doctor's heroism ends briefly thus:

The wounded were dying on his hands day after day, and he and M'Grath struggled hard to bury them; but when, on the 26th, Captain Lushington of the Albion and his blue-jackets arrived, they had to remove about forty dead before they could reach the living. These latter were nearly all carried on board ship, when a force of the enemy appeared, and they were obliged to abandon their task. The Russian wounded were sent under flag of truce to Odessa.

* * * * *

There was much disappointment shown among the officers of Llewellyn's regiment when it was found that they were not to follow up the victory on the day after it, and march right to attack the northern forts.

Perhaps no one was more disappointed than Sir Colin Campbell, though he did not show it.

Neither Grant nor Llewellyn Morgan, however, took any pains to conceal their chagrin.

"May we ask what it means, sir?" Llewellyn took the liberty of saying. "Does Lord Raglan—"

"Hush, my young friend, hush!" said Sir Colin. "Lord Raglan is bold enough to have gone on even last night, but Marshal St. Arnaud thinks the armies are too tired."

"Too tired!" cried Grant. "Confound the fellow, let him speak for his own troops. They may be tired, tired looking on—it was all they did; but we fought, and will fight again."

"Yes, true; and if I were commander-in-chief, St. Arnaud should not rule me. I'd leave him to rest. But, my dear fellows, we must obey; obedience is a duty—when expedient."

The last words were spoken sotto voce, and more to himself than to the junior officers.

But Grant and Llewellyn smiled. They smiled heartily.

All along the route to the river Belbek, the arms and accoutrements, the dead and the struggling wounded, showed how complete the rout of the Russians had been, and how great their haste to escape.

At the mouth of the Belbek river the Scots Greys and another regiment were disembarked, and soon after the march was resumed.

Meanwhile, Menschikoff, who was an able tactician, sunk seven ships of war across the harbour mouth of Sebastopol, thus preventing our vessels from getting in, while those of his ships safely inside could pour a deadly fire upon the northern forts should they be attacked.

It is said by some that Lord Raglan consulted his chief engineer, Sir John Burgoyne, as to the feasibility of such an attack. This is denied by others.

However, a grand flank march was now determined upon, and a reconnaissance in some force was sent onwards to M'Kenzie's Farm, the army following on. The march was continued now to Traktir Bridge on the Balaklava road.

On the banks of the river our troops bivouacked for the night, and soon after, from the light in the sky, it was evident the French had occupied the M'Kenzie heights that we had just left.

Menschikoff, strangely enough, had passed our army without knowing it, within five miles or less of M'Kenzie's Farm. In fact, many of his last waggons, containing baggage, were captured. Still he did not know we were making that historical flank march. He was on his way to the upper part of the river Belbek, with the intention of keeping open the communications with Southern Russia, and receiving reinforcements. Cathcart's division, I wish you to note, had been left to cover the rear of our march, and to send the sick and wounded on to the mouth of the Katcha, where they would be embarked on the French and British ships.

Now the object of this flank march was to seize Balaklava town, and it was desirable that our ships should co-operate there with us.

And it is just here that I wish to tell you about Jack Mackenzie's adventure—that is, his first real adventure on Crimean soil.

The Gurnet was a handy little craft, and consequently had all kinds of work to do.

Bold Dr. Reikie was as busy as busy could be, and though he had to take many a cargo of sick to the large ships or transports, luckily enough the cholera had not yet broken out on board of this gunboat.

Both he and Jack were ashore at the mouth of the Katcha when Admiral Lyons wished to open up communication with Lord Raglan, now on the Tchernaya. Who would volunteer to take a message? Many would; but our brave hero Jack was recommended by Captain Gillespie, who was loud in the young fellow's praises.

"You feel confident you will succeed?"

"No doubt of it, sir," said Jack boldly. "I'm young, sir, and active. I'm also an excellent hockey-player, and not too tall."

The admiral laughed.

"As to hockey," he said, "I don't know if that be any recommendation. Well, I will trust you, and you must bring an answer as soon as possible without killing yourself."

"Good-bye, doctor," said Jack, when he was ready for the march. "I'm so glad. I'll see Cousin Llewellyn too, if he is not among the slain."

"Good-bye, old man. Bon voyage. You're a lucky dog. Don't come back with your head under your arm, and your promotion is certain."

Jack determined to make a record. He took no arms with him save a revolver and his dirk. To support his strength, the provision he made was simple in the extreme—namely, a couple of ship biscuits and a bottle of water. The biscuits were so full of weevils that he wouldn't want for fresh meat anyhow.

He started in the afternoon, and in less than two hours he had reached the Belbek. He had crossed hill and dell and grassy slope very much as the crow flies; but having reached the river, he went onwards up the banks. He must strike the trail of the allied armies, for if he lost the road it would be indeed a poor record he should make.

After striking the trail of the army, he crossed the river by a ford. The river looked rather deep, but if the worst came to the worst he could swim. The water did look deep though, so he did what many a Scotsman has done before him: he partially undressed and waded through bravely. After getting inside his clothes again, he sat down to rest, and to munch a biscuit. The sun was getting very low, however, so he soon got up and hurried on again. He had six miles to go before he could reach M'Kenzie's Farm, and nearly the same distance before he came to the British camp on the Tchernaya. But what was that to a young fellow like him, and a hockey-player to boot? The path he followed now was very rough. He hugged the waggon tracks.

The country was a wooded or at least a bush-covered one, but all silent and deserted. When night fell it found him still struggling on, and he knew by the stars that the road was now taking him more inland. When he came near a hill at last, he left the trench, and climbed it to have a look around. What a scene! Far away beneath him glinted the lights of Sebastopol harbour, doubled and tripled as they sparkled on the water; and still farther off was the darkness of the star-lit sea itself. But yonder in the south-east a moon was struggling with a bank of clouds, low down on what appeared to be a woody horizon.

Jack was preparing to descend and resume his journey, when not far in his rear he heard voices. He had barely time to get into hiding under a friendly bush, when four men, evidently Russian soldiers, passed almost close by him. Jack afterwards learned that, like himself, these men had come from the Belbek, but from the upper regions thereof. In fact they were emissaries from Menschikoff, on their way to Sebastopol to obtain news as to the whereabouts of the invaders.

Jack was glad enough when they had passed. But, lo, they had not gone twenty yards away when they threw themselves on the ground to rest. Then they proceeded leisurely to light a fire.

As this burned up, Jack crept further back under the shadow of the bush—a species of dwarf yew—lest his face or figure might be seen. He was so close to them that he could hear every word they said. As, however, they spoke in the Russian language, this was not of much advantage to Jack.

Probably I myself am no born linguist, though I can manage to bless myself in two or three tongues; but the Russian, whenever I attempted it, always seemed to loosen all my teeth.

The greybacks had laid down their arms, and proceeded to make themselves very comfortable indeed. They had their toes towards the fire and pipes between their teeth—the stalks of the pipes at all events. Now and then they laid aside their pipes to stuff their maws with coarse bread. Then they made many applications to black bottles, and seemed to get jollier every minute.

When these fellows laughed, they opened great black cavernous mouths, and threw their legs straight out in front of them, as if afraid of the cramp. No wonder that the very night-birds screamed and flew flapping away from the neighbouring trees at the sounds.

More and more bottle! more merriment!

Jack greatly feared they were going to make a night of it, but did not dare to stir.

Further applications of the bottle; then one fellow volunteered a song.

Neither words nor music appealed to Jack, who was hoping the man would choke. The melody—save the mark!—was like the rattling of a lot of pebbles in a frying-pan. The words were a kind of Irish stew or pan-hagglety of German, Chinese, Turkish, and Sanscrit, with a little Gaelic and broad Scotch thrown in to give it smoothness.

But now from a wallet the soldier who seemed in command drew forth some papers. He looked at and counted them, then put them carefully away again. They appeared to Jack to be plans, and he at once formed the daring resolve of possessing himself of them by hook or by crook.

Jack hoped it would be by hook.

The sergeant placed the wallet on the moss behind him, and very handy for Jack.

Then the sergeant had another drink. The man next him said something while he drank; upon which, without for a moment taking the bottle from his lips, the officer let out from the shoulder with his left, and the soldier rolled back on the moss. The others guffawed, and the boisterous merriment continued.

Jack was getting uneasy, for time was important, and it was now well on in the night.

As he was moving round a little to ease his position, his hand rested on a stone of considerable size. This might come in handy, he thought, so he rolled it towards him.

The men, after another drink or two, turned quiet. They seemed to doze. But they had drawn their rifles quite close up to their knees in readiness.

Presently they appeared to be talking Russian through their noses. Jack allowed them to snore for fully ten minutes. Then he slowly arose.

The fire had burned rather low. The stars away in the west burned very brightly, but the moon cast no shadow. Clutching the big stone, and making sure his dirk and revolver were handy, Jack stalked out into the open, listening like a thief at every step.

He could have brained the sergeant with the stone he carried, but he had no wish to do that.

Nearer and nearer!

He was just about to pick up the wallet, when one man awoke with a growl like that of a wolf.

There was no more time for ceremony.

Jack imitated the Highland slogan, and with all his might he dashed the stone into the dying embers. Dust and fire flew in all directions.

Jack flew also.

It was time.

But he had that wallet safe enough.

For a moment the men's energies seemed paralyzed. Speedily they recovered, however, and took up the running, firing after Jack at random.

The country had become more open, and when our hero looked about presently, there was but one man in pursuit. The others had been shaken off.

Luckily for Jack, who, hockey-player though he was, felt almost pumped out, the moon gave a little more light just then. He stopped. On came the man with a hoop of rejoicing; but Jack's revolver rang out twice, sharp and clear on the night air, and the pursuer rejoiced no more. He threw up his arms, and fell fiat on his face.

Jack grasped revolver and wallet still more firmly and ran on.

CHAPTER VI.

THE FIRST GREAT BOMBARDMENT—SHIPS VERSUS
FORTS—POOR BOY HARRIS—"TELL 'EM I DIED LIKE A
THOUSAND O' BRICKS."

The bold young hockey-player ran on and on; first as hard as he could fly, then only in a swinging sort of trot that he felt he could keep up long enough. Once or twice he lost himself, but soon got on the track again. He was guided now as much by a glare in the sky—which he knew must be the French camp—as by the rough tracks through the bush.

And long before he came near the camp he was hailed by the outpost sentry. Jack answered in very questionable French but in a very short time he was telling the story of his adventures to Marshal Canrobert himself.

Yes, this general was now in command of the French forces, and poor St. Arnaud was dying. He had turned faint some days before, and fallen off his horse. The moment they saw him the doctors had given him up for lost. He was plague-stricken.

Early next morning Jack was in the British camp, and had delivered his message and handed over the wallet. This contained important letters from Menschikoff himself, but whether they were of any utility or not I cannot say, only Lord Raglan complimented Jack very highly indeed, and even found time in a letter he sent back to Admiral Lyons to recommend our young hero for promotion.

Lord Raglan offered Jack an escort back, but this was politely but pluckily declined.

"One man, my lord"—the reader will note that Jack talked of himself as a man—"one man can move along more quickly and make less noise than half a dozen."

His lordship laughed in his good-natured, fatherly way, and gave in.

After this, Jack saw and shook hands with Sir Colin Campbell.

"Man, you're a birkie,"* said Sir Colin. "I like you. Don't be rash, though. Study war, if study it you must, as an exact science. Not that 'go' and 'movement' don't count, for they do. Before the battle you must be a lynx; during the fight you may be a bull. Good-morning. Good-luck to you, lad. We may meet again."

* "Birkie," a brave young fellow.

"Well, I declare!" cried stalwart young Llewellyn, who had his left hand in a sling. "Why, you turn up at the oddest times and in the drollest ways. By this and by that, Jack, I am glad to see you. But how haggard and hungry you look! Come and have breakfast. Grant will be glad to see you. My arm? Oh, nothing, only a chip of a Russian shell tore my coat."

"And tore the flesh?"

"Only a little. Come on. And what made you take this adventure in hand?"

"Why, Llew I took it in hand just to please mother and sister, and the old lady, and—"

Jack blushed.

"Ah, you old rascal, I do believe you'll end by marrying Tottie.* But I am told she will soon not be Tottie but Tott-o. She is growing tall and very pretty."

* The termination ie in Scotch means "small;" it is also "endearing." The termination o means "great" or "large:" thus we say, man, mannie, man-o.

"She always was. Well, I'm so pleased we've met again."

"Yes; where next, I wonder?"

"Oh, at Balaklava. We're going to help you to batter the place down."

"Batter it down we must not. That must be our seaport, Jack Mackenzie."

* * * * *

Jack reached the admiral's ship in safety, but not without a further adventure. This was only part of the last, however. For sitting against a tree, and looking very faint and weak, was the very Russian he had shot.

Jack shared his water with him, and bound up his wound, which was through the right biceps. Then he left beside him a portion of the food he had brought for himself, and hoping his friends would speedily find him, went trotting off once more.

* * * * *

The question whether or not Sebastopol could have been carried by assault during the last days of September is one we need not pause to consider now, but Cathcart was in favour of it, and even the clever Russian, Colonel Todleben, one of the historians of the war, admits that the assault might have been successful.

It was on the Upland to the south of Sebastopol that most of the fighting and suffering would now take place, or around it.

The calamity, however, which they had fallen under prevented the intended assault on the Flagstaff Bastion, which they were to have made side by side with us. Compared with the French, our losses in this bombardment were but slight—under fifty in all—while in killed and wounded the Russians lost over a thousand.

* * * * *

But alas for Jack Mackenzie's hopes of glory either in the shape of epaulettes or a halo—by the way, though, I do not think that he was particularly anxious about the halo; he said he didn't want to be caught out in his first innings—for neither our own bold ships nor those of the French effected anything worth speaking of, although in all they had brought 1,100 guns into action. The Russians lost but 140 men, the French over 200, and our fleet 320.

"I told you," said Sturdy to Jack, when the Gurnet, with the rest of the ships, had been withdrawn—"I told you we would be beaten. A beastly waste of gunpowder, I call it, and honest fellows' lives."

How very busy the Russians had been that night may be inferred from the fact that the dawn of the eighteenth day of October saw their breaches repaired, more guns mounted, and all the effects of the terrible bombardment entirely effaced.

On the twenty-third of October, the Gurnet being round at Balaklava, Dr. Reikie received from the trenches, among other wounded, our old friend the boy Harris. He had belonged to Peel's naval brigade, and very gallantly he had fought. Before the fighting had commenced, some weeks indeed, he had been one of the very merriest among our blue-jackets who helped to tow the guns up to the heights.

He had been cut down by a piece of shell which completely carried away his right arm. He had begged very hard to be sent on board the Gurnet, and although the surgeon who attended him believed from the first the case was hopeless, he had yielded to his request. He was placed under the awning in a hammock amidships.

"Ah!" he said, "I can die a kind o' easy now. Bother my wig, though, I should have liked to have seen the last of it. Ain't there any hope, doctor, sir?"

Dr. Reikie shook his head.

"I'll sit up with you," he said, "and—-see."

"Ah yes, I understand."

He lay still for a few minutes. Then he asked for his ditty-box—a small box possessed by every young sailor in which to keep his trinkets and valuables.

"Doctor, sir," he said, "you'll send this little box to my mother and father, won't you? Here is the old couple. I'll keep this as long as I last. Tell them that I died like a thousand o' bricks."

That was his last joke. He fell quietly to sleep with the little case containing his parents' portrait on his breast.

He never woke again.

CHAPTER VII.

THE VICTORIOUS CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE—THE
SCOTCH WIFE AND THE TURKS—THE LIGHT BRIGADE,
AND THEIR AWFUL CHARGE.

Meanwhile, where was Menschikoff?

That question may well begin a fresh chapter. He had gone north, as I have said, to keep the communications open, and he did so most effectually. Not only did he get 12,000 troops around him that had not yet been in action, but soon received reinforcements from Russia, in addition to these, till his army swelled to 22,000, besides 3,500 horsemen and 78 guns.

He thought it was time to return now and see what we were about.

He was careful not to show his great resources. This might have frightened us into action sooner than was desirable.

Spies were very busy; nor was there much difficulty in such espionage, and it was soon found out that, bar the somewhat weak works manned by Turks on the range of heights I have already mentioned as stretching from Kamara Hills to the Upland across the valley of Balaklava, there was nothing much to fear between them and our camp. The 93rd were certainly something, but they could easily crush them by sheer force of numbers; and as for the Turks and marines round the harbour of Balaklava, well, they were too far away to take into account.

The height nearest to Kamara was called Canrobert's Hill. That was speedily taken, and so was the next one to it. The Turks with their twelve-pounders had done all they could, and artillery had also been hurried up to help them, supported by the Scots Greys.

These had soon, however, to retreat for want of ammunition.

The Turks were beaten back, and fled, after a stubborn resistance, towards Balaklava.

At first Lord Raglan—it was early on the morning of the twenty-fifth of October—was not fully apprised of the real nature of the onslaught. I do not think the allies expected that the Russians would assume the offensive. But now the Fourth and First British Divisions were speedily turned out, and with them two brigades of the French.

And then a mistake was made on our part; for instead of the First Division being taken down to the plain by the Woronzoff Road, where they could have hurled the Russians back, they were marched along the Upland edge to the more southerly road leading down to Kadikoi.

In the valley next the Tchernaya was the Light Cavalry Brigade, commanded by Lord Cardigan, and on the other side of the ridge and captured heights was the Heavy Brigade. This, which had lately joined our forces, was commanded by General Scarlett. It was made up of the 4th and 5th Dragoon Guards, with the Scots Greys, Royals, and Inniskillings.

The Light Brigade was, at the time of the terrible attack made by the Russians on the Heavy, remaining on the defensive on the other side of the captured ridge; and the whole was commanded by Lord Lucan.

Lord Raglan on the heights, among his marching divisions, saw the advance of the Russian army en masse on the Heavy Brigade. As they came on they threw out a line on each flank with artillery to play on our troops on the Upland. Their shot, however, fell short.

The Heavy Brigade were at first, in a measure, taken by surprise, and, moreover, embarrassed somewhat by their own lines, and so were a little time in getting clear.

Meanwhile, some Turkish guns on the edge of the Upland began to play on the Russian cavalry, which soon galloped off.

But clear now, the Heavy Brigade charged in earnest.

And such a charge!

It was a scene that Lord Raglan could not have forgotten till his dying day. Here was in reality the very romance of war itself. Nothing was wanting in effect or colour—our prancing horses, the splendid uniforms of the troopers, the lightning glitter of sabres, and the thunder of the charging feet. On and on they dash; and now foe meets foe, and every horseman becomes the single centre of crowds of the enemy. But, apart from this front and terrible pell-mell charge, behold the 4th Dragoons—held back for a time—gallop thundering up now and attack the enemy's flank.

What Russian force can stand it? What can the enemy do but turn and fly? And in less time than it takes me to tell it, they have swept back over the slope whence they had come, leaving the ground flecked with their bleeding dead and wounded.

* * * * *

In the next tableau of this eventful battle Llewellyn's regiment took part; for during the charge of the Heavy Brigade, some squadrons of the Russian cavalry made straight for the entrance to the harbour.

They reckoned without their host for once in a way. That host was Sir Colin himself, with the 93rd Highlanders, who were lying down concealed behind a slope.

"Ah! it is one thing," said Grant, "for these grey-backs to send a parcel of slatternly old Turks down from their heights harbour-way here; let them come down this way themselves."

"Look, then," cried Llewellyn; "here they come!"

Nearer and nearer thundered the Russian horse. Then at the word of command up sprang the wild Highlanders and showed their tartans and plumes on the hillock.

Next moment the whole regiment would have charged, and probably been cut up. But the shout from their leader quelled them at once.

"Ninety-third! Ninety-third!" cried Sir Colin; "hang all such eagerness! Stand fast! Fire!"

There was a rattling volley. The Russian squadron was checked, but attempted now to outflank Sir Colin.

But that hero quickly placed his grenadiers round, and again the squadron paused, and finally fled.

It takes greater bravery and pluck to wait inactive on hillside or in wood for the advance of a foe than it does to repel a charge. If ever soldiers are really frightened, it is while waiting thus. But in the 93rd Regiment there was none of this excessive nervousness. In their broad Doric they laughed and chaffed, as they used to at night when safe in camp. And when the Turks came flying harbourwards in despair, and a few of them rushed into the camp of the Highlanders, a scene took place that caused every officer and man in this gallant regiment to laugh aloud. For, thinking that these men were about to pillage the camp, out from one of the tents, porridge-stick in hand, rushed a tall and powerful Highlander's wife.

She laid about her right and left. Like Roderick Dhu, she

"Showered her blows like wintry rain."

Whack, whack, whack rang the blows; and the woman's tongue was by no means idle the while. Whack, whack. "De'il rot ye, for a lot o' rievin' rascals. You'll no come here to steal while oor gudemen's awa."

"Kokona! kokona!"* cried the Turks. "Mercy, mercy!"

* Lady, lady.

"Bravo, Betty!" shouted a soldier. "Let them tak that, as they can tak no snuff."

The 93rd were indeed glorious soldiers, but just a trifle wild and impetuous.

* * * * *

But a charge more terrible than that of the good Scot's wife was soon to be made. This was the world-famous charge of the 600—the charge of the Light Brigade.

This brigade, it will be remembered, consisted of the 4th and 13th Light Dragoons, the 17th Lancers, and 8th and 11th Hussars, and was commanded by Lord Cardigan. I have already told you where it was stationed.

The terrible charge, through two flanking fires, to capture guns at the other end of the valley, was the result of a mistake.

For a full and detailed account of it—and it reads like a romance of the olden time—I must refer the reader to the great Crimean historian Kinglake.

The mistake seems to have been made by Lord Raglan, who thought the enemy were in full retreat, and that they were about to carry away the guns from the heights they had first captured.

Twice he sent orders in writing to Lord Lucan to advance the cavalry rapidly to the front, and prevent the enemy from carrying away these guns.

Captain Nolan took this order to Lord Lucan. Lord Lucan, as the enemy was not retreating, naturally asked Nolan, "What guns?"

Nolan answered, almost disrespectfully and tauntingly, "There, my lord, is the enemy," pointing towards the valley; "there are your guns."

Lord Lucan rode off to Cardigan.

"You are to charge right down the valley with your brigade. The Heavies will follow in support."

He looked at Lucan. His very look seemed to imply that there must be some mistake.

"This means death—annihilation," he thought; "but it is Lord Raglan's orders. A soldier's first duty is obedience."

"The brigade will advance!" shouted Cardigan, and in a loud voice.

And right down that valley of death they charged upon the twelve guns in front. A splinter from the very first shell killed Captain Nolan, who was waving his sword and riding obliquely across the front of this mad attack. Why he was there or what he meant may never be guessed. Back through the ranks of the 13th flew his startled horse, bearing the body of his master—lifeless.

In a very short time Cardigan and his brave brigade were in the thick of it—death on every side, death in front, shattering shells, roaring shot overhead, and saddles emptied every second; horses and riders falling together, horses galloping riderless into the still more awful fire that poured upon them when they neared the twelve guns. The valley was strewed with the dead and the wounded—the latter, whether horses or men, sometimes rising, but to fall dead next moment.

The Russians themselves must have thought them mad.

Yet that brave brigade knew no fear, no faltering; straight into the ranks of the foe rode they, and smoke and fire for a time swallowed them up. The Russian gunners were cut down where they stood, or driven from their guns, and our men even charged the enemy's cavalry.

They had done their duty!

They had obeyed orders as they had been understood. But alas, and yet alas! when the brigade returned the whole numbered but 195!

The Russians were certainly beaten at Balaklava, and no clasp glitters with greater honour on the Crimean medal that adorns the breasts of our sturdy veterans; but we lost ground by it.

It might have been well for us had we chosen as our base the bay of Kamiesch, in conjunction with the French.

But a greater battle than all was soon to follow Balaklava.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE TRUTH FROM A RUSSIAN—PARABLE OF THE
STOAT AND THE WILD CAT—DAY-DAWN OF THE
MEMORABLE FIFTH.

    "Remember, remember
    The fifth of November—
Gunpowder, treason, and shot."

Cut out the word "treason" from the last line, and the old-fashioned Guy Fawkes doggerel does very well as a heading for this chapter.

Guy Fawkes had intended to blow up the Houses of Parliament, I believe—that is if my memory serves me aright. Well, reader, boys like you and me don't take much note of politics, do we? For my own part, I think golf is far better, or that grandest athletic game in the world, curling. But politics—faugh! it is cold work, and insincere besides. Didn't Carlyle say something about a House (give it a capital letter, printer, for goodness' sake)—about a House wherein six hundred jackasses bray? So that, as jackasses are plentiful enough—the human sort, I mean—everywhere, the loss of six hundred in a House could very soon be got over. But how about the six hundred hero-hearts that took part in the memorable charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava, so few of whom came back to tell the tale?

Give me the hero, I say, and you may do what you please with your politicians and your members of Parliament, hundreds of whom have no more heart and brains than the snow-man which my bairnies are at this moment setting up on the lawn out yonder, and are of just as little use.

This is a digression, is it? Call me to order, then; but I shall digress if I choose, and after a wild fight like Balaklava, and with another still more awful battle hanging over my head, it is no wonder that I should want a very brief breathing-spell. Well, where can men breathe better, I should like to know, than on the ocean wave? So let us get afloat again, if only for a day.

Look at her there, on this bright morning in late October, bobbing and courtesying to every dark-blue wave that goes singing past her dark sides—our own bonnie Gurnet once again. There is a spanking breeze blowing; the wake astern of her is hardly any length at all, for the rippling, racing seas soon obliterate every bubble. There is life, there is health in this jolly breeze; it braces one up, pulis one together, till there isn't a loose tendon or nerve anywhere about one's whole system.

Six bells in the morning watch, but Midshipman Mackenzie is on deck already, and walking the quarter-deck with Sturdy. Rapidly fore and aft they tread, sometimes beating their gloved hands to instil a little extra glow into them, sometimes stowing them away in the outside pockets of their uniform reefing jackets. The ship has been cruising off Odessa, but is now making all sail south for the port of Balaklava.

"What is that out yonder on our weather-bow?" says Jack.

"A sail, and a Russian, too," replies Sturdy, after a squint through his glass. "Wonder what the dickens she wants in our Black Sea. Come, we'll luff, and see what her game is. Can we carry a bit more canvas?"

"Yes, sir, lots, if you ask me."

"Then I think I'll crack on."

At eight o'clock the sail sighted became a chase. She had put about, and was going full before the wind. As fleet as an ocean greyhound was she, so the good Gurnet had to get up steam, for the wind began to fail.

An hour after breakfast the Gurnet was near enough to fire a shot over her, then another, but with no effect.

"Give her one now," cried Captain Gillespie—"straight."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the gunner.—"Now, lass," he said, patting the breach of the great pivot-gun—"now, lass, it's you and me."

The gunner wasn't particular about his grammar.

Brr-rr-rang! Hurr-rsh! The great shot tore clean through the Russian's mizzentop, and brought rigging, mast, and sail down, and these hung about her like a broken wing on a badly-shot wild duck. She hove to now smartly enough.

Sturdy and Dr. Reikie boarded her with an armed boat. It was humane to let "Auld Reikie" go in the boat, for there might be blood about or broken bones.

"Bravo, sweetheart!" said the gunner to his pet as the boat went speeding away.

Sturdy was in a temper. The skipper of the barque came up bowing and scraping, as ungainly-looking a heap of old clothes, Sturdy thought, as ever loafed along a ship's deck. Our brave first lieutenant hadn't enough Russian to bless himself with, so he stuck to plain English—very plain English, for he exploded thus,—

"Why the Harry didn't you haul your rotten old foreyard aback before? Think we want to expend good shot and shell over a lubber like you?"

The Russian skipper had a mouth like a haddock, and now he seemed to smile all the way down to his short and "gurkie" neck. He made a rush aft a little, and pulled out a black bottle and a cracked tumbler. He half filled it, laughed, and nodded towards the Gurnet, and drank it off. Then he half filled it again, and held it towards Sturdy.

"Ha! ha!" he said joyously, "she is a very goot schnapp."

Even Sturdy smiled now; but he bluntly refused the "very goot schnapp," and went straight to business.

"What is your beastly ship's name?"

"Ah yes. Goot!" Here the skipper proceeded to pour the liquor back cautiously into the bottle; but spilling a drop or two to begin with, he evidently thought it would be a saving to swallow it. "Huh!" he cried, with water in his eyes.

"Your ship's name, sir!" roared Sturdy, stamping his foot, and laying a hand upon his sword. "Name and cargo?"

"Yes, yes. Goot. Ha! ha! My sheep's name is Skrrovotchstriarrky. Loaded I am with cloves."

"Cloves!—What do you think the fellow means, doctor?"

"Clothes, I believe," said Reikie.

"Clothes? Certainly, it must be that."

Sturdy felt pleased now. Part of the cargo was had on deck. The doctor was right. Truly a glorious cargo—stockings, gloves, blankets, jackets, boots! All had been made, apparently, to fit Greenland bears Never mind, they were warm.

So a prize crew was put on board under command of Sub-Lieutenant Fitzgerald, alias Lord Tomfoozle. Then all sail was set, and away south went the Gurnet with her prize.

But a stranger had come on board from the barque—namely, a Russian gentleman and his daughter, a rather pretty young lady, to whom, with her maid, Captain Gillespie at once gave up his cabin.

This Russian gentleman himself was singularly communicative and remarkably free and candid. He spoke about the war, and in very good English; and what is more, he spoke the truth.

He told the officers about Balaklava first. They had not heard of it before.

"It was a well-fought field," he said, "but hardly a battle. No; Alma was a battle. I was there; I was on Telegraph Hill. Ah! how well your fellows fought. But your French—bah! they are only fit to sell tape and ribbons. Soldiers! no, no, not now, and never will be again. But you and your allies made the grand mistake in not seizing Sebastopol when you could have done so."

"It isn't too late yet, mon ami," laughed the captain. "We're going to take Sebastopol, and we shan't leave one stone standing on top of another."

"My friend, do not think it cruel of me to speak the truth. The fruits of your Alma which your Highlanders won, your Raglan permitted to escape. Your bombardment was a waste of good gunpowder. The part your ships took in it made us laugh."

"He laughs best," said Sturdy, "who laughs last."

"True; and it will be the Russians. Listen. You are going to Balaklava. Before you reach that port a battle will be fought that shall decide the war—fought, and won by us. Ah, you may smile, but it is true. Already is the proud Eagle of Russia sweeping down from the north. There are armies on the way that will crush you if you were twice as strong and great. You fight as fights the stoat when the wild cat has seized her—a long, red, and vicious line; but strength triumphs at last—the stoat dies. Where will you be when our armies reach the Chersonese (the Upland)? The weight and strength of our thousands will cause even proud Britain to rock and reel, till, backward hurled across the plains, vainly supported by lazy Turk and gassy French, our artillery and wild horsemen will sweep you out of existence. With nothing to fall back upon except the bleak sea-shores, your defeat will mean annihilation, for you will die sword in hand, we doubt not. The few of you who are taken prisoners will return to your defeated and degraded nation sadder and wiser men. Your fate will be a lesson to the world, and it is but the fate that God in his justice hangs over all pirates and adventurers."

Sturdy laughed again.

"Your parable of the stoat and the wild cat," he said, "is not inapt. But don't forget, my friend, that we have Russia now by the neck just as the stoat had the cat. The stoat holds on; so shall we. It is life or death, for verily this is a war to the dagger's hilt."

* * * * *

There was a good deal of blunt and honest truth in what that Russian prisoner said; and even while he spoke, the hordes of the enemy were coming down on us from the north, and it would soon be decided whether they or we should gain a battle, the loss of which would be for them defeat, but for us disaster and degradation as a nation.

There was much anxiety, nevertheless, on board the Gurnet; for, laugh as Sturdy might at the bold, almost bragging Russ, neither he nor any one else could deny that the danger to our arms was now very extreme.

"What will they say in England," said Captain Gillespie to Sturdy a day or two after the Russian had told them of the reinforcements pouring into the Crimea from the north—"what will they say in England if we are beaten?"

"Ah, what indeed, sir? But though the crisis is coming, we'll get over it. It really seems to me, however, that we should smash Menschikoff and his general Liprandi before the other army arrives."

Let us now return, to the field, reader.

If we take the Russian Todleben as our best authority—and he was no mean one; very fair, I think, though he does blab out truths that are not over palatable to burly John Bull—the forces to be marshalled against us at Mount Inkermann were most formidable.

Listen. The allies, including seamen and marines, were barely 65,000; and Menschikoff had an army of 115,000 to confront us with, not counting seamen.

Of the Russians who were actually engaged in the great fight, General Soimonoff commanded 20,000 inside Sebastopol, and General Pauloff had 16,000 on the hills above and beyond Tchernaya. These would combine, and independent of fifty guns in bastions or batteries, they would have eighty or more field-guns.

Then there was the great force of Liprandi, that we had hurled back from the valley of Balaklava, which lay on the Fedioukine heights, from the hills they had captured from the Turks to the Tchernaya valley.

The Russians, therefore, had a terrible army, and if praying could have done it, they would have conquered us.

We prayed as much and probably as sincerely as they did, though not with the same show and ceremony. God is the judge of what is right, however, and He who heareth in secret can openly reward.

A glance at the plan we have given will give the reader a rough notion of the lie of the land on which the memorable battle of Inkermann was fought.

Kinglake devotes a whole volume to a description of the fight. It is unlikely any one will read so much about it. The world moves far too fast, and the coming of every fresh event obscures the memory of those that went before.

Menschikoff's general orders were like the mist that at one time of the morning enveloped the land—somewhat hazy. There was this much to be said for them, however—each general was free to interpret them as he pleased. Whether this was to the advantage of the cause is not so plain.

Anyhow, Soimonoff and Pauloff were to lead the main attacks, and Gortschakoff and Sebastopol were to help and support.

But this wasn't quite all; for Menschikoff had not left the former-named generals quite so free a hand as what I have said may lead you to suppose. These two officers were ordered to unite, or effect a junction as it is termed; and having done so, General Dannenberg was to command the two.

* * * * *

Just three days before the battle, to his inexpressible joy, Jack Mackenzie was sent on shore with an escort of marines, including the sergeant, Paddy O'Rayne, and the doctor himself, from Balaklava, where the Gurnet had arrived. Jack had to march straight to head-quarters with a letter from Captain Gillespie reporting the news he had heard of the excessive business of the Russians up north, and of the speed they were making to send along reinforcements before the bad weather came on.

If the services of the marines and the two officers were needed, they were to remain.

Jack had therefore an opportunity of once more seeing the gallant 93rd, who were, as usual, spoiling for a fight, and also taking a hurried luncheon in his cousin's tent.

Balaklava had been temporarily fortified by Sir Colin, in his own slap-dash but soldierly fashion.

"I hope," said Jack to Dr. Reikie, "that we won't be sent back."

"I'm sure I won't be, man," said the doctor. "I fear, Jack, that surgeons will be more needed than even middies."

"Never mind, old man," said Jack, laughing; "we middies may sometimes make work for doctors to do."

But neither Jack nor the surgeon and marines were sent back—in truth, some of the red-jackets, poor fellows, never went back—so that honest Dr. Reikie, surgeon and naturalist, and his bold friend Jack, burning for honour, glory, and epaulettes, were present at the battle.