CHAPTER IX.

THE BATTLE OF INKERMANN—THE SOLDIERS OWN.

"What a morning!" said Dr. Reikie to Jack about six o'clock on the 5th. "I can't help thinking we'd just be as snug, and a wee bit snugger, on board the old Gurnet. We can hardly see our neighbour's nose with the dark and the fog."

"Yes," said Jack, "as snug and snugger; but think of the honour and glory."

"Oh, bother your honour and glory, let us have breakfast."

"What have you got in that jar, doctor—something to eat? Looks like a jelly-jar."

"And a jelly-jar it is, Jack, but you wouldn't care to eat what's inside. It's some rare specimens of the Coleoptera,* Jack. I spotted them ayont the hill last night, so I just rubbed the inside of this jar with butter, and stuck it in a bush. I've now been to fetch it, and it's about half full. I'll show them to you at breakfast."

* The Beetle tribe.

"Oh no, thanks; not then."

"Beauties they are, I assure you, and prettily bronzed; and some in uniform, you might say—in navy-blue with gold and white facings."

"Indeed!"

"Ay, indeed; and this, it seems to me, is a provision of nature to enliven the ghastly duty they perform."

"Ghastly duty, doctor?"

"Ay, ay, just. They bury the dead!"

By this time Jack was nearly ready, and it was almost daylight.

"Why, Dr. Reikie, you're wounded!"

The worthy surgeon's left arm was bound round with a blood-stained handkerchief.

"Oh, that's nothing. When I was stooping down and 'mooling' round the bush, a sentry hailed me. I didn't know he was crying to me, and took no heed, till bang went his rifle, and ower I went on my hinder en'. I wouldn't have cared for the skin wound, Jack; but, man, the dashed bullet has torn the sleeve of my best coat! But come on; the specimens are cheap at any price, and in Edinburgh Museum—Listen! wasn't that a big gun?"

Yes, a big gun it was; and Soimonoff was at it hammer and tongs.

"Come on, Jack, come on," cried Reikie; "it's quarters, I suppose. And take my advice, just ram a biscuit in your pocket; you may come over a hungry hillock before darkening; but—there it goes again. Why, old General Soonenough, or whatever his stupid name is, must be jumbled in his judgment to begin fighting before decent folk have their breakfast.—Ah! here you come with my sword, Paddy. Look, lad, look; this is a jelly-jar. Are you listening?"

"Troth am I, sorr. A jaily-jar, ye said."

"Yes; and it contains beautiful beetles all alive."

"All alive, sorr."

"Burial beetles, so you must keep them safe, and not break the paper; for if they swarm out in your pocket, Paddy, why, they'll bury you alive."

"All right, sorr; I'll take 'em, and if one of my mates is killed, I'll give 'em to him. Sure, sorr, it won't matter much if a dead man is buried aloive. But the grace o' God be about us, sorr, on this raw, misty morning."

Soimonoff—or Soonenough, as Dr. Reikie called him—with 300 skirmishers in front, came on in a line of 6,000 men, supported by 3,000. These covered his batteries of twenty guns brought from the great fortress, and they were soon posted on Shell Hill and adjoining buttresses. It was these large batteries that opened fire about seven in the morning, their guns reverberating from hill to hill. The general's lighter guns and 9,000 men came on behind his first advance, which now began to descend from the higher ground.

You will note, if you glance at the plan, that a road goes on past the camp of the Second Division to Quarry Ravine, which is nearly met at its head by a portion or gully of Careenage Ravine. This naturally narrows the plateau above. Here our pickets had built a wall of loose stones between two copses, and called it the Barrier. Our pickets numbered about 500, and were driven in; but Pennefather, who commanded instead of Evans (sick), advanced to their support, leaving the crest (plan) supported only by a dozen guns and a body of infantry.

The fire of the Russian guns reached this crest, tore through the camp in its rear, and killed men and horses there.

On the narrow plateau, then, Soimonoff could not advance with so broad a line, else he would have attacked us all along our position. His troops were more or less massed therefore, and did not seem to us so numerous.

One of his battalions attacked a wing of the 49th, and were driven back in beautiful style, pell-mell, almost to the slopes of Shell Hill.

Then the Russian general himself came on with 9,000 men, leading in person, and a column of sailors advanced at the same time up the Careenage Ravine itself, where of course the fog lay thickest. Had we been Russians attacked in this terrible position, I don't hesitate to say we would have fled at once.

But Pennefather's force now amounted to 3,000 men and eighteen field-guns.

Let us take a look at the Russian sailors who are coming up the ravine. Their object was to get to the plateau in our rear, and Heaven only knows how things would have gone if they had succeeded, for the masses of the enemy had already driven back the 88th near the crest.

But Buller himself arrived opportunely, and with a company of the Guards and the 77th attacked this ravine column so vigorously that it was driven back and seen no more.

The battle now raged hot and terrible, the 47th and 77th charging in beautiful style, and finally driving two Russian battalions helter-skelter off the field. Other three battalions close by were disheartened, and they too joined the rout.

General Soimonoff was killed, so his name will bother us no more. General Buller also had his horse killed under him, and he himself was wounded, and therefore placed hors de combat.

The other six battalions charged our centre, and the battle continued for a time to rage along both sides of the road leading to Quarry Ravine. They caught it hot also, and soon their ranks, sadly thinned, were swept off the ground.

But where was the other general with the more pronounceable name, Pauloff? He was all too quickly to the fore. The broken and flying battalions of the slain General Soimonoff had joined Pauloff's first eight battalions at the head of the Quarry Ravine, and had formed in front of our right, their own right being across the road there, and their left on what was called the Sand-bag Battery. This was a battery that had been thrown up by General Evans in opposition to one that the Russians had constructed after the twenty-sixth of October. It had a parapet and two embrasures of sand-bags. But after having unshipped the enemy's guns, ours had been taken away. Well, this "Sand-bag Battery" was to-day the centre of terrible conflict, and was taken and retaken about half a dozen times in all.

As Pauloff's regiment on the right advanced towards the Barrier, one of the grandest and hottest charges of the day was made by the 30th. They were but 200 in all, but leaped the Barrier and dashed into the advancing foe, and although we had officers and men cut down—too many, alas!—the Russian regiment was hurled back towards Shell Hill and down the Quarry glen.

Then the other regiments were attacked with vim and vigour; the end of this part of the battle being the utter rout of Pauloff's army of 15,000 by little more than 3,000 dashing Englishmen.

Pauloff might easily have been excused for believing after this that our gallant fellows had large supports behind them.

A new battle, however, may be said to have begun at half-past seven o'clock, when General Dannenberg himself arrived. Pauloff's army was soon swelled again to 19,000.

Ours had been reinforced by the Guards, by men from the First Division batteries, and by Cathcart with 2,000 men from the siege works. But those troops of ours that had so bravely defended the Barrier had to fall back, overpowered by force of numbers. The Russians, however, were soon dislodged by the 63rd, the 21st, and Rifles. Ten thousand of Pauloff's troops now attacked our centre, Dannenberg himself assuming full command.

Dannenberg's first attack was on Adams, against whose poor brave 700 no less than 4,000 troops were hurled. The fight was desperate, the enemy now rushing on like demons. It raged about the slopes of the Fore Ridge and Sand-bag Battery. The Guards rushed now from the crest to the support of Adams, and again and again were the Russians hurled backwards with fearful slaughter; our fellows, however, not pursuing, but standing on the defensive, till back rushed the foe, only to meet further repulse and greater slaughter.

But when Cathcart came up, things assumed a different aspect; for this brave man, though possessed now of only 400 men—the rest being lent, so to speak, here and there over the field wherever needed—descended the slope to the right, and took the offensive. At first his attack was successful, and the enemy fled in confusion. But, alas! it ended in disaster; for a body of Russians had broken through our front, and descended on him from the very height he had quitted. His brave little corps was scattered, and only returned fighting in groups against fearful odds, and strewing the ground with their dead and wounded.

Alas! Cathcart himself was among the slain.

This part of the battle ended in a series of independent fights, which broke our line of continuity, and enabled the Russians for a time to occupy the Fore Ridge. A French regiment came now to the rescue, outflanked the enemy, and drove them back.

But another terrible attack was soon made by the persistent foe.

Once more their great guns, about a hundred in all, ploughed the crest with shot and shell; once more our centre was attacked by the columns that rushed up from the Quarry Ravine. And this fight was the most desperate of all.

For a time the Russians were so far successful that they not only took and occupied the crest, but drove our troops back from the head of Careenage Ravine, capturing and spiking some of our guns.

The main column of the Russians meanwhile came on after, and passing our troops at the Barrier, hurried on to support their front lines. But these had been driven back by the French, and so the main body had to encounter victors.

Bloody and terrible was the stand the foe made, however, and fearful were the losses they encountered. They reeled, they struggled, and finally fell back.

For a time after this the fight raged all about the head of the Quarry Ravine and Sand-bag Battery, and once the French themselves were all but beaten, and lost ground. They were reinforced in time, however, and soon after this the battle was in a measure decided. We got bigger guns to bear now upon Shell Hill, and a great artillery fight took place. This and a daring attack by our infantry caused Dannenberg to retreat at last. And neither our troops nor those of the French were in a position to follow up his retreat.

So ended this bloody battle: Dannenberg sullenly retiring; the allies too weak, too exhausted to follow up their victory by a final and triumphant charge.

They say that so utterly worn out were our brave fellows, and the French as well, that no wild spirit of exultation followed victory; and when the gloaming of that sad day fell upon the field of battle, there was little to break the silence—now that the enemy had fled back to the great fortress—save the mournful moaning of the wounded.

The carnage on this field was fearful, especially all about the Fore Ridge and between that and the cliffs, where we are told the dead lay in swathes. So numerous were they that it was difficult to walk, far less to ride, through these lines without stumbling over the bodies of the slain.

The Russians lost altogether 256 officers and 12,000 men in killed and wounded. We lost in killed 597 officers and men, and had nearly 2,000 wounded.

* * * * *

The battle of Inkermann may well be called the soldiers' own battle, for never before, perhaps, since the days of old was there so much hand-to-hand fighting, and so much display of courage and determination both in officers and in men, individually, in small groups, and shoulder to shoulder in line.

I wish I had space in which to speak and tell you of the many deeds of valour done this day single-handed. I shall—because I must—resist the temptation to do so, merely adding that nowhere in the open field, either in regiments or single-handed, did the Russians prove themselves any match for the British, and God grant they never may.

* * * * *

Long after nightfall our doctors were busy indeed. Our own wounded must first be seen to, and then those of the enemy—for the British are ever merciful. Neither Jack nor Dr. Reikie nor Paddy O'Rayne was wounded; and although the worthy Scotch surgeon's arm was stiff and painful, hardly did he close an eye that night, so much had he to do. Jack and O'Rayne both helped him, but sank at last with exhaustion, so Reikie plodded on in his good work until day began to dawn. Nature would be resisted no longer, and the poor fellow fell asleep on the battle-field itself. He did not wake for hours.

O'Rayne and Jack had both been searching for him.

"An' sure here you are at last, sorr. Troth, I thought it was dade entoirely you were."

"I'm all right," said Dr. Reikie, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"And it's as plazed as the pigs we both are, sorr, for that same. Sure we belaved some wounded Russian had kilt you."

Dr. Reikie got up now and gave himself a bit of a shake as a collie dog might have done. That was all his toilet.

"Paddy," he cried, "I forgot to ask you what about the specimens."

"I kaipt them for you, sorr, as safe as the apple av me eye. And here they are, sorr, if they're any use to you to bury the dead."

CHAPTER X.

THE AWFUL GALE—IN CAMP BEFORE SEBASTOPOL—LETTERS
FROM HOME.

Few, if any, of our Crimean heroes are likely to forget the terrible gale of hurricane force that came raging from the south on the fourteenth day of November.

Jack Mackenzie and Dr. Reikie were still stationed on shore, where they were to remain till the close of the war.

The Gurnet had been to Varna on special duty—luckily for her—and just one day at sea on her return voyage, when early in the morning it came on to blow. It was Sturdy's watch at the time, and even at six bells it was dark—dark, and dirty as well; and several times when the lieutenant looked at his watch by the glimmer of the binnacle lamp, he thought it must surely have stopped. It was cold too, bitterly cold; and though it had fallen calm about the middle watch, it now began to blow again, while a weight seemed to lie on the cloud-laden air that oppressed every one on board. The glass, too, boded no good; and not knowing what might happen, the lieutenant thought it his duty, even before calling Mr. Fitzgerald and his watch, to close-reef top-sails and set a storm-jib.

Hardly had he done so before the hurricane came down on the ship, with a force that for a time seemed to threaten her with destruction.

Sturdy himself could not remember ever being afloat in a more terrible storm. And the strength of it had come on with the suddenness of a white squall in the Indian Ocean. For a short time he tried to keep the course, but speedily found that the best thing he could do was to lie to. The Gurnet, however, was a strong little craft, and so long as there was plenty of sea-room neither Captain Gillespie nor his lieutenant feared anything.

Considering everything, the vessel was not driven so far out of her course after all, nor had steam been got up until the violence of the cyclone—for cyclone it was—had passed away.

Just two days after this the Gurnet was at anchor near Balaklava harbour, and her officers then found that the destruction caused by the storm was fearful to contemplate.

The Gurnet could scarcely have made her way into the harbour itself, had it been desirable to do so, owing to the quantities of wreckage that floated about and filled it. Even when Sturdy landed on duty, the boat had a difficulty in getting through. It was pitiful to see those boxes of stores, but above all the trusses of hay—irretrievably damaged by the salt water—floating in the sea. Sturdy got news of the storm here in Balaklava before he went on to the front. Of ships or vessels of one sort and another no less than twenty-one had been wrecked, and ten more damaged. The saddest thing of all was the total destruction of the fine steamer Prince, which was laden with a splendid cargo of everything that could be of use to our poor troops in enabling them to stand the rigours of the winter as they lay before Sebastopol. Stores of ammunition too were lost.

So much for the destruction of life and valuables along the shore. But when our good lieutenant at last found himself on the Upland and near our camps, he opened his eyes in astonishment. Here were misery and wretchedness past description. I said "near our camps," but near to the places where our camps had been would be more in accordance with facts.

The wind and the rain together had weighted and blown down the tents in every direction; scattered them wholesale, indeed, in every direction. Neither food, fire, nor shelter therefore remained for the men. Poor fellows who had been working in the trenches returned tired and weary, to lie down, hungry and cold, literally in the mud and slush.

Snow, too, had fallen, to make matters worse, and ground that had been hard and solid before was now little better than a mire.

The first to meet Sturdy after his return from the general's quarters was Dr. Reikie, and with him was his servant Paddy O'Rayne.

"Why," cried the doctor in his broadest Doric, "wha wad hae thocht o' seein' you here, Sturdy man? A sicht o' you is guid for sair een [sore eyes]."

"I know you are tired, poor Auld Reikie," said Sturdy as they shook hands.

"What way that, man?"

"Because when you're tired you always talk broad Scotch; secondly, because you don't seem to have shaved for a week; and thirdly, because you're as dirty as any old tramp."

"Ah! goodness help us, Sturdy," replied the doctor, "it is tramp, tramp all day and all night here. I haven't had my shoes off since the hurricane, nor poor Paddy here either; and as for Jack, he's working in the trenches now with the naval brigade at the big guns. And when he comes back, after he has a mouthful of food, he just sets to and helps me. Man, it's a comfort to have friends around you in a time like this. Look, see, I've got the hospital tents a kind of rigged again. But, dear Sturdy, I declare that if I were to tell you one-half of what my poor sick and wounded have suffered these last two or three days, it would bring tears to your eyes, rough old sea-dog though you are."

"Terrible!"

"Ay is it, Sturdy. Myself and the other doctors were getting a nice lot of things stored away for the patients. But, man, the tents were blown down, and the food and stores and lint and bandages all destroyed. When we got the tents off the creatures, we found dozens dead in bed; and from the rest, with their poor wounded limbs and necks and heads, the very blankets were torn by the strength of the gale. Sturdy, my friend, it's the truth I tell you: only those of the wounded that are deid and awa' [dead and gone] are to be envied. I won't ask you to come to the hospital, the sichts are far ower sickenin'. Talk o' the glory o' war! Man, it's yonder under those drippin' tents you could see all its ghastliness."

"And is cholera still raging?"

Reikie pointed to a wretched apology for a tent at some distance from the rest.

"Look for yoursel', Sturdy."

Two and two in single file, each pair with a ghastly burden between them, fully eighteen men were marching away from the camp.

"It's burial-time, that's all," said Reikie, then abruptly changed the subject. "Do you see those men yonder scattering themselves over the Upland?"

"Yes; and they don't seem unhappy. Where are they off to?"

"They are going to dig roots for fuel, then light their fires if they can. They are running to keep themselves warm; they are laughing and chaffing to keep up each other's hearts. Ah! there are no soldiers like the British."

"Poor beggars!" said Sturdy, "Why, we were never so badly off as that even at sea, Reikie."

"Well, how we are to get through the dismal winter the good Lord only knows, my friend."

* * * * *

Things grew ten times worse in the British camps before very long.

I have no desire to draw a harrowing picture of the sufferings of our soldiers and sailors, but the reader should know a little of what war is at its worst. Though most of the poor men that languished in pain and misery through the next two or three months before Sebastopol are dead and gone, one feels pity even now when thinking of their wretchedness, and one feels burning with anger also to think that the greater part of all they underwent might have been prevented by ordinary care and good management on the part of those who held the reins of authority at home.

Sturdy paid another visit to the front in December. Again he met Reikie, but this time in Balaklava, and with him were Jack Mackenzie, and a few marines to carry back stores. Both the surgeon and Jack had burdens to bear.

"Well," said Jack, "how do we look this time?"

"You look old and worn, Jack, I assure you. I'm sorry for you. How about your honour and glory, lad?"

Jack shook his head somewhat sadly, then burst into a merry laugh.

"O Mr. Sturdy, that is all to come. At present, I must admit, we are just pretty miserable, you know."

"Well, your cheeks look pretty hollow, anyhow."

"The best proof that I can give you," said Jack, "that we are not living in clover is, that the doctor here has ceased to look for specimens in his idle moments."

"Idle moments!" laughed the surgeon. "A lot of those we have. O Jack, Jack, I believe you would have your joke if we were taking you to the grave to bury you.—Been down for stores," he continued, in reply to a question of Sturdy's. "Yes, Sturdy, I've had to fight, too, for all I've got. But, man, the suffering of my poor fellows is so dreadful that—hang me if I wouldn't steal for them."

It wasn't often that honest Reikie made use of a questionable word; and as the tears stood in his eyes as he spoke, I think we must forgive him.

"I've been giving it to the fellows here all round," he added, "right and left, but I don't think it did much good."

Jack laughed heartily.

"No, Mr. Sturdy, it did no good, because it was all in broad Scotch."

"I'd no time to speak English. But, dear Sturdy, I could save hundreds, and the other doctors more, if we had only medical comforts and stores. Man, it would draw tears from a nether millstone to hear the poor fellows beggin' for a little soup or sago. Jack can tell you of the sufferings his men undergo in the trenches. My place is with the sick."

"And mine too," said Paddy O'Rayne. "And it's meself that belaves that my master here is killing himself for the want av slape, sorr, and I wish you'd spake to him. Faith, it would be the sorrowful day for us all if he was kilt entoirely. As for staling, sorr," he added, "I've tried it meself, so the surgeon shouldn't soil his sleeves."

"Yes," laughed Reikie, "I must say that Paddy does find a bit on the sly sometimes."

"Thrue for you, doctor, sorr; but it isn't always stolen it is. There was the other day, you know, when just across the lines that pony was shot with a bit of a shell: who had a better roight than our patients to it? But sure the loife was barely out av the baste when he was surrounded wid Frenchies, and if I hadn't learned to twirl a good shillalah in ould Oirland, it's sorra a hind leg av that pony I'd have had at all. 'Git off wid ye,' I cried, 'ye durty frog-atin' spalpeens!' They didn't understand a word I said; but troth they felt the whacks all the same. Well, sorr, as I was staggerin' back wid my beautiful hind leg av pony, who should I meet but a squad o' blue-jackets. 'Hullo, Paddy!' says one, 'down wid your leg; it's share and share alike.' But bless you, sorr, when I tould them the mate wasn't for myself at all, and that I'd just been after staling the leg av a horse to make a drop av beef-tea for the sick, sure they left in a body, and wouldn't have touched a morsel to save their lives; and it's nothing but the blessed truth I'm telling you, sorr."

"Talking about horses, Sturdy," said Reikie, "man, their sufferings are terrible! I don't think there are five hundred alive in the camp now, and these are only kept together by their skins. They used to have to come all the way down here for forage; but now if there was forage for them they couldn't carry it. We've had frost and snow on the Upland, and after every extra cold night, Sturdy, we have extra bodies to bury next day, both men and horses."

"And it's never a burial the horses get ayther," said Paddy, "and never a much the men, poor, dear sowls."

"But here come our fellows with the scanty stores," said Reikie.—"Now, Jack, we're ready for the march."

On their way up they were met by Llewellyn and a party of Highlanders returning from the army head-quarters, where they had been with biscuit.

Llewellyn halted his men, and gave the doctor and his party a hearty welcome.

It would have been difficult to say which looked in the sorrier plight, Jack's marines or Llewellyn's Highlanders. Both had high cheek-bones now, telling of want of sleep and scanty fare; but many had cheeks that were touched with a hectic flush, eyes all too bright, and the ringing cough that spoke of fever within. Death had already marked them for his victims. But Death had been so busy of late that he hardly knew where to turn.

The Highlanders' legs were red and bleeding round and above the knees. When a kilt gets wet, the greater part of the moisture sinks to the lower part; and when this is frozen, it always cuts. Their shoes or boots were holed, their stockings too, and some had bare cut feet bound round with rags.

But during the short time that the two parties halted, the privates became very friendly, and food was freely "swapped" for morsels of tobacco.

"So you see," said Llewellyn, "my Highlanders are pack-horses now. We carry siege material as well as biscuit and food; for, Mr. Sturdy, we are going to have another go at the Russians before long. The Redan and Barrack Battery are both to be taken in fine style."

"Well, I wish you luck, Llewellyn."

"It is fighting we want," said the young soldier. "Bother it all, our fellows might as well have stayed at home and ploughed the fields, as come here to play at being pack-horses and shore porters."

"Good-bye till we meet."

"Good-bye, good-bye."

Jack and his party were some distance off, when Llewellyn ran after them.

"Jack, old cousin," he said, "a mail-boat has just come in; I've seen the signal. Now for letters from home."

I think the news with which Jack's cousin had hurried after them lightened every heart in that little party, and so they struggled on, talking gaily enough till they reached the Upland. Sturdy insisted on carrying his share of the medical stores; and indeed he was the hardiest and strongest man of the lot.

The road to-day, Dr. Reikie told the lieutenant, was even less cut up and sticky than usual. "Sometimes, man," he said, "the mud is so deep and tenacious that it sucks the very boots off the poor soldiers' feet—a perfect quagmire."

On their way to the front, Sturdy, hardy sailor though he was, was sickened at the horrible sights he saw on each side of the road. There were men lying there whom it was impossible for the time to assist, struck down with cholera or dysentery on their way back with their bundles from Balaklava.

There were horses dying, horses dead, skeletons of bullocks, some wholly exposed, some half buried, and here and there skeletons even of men, protruding from their all too shallow graves; and although the winter air to-day was crisp and keen, and snow lay on the hillocks that had not been trodden, the stench that filled the air was at times almost unbearable.

Pitiable sight, too, were the Turks whom they met, and who salaamed as they passed, albeit they were carrying their dead on stretchers, or even on their backs, to be buried in one common grave down near to Balaklava.

* * * * *

Sturdy, at his own request, was permitted to spend a few days in camp and in the trenches, so he soon found out something of the terrible life our poor fellows had to endure there.

Badly fed, clothed in rags, with at night scarcely a blanket to cover them from the rain or melting snow, that poured in through the tattered tents; hardly any fuel; no means of cooking their scanty rations; on night duty or day duty, on the march, or under fire in the drains called trenches,—was it any wonder that even those who were not killed or wounded were dying day by day, like braxied sheep, as Dr. Reikie put it?

I am glad, indeed, to drop the curtain over this part of my story, for horrors like these are but little to my taste.

The scene changed as far as our principal heroes were concerned, when one evening Reikie met Sturdy.

He had a letter in his hand.

"We are off," he said.

"Who are off, and off what?"

"Why, your ship is ordered to Scutari, with a cargo of sick for hospital there. I am going in charge of them. You are ordered to join the Gurnet at once, and I myself have ordered Jack to come with us."

"Jack isn't sick?"

"No; but Jack has been working too hard, and he isn't well, so I've recommended the change."

The transport of the sick and wounded to Balaklava was in itself a sad and terrible picture.

I do not know whether it would not have been even more humane to permit them to die in the mud of the hospital tents.

Sturdy shuddered as he looked at those poor mummies of men, that were gently lifted in their blankets and placed on horseback—the poor horses themselves staggering under the weight.

There was little complaining heard from the pallid sufferers: many seemed even dying as they were hoisted to the backs of the steeds.

Some moaned, others showed by their faces that they were suffering agonies of pain; and although their messmates were as gentle with them as if they had been sick infants, every now and then one could hear such expressions as—"Gently, Jack, gently!" "Mind my leg, Bill!" "Yes; now I'm easier, thanks, thanks!"

These last words were indeed spoken by a poor soldier of the 77th, whose head drooped back the very next moment—the man was dead.

The march to Balaklava of Dr. Reikie's detachment of sick was far more sad than any funeral procession ever seen.

The movements of the horses, gingerly though the poor wise brutes tried to step, as if sensible of the weary load they had to bear, caused the wounded to moan and groan; but many lay with closed eyes as if dead, while others, horrible to relate, were attacked by fits of wild delirium on the march, and had to be held down by force.

Then the horses often slipped, and more than one fell.

As gently as possible the men were lifted off on their arrival at Balaklava, and conveyed on board the Gurnet.

Here Reikie made them all as comfortable as circumstances would permit.

But do not think, reader, that their sufferings were ameliorated when the Gurnet, after considerable delay, got off to sea. No, it was increased tenfold; for these sick were packed on the decks side by side, with hardly room for the attendants to step between.

Alas! the attendance they got was but little, though every one, from the doctor downwards, tried to do what they could for them.

To their other miseries were added all the horrors of sea-sickness; for a storm had come on, and although the vessel was under steam, she made all too little headway. She shipped seas at times, or the spray dashing inboard cold and white soaked the wretched patients to the skin.

Next day, however, the sea went down, and the sun shone out; but many were dead, and with scant ceremony and short service were lowered over the side, to float or sink, for there was no shot that could be spared to carry them to the bottom.

Scutari at last!

The word passed from mouth to mouth along the decks, and the poor fellows who heard it smiled in hopefulness. Now they would have rest, they believed; now they would be safe, and soon get well. Then ships would bear them back once more to their own far-off homes in well-beloved England.

But for Jack that name Scutari had a charm it could possess for none of the others.

Those letters from home had brought good news to many, but to no one more than to Jack Mackenzie. For his sister, whom he had not seen for so many long years, was coming out to Scutari as a nurse. His mother, too, was well, and so were his cousins and Uncle Tom.

There was also a precious little missive from Violet—that is Tottie. Well, I should not like to call it a love-letter. What do little girls of twelve know about such a thing as love, except for ice-cream and chocolate drops? This letter was not even grammatical, the spelling was somewhat original, and the caligraphy just anyhow. But Jack—well, I won't tell you.

Then there was that letter from Drumglen, so orthodox, so prim, that, as he read it, the old grandam herself seemed to be sitting there before our hero in her high-backed chair. But the letter was affectionate enough for all that; so on the whole Jack was happy.

CHAPTER XI.

THE HORRORS OF SCUTARI.

When Maggie Mackenzie, then barely twenty years of age, volunteered to go out to Scutari to nurse the sick and the wounded, in company with many other ladies, some young and others not quite so young, little did she think or know of all she would see, suffer, and endure. But she was a brave Scotch lassie, and, as she phrased it herself, "having once taken hold of the plough, she had no intention of looking back."

All the ladies who had gone out, however, were not so determined. Many had left their homes for the very romance of the thing, others from mere sentiment or to gain notoriety; but the few had gone to do all the good they could, and—all honour to them—did it.

It is quite unnecessary to say a single word about the soldiers' guardian angel, Miss Nightingale. It was under her immediate generalship that Maggie and the others were placed when they first reached Scutari. Every Board School boy has heard the name of this hospital. It had originally been a large barrack, but was given up by the Turks for a hospital. At first, and long after Maggie went there, it was in a condition the very reverse of sanitary, and the scenes and suffering within its walls are past all chance of description.

Gradually, however, as the winter wore on, Miss Nightingale's sway was less controlled, and great improvements were made in every way; especially, perhaps, in the cookery for the sick.

Maggie Mackenzie was well established in her quarters—and, indeed, they were very humble, and contained not a vestige of furniture that was indispensable. Nevertheless, the room, which she shared with another young lady, was in a tower; therefore it had one advantage—namely, fresh air. The view from the two windows, when these amateur nurses had a moment to spare to look at it, was very beautiful indeed, looking up the Bosphorus and towards romantic Constantinople—romantic only at a distance. The room was even reasonably quiet, except at early morning, when the strange sound of the muezzins' call for prayer fell upon the ear; but this had no disturbing effect, rather quite the reverse.

In coming out to Scutari, Maggie had roughed it—rather, she roughed it in landing; and here the troubles of herself and the other sisters only seemed to begin, and they were chiefly of a domestic character. Women folks like to be tidy and clean in their dresses and apartments, so very much shocked indeed they were to find that insects of various kinds, some unmentionable, were everywhere, and that rats and mice were so tame that they not only persisted in sharing the ladies' rooms, but looked upon the ladies as intruders.

Nevertheless Maggie soon schooled herself to look upon all these troubles as part and parcel of her present not enviable existence. "Never mind," she told herself over and over again; "I am doing some good."

Then she would sigh as she thought of the awful tide of human misery and wretchedness that rolled in and out of this great hospital every day under her eyes, and which she could do so little to stem.

The tide that rolled in was that which brought the sick and the wounded from the seat of war; that which rolled out was more solemn than sad, for it carried on its bosom the dead that were borne away to their long homes in this foreign land.

Just think of it, reader: nearly one hundred of our poor fellows breathed their last in this huge and comfortless hospital daily; and day after day, we are told, the sick were carried in faster than the dead were carried out!

* * * * *

"Maggie!"

"Jack!"

Yes, Jack had come; and I do think it was not altogether tears of joy that his sister was now shedding. In fact, that fit of weeping did Maggie a deal of good. She had had much need of it before now, but never any excuse to indulge in so sweet an extravagance.

"Come into our drawing-room, Jack," she said at last; "and you also, Dr. Reikie. We are no strangers, you know, doctor; I have heard so much about you."

"Drawing-room!" thought Jack. "Why, sister must be better off than I had imagined. I wonder if she has a Turkey carpet and a piano."

They went upstairs. A big deal door opened into a portion of the corridor partitioned off, and used as a kind of omniorum storehouse. A curtain was now pulled back, and lo! Jack and Reikie found themselves in Maggie's drawing-room.

A rickety old table, surely on its last legs, bales and boxes and barrels, did duty as seats and furniture; but there was a sofa, and to this Maggie pointed, and Jack and Reikie sat down, and felt as if they had come to anchor on a bagful of broken saucepans.

But there was a delightful window to this room, looking away over the dark-blue Sea of Marmora.

"This is Sister Mary," said Maggie, introducing a tall, dark lady, who was sitting in a corner busily mending a pair of soldier's stockings.

Mary bowed and smiled, and would have left the room had Maggie permitted her, which she would not.

Then what a long, delightful talk they all had about home and old times! And what a number of questions had to be asked and answered, only those who have been in a somewhat similar position could believe or understand.

Dr. Reikie got up at last.

"No, Jack," he said; "don't you leave for a short time. I'm going on duty, and to have a look round the wards. I'll call for you shortly. What I shall see, Jack, would not interest although it might horrify you."

Jack Mackenzie gladly stayed behind with his sister, who was at that time off duty.

"Wards" Dr. Reikie had called the chambers where lay the sick and wounded. This was for courtesy's sake, perhaps, for they really were long halls or corridors. The doctor had seen many a hospital, he had done duty at Malta and in Haslar at home, but never had he seen anything approaching to the horrors he now witnessed in those abodes of misery, pain, gloom, despair, and death.

Those poor soldiers lay in two long rows almost side by side, the feet of one row to the feet of the other, with a passage for doctor and nurse between.

Cap in hand, and accompanied by an army surgeon, he walked silently along corridor after corridor.

Oh the horror and the sorrow of it! Oh the agony and the anguish displayed on nearly every second face, when it could be seen! for some were so swathed in bandages and plasters that nothing was visible save the mouth and the sunken eyes. Here and there were patients who groaned—at times some of these started in shrieking terror and delirium; but, for the most part, they lay still and silent, and grateful for the slightest comfort or sympathizing word.

Many of them had been stricken down with dysentery; others were plague-stricken, with pinched, blue, contracted features, and cold, thin hands, like claws of birds—moribund; and others, again, were dead and stiff.

If anything could add to the horror of this terrible scene, it was the sickening odour that permeated every nook and corner of the hospital. Dr. Reikie, although he stopped here and there to inquire kindly how some of his own patients felt, and to give them a few words of hope and consolation, was himself glad when he stood once more in the open air; his heart was sore and sad to think that many of the poor fellows, now so low and sick unto death, had been among the bravest of the brave in action and the merriest of the merry around the camp-fire.

* * * * *

For nearly a fortnight the Gurnet lay here; and although it was meant to be a kind of health-holiday for both Jack and himself, neither was idle.

Yet every day the two friends found time to visit the hospital; and when at last the time of final departure came round, poor Maggie treated herself once more to a hearty cry as she bade her brother adieu.

Neither he nor honest Reikie went away empty-handed; for Maggie and Sister Mary had managed to knit three pairs of warm stockings for them, although to do so they had to work even at the bedsides of the patients.

I have said nothing at all about one other part of this great barrack-hospital into which it had been Dr. Reikie's privilege to have a peep. This was the ward or wards set apart for the wives of soldiers who had been permitted to come to the Black Sea with their husbands. The wretchedness, suffering, and misery of these poor women could never be graphically told. They are dead and gone long ago, so what need is there to resuscitate even the memory of the agonies they endured?

* * * * *

The Gurnet was less crowded on her return voyage to Balaklava, for few, indeed, of the men or officers sent to Scutari ever went back. If they did not die, they were invalided home.

The ship was detained for some time by contrary winds, Captain Gillespie being desirous of saving his precious coals; for the winter was severe enough on the Upland, and fuel so scarce that well did coals merit the name of black diamonds.

But though the sea was rough and the breezes keen and cold, every hour on the ocean seemed to strengthen both Jack and Dr. Reikie; and when they once more landed at Balaklava, they felt men again in every sense of the word.

In hardship and in suffering, then, did the weary winter of 1854-55 drag on. But meanwhile, both by the besieged and the besiegers, the great game of war was being steadily and steadfastly played; and our poor men, now reduced in numbers by cold, by famine, wounds, and pestilence, to little over 11,000, were never out of danger from bullet-shot and shell.

The war was even carried on underground, and mines were met by counter-mines; by sorties of the enemy too, which, however, were repulsed with great slaughter. The Russians, moreover, succeeded in pushing out their works beyond their trenches, and the allied armies extended their lines, till they almost met.

The war, indeed, seemed to wax more determined and bitter as the time flew by.

CHAPTER XII.

PELISSIER TO THE FRONT—DEATH OF LORD RAGLAN.

"The king is dead! Long live the king!"

Yes, the proud and ambitious Emperor Nicholas breathed his last on the second of March 1855, and Alexander the Second reigned in his stead. I do not mean to judge the dead emperor harshly, as many have done. De mortuis nil nisi bonum is an excellent motto; but, independent of this, I cannot but believe that in endeavouring vi et armis to cut his way to the sunny Mediterranean, Nicholas was following the traditional policy of his forbears, and that he believed he was doing the best he could for his country.

The emperor probably died half heart-broken: the victories not only of our troops and those of the French in the Crimea, but of the Turks, who in February drove the Russians from the gates of Eupatoria, had told upon his health; even the winter, with its hardships, its diseases, its death, had not annihilated our armies, and hope itself seemed to desert the heart of the great Czar. Heigh-ho! death is no respecter of persons; but even in the last moments of his life, Nicholas found strength to send a message to his troops. He was passing away into life eternal, but even from on high he would bend down to bless his warriors for their unequalled constancy and valour!

If any one expected that the war would now cease, he was much mistaken; for Alexander was as determined as his father had been.

But a few months more and summer would be in its prime and glory, the roads would no longer be sealed against the influx of troops, and the allied armies would be crushed out of existence and driven into the sea by sheer force of numbers, Sebastopol relieved, and victory won.

Well, this would certainly have been for us a national disaster of the gravest kind, and for the French also; but would it have put an end to the war? Would we, because the Crimea was lost, have stood quietly by and seen the northern Bear establish himself at Constantinople, complacently licking his paws as he saw his ships of war pass majestically to or from the Mediterranean? Undoubtedly not. The relief of Sebastopol by the Russians, and our destruction on the Upland, would have been but the commencement of a greater war that might have raged for years, despite the fact that it would have anastomosed with the terrible rebellion in India.

Gortschakoff was now general over the Russian army in the Crimea instead of Menschikoff. That was the second change.

Many changes were taking place at home that affected the carrying on of the war considerably—splits in the cabinet, the resignation of a cabinet, councils of war, and indignation meetings.

New men came to the front in the French army, and new theories were advanced.

The Emperor of the French himself, who probably had a hankering after military glory, had a theory. Everybody had a theory; though, as Jack told his friend Dr. Reikie, speaking perhaps from his early experience in Malony's shop, theory never bent a red-hot horse-shoe. There is no good standing and looking at it till it begins to get cold; the plan is to go at it hammer and tongs.

General Neil was, against Canrobert's wishes, appointed engineer vice General Bizot, killed in the cannonade.

Canrobert, indeed, was far from very resolute, and therefore might do more harm than good. Good he might have done had he taken the bull by the horns, and resolved on a grand assault after the terrible bombardment. This assault was to have taken place on the 28th of April; but on the 25th, orders had been given to the French admiral to get ready all his ships at once to embark the army of reserves at Constantinople. So this news determined Canrobert not to make the attack. He thought it safer and wiser to wait for these reinforcements, and Lord Raglan had to give an unwilling assent.

An expedition had been despatched to attack Kertch, for through this place the Russians were receiving all their supplies. It had sailed on May 3; but Canrobert recalled the French portion of it by a fast steamer, on receiving a telegram from the Emperor of the French to the effect that an expedition must be made at once against the Russian army. In the middle of May, the emperor's plans in detail were laid before Canrobert by an officer direct from France. He, Canrobert, was to command the field army, General Pelissier to take sole charge of the siege-works with a force of Turks and French, and the British to take to the field.

To this plan there were insuperable objections, though it might have looked very pretty on paper to the eyes of the French emperor, who, by the way, was never a Buonaparte.

So it fell through. Canrobert resigned, and General Pelissier was made commander-in-chief of the French army.

* * * * *

Pelissier was a bold and a daring man, and a most persistent. He had his own ideas about carrying on war, and didn't care even for offending his emperor. I suppose he thought that after all there was nothing so successful as success.

Pelissier determined to do two things—to capture an important new outwork of Todleben's, and to send an expedition to Kertch to crush the Russians there, and stop Gortschakoff's supplies. He was successful in both.

The Kertch expedition was a very pretty little affair.

Jack Mackenzie and Dr. Reikie, whose services for the time being could be spared from the trenches, both found themselves once more on board the Gurnet.

On the map you will notice the position of Kertch on the straits of that name. These straits, you will note, are narrow, and connect the Black Sea with the Sea of Azof. Into this latter the Don pours its floods, and bears on its bosom the products of immense villages if not towns that line its banks. The largest town is Taganrog, near the entrance of the Don to this inland ocean.

The Straits of Kertch were well lined with batteries, and General Wrangel, who commanded them, had it in his power to make a splendid demonstration against our forces. But if he was Wrangel by name, he certainly was not wrangle by nature; and so he not only cut and run, but destroyed his batteries and burned his ships of war.

If there was a disappointed man on board the saucy Gurnet, it was Jack Mackenzie. He had looked forward to seeing and participating in a real sea-fight of the good old-fashioned sort.

Small though the Gurnet was, it could have run alongside a Russian man-o'-war and boarded; then, once on deck, the tulzie would have been terrible. It could only have ended, Jack believed, in our killing or wounding about half the defending crew, and chasing the others below. He even fancied himself hauling down the enemy's flag, and hoisting in its place the brave old Union Jack, while cheers of victory rang from stem to stern.

But, alas! there was to be no such thing. It was not to be in this way that Jack should win honour and glory and those epaulettes—or the halo.

No doubt Sturdy was disappointed also. However, the whole business was a walk-over. A very sad one, however, for the Russ. For the whole of the stores intended for Gortschakoff, as well as the vessels supplying them, were captured and destroyed. It was only the smaller vessels that could get through the straits, but they did execution enough. Even at Taganrog they destroyed the stores and depots on the beach, and they also bombarded and took the fortress of Arabat.

The larger ships outside the straits made for the coast of Circassia, and without a struggle destroyed the fortified places at Anapa and Soujouk-kale.

By the end of June all the work was done: the chief support of the Russian army was cut, and thus Sebastopol was invested more easily and with far less loss of life than could have been done by any amount of trenching.

* * * * *

The stage was now being rapidly cleared for the last and final act in this drama of war. Already Canrobert had driven the enemy from Tchorgoum, and utterly demolished their camp.

It is somewhat galling to learn from Todleben that the Flagstaff Bastion and other works in front of the town had several times been so reduced by our fire that had they been assaulted our success or that of the French would have been certain, and that Sebastopol must then have fallen.

Pelissier, and with him Raglan, persisted in his one and main object, and that was the capture of the Mamelon, the White Works, and the Quarries, and these fortifications must be carried by storm. The emperor himself stormed in another fashion. He stormed by telegraph. Pelissier tore the telegrams up and let them blow, while he coolly acted according to his own judgment and that of Lord Raglan.

On the sixth of June a cannonade of tremendous proportions was turned upon the Russian works, and carried on till darkness, doing terrible damage. It was resumed on the 7th. About six the same evening the French and Turks carried the Mamelon by storm; and after desperate fighting, which lasted, on and off, throughout the night, the British Light Division and Second Division captured and held the Quarries.

The enemy was thus once more driven back to the rear of his former lines.

How fierce the fighting had been may be judged from the fact that the French had lost 5,440 men, the British 693, and the Russians over 5,000.

* * * * *

On the 18th, Pelissier and our own forces made a terrible assault upon the Malakoff and Redan. It is not, dear reader, because we were defeated in this attempt (which, had not the French general been so headstrong, would never have been undertaken) that I do not here give any detailed account of the fighting and the slaughter—for one should never be ashamed to own one's faults and defeats—but because the facts are all too well known to the veriest school-boy.

I may add, however, that after these failures I should not have cared to stand in Pelissier's shoes, seeing that he was acting entirely contrary to his emperor's plans.

But Pelissier persisted—he could not very well withdraw now—and so the siege went on, but more methodically and prudently.

Pelissier was a kind-hearted man in the main, as well as a resolute, daring, and determined. The soft or gentle side of his character is well seen at the death-bed of poor Lord Raglan. The general's health had no doubt been weakened by chagrin and grief at the reverses he had met with. In such a condition as this one is more apt to fall a victim to disease, and Raglan was attacked by cholera, and quietly passed away on the twenty-eighth of June. And Pelissier, we are told, stood by the bedside for upwards of an hour crying like a child.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE RUSSIAN BEAR AT BAY—THE LAST ACT OF THE
TRAGIC WAR.

Nearer and nearer to the great fortress crept now the works of the allied armies. The grip of death was tightening on the brave defenders of Sebastopol.

Brave? ah yes; give them their due. Their sufferings at this time were greater even than our own, and under our fire at least two hundred of them fell every day.

Around and in the ruined heaps of their batteries the unburied dead still lay in heaps, and sickness, too, was rife.

But now the great and final tug of war must shortly come.

Could nothing be done even yet by their field forces? This is the question the enemy asked himself.

A council of war was held on the ninth of August, and at this it was determined to attack our allies on the upper part of the river Tchernaya.

This was to be the last stand of the Bear at bay—in the open, that is.

The French had 18,000 men and 48 guns on the heights of Fedioukine; the Italians or Sardinians—our new allies—were near Tchorgoum, with 9,000 men and 36 guns; in the valley to the rear were the Turks, with a reserve of 10,000.

The Russians, under Gortschakoff, held the M'Kenzie heights, and on the night of the fifteenth of August they were reinforced by regiments from the Belbek.

The Russian army was divided into two. One wing, of 13,000 infantry, 2,000 horse, and 62 guns, was under command of General Read, and was on the right. It moved on to attack the French. General Liprandi had the left wing, divided into two columns, one of which followed Read; the other, commanded by Belgrade, was ordered to descend in another direction, and halt on the road to Tchorgoum.

Next day, at sunrise, the battle was commenced by the driving in of the Sardinian outposts. Things opened fairly well for Gortschakoff. But the goddess Fortuna had surely deserted the Russian cause; for General Read, mistaking an order, suddenly advanced upon the French without their position having been cannonaded.

Both his divisions were driven back with great slaughter, and although the battle raged long after this, as soon as Gortschakoff saw that the French reserves, as well as the Turks, were being hurried up for action, he knew that all hope was past, and so retreated.

The losses on the French and Sardinian sides amounted to nearly 2,000 killed and wounded; but those of the Russians showed how terrible had been the slaughter entailed by General Read's mistake. Three general officers and 36 others were killed, 160 officers were wounded, and of the rank and file over 6,000 were killed or wounded. Would Gortschakoff, now that he saw his game was almost lost, give up Sebastopol?

At first he was greatly disheartened by the result of the battle, and evidently intended to do so; but he changed his mind, after a visit to the interior of the fortress itself.

This visit of Russia's great general to Sebastopol would have been called by sailors an inspection.

The only marvel is that, after the ghastly sights he witnessed therein, he did not, if only out of pity for the poor, brave defenders, give up the place at once.

The city proper had been demolished, houses were in ruins, public buildings destroyed, whole streets reduced to chaos. Dismounted guns could not be replaced even at night, owing to the fire of our mortar batteries; the embrasures could not be repaired; nor could the parapets that, cracked and broken, lay in the ditches, be rebuilt. But, worst of all, the poor wounded men that had fallen by day had to lie amidst heaps of slain till night permitted their being removed. It is needless to say that the hospitals were crowded with sick and wounded; for the death-rate at that time, from shot and shell and sickness, must have been from 700 to 800 every day.

And in spite of all this, Gortschakoff determined to re-garrison with half his army from M'Kenzie heights, and defend the works to the very last extremity, as "the only honourable course that remained to him."

The last words are the tactician's own. And yet he knew that in—at the outside—six weeks' time he must succumb, and yield up Sebastopol. So these tactics were surely unwise; nor was Gortschakoff's resolve in accordance with true honour.

I need say nothing about the saving of life that the capitulation of Sebastopol, just after the battle of Tchernaya, would have effected to the allies. The Russian general could not have been expected to think of these, except to wish them utterly annihilated. But what I do say—and I believe that my young readers will agree with me—is that, in abandoning the great fortress at this time, Gortschakoff could have sheathed a sword of honour; while, by continuing the contest, the sword which he finally sheathed was one incrusted with murder.

* * * * *

The bombardment was now continued, and erelong the Malakoff tower and the works adjoining were silenced.

Our trenches were difficult to work, and their advancement towards the Redan was soon put an end to by the rocks. As the French soil was soft, they had worked up to within about forty yards of the Malakoff. Further they could not get.

It was now agreed at a council of war that the time had come for the final and grand assault. That chosen by Pelissier for the advance of the French was exactly at noon, at which hour he knew the relief of the works he had to take was always carried out—one garrison being first marched out, and then the other or fresh one marched in. At noon, therefore, the Malakoff would have fewer defenders.

A glance, at the map or plan will show you the work the French had before them, which was certainly no child's play. One division was told off to attack the Malakoff, a second the Curtain, and a third the Little Redan. These would be supported by brigades.

The Central Bastion was to be attacked by no less than four divisions well supported. These were to break through the rear of the bastion or works near it, and capture the Flagstaff Bastion.

Everything being arranged, the cannonade was once more resumed on the fifth of September.

It continued on the 6th and 7th, the mortars roaring on all night. It was, indeed, a circle of fire—a feu d'enfer.

Todleben tells us that a mortar set fire to a line-of-battle ship on the night of the 7th, which burned till nearly morning, and that the blue and ghastly light from which—for the ship contained a large cargo of spirits—shone along the ramparts, making on the minds of the brave defenders a most painful impression.

Our own special work was the capture of the Redan, and it was, considering our isolated position and want of cover, almost a forlorn hope, being undertaken chiefly, we are told, as a mere distraction of the enemy in favour of the French.

General Codrington himself was deputed to make the attack with his Light Division, and with the Second Division, commanded by Markham—the whole numbering about 3,000 men. Other parts of the same division, and also the Third and Fourth Divisions, were held in reserve in the third parallel.

* * * * *

Hardly had it gone twelve o'clock on the eighth of September when Bosquet's first line made a wild dash for the Malakoff. Pelissier had certainly chosen his time right well, for not a shot was fired upon Bosquet's men, so completely taken by surprise were the Russians. The Zouaves were first in the attack, and right quickly did they rush the ditch and mount the escarp; those within were speedily put to sword or bayonet, and this end of the great fort was thus taken completely.

But they were not to have such easy work after all, for each traverse or cross-work, running for 380 yards behind the tower, had to be fought for separately and taken singly.

The Russians had been living in caves and holes dug beneath the batteries, and they quickly came to the defence of the fort. The struggle was terrible and bloody in the extreme. Often when the Zouaves had taken a traverse they were hurled back; only, however, to rest for a minute, and again to dash in.

Meanwhile MacMahon's forces had stormed the place from the eastern face, and broken in at the rear of the traverses. Attacked thus, both in front and rear, soon the whole was in possession of our French allies.

But again and again Russian reserves were hurried up to retake this fort. But all in vain; and so, seeing the hopelessness of the attempt, Gortschakoff finally caused his troops to retire.

This fearful tulzie had lasted for four hours, and deeply and dearly had the brave Frenchmen paid for their victory, over 3,000 having been killed and wounded.

The brigades sent against the Little Redan and the Curtain were not so successful; for though they stormed and took the first lines of these works, they found other lines of defence stretching behind, and these were so strongly defended by the Russian field batteries and by the ships, that the French were decimated, and obliged at last to withdraw to their trenches, which by this time were crowded with their wounded. So ended the chief French attacks.

* * * * *

But how about our own attack upon the Redan? The question must be faced. It is asked; let it be answered. We were beaten. Certainly we may put the blame on the mismanagement of the attack, and on the forces and difficulties against us. And we can point to the bravery of our soldiers and sailors in crossing the open space, amidst a feu d'enfer of grape shot, round shot, case, and musketry. We even got into the work; but the reserves did not come to time, and so we retreated—I fear not in the best of order—suffering as much in the retreat as in the advance.

Had not the French spiked the guns in the Malakoff which commanded the Redan, but turned them against that fort, things might have ended in a different way.

As soon as possible after regaining their trenches, the British, beaten out of the Redan, recommenced their fire against that fort. The capture of it was postponed till next day, when, English regiments having failed to dispose of it, Sir Colin Campbell and his brave and indomitable Highlanders were to have had a chance. Being myself a Scot and a Celt, may I be forgiven, even by those of my readers who dwell south of the Tweed, for believing that the kilties would have been a little more successful?

The left wing of the French, I should inform the reader, failed in all their attacks on the flanking works of the Central Bastion, and were finally ordered by General Pelissier to desist in their fruitless efforts.

Meanwhile, even before sunset, Gortschakoff was withdrawing his forces across a bridge that had purposely been built, and by means of boats to the north and therefore safe side of the great harbour. He had begun to retreat early in the afternoon, and before next day the whole army was across, and with them as many of the wounded as could be borne.

But what a night of terror and suffering that must have been to 2,000 desperately-wounded men, who were left behind in a huge hospital all helpless and alone! For throughout the darkness of night explosion after explosion of the magazines took place—thirty-five in all were blown up by the enemy—and the city took fire in every place where there was anything to burn, adding to the scene a terror that is indescribable. The last explosion was the loudest and most dreadful of all, and with it the very earth shook all around. It was the blowing up of the bridge.

Our losses were very great, those of the French treble, while altogether the Russians lost over 13,000 men.