Commandant Schmitz galloped off on his long morning ride. He warned the King to hasten the movement of his troops, which would be needed as a reserve in case MacMahon should be attacked. Only one of the pontoon bridges would be left him for the tedious crossing over the Ticino. Beyond the river he found the division of Camou already on the way to follow the main column led by MacMahon. It was half-past ten o’clock before he came up with MacMahon himself, riding at the head of the division of Lamotterouge.

“The Emperor asks what you reckon on doing if you meet the enemy.”

“I have no news yet, and there is no attack along the front. On account of the narrow road I have only the division of Lamotterouge with me. I have sent Espinasse by a roundabout way at a half-hour’s march from my left. He is keeping up with me. Camou is behind. Tell the Emperor that I count on being at Magenta at two o’clock.”

The Commandant rode back, after warning MacMahon that the King had not yet begun crossing the river with the troops which ought to be his final reserve for the day. He reached Trecate at noon, just as the Emperor was alighting from his carriage. All along the way he had heard the noise of cannon from beyond San Martino. Napoleon received his report, mounted his horse, and rode off hastily with his escort in the direction of the firing.

It was the portion of the Guard which was under General Mellinet that had been violently engaged beyond the bridge at the village of Buffalora by the canal. Napoleon sent back at once to hurry on the corps of Niel, which was marching forward along the road from Novara. The disposition which had been made of the troops rendered this no easy task, and Mellinet was obliged to hold his own as best he might for three hours longer.

At half-past four the Emperor, more and more disquieted at hearing nothing from MacMahon, sent Commandant Schmitz once more by the weary round of the morning to get news of him. There was no nearer way by which he might escape the enemy’s fire in crossing the canal. At six o’clock the Commandant reached the pontoons, which the Italian regiments had not yet finished crossing. Victor Emanuel asked if it was Canrobert who was attacked.

“No, sire: it is the whole army. Have you nothing from MacMahon?”

“Yes; a word in pencil, signed by his aide-de-camp; but it is not pressing.”

Commandant Schmitz could only conjure the King not to lose a moment of time, and asked for an officer to keep him company in his own search. As they rode off, the Piedmontese infantry was straggling over the pontoons. Some of the men were stopping to heat their soup in the islands of the river, and all, when a new burst of artillery was heard from the distance, gave vent to their patriotic cry—“Viva l’Italia!”

It was eight o’clock and night was falling when Commandant Schmitz reached the line of railway from Milan, just beyond Magenta. On the track before him lay a body covered with a blue cloak and guarded by a staff-officer in tears. It was General Espinasse, who had been shot dead as he entered Magenta. At the other end of the town a sharp fusilade was still going on. In the confusion, it was some time before MacMahon could be found; and it was half-past eleven at night before the Commandant arrived with his news at Napoleon’s quarters by the river. The Emperor was lying, dressed, on the bed in an attic room of the little inn. He arose, and by the light of a candle dictated the telegraphic despatch to the Empress Eugénie which set all Paris rejoicing next day.

“A great battle—a great victory!”

III.—The Fight at Magenta.

From the beginning, the task assigned to the troops of MacMahon was long, difficult, and dangerous. After crossing both river and canal, they had to march down toward Magenta in a line trending always to the right. They would thus be ready to aid in the attack which the divisions under the command of the Emperor were bound to make on the enemy’s positions along the canal.

Shortly after Commandant Schmitz left him in the morning, MacMahon came suddenly on the enemy in front of Buffalora. This small village, situated on both sides of the canal, was one of the strongest Austrian positions, and the first serious obstacle which Napoleon would encounter in his own movement forward from the other side. MacMahon at once ordered the attack. It was made, with their wonted violence, by the Turcos and the foot-soldiers of the 49th Regiment of the line. They were in the thick of the fray when a strong column of the enemy was discovered moving up to attack the divisions of MacMahon from the right. So far as he could discern, he would have to face the main body of the Austrian army. The smoke of battle already clouded the air, heavy from the damp rice-fields by the river, and it would be no light task to bring his various divisions into line from their march across country. The enemy’s advance already threatened to separate him from the troops led by Espinasse, and from Camou, who was not yet in sight.

Before him, where the combat was actually engaged, disorder had already begun. The shells, on which the Austrians chiefly relied in this campaign, were whizzing through the air and leaving clouds of smoke and dust that added to the difficulty of his movements. One regiment, which had been ordered to fall back, found itself marching straight on the enemy; and another, wishing to rush forward to the attack which had been begun, turned back in the opposite direction.

MacMahon now gave orders that the Turcos and foot-soldiers should give over the attack on Buffalora and rally to his main column. This was a work of time. It was necessary to tear the men from a mortal combat which they were sharing with the Grenadiers of the Guard. These, at the head of Mellinet’s division, had come up from the other side and were already taking their position in the village. MacMahon next ordered Espinasse to move his men steadily to the right until he should be able to act in concert with the division led by himself. He then suspended his own movements until he could enter into communication with Camou, who was approaching but slowly from behind.

In these first movements of the day, General MacMahon has been reproached for his sudden attack on Buffalora; but this seems to have been in harmony with the essential plan of the Emperor, who had little idea of the real strength of the Austrian troops concentrated round Magenta.

He is next blamed for withdrawing his men from the attack when the Guard was in most danger; but it was the business of the Emperor to protect his own line of attack. MacMahon had been made responsible for the important attack on Magenta itself; and the advance of the enemy on his right threatened to render this impossible. Besides, the Grenadiers of Colonel d’Alton-Shee had already secured possession of Buffalora, which they had now only to defend.

Most of all, MacMahon is criticised for the long pause which now ensued in his operations, while the enemy was attacking in force close at hand. This was contrary to the tradition of the French army, praised by Moltke, that haste should be made where the cannon sounds. It can only be answered that MacMahon had been positively ordered to match forward to the church-tower of Magenta; that he was not responsible for the slowness of Camou which retarded his own movements; and that the victory which he won when he did move on the enemy shows who it was made the fewest blunders on that day.

In directing the movements of his thirteen battalions, General Camou, whose experience of war went back to the First Napoleon, had been following all the rules. At the sound of the cannonading in front, he marched straight across the fields toward the church-tower of Magenta, on which he knew MacMahon was advancing before him. The fields were separated from each other by dense thorn-hedges, and divided into small patches of maize. These, in turn, were separated by rows of mulberry trees bound together by wires, along which grape-vines were trained. At each moment the Sappers were called on to use their axes, and the other soldiers their sword-bayonets. This needed no great time; but, at every open space, the command of the tactician Camou was heard, stopping all movement in order to straighten properly the line of his advance.

At half-past four o’clock MacMahon himself, with his uniform in disorder and accompanied only by a few officers of his staff, dashed up to hurry forward this reserve which was necessary to his own attack. On the way he had run into a body of Austrian sharpshooters who saluted him as one of their own commanders, not dreaming of the presence of the French general. Hastening back to give directions to Espinasse, he again barely escaped being captured by the Uhlans. Camou had taken six hours for less than five miles of march.

The drums now beat the charge, and a determined attack was made on the enemy’s main column. It was taken between two fires, from the division of Espinasse on one side, and from that of Lamotterouge, led by MacMahon in person, on the other. Step by step, resisting desperately to the end, the Austrian troops fell back on Magenta, where their general and his staff were watching the fortunes of the battle from the church-tower.

Espinasse, by order of MacMahon, hastened his movement on the town from the side of the railway, to stop the fire of artillery which fell obliquely on the troops of Lamotterouge. A company of Tyrolese sharpshooters had entrenched themselves in one of the first houses. General Espinasse and his orderly fell dead under their unerring shots. In their frenzy, his Zouaves broke through the defences of the house and put to the bayonet each man of the three hundred Tyrolese. The bloody fight was continued around the railway station and through the narrow streets of the town. It left everywhere dead bodies clothed with the hostile uniforms, the red breeches of the French mingling with the white jackets of the Austrians.

On his side, MacMahon charged again and again, but the resistance was still obstinate around the church. At last, from the tower, the Austrian commander caught sight of the four regiments of Camou advancing in that regular order which became old soldiers of the Guard. They were impatient to share in the fray, but the Austrian general abandoned the place before them. Not one of their number had burned a cartridge or received a scratch. Their coming two hours earlier would have saved no end of good French blood. The Italian reserve, under King Victor Emanuel in whose cause the war was waging, did not appear all this day.

With nightfall, the soldiers of MacMahon—those who had fought and those who had only marched bravely—bivouacked as best they could outside the town. The doctors began their all night’s work among the wounded in the church.

General Trochu had brought his battalions forward at quick step along the road from Novara. At the bridge over the Ticino he found the Emperor quite alone, listening intently to the sounds of the battle. The officers of his escort had been despatched in every direction for information to relieve his uncertainty. Trochu asked for directions. Napoleon, white and trembling, could not answer. At last, in a scarcely intelligible whisper, he said, pointing to the bridge—

“Pass!”

From General Regnauld de Saint-Jean d’Angély, who was in command on the other side, Trochu learned that the enemy still held out at the Old Bridge (Ponte Vecchio) over the canal, in spite of Canrobert’s impetuous onsets. He ordered his men to move forward, rifle on shoulder and all the drums beating and trumpets sounding. The Austrians, believing in the arrival of a large body of fresh troops, abandoned their last positions. At four o’clock in the morning Trochu followed them to the south with his artillery, and their defeat became a rout. When Napoleon, on this day (the 5th of June), sent 50,000 men against what he still supposed to be the main body of the enemy, not an Austrian was to be found.

After a day for rest, on the 6th, MacMahon, with his corps, was off to check the advance from the north of General Urban, who was hurrying back from his chase of Garibaldi. Napoleon stood at the bridge of San Martino to see the troops pass by. Calling MacMahon to alight from his horse, he said:

“I thank you for what you have done. I name you Marshal of France and Duke of Magenta.”

At the request of the generals who could not yet understand how the battle had been won without them, the dignity of Marshal was also bestowed on the modest and valiant commander-in-chief of the Imperial Guard, General Regnauld de Saint-Jean d’Angély. It was the heroic resistance of General Mellinet and his Grenadiers of the Guard, left unaided for hours at Buffalora, that allowed to Camou all the time he required for bringing up his men according to military rules. It also gave MacMahon the shorter time needed to march forward and to reach the church-tower of Magenta.

It is now more than forty years since we entered upon our last great European war, when, allied with the French and the Turks, we were opposed to Russia. The early part of 1854 was spent in complete inaction at Varna, on the Black Sea. Cholera made terrible havoc in our camp, and the men were growing disheartened, while everybody at home was dissatisfied. The great strength of the Russians lay about Sebastopol, a nearly impregnable fortress on the opposite shore; and it was at length decided to invade the Crimea and attack Sebastopol. A magnificent armada was prepared, and the allied armies were carried across in a vast flotilla of steam and sailing transports, escorted by a proud array of battle ships. All who saw it, declare that it was one of the most imposing spectacles in modern war.

A powerful Russian fleet lay in the harbour of Sebastopol, but it made no attempt at resistance, although it might have done much mischief; and the allied armies were all safely landed on the 19th September, at a place called Old Fort, in the Crimea.

The Russians did not oppose us at first. Prince Mentschikoff, who was in supreme command throughout the Crimea, preferred to wait. Although he knew all our movements, and might easily have interfered with the disembarkation, he thought he could do us more mischief when he had us well on shore. He had chosen a fine position for his army—that, in fact, on which the battle of the Alma was fought two days later, and he thought it impregnable. He was a self-sufficient, headstrong man; a poor soldier, and very presumptuous, as we shall see.

He believed that the allies would soon waste themselves fruitlessly; that he might easily hold them at bay, perhaps for weeks. Then, when they were weakened by losses, and disheartened by failure, he meant to strike back, confidently hoping to drive them into the sea. Not a man, he declared, should regain the ships.

Pride often goes before a fall, and the result of the first battle was very different from what Mentschikoff expected. He was wrong all round: wrong in his estimate of the fighting qualities of the troops opposed to him, especially of the British; wrong in his belief in the great strength of his position; altogether wrong in his dispositions for defence.

It was very extensive, this position: from the sea, its westernmost limit, to the eastern slopes of the Kourgané Hill was some five and a half miles; the whole front was covered by the river Alma—a river in places deep and rapid, at others fordable, and there was a good timber bridge at Bourliouk, in the centre of the position, which carried the great causeway or post road from Eupatoria to Sebastopol. The western cliffs, nearest the sea, were steep, and supposed to be inaccessible; but the hills fell away as they trended further inland, and the approach from the river became practicable, although still offering a rather stiff climb. The ground about the centre and right rose high at two particular points: one was called the Telegraph Height, and it dominated the principal road; the other was the famous Kourgané Hill, an elevated peak around which the battle ebbed and flowed, and which is now acknowledged to have been the key to the position.

Mentschikoff was but scantily supplied with troops to occupy so long a line as this. But he was not very greatly concerned about it. According to his view—and he arrived at the conclusion a little too readily, as he soon found to his cost—the west cliff, that part of the position nearest the sea, could defend itself, he felt sure. They were untenable, too, as he told himself, for the whole surface of this plateau was within range of the allied fleets, and the fire of their guns would soon have swept it of the Russian troops. These reasons sufficed to justify him in holding his chief strength, about 36,000 infantry, between the two hills just mentioned, the Telegraph and the Kourgané, a front limited to less than three miles. His cavalry, in which he was especially strong, having about 3,600 sabres in all, guarded his right flank when the more open down-land was favourable to their movement. His ninety-six guns were distributed over the whole ground: some commanded the causeway, some were with the cavalry, some with the great reserves, some in the two redoubts.

These dispositions showed both carelessness and want of skill. The Prince had not satisfied himself of the impregnability of the west cliff. Had he visited and inspected it, he would have found that a good waggon track ascended the hill from the village of Almatamack, which could be used, and was, for artillery. Yet he could easily have broken up this road; just as easily as he could have thrown up formidable entrenchments to make assurance doubly sure, and forbid absolutely all attempt to attack on this side. This neglect to fortify all along the front, although the ground lent itself admirably to such defensive works, was no less blamable. Whether or not the position was everywhere naturally strong, it might soon have been made so. If the heights of the Alma had been converted into a properly and scientifically entrenched camp, the allies would hardly, perhaps never, have captured them.

All Mentschikoff did was to construct two works, one named by our men the “Greater,” the other the “Lesser” Redoubt. The first was nothing more than a breastwork—breast high, that is to say, without a ditch, and some three hundred yards above the Alma, just on the lower slopes of the Kourgané Hill. The Prince was very proud of this fortification, which had two short sides for flanking fire, and was armed with twelve heavy guns. More to the right, on the same hill, was another slight entrenchment facing north-east, and armed with field artillery. This was the Lesser Redoubt.

The allied forces marching on Sebastopol, arrived in front of this position on the 20th September, 1854. It was a momentous occasion. For the first time in modern history the French and English, two hereditary foes, were about to fight side by side. A newer and a better rivalry had effaced old feuds. The fierce contests in Spain and at Waterloo were forgotten, although the English commander and many of his generals had won their laurels against the French. Now the two old enemies were the fastest of friends. Lord Raglan, who, as Fitzroy Somerset, had lost his arm at Waterloo, was revered by all ranks in the French army; and when Marshal St. Arnaud, the French commander-in-chief, passed along the British line, he was received with loud cheers, to which he replied, lifting his hat, and speaking in good English, “Hurrah for old England!”

Emulation in great deeds is a fine thing, but when allies fight side by side there is always the fear of divided counsels, the chance of divided action in the field. The English and French generals did not exactly disagree, but each went very much his own way. St. Arnaud wished to take the front attack from the sea to beyond the causeway, leaving Lord Raglan to turn the Russian right. This the English general did not choose to do: he thought a flanking movement would be dangerous in the presence of a superior cavalry, over ground especially suited to it—like a racecourse, in fact, open, and covered with smooth, springy turf. It ended in an agreement that each army should go up against what was before it, the French attacking the west cliff, from the causeway to the sea, the English taking the hills from the causeway to the extreme right.

The result of this was that the French found no enemy, and the brunt of the battle fell upon us. The honour was all the greater, of course. But this arrangement neutralised all our advantages of superior numbers. French and English together numbered some 63,000, as against 30,000 Russians. As, however, Mentschikoff held the bulk of his forces about his centre and right—in other words, just opposite the English attack—it followed that Russians and English would fight upon pretty equal terms. This was all the more emphasised by the French moving so much to their right that a large portion of their army was quite out of the action, while the rest was only partially engaged.

The allied troops were astir at daylight on the 20th September, but the battle was not really fought till the afternoon. Delays that were vexatious yet inevitable interposed. Lord Raglan was obliged to draw towards him two of his divisions, with which he had been covering his exposed left flank, and at the same time he gave a safer direction for his baggage train. The slow transfer of the latter from the left to his own immediate rear occupied the whole forenoon, and the French, who had no such troubles, chafed greatly at the delay.

But at length Bosquet began the ball at 2 p.m. He led off with his, the extreme right or seaward French division, and went up against the west cliff. One brigade, Bonat’s, followed by the Turks, crossed the river Alma at its mouth, and scaling the heights without difficulty, advanced—to do no more. His 15,000 men met no enemy, and were put out of action for the rest of the day. Bosquet’s other brigade, D’Autemare’s, with which he rode in person, faced the stiff slope and surmounted it. Both men and guns got up, and were ready to go in and win; but, like Bonat, they found nothing in front of them. Bosquet’s successful climb had only placed him alone in an isolated and really unsafe position. He was quite unsupported. Bonat was detached far away on his right; Canrobert, his nearest neighbour, had got mixed up among the rocky, broken country above him, and could barely hold his own, much less extend his hand. Next to Canrobert was Prince Napoleon; but the latter hung back unaccountably—unless the stories afterwards published discrediting his courage are deemed true.

At this moment, it is generally thought, the allies were within reach of grave disaster. Had Mentschikoff been a Napoleon or a Wellington, with the genius to see and the skill to use his opportunity, he might now have dealt a crushing blow at the allies. He was in between his foes: one army was caught amongst a difficult country, and separated in two parts by a wide interval; the other army, not yet engaged. Had he sent his cavalry to hold the English in check, just as the German cavalry at Mars la Tour with such desperate gallantry turned Bazaine back to Metz, he might have fallen upon Canrobert and almost eaten him up. The utter defeat of one French division at this early part of the day would have probably decided the battle, and in favour of the Russians.

But such masterly tactics were not to be expected from such an incapable general. All Mentschikoff could do when Bosquet scaled the west cliff, was to hurry up eight battalions from his reserve to confront him; then, hesitating to join issue, to march them back whence they came, and thus lose their services for more than an hour. His cavalry remained inactive till the golden opportunity was lost, and then he found himself so fiercely assailed by the hitherto despised English that he lost the power of the offensive.

While the French were in this critical condition, the English, who were also jeopardised, still remained passive, halted, and lying down under a dropping artillery fire. But now, at length, Lord Raglan gave the signal for attack; and the order was received with soldier-like glee by our troops, to whom the long inaction was very irksome. At last the battle was to be fought in real earnest, but to understand what follows we must realise exactly how our forces were arrayed.

1. Sir De Lacy Evans with the 2nd Division stood next the French. His right rested on the village of Bourliouk opposite the causeway bridge; his left joined on to and was rather jammed in with the right of—

2. The Light Division under Sir George Brown, who faced the Kourgané hill, with its two redoubts heavily armed, and a garrison of eighteen battalions: a very formidable position to storm. At the same time his left was what soldiers call “in the air”—resting on nothing, that is to say, and exposed.

3. Immediately behind the Light Division came the Duke of Cambridge with the 1st, composed of the Guards and the Highland Brigades.

4. The 3rd Division supported the 2nd, but at a long interval.

5. The cavalry under Lords Cardigan and Lucan, not a thousand sabres, were held withdrawn to the left rear.

6. The 4th Division of infantry were a long way behind, and did not come up till after the action.

The first fighting fell to Evans, but at the moment of his advance the enemy set fire to the village of Bourliouk, which burst up into instantaneous flames, and Evans, to avoid it, drew one brigade—Pennefather’s—to the left, and sent the other—Adams’—by a long détour to his right, where it was in touch with the French. All Pennefather’s men got across the river, but were stayed by the fierce fire of the causeway batteries; and one of his regiments—the 95th—crushed in by the right of the Light Division, joined it and its fortunes for the rest of the day. Evans had thus only three battalions left, and with so scanty a force he could make no impression: he could but simply hold his ground beyond the river.

Part of the Light Division, the right, or Codrington’s Brigade, was soon engaged in a weightier battle. The left, or Buller’s, also moved forward, but being entrusted with the protection of the exposed flank of the whole army, two of its regiments were held in hand while the rest became involved in Codrington’s attack; for this gallant soldier was no sooner across the river with his regiments all disorganised, and in no sort of formation, than he led them immediately forward.

His superior officer, the divisional general, Sir George Brown, was not within hail, and Codrington felt that his plain duty was to go ahead. He himself headed the desperate charge upon the Great Redoubt, which was now made in quite inferior numbers, and in the teeth of a murderous fire of big guns. His colonels, especially Lacy Yea of the 7th Fusiliers, took the cue, and springing to the front cried to their men:

“Come on—never mind forming! Come on anyhow.”

“Forward! forward!” was the universal cry of all; pell-mell, higgledy-piggledy, but always straight on, the first brigade of the Light Division rushed up the slope.

The Russians were really in tremendous strength. There were heavy columns of them all around; the Redoubt was armed with twelve big guns, yet they could not resist an onslaught which seemed only the vanguard of an imposing attack.

There was another cause, no doubt, for their weakness, as we shall presently see; but now already they were limbering up their guns and going to the rear. Then young Anstruther, a mere boy fresh from school, raced forward with the Queen’s colour of the 23rd, and placed it triumphantly on the crown of the breastworks. He was shot dead, the colour falling with him. A sergeant, Luke O’Connor, following close, succeeded to his mission, and raised the flag erect.

He, too, was struck down, but would not yield, and although desperately wounded, carried the colours for the rest of the day. This was the crisis of the fight; the flag was the rallying point; crowds came rushing in, and the Redoubt was carried—for a time. The battle itself would probably have been completely won had reinforcements been at hand. But the 1st Division, which had been ordered to support the Light Division, had not yet crossed the river. Its advance was hastened by the Quartermaster-General, General Airey, speaking for Lord Raglan, who, as we shall see, was at another part of the field. So the Duke of Cambridge moved forward, but slowly; the Guards Brigade to the right, in line—a well-dressed two-deep “thin, red line,” which kept its formation even when crossing the stream, each man walking on whatever was before him, shallow water or deep pool. On the left were Sir Colin Campbell’s three famous Highland regiments—the 42nd, 93rd, and 79th—advancing in an echelon of deployed lines, one behind and a little further to the left of the one in front of it. Such a stern array would have more than sufficed to stiffen our hold upon the Great Redoubt; but it came too late, and other untoward events had also occurred.

The Russians, of whom there were eighteen battalions in these parts, could not brook the loss of the Redoubt to what seemed only a handful of redcoats, and they came forward again in great strength to recover the work. The Vladimir regiment, approaching close, was mistaken for a French column, and no one fired at it; then some misguided English bugler sounded the “retire”—by whose orders it was never ascertained—but the call was taken up and repeated, till at length, most reluctantly, Codrington’s men in possession of the Redoubt prepared to leave it. They clung for a time to its reverse slopes, but presently gave way, and under a murderous fire retreated down the hill. Only indomitable Lacy Yea, with his bold regiment, the 7th Fusiliers, refused to withdraw, and, in line against a column double his strength, alone maintained the fight.

All this time the French were not prospering. Bosquet still clung, isolated, upon the west cliff; Canrobert had climbed it, but had made no forward movement; Prince Napoleon stood halted, irresolute, on the safe side of the river. The Russian general in command of the centre, which was posted around the Telegraph Height, now put in motion eight of his battalions, in dense double column, and crossed the plateau to smite Canrobert, who forthwith crumbled back over the cliff. He had supports at hand—a brigade (D’Aurelle’s) of Forey’s Division, which was on the hilly road jammed in between him and Prince Napoleon, and the Prince himself was close behind; but these supports were in marching columns, with no frontage for attack, and could not help Canrobert. Had Kiriakoff, the Russian general, pressed on, he would probably have completely “rolled up” the French. But he paused, and the battle meanwhile passed into a fresh phase.

Strange as it may seem, the turning-point in the action was a hazardous, and, speaking by the book, a perfectly indefensible step taken by the English commander-in-chief. Lord Raglan, with his staff and a few dragoons—not twenty horsemen in all—had ridden boldly, blindly, into the very centre of the enemy’s line. He had gone down towards Bourliouk, but avoiding the burning village, and, anxious to see what was in progress beyond the river, had dashed into it, crossed, and galloped up the opposite slope. He came out at a point under the Telegraph Height and above the causeway, and thence could survey at ease—for no enemy, happily, was near enough to injure him—the whole state of the battle. Better still, he looked into the enemy’s line of defence, taking it in reverse, and realised at once the supreme advantage his really dangerous position gave him.

“If only we had a couple of guns up here!” he cried, and two artillery officers—Dacres and Dickson, who rode with his staff—dashed off to fetch them, while General Airey was sent to bring up the nearest infantry, Adams’ brigade of Evans’ 2nd Division.

The messengers found Turner’s battery struggling across the ford, and Turner himself hurried up two of his guns, which were soon unlimbered and worked—one, at least—by Colonel Dickson’s own hands.

Their very first shot was a surprise to the whole field. It proved to the enemy, whose guns were posted in advance in the causeway, that they had been taken in reverse and had better retire. It overjoyed Evans, who still stood checked by this causeway battery. “Hark! that is an English gun,” he cried, and prepared at once to advance, knowing that the barrier in front would soon be removed. And so it was. Evans swept forward triumphantly with his three remaining regiments, their left still covered by stout Lacy Yea and his splendid Fusiliers, who just about this time had finally conquered the Russian column with which they had so long been engaged. Yea’s obstinate heroism had not only paved the way for the advance of the 2nd Division, but it had made another attack possible upon the Kourgané Hill.

The Scots Fusilier Guards had been the first of the Duke of Cambridge’s troops to get across the river in support of Codrington’s discomfited brigade. The Russians on the hill now numbered some 15,000 men, part of them being the Vladimir column, which had retaken the Great Redoubt. A very stout resistance was made. The Scots Fusiliers were met with so bold a front and such a withering fire that they fell back in some disorder. It seemed as though the Grenadier Guards would also be involved, but this regiment, under Colonel Hood, stood firm, and presently advanced in beautiful order—a well-dressed, steady line, as perfect as though it was in Hyde Park. To the left of the Scots Guards were the Coldstreams, another regiment in magnificent array, which had not been touched by the fire, and moved up the hill with admirable precision. The Duke of Cambridge rode with the Coldstreams.

So fierce was the fight into which the Guards now entered, so strong the opposition, that some cried in alarm, “The Brigade will be destroyed.” There was a talk of falling back, and then it was that stout old Sir Colin Campbell made his famous speech to the Duke:—“Better, sir, that every man in her Majesty’s Guards should lie dead upon the field than that they should turn their backs upon the enemy.” The Guards needed no stiffening—they were only too eager to get on. But Campbell did more than exhort in words. He had here, close at hand, his three superb Highland regiments, and he was ready to use them, to the last man, in support.

The Highlanders were now on the left of the whole line. Although Buller’s two regiments on this extremity, the 88th and the 77th, had held their own during the day, they were now beginning to fall back. But Campbell took charge of the flank, and, despising the still irresolute Russian cavalry, he brought up his deployed regiments in echelon, and prolonging our line, threw them at the Russian right. Our front was very extensive, for the line was only the depth of two men; but it looked so threatening, that the Russian general, Gortschakoff, concluding there were heavy masses behind, thought himself outnumbered and overpowered.

Sir Colin spoke a few words of encouragement to his men. “Be steady—keep silence—fire low;” and then, with fierce emphasis, he finished—“Now, men, the army will watch us: make me proud of the Highland Brigade!” He was about to engage twelve battalions with his three; each regiment as it advanced, the 42nd first, seemed to be outflanked by a heavy column; but beyond each flank came the next regiment in the echelon behind, and in this formation the Highlanders carried all before them. The Russians, after another despairing and unavailing stand, began to retreat, and the Guards and Highlanders took possession of the Kourgané Hill.

All this time Lord Raglan had held his ground—no longer perilous—above the causeway; but now he was joined by Adams’ two regiments, and a red line was seen surmounting the slope. He left them there, to be used, if needs were, in hastening the retreat of the Russian columns; a brigade of the 3rd Division, Eyre’s, had also arrived, and was across the Bourliouk bridge. Now the French made head against Kiriakoff, who could not hold out with his comrades in full retreat; and as he fell back Canrobert came on, and, gaining the heights, took full possession of the Telegraph Hill. There was very little more fighting to be done, except with a handful of forgotten riflemen: the Russians were gone. Following Canrobert, Prince Napoleon and D’Aurelle advanced, so that soon two strong and unbroken French divisions and a whole brigade occupied the ground.

Then followed the grievous mistake of not following up the beaten enemy. It was clear that the English could not do this with effect: the bulk of our men had been engaged, we had suffered severely, and the survivors were worn out with their exertions. Our cavalry could do little against the Russian, which was still quite fresh, and ready, if not too anxious, to cover the retreat. Lord Raglan hoped that the French would now reap the full advantage of the victory, and urged St. Arnaud to press on in pursuit. The only answer was that any further advance of the French that day was “impossible.” The men, when moving up to the attack, had left their knapsacks on the other side of the river, and they could not go on without them. So the Russian army, which was now nearly dissolved, a broken, helpless mass of fugitives, was suffered to continue its headlong retreat upon Sebastopol. A little more energy on the part of the victors would have dealt a crushing blow and probably annihilated it.

In this first error was sown the seeds of the long and disastrous siege of Sebastopol.

(From the Painting by Andrew Morton.)]

On the 21st of November, 1805, a striking and warlike cavalcade was traversing at a slow pace a wide and elevated plateau in Moravia. In front, on a grey barb, rode a short, sallow-faced man with dark hair and a quick, eager glance, whose notice nothing seemed to escape. His dress was covered by a grey overcoat, which met a pair of long riding-boots, and on his head was a low, weather-stained cocked hat. He was followed by a crowd of officers, evidently of high rank, for their uniforms, saddle-cloths, and plumed hats were heavily laced, and they had the bold, dignified bearing of leaders of men. In front and in the flanks of the party were scattered watchful vedettes, and behind followed a strong squadron of picked cavalry in dark green dolmans with furred pelisses slung over their shoulders, and huge fur caps surmounted by tall red plumes. The leading horseman rode in silence over the plateau, first to one point then to another, examining with anxious care every feature of the ground. He marked carefully the little village from which the expanse took its name, and the steep declivity which sloped to a muddy stream below. No one addressed him, for he was a man whose train of thought was not to be lightly interrupted. Suddenly, at length, he drew rein, and, turning to the body of officers, said: “Gentlemen, examine this ground carefully. It will be a field of battle, upon which you will all have a part to play.” The speaker was Napoleon. His hearers were his generals and staff. He had been reconnoitring, surrounded and guarded by his devoted Chasseurs of the Guard, the plateau of Pratzen, the main part of the arena where was to be fought in a few days the mighty conflict of Austerlitz.

Napoleon’s headquarters were then at Brunn. The French host, then for the first time called the “Grand Army,” had, at the command of its great chief, in the beginning of September broken up the camps long occupied on the coasts of France in preparation for a contemplated invasion of England, and had directed its march to the Rhine. It was formed in seven corps under Bernadotte, Marmont, Davoust, Soult, Lannes, Ney, and Augereau, with its cavalry under Prince Murat, and the Imperial Guard as a reserve.

The Rhine was crossed at different points, and the tide of invasion swept upon the valley of the Danube. From the beginning the movements had been made with a swiftness unprecedented in war. Guns and cavalry had moved in ceaseless and unhalting stream along every road. Infantry had pressed forward by forced marches, and had been aided in its onward way by wheeled transport at every available opportunity. The Emperor had resolved to strike a blow by land against his foes which should counterbalance the several checks which the indomitable navy of England had inflicted on his fleets at sea. Austria and Russia were in arms against France, and he was straining every nerve to encounter and shatter their separate forces before they would unite in overwhelming power. The campaign had opened for him with a series of brilliant successes. The veterans of the revolutionary wars, of Italy and of Egypt, directed by his mighty genius, had proved themselves irresistible. The Austrians had been the first to meet the shock, and had been defeated at every point—Guntzberg, Haslach, Albeck, Elchingen, Memmingen—and the first phase of the struggle had closed with the capitulation at Ulm of General Mack with 30,000 men.

But there had been no stay in the rush of the victorious French. The first defeats of the Austrian army had been rapidly followed up. The corps which had escaped from the disaster at Ulm were pursued and, one after another annihilated. The Tyrol was overrun, and its strong positions occupied by Marshal Ney. From Italy came the news of Massena’s successes against the celebrated Archduke Charles, and at Dirnstein Marshal Mortier had defeated the first Russian army under Kutusow. The Imperial headquarters had been established at Schönbrunn, the home of the Emperor of Austria. Vienna had been occupied and the bridge across the Danube secured by Lannes and Murat. Kutusow, after his defeat at Dirnstein, had been driven back through Hollabrunn on Brunn by the same marshals at the head of the French advanced guard, and had now joined the second Russian army, with which was its Emperor Alexander in person, and an Austrian force under Prince Lichtenstein, accompanied by the Emperor of Austria.