CHAPTER IV.

Nobly he led them to the strong redoubt,And gallantly they put the foe to rout;He coveted the thickest of the fight,Where bullets whistled, and where blades gleamed bright.Where foes were fiercest he was sure to be,His strong arm dealing death, for naught cared he;And while around he heard his comrades’ cheer,Bravely and well he fought, unknown to fear;But just as o’er the hill-tops sank the sun,And shouts of vict’ry told the day was won,Watching with triumph the retreating foe,A random shot was fired which laid him low.And there upon the battle plain he lies,The light of vict’ry beaming in his eyes;And at his side his gallant fellows stand,Anxious once more to clasp their leader’s hand.But see! a smile lights up the pallid face;And hark! he speaks with military grace:“I’m done for, lads; ’tis hard to leave you all,And just as we have won the day to fall.Ill-luck was ever mine; I’m forced to goThe moment we have driven back the foe.Perhaps ’tis best; there’s One above who knows,For in His hand He holds both friends and foes;But, lads, when safe you reach old England’s shore,Home, sweet, sweet home, which I shall see no more.Just seek out father, mother, sis, and tellThem all that I have done my duty well;Good-bye, brave lads; my freed and happy soulNow answers to the heavenly muster roll.You’ll think of me, when far across the wave,As sweetly slumbering in the soldier’s grave.”

More Trench Work—Meeting with Capt. Vicars—My Letter of the 15th March, 1855—Night Attack in the Trenches—Capt. Vicars’ Death—A few Remarks showing his Noble Character—My Letter Descriptive of the Fight—Storming Rifle Pits—More Trench Duty—Supplementary Letter—The Taking of the Quarries and Circular Trench—Desperate Fighting before Sebastopol, the 7th and 88th Leading—My Letter Home, 8th June—Continued Fighting—First Assault on the Town—Its Bloody Repulse—The Poor Old Light Division Cut to Pieces—The Fusiliers again Led the Way—My Letter of the 18th—Waiting to be Revenged—A Terrible Night—Attack by the Enemy and its Bloody Repulse—My Letter of the 28th June describing the Fight—Death of Lord Raglan, much felt through the Allied Army—The Battle of Tchernaya, 16th August—The Enemy’s Last Throw for Victory Defeated—My Letter Home of the 18th Aug.—Creeping Closer and Closer to the Doomed City—The Last or Terrible Bombardment—A Nasty Blunder, our own people pitching into us—My Letter Home, 2 a.m., 8th Sept.—P.S. to it announcing my Death—My P.P.S. after I had recovered.

Our heavy guns still kept at it. I soon found my way into the trenches again, and had a very narrow escape, not of being wounded, but of being “taken in and done for,” or killed on the spot. In the dark, after posting some sentries, I took a wrong turn and went almost into the midst of the enemy. They could have shot me; but just then, I am sorry to say, we had a number of men deserting to the enemy, and I believe they thought I was one of that class, but they soon found out their mistake, for I was off as fast as my legs could carry me in the opposite direction.As need scarcely be remarked, I did not wait to look behind me until I got close up to our own people, then I turned about and faced them.

That night I met for the first time that noble-minded man, Capt. Hedley Vicars. He and I had a long chat in the trench. Although I had heard of him, I had not until then known him personally. He was under the impression this was my first time in front of the enemy, as I told him I was nearly taken prisoner; but when I informed him I had been present at the Alma, Balaclava, and Inkermann, and was wounded at the latter battle, he was quite astonished. He was very affable and kind, and his men seemed to be very fond of him. He appeared to be one of those cool determined men that are sure to win the respect of all classes, and will lead men at anything. As far as I could see, he had not a bit of pride about him. I soon found that he was a Christian, and was not ashamed of his Master. The light that had been planted in him he could not hide under a bushel, for his whole conversation was of redeeming love, and how he had been plucked “as a brand from the fire,” when afar off from God by wicked works. What a soldier! I told him about my comrade at the Alma. “Well, Sergeant,” he said, “the Lord’s time is the right time; who is the best off now, you or he?” He then asked me a number of questions about better things; I do not think I ever met such a man. His men seemed to be devotedly fond of him. I spent some time with him next day, as the 97th touched our right, the left of their detachment meeting the right of ours. He invited me to his tent for that night for prayer, as he told me a few who loved the Lord met there as often as they could. I did not profess anything at the time, but was going against light and knowledge. I went once and only once, before he was killed.

This subject is referred to at greater length in my next letter home, which was as follows:—

Camp before Sebastopol,March 15th, 1855.My Dear Parents,Once more a few lines from this miserable camp—mud! mud!! mud!!! We arrived here on the 8th, and at once marched up to the front; a number of my poor comrades I hardly knew—what a change! The old Fusiliers, once one of the finest corps in our service, now poor half-starved, miserable-looking wrecks of humanity. The older hands had still that unconquerable look about them, that it would be far cheaper for the enemy to build a bridge of gold for them to pass over, than to try and take them prisoners. We have plenty of work in the camp; and ’tis bleak, cold work in the trenches, standing up to our ankles in mud and water, with hardly sufficient food to keep body and soul together; as for the fighting, we never hear one word of murmuring about that. I came off the trenches last night; we had a brush at the enemy, but it was soon all over: our people were ready for them, and gave them a warm reception. I met with a Captain of the 97th (Vicars). He is, I do believe, a thorough Christian man. We had a long chat together. He appears to be a general favourite with his men. He held a prayer-meeting in the trench yesterday morning, and got as many men around him as he could. I like him very much. I do wish he belonged to us (the Fusiliers, I mean); he appears a good, earnest man, and not at all backward in standing up in his Master’s name, trying toExtol the stem of Jesse’s rod,And crown Him Lord of all,in this cold, bleak corner of the earth; but yet a most determined soldier for his country. Some of his sergeants told me yesterday morning that he had used his good sword the night previous about some of the enemy, and they did not think the doctors would be of much use after he had done with them. The noble Captain invited me to his tent, and I spent, I am happy to say, a comfortable hour with him. I do not know when this town will be taken, there is a lot of rough fighting to be done yet. I must conclude, with love to all; it is very cold to handle the pen. Pray for me, and God bless you all.Believe me, everYour affectionate son,T. GOWING,Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

Camp before Sebastopol,March 15th, 1855.

My Dear Parents,

Once more a few lines from this miserable camp—mud! mud!! mud!!! We arrived here on the 8th, and at once marched up to the front; a number of my poor comrades I hardly knew—what a change! The old Fusiliers, once one of the finest corps in our service, now poor half-starved, miserable-looking wrecks of humanity. The older hands had still that unconquerable look about them, that it would be far cheaper for the enemy to build a bridge of gold for them to pass over, than to try and take them prisoners. We have plenty of work in the camp; and ’tis bleak, cold work in the trenches, standing up to our ankles in mud and water, with hardly sufficient food to keep body and soul together; as for the fighting, we never hear one word of murmuring about that. I came off the trenches last night; we had a brush at the enemy, but it was soon all over: our people were ready for them, and gave them a warm reception. I met with a Captain of the 97th (Vicars). He is, I do believe, a thorough Christian man. We had a long chat together. He appears to be a general favourite with his men. He held a prayer-meeting in the trench yesterday morning, and got as many men around him as he could. I like him very much. I do wish he belonged to us (the Fusiliers, I mean); he appears a good, earnest man, and not at all backward in standing up in his Master’s name, trying to

Extol the stem of Jesse’s rod,And crown Him Lord of all,

in this cold, bleak corner of the earth; but yet a most determined soldier for his country. Some of his sergeants told me yesterday morning that he had used his good sword the night previous about some of the enemy, and they did not think the doctors would be of much use after he had done with them. The noble Captain invited me to his tent, and I spent, I am happy to say, a comfortable hour with him. I do not know when this town will be taken, there is a lot of rough fighting to be done yet. I must conclude, with love to all; it is very cold to handle the pen. Pray for me, and God bless you all.

Believe me, everYour affectionate son,T. GOWING,Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

I was with Capt. Vicars once more in the trenches before that miserable night, the 22nd March. We had a lot of sickness in the camp, and duty was very heavy for those who could do it. The Old Light Division had been strengthened by the 34th to the 1st Brigade, and the 90th and 97th to the 2nd Brigade; but, with sickness and hardships, they, like ourselves, were not very strong—except in the head.

THE NIGHT ATTACK IN THE TRENCHES, WHEN HEDLEY VICARS FELL,22nd March, 1855.

A NIGHT ATTACK IN THE TRENCHES.

DEATH OF CAPTAIN VICARS.

That 22nd March was a terrible night to be out in. We were nearly up to our knees in mud and water. It came on to blow and rain as hard as it fairly could. It was as dark as pitch, and in the midst of all—our plight was, I suppose, not bad enough—the enemy came out and attacked us, in both flanks and front. They came on pretending that they were French, and in the dark we could not see them; so that they were right in the midst of us before we could fire a shot. Talk about hard knocks,—they were served out that night as freely as ever they were. It was foot and fist, butt and bayonet, as hard as we could go at it; in fact, they could have it any way they liked: the fighting was desperate. The enemy came on in overwhelming numbers,—there were enough to eat us,—but we stuck to them with a deathlike grip, until they were driven back. We lost both our Officers that night—Capt. the Hon. C. Brown, and a Mr. Henry, who was a fine specimen of a British soldier. The former was killed, and the latter dangerously wounded. The news flew that Captain Vicars had fallen, and the men rushed in the direction in which it was said he was, and literally lifted the enemy from the field with the bayonet. Some of our men’s bayonets were bent like reaping-hooks next morning, which was a clearproof of the vehemence with which we had been at it. My letter will more fully describe that attack. The 97th were wrought up to a state of madness, to think that so kind and good an officer should fall by the hands of such fiends. The enemy were at last sent reeling from the field with our bayonets uncomfortably close to them. It was one of the most desperate attacks the Russians had made since the commencement of the siege, and the slaughter was in proportion; the bayonet was the chief weapon used, and, after poor Capt. Vicars fell, it was used with a will and with a vengeance.

One Russian was caught trying to walk off with one of our small mortars; he was a huge monster, but some ten inches of cold steel, from a man named Pat Martin, stopped his career. Another, a Greek Priest, fired his revolver into our small-arm magazine, but luckily no harm was done. He was at once bayoneted; next morning he was seen to be a powerful fellow. Poor Capt. Vicars was brought into the trench and placed upon a stretcher. He seemed quite cheerful, said he did not think it was much, and hoped soon to be able to go at them again. These were not, perhaps, his exact words, but the substance of them as nearly as I can remember. He was then sent home to camp, but before he had reached it his spirit had fled to him who gave it. He was ready. A faithful soldier of the Cross, he had, from the day it had pleased the Lord to speak peace to him, been always ready to depart to be with Jesus. A noble and brave man, he did not know what fear was as far as the enemy was concerned, but he loved the Lord with all his heart and soul; and, like one of old, was not at all ashamed to stand forth and tell poor sinners what the Lord had done for him. But he is gone to be with Him whom he loved to speak of when on earth.

Her Most Gracious Majesty had lost by that fatal bullet one of Britain’s bravest sons; and all aroundthe spot where poor Vicars had fallen it was evident the bayonet had done some terrible work.[3]The enemy let us alone for the remainder of the night, and next morning there was a flag of truce out. They had paid heavily for their intrusion, for in places they lay in heaps one on the top of the other. We were relieved next morning; and in the evening poor Capt. Vicars was laid in his cold grave, together with other officers. We committed his body to the earth,

And his pure soul unto his Captain, Christ,Under whose colours he had fought so long.

The 97th seemed to feel his loss keenly, and over his grave strong men wept like a lot of children who had lost a fond father, and then vowed they would revenge him the first opportunity.[4]The Captain was a general favourite throughout the Light Division, for he used to go, when off duty, from regiment to regiment doing all he could to point poor thoughtless sinners to the Lamb of God.

Such were some of the men who helped to unfurl the Standard of old England on the blood-stained walls of Sebastopol; and, while some were struck down to rise no more, in the first action; others were permitted, apparently with a charmed life, to go from field to field. I am not one of those who believe that all is left to chance, on the contrary, I am convinced that all our lives are in God’s keeping. I know that I have been mercifully watched over through seen and unseen dangers of no mean sort. Besides those events that I have here narrated, I have yet to tell of nineteen years’ life in India with sword and pestilence scattering death all around me.

The following is my letter describing the fighting of the 22nd:—

Camp before Sebastopol,March 24th, 1855.My Dear Parents,I hardly know how to commence this letter. Since mine of the 15th, we have had a terrible fight. Thank God, I have been spared once more. I do think that I am out of their debt. To describe the fight adequately, would be impossible. I will try and do a little to it. A good strong party of us, under command of Captain the Hon. C. Brown, went into the trenches on the 22nd. It blew a perfect hurricane, with rain and sleet; it came down just anyhow. We were standing up to our ankles in mud and water, like a lot of half-frozen, half-drowned rats, when, about 10.30 p.m., the enemy attacked our Allies. It was as dark as the grave, and in fact, we could not see one yard in front of us. We had strong parties of the Light Division in our advanced works. The enemy got right in the midst of us before we knew anything of their whereabouts, and then we set to work with the bayonet. It was charge and re-charge, officers shouting to their men “This way, this way, Fusiliers!” “Come on, 90th!” “Now, at them, 97th!” We had to grope for them the best way we could, stumbling over friend and foe. Up and at them again. Officers fighting with desperation, shouting all the time, “Come on my lads, stick to them.” Our Captain was killed, and one of our Lieutenants (a Mr. Henry) wounded. He was a man of about six feet two-and-a-half inches, and before he fell he let the enemy know what metal he was made of. You remember a Captain of the 97th, that I have spoken about (Captain H. Vicars, I mean): I am sorry to have to inform you that he received his death wound while nobly leading the 97th and us, shouting with all his might, “This way, 97th; come on, Fusiliers.” Our men took a terrible revenge for his death. A number of our bayonets were bent like reaping-hooks next morning; and all around where that noble Christian fell, the enemy lay thick, one on the top of the other. They fought with desperation; but that never-failing weapon, the bayonet, was too much for them. They tried to blow up our small-arm magazine, but the fellow who made the attempt was at once despatched. The sights next morning (the 23rd,) were awful. I do believe, for the time it lasted, it was worse than Inkermann: it was nothing but butt and bayonet, and some of our Lancashire boys did not forget to use their feet. Thank God, I got out of it without a scratch worth mentioning. I managed to lose my cap, a shot went through the collar of mycoat, and one through my trousers. We buried our officers last night, and there was hardly a dry eye when poor Captain Vicars was lowered into his grave. I feel confident that he has gone to that Home that is prepared for all those who are faithful to the end. This army has lost a cool, determined officer, and there is one Christian less in this sin-blighted world. He had won the affections of the whole Light Division. The 97th might well be proud of him. It is only a few days since I was with him at one of his meetings; but, dear father, he is not lost, but gone before. He can now sing, with all his manly heart, while he views his glorious Master without a veil between.It is bitterly cold here at present, and I for one do wish they would let us go at the town. We know well that it will be a hard nut to crack, but it must be done, the honour of Old England and France is at stake, and take it we will some day. I do not wish you to publish my letters, for the simple reason that sometimes I speak a little too plainly, and it might hurt me; if anything should happen to me here, you can then please yourself. Take care of them all, as they may come in handy some day, if only to read to friends near and dear to us. I must conclude. Thanks for the papers.Believe me ever, dear Parents,Your most affectionate son,T. GOWING,Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

Camp before Sebastopol,March 24th, 1855.

My Dear Parents,

I hardly know how to commence this letter. Since mine of the 15th, we have had a terrible fight. Thank God, I have been spared once more. I do think that I am out of their debt. To describe the fight adequately, would be impossible. I will try and do a little to it. A good strong party of us, under command of Captain the Hon. C. Brown, went into the trenches on the 22nd. It blew a perfect hurricane, with rain and sleet; it came down just anyhow. We were standing up to our ankles in mud and water, like a lot of half-frozen, half-drowned rats, when, about 10.30 p.m., the enemy attacked our Allies. It was as dark as the grave, and in fact, we could not see one yard in front of us. We had strong parties of the Light Division in our advanced works. The enemy got right in the midst of us before we knew anything of their whereabouts, and then we set to work with the bayonet. It was charge and re-charge, officers shouting to their men “This way, this way, Fusiliers!” “Come on, 90th!” “Now, at them, 97th!” We had to grope for them the best way we could, stumbling over friend and foe. Up and at them again. Officers fighting with desperation, shouting all the time, “Come on my lads, stick to them.” Our Captain was killed, and one of our Lieutenants (a Mr. Henry) wounded. He was a man of about six feet two-and-a-half inches, and before he fell he let the enemy know what metal he was made of. You remember a Captain of the 97th, that I have spoken about (Captain H. Vicars, I mean): I am sorry to have to inform you that he received his death wound while nobly leading the 97th and us, shouting with all his might, “This way, 97th; come on, Fusiliers.” Our men took a terrible revenge for his death. A number of our bayonets were bent like reaping-hooks next morning; and all around where that noble Christian fell, the enemy lay thick, one on the top of the other. They fought with desperation; but that never-failing weapon, the bayonet, was too much for them. They tried to blow up our small-arm magazine, but the fellow who made the attempt was at once despatched. The sights next morning (the 23rd,) were awful. I do believe, for the time it lasted, it was worse than Inkermann: it was nothing but butt and bayonet, and some of our Lancashire boys did not forget to use their feet. Thank God, I got out of it without a scratch worth mentioning. I managed to lose my cap, a shot went through the collar of mycoat, and one through my trousers. We buried our officers last night, and there was hardly a dry eye when poor Captain Vicars was lowered into his grave. I feel confident that he has gone to that Home that is prepared for all those who are faithful to the end. This army has lost a cool, determined officer, and there is one Christian less in this sin-blighted world. He had won the affections of the whole Light Division. The 97th might well be proud of him. It is only a few days since I was with him at one of his meetings; but, dear father, he is not lost, but gone before. He can now sing, with all his manly heart, while he views his glorious Master without a veil between.

It is bitterly cold here at present, and I for one do wish they would let us go at the town. We know well that it will be a hard nut to crack, but it must be done, the honour of Old England and France is at stake, and take it we will some day. I do not wish you to publish my letters, for the simple reason that sometimes I speak a little too plainly, and it might hurt me; if anything should happen to me here, you can then please yourself. Take care of them all, as they may come in handy some day, if only to read to friends near and dear to us. I must conclude. Thanks for the papers.

Believe me ever, dear Parents,Your most affectionate son,T. GOWING,Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

SUDDEN DEATH.

“Servant of God, well done;Rest from thy loved employ;The battle fought, the victory won,Enter thy Master’s joy.”The voice at midnight came;He started up to hear,A mortal arrow pierced his frame;He fell, but felt no fear.Tranquil amidst alarms,It found him in the field,A veteran slumbering on his arms,Beneath his red-cross shield:His sword was in his hand,Still warm with recent fight;Ready that moment, at command,Through rock and steel to smite.At midnight came the cry;“To meet thy God prepare!”He woke, and caught his Captain’s eye;Then, strong in faith and prayer,His spirit with a bound,Burst its encumbering clay;His tent, at sunrise, on the ground,A darken’d ruin lay.The pains of death are past,Labour and sorrow cease;And life’s long warfare closed at last,His soul is found in peace.Soldier of Christ! well done;Praise be thy new employ;And while eternal ages run,Rest in thy Saviour’s joy.Montgomery.

Tranquil amidst alarms,It found him in the field,A veteran slumbering on his arms,Beneath his red-cross shield:His sword was in his hand,Still warm with recent fight;Ready that moment, at command,Through rock and steel to smite.

At midnight came the cry;“To meet thy God prepare!”He woke, and caught his Captain’s eye;Then, strong in faith and prayer,His spirit with a bound,Burst its encumbering clay;His tent, at sunrise, on the ground,A darken’d ruin lay.

The pains of death are past,Labour and sorrow cease;And life’s long warfare closed at last,His soul is found in peace.Soldier of Christ! well done;Praise be thy new employ;And while eternal ages run,Rest in thy Saviour’s joy.Montgomery.

We had now some hard hitting almost every day or night. We commenced gradually to creep up to the doomed city—here a bit and there a bit, shots being continually exchanged. All the enemy’s outworks had to be seized, and that was no child’s play. The taking of their rifle pits was fearful work. It was all done with the bayonet, in the darkness of night. For the information of my non-military readers, I will just explain what rifle pits are. They are holes, large or small, constructed in various ways, and manned by crack shots, who tormented us considerably by picking off our artillerymen and the sailors manning our heavy guns; for if anyone showed his head above the parapets of the trenches he was almost certain to have a hole made in it. The taking of these pits was, as I have said, fearful work, and was all done with the bayonet, no quarter being given or taken. This work is generally undertaken by volunteers from the various regiments that happen to be in the trenches at the time. I volunteered to form one of these “nice little evening parties,”—but I wished to go no more; yet, had I been ordered, I would have gone, for I hadrather die a thousand deaths than be dishonoured. In a few words I will try and describe the method of capturing rifle pits. About 100 or 150, sometimes 300 or 400, men would be formed up at the point nearest to the pits to be assailed, all hands sometimes taking off their accoutrements; at a sign from the officers who are going to lead, the men would creep over the top of the trench and steal up to the enemy on “all four’s;” not a word is spoken, but, at a given signal, in they all go, and, in less time than it takes me to write this, it is all over—the bayonet has done it’s work; the defenders are all utterly destroyed or taken prisoners, while the pits are at once turned and made to face the enemy, or are converted into a trench. Therefore, with this sort of work going on, I think I am justified in saying that hard knocks were given and taken almost every night.

As far as the camp was concerned, things began to look much brighter. Thanks to the kind-hearted friends at home, we now had plenty of good food, and sickness was on the decrease. We had a few petty annoyances, such as being compelled to wear socks, and to pipe-clay our belts so as to make us conspicuous targets for the enemy. As for the fighting, we had plenty of that, but we managed to get over it, I think, as well as our forefathers had done. It was “give and take,” but we generally contrived to let the enemy have “excellent interest.”

The following letter, giving additional details of the fighting on March 22nd, may be of interest here:—

Camp before Sebastopol,March 29th, 1855.My Dear, Dear Parents,In answer to yours of the 1st inst., I am happy to inform you that I am quite well, and in good spirits. I wrote you a long letter on the 24th descriptive of the attack on the 22nd. Truly it was an awful night, and a terrible fight we had. The attacking force, we find, were all picked men, most of them sailors. We hear that the Russians have got a newcommander, and that he boasted he would compel us to raise the siege or drive us all into the sea; and I must say that they shaped well, for they came on manfully, but that nasty piece of cold steel stood in the way. I told you in my last about the death of poor Captain Vicars. I do not believe that there was a man in the whole Light Division but would have died to save that noble soldier. When the news flew that Vicars had fallen it seemed to work upon our men, and they were wrought up to a state of frenzy; and with all the enemy’s boasting, and with the overwhelming odds against us, we managed to shift them, and, so to speak, almost pitched them out of our batteries and trenches with the bayonet; and I should like to know what sort of a Briton he would be that would not follow such a man, such a two-fold soldier, as Captain Vicars. One of the sergeants of the 97th told me that only a few hours before the attack this exemplary, noble Christian, was reading and expounding a portion of God’s word to his men, and engaging in prayer with them, and shortly afterwards we find him calling upon these very men to follow him to death or to victory. My dear parents, you must not ask me such questions. I am bound to do my duty. I will not, if I am cut to pieces, bring disgrace upon Norfolk, that brought me up. We have only once to die, and if I am to fall in front of this town, let it be with my face to the foe. I do not wish to boast, but I think I am out of their debt. I find the fellow that shot Captain the Hon. C. Brown was a Russian or Greek priest, and it was the same man that fired his revolver into our magazine, but a bayonet thrust stopped his little game, and extinguished his fanaticism. I must tell you that we all received great praise, or soft soap, from Lord Raglan. I do not know exactly the united strength of those who took part in that fight, but the brunt of the fighting fell upon the 7th Royal Fusiliers, 34th, 77th, 88th, 90th, and 97th regiments. To explain the fight would be impossible—it was so dark. We did not fire much, all was left to the bayonet; but to say that this or that regiment did more than any other would be a piece of injustice. We had a handful, and although they were about ten to one, they found us one too many for them. Whether it will be called a battle, or what our people are going to call it, I do not know; this I know, it has been a grand attempt at ducking us. We hear that the Zouaves fought like so many tigers, and although the odds were heavy against them, they routed the enemy off the field. I don’t think I ever told you before, that they are not all Frenchmen that wear French uniforms. The Zouaves have a number of English and Irish mixed up with them—wild spirits that join them on account of the rapid promotion. You must try and keep your spirits up. I am ashappy as the day is long, that is, when I have enough to eat. We must try and make the best of a bad job. Nearly one-third of the Fusiliers are Norfolk men, and I will be bound they will hold their own, and I can tell you they are not the smallest men that we have. I must conclude, with love to all. Give my kind regards to all inquiring friends, andBelieve me as ever, dear Parents,Your affectionate son,T. GOWING,Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.P.S.—Try and keep your spirits up, dear mother. I will come home some day lop-sided, with honours, that is, if I do not get my head put under my arm.T. G.

Camp before Sebastopol,March 29th, 1855.

My Dear, Dear Parents,

In answer to yours of the 1st inst., I am happy to inform you that I am quite well, and in good spirits. I wrote you a long letter on the 24th descriptive of the attack on the 22nd. Truly it was an awful night, and a terrible fight we had. The attacking force, we find, were all picked men, most of them sailors. We hear that the Russians have got a newcommander, and that he boasted he would compel us to raise the siege or drive us all into the sea; and I must say that they shaped well, for they came on manfully, but that nasty piece of cold steel stood in the way. I told you in my last about the death of poor Captain Vicars. I do not believe that there was a man in the whole Light Division but would have died to save that noble soldier. When the news flew that Vicars had fallen it seemed to work upon our men, and they were wrought up to a state of frenzy; and with all the enemy’s boasting, and with the overwhelming odds against us, we managed to shift them, and, so to speak, almost pitched them out of our batteries and trenches with the bayonet; and I should like to know what sort of a Briton he would be that would not follow such a man, such a two-fold soldier, as Captain Vicars. One of the sergeants of the 97th told me that only a few hours before the attack this exemplary, noble Christian, was reading and expounding a portion of God’s word to his men, and engaging in prayer with them, and shortly afterwards we find him calling upon these very men to follow him to death or to victory. My dear parents, you must not ask me such questions. I am bound to do my duty. I will not, if I am cut to pieces, bring disgrace upon Norfolk, that brought me up. We have only once to die, and if I am to fall in front of this town, let it be with my face to the foe. I do not wish to boast, but I think I am out of their debt. I find the fellow that shot Captain the Hon. C. Brown was a Russian or Greek priest, and it was the same man that fired his revolver into our magazine, but a bayonet thrust stopped his little game, and extinguished his fanaticism. I must tell you that we all received great praise, or soft soap, from Lord Raglan. I do not know exactly the united strength of those who took part in that fight, but the brunt of the fighting fell upon the 7th Royal Fusiliers, 34th, 77th, 88th, 90th, and 97th regiments. To explain the fight would be impossible—it was so dark. We did not fire much, all was left to the bayonet; but to say that this or that regiment did more than any other would be a piece of injustice. We had a handful, and although they were about ten to one, they found us one too many for them. Whether it will be called a battle, or what our people are going to call it, I do not know; this I know, it has been a grand attempt at ducking us. We hear that the Zouaves fought like so many tigers, and although the odds were heavy against them, they routed the enemy off the field. I don’t think I ever told you before, that they are not all Frenchmen that wear French uniforms. The Zouaves have a number of English and Irish mixed up with them—wild spirits that join them on account of the rapid promotion. You must try and keep your spirits up. I am ashappy as the day is long, that is, when I have enough to eat. We must try and make the best of a bad job. Nearly one-third of the Fusiliers are Norfolk men, and I will be bound they will hold their own, and I can tell you they are not the smallest men that we have. I must conclude, with love to all. Give my kind regards to all inquiring friends, and

Believe me as ever, dear Parents,Your affectionate son,T. GOWING,Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

P.S.—Try and keep your spirits up, dear mother. I will come home some day lop-sided, with honours, that is, if I do not get my head put under my arm.

T. G.

THE SECOND BOMBARDMENT OFSEBASTOPOL.

On the morning of Easter Monday the camp was shaken by the commencement of the second bombardment. The French opened fire with some 350 heavy guns, and our people with about 220 guns and mortars. The enemy returned the fire with spirit, with some 600 of the heaviest guns and mortars, exclusive of their shipping. It was something grand, but awful; the ground seemed to tremble beneath the terrible fire. I was in camp, but felt compelled to go up to the Victoria Redoubt to have a look at it. The Russians frequently fired in salvoes, against both us and our allies. This duel of Artillery went on day after day, but it all ended in nothing, the enemy’s works appearing to be as strong, after all this expense and loss of life, as before the bombardment commenced. As Sir G. Brown once said, the longer we looked at the place the uglier it got, and it would have to be taken in the old way, let the consequences be what they might; the bayonet must do what shot and shell could not. So our people set to work to creep up to the prize that for the first time had baffled all our united fire of Artillery, and try the effect of cold steel. Every obstacle had to go down inorder to enable us to get up to their works, and during the remainder of April and May we had some terrible fighting. More rifle pits had to be taken, and the old Light Division sustained another heavy loss in Colonel Egerton, of the 77th, who had from the commencement of the Campaign proved himself one of Britain’s truest sons. He fell dead at the taking of rifle pits, that were afterwards named Egerton’s pits; he was one of the biggest men I ever saw in uniform. The old Pot-hooks (the 77th) fought in a most dashing manner, and although they had lost their Colonel, their spirits were not damped, but they went at it with a will as conquerors.

The enemy tried hard that night to re-take the pits, but it was no go; they were met with a fire that mowed them down by wholesale; they then got the bayonet. The 77th were backed up by a good strong party of the 33rd, and detachments of almost every regiment of the Light Division.[5]The fighting was of a most formidable and determined character; but the pits remained in the hands of the conquerors of Alma, Balaclava, and the two Inkermanns. It would be impossible for me to describe all the different combats, but every inch of ground up to the town had to be dearly purchased by blood.

Nothing particular occurred to note now, except that a steady stream of men kept joining us, particularly French, and we had now a splendid army in front of the doomed city. Our men were burning to go at it, and take it or die in the attempt; but we had some more outworks yet to capture before we were to be let loose. From the early morning on the 7th of June, the French were passing through our camp on the way to thetrenches. The Imperial Guards and Zouaves appeared in high spirits, and our men turned out and cheered them lustily; and when their new chief, Pélissier, with General Bosquet went by, you would have thought our people had gone mad. General Bosquet was a great favourite with the entire army; and Pélissier was known to be a most resolute man. Our men cheered them heartily, throwing their caps in the air. The fire-eating Bosquet and his chief seemed to appreciate the reception they got from the old Light Division. As soon as the cheering had subsided a little, the two leaders stopped, and Bosquet called out, “Thank you, my men,”—then, with his hand up, to stop us from shouting—“We shall be at them before long, shoulder to shoulder, and then, my boys, stick to them.” Our men cheered them until they were hoarse. Some of our officers turned out to see what was up, but the French had passed on.

CAPTURE OF THE MAMELON AND THEQUARRIES.

We shortly afterwards fell in, and marched into the trenches. We knew well that there was something to be done, but things were kept very quiet. We mustered pretty strongly in our old advanced works. The French went at the Mamelon in a masterly style, column after column, and as fast as one column melted away, another took its place. We had a splendid view of it—it was grand—and we could distinctly see one of the Vivandiers on horseback, moving with the throng, and then dismount. We cheered them most heartily.

Our turn came at about 5.30 p.m., and away we went at the Quarries with a dash, the old 7th and 88th leading the van. It was England and Ireland side byside. The enemy might well look astonished, for our bayonets were soon in the midst of them. They were routed out of the Quarries; and our people set to work with pick and shovel as hard as men could work. But the enemy were no mean foe; they were armed with as good a weapon as ourselves, and were not going to submit to being shut up in the town, without giving some hard blows. They came on repeatedly, and tried to re-take the position from us; but the old Fusiliers and Connaught Rangers, assisted by detachments of various regiments of the Second and Light Divisions, on each occasion sent them reeling back. At times we were hardly pushed, for we had no ammunition left, and had to do as we had done at Inkermann, viz., pitch stones at them. I am not altogether certain that some of the 88th did not use their teeth—all is fair in love and war. Both officers and men fought with desperation. It was resolved by all of us not to be beaten; but at times we were under such a fire of grape and musketry that it appeared impossible for anything to live. As far as I could see, all had made up their minds to die rather than turn their backs on the foe, and we had that night leaders who knew how to die but could hardly run. As far as the old 7th Fusiliers were concerned, we had some splendid officers—Mills, Turner, Waller, Jones, FitzClarence, all courageous men, just the right sort to lead a storming party. Mr. Jones and Waller repeatedly led our men at the enemy during that sanguinary night. At times all was confusion, uproar, and smoke. Dust and showers of stones flew like hail. It was hot work all night, but we meant to win or die. The hurrahs of our fellows told both friend and foe that our blood was up. If we were short of ammunition we had plenty of steel; we had a Wolseley with us and others as good, but nearly all our commanders bit the dust, dead or wounded. I had the honour of taking a man’s name that evening for a most daring act, viz., bringing a barrel ofammunition on his head across the open field, under a tremendous fire, throwing it at our feet, exclaiming, “Here you are, my lads, fire away,” and then going back to get another. I had the pleasure of meeting him afterwards in India, with the cross upon his noble breast—“Gunner Arthur.” But Arthur was not alone; two of our own men—Private Matthew Hughes and Corporal Gumley did exactly the same. Hughes, smoking his old clay pipe all the time, exclaimed, “Keep it up, lads;” “Lend a hand, sir, to distribute these pills,” addressing a young officer. The fighting all night was of a deadly character, but we had then got the Quarries, and were not going to let the enemy have them again. As for the Mamelon, it was “ding-dong hard pounding.” Five times the French went at it. The fifth column was blown into the air to a man, guns, platforms, and all; and then, with maddening shouts, the gallant sons of France went at the ruins, and, in spite of the barbarous brutes, took them. The Zouaves followed them up and went right into the Malakoff, where a great number fell, but it was not the intention to take or attempt to take that work. Our hands were full, we had all that we could do to maintain our position; but we found time to give our heroic Allies three times three, for they richly deserved it. All the enemy’s attempts at re-taking the Quarries were baffled, for some fourteen times they were hurled back with a terrible slaughter. We were now under good cover, the pick and shovel having been at it all night.

My letter home at this time was as follows:—

Camp before Sebastopol,8th June, 1855.My Dear Parents,Once more a few lines to inform you that I am, thank God, still in the land of the living. We have had another regular go-in in front of this doomed city. The French were passing through our camp nearly all day yesterday, and we had a good idea that something was in the wind; theyseemed all in good spirits, and we turned out and cheered them heartily, and their Chiefs seemed to appreciate it. In the afternoon, I marched off with a strong party of our regiment; we had some wild spirits of officers with us, that would lead men at anything. We soon found out that they had a nice little job cut out for us—all their outworks had to be taken from them. We were told off to take the Quarries; we had strong parties of the Light and 2nd Divisions with us, and about 5.30 p.m. the 7th Royal Fusiliers and the 88th Connaught Rangers, dashed at them. It was rough hard hitting, for about half-an-hour. It was a little piece of work well down. We routed the enemy but we had hard work to hold our own, for they came on repeatedly with strong columns, and tried to re-take them from us. The fighting then became desperate, the bayonet was freely used on both sides, but although the enemy were three and four to one, they shrank back, and although their officers tried to lead them on, they could not be brought to a determined rush. Thank God, I escaped once more, but it would be impossible for me to tell you how, only that a merciful God has been watching over me. We ran short of ammunition, and then we were in a nice mess; we used stones as we did at Inkermann, and as soon as they came close enough, we went at them with that ugly piece of cold steel. We proved them again to be cowardly beggars in the open field. Oh! I do wish they would let us go in and finish them off, for with all this dilly-dallying we are daily losing a number of our best men, and the men that are being sent out to fill up the gaps are too young for this rough work, but they are mixed up with the older hands, and they stick to it well. I must tell you that our Allies, the French, went at the enemy in a masterly style, column after column, but I fear their loss has been heavy; as one entire column of about 2,000 men was blown into the air; we hear their loss amounts to upwards of 3,000 men. We have taken three noble positions from them, and I hope you will now soon hear news that will set the church bells of Old England ringing again for victory, as after the Alma, Balaclava, and Inkermann. But, dear parents, who will live to tell the tale of the fall of this town, only One above knows. But when one comes to look at it seriously, it’s terrible work; many a poor mother has to mourn a noble boy, that was hale and hearty yesterday morning. But there, we must not look at it in that light, or we could never do our duty. I know our loss must have been heavy, not much short of 800 killed and wounded. But the Light Division, as at the Alma, has borne the brunt of it. Camp life at present is very pleasant, we have now plenty to eat, and as much as we require to drink; and this I know, if any one wants more fighting than we get, heis a glutton, for we are often at it from morning until night, and from night until morning, but no grumbling. We will try and give Mr. Bull, some of these mornings, something to talk about. I see by the papers, that the people at home begin to find out that it’s no disgrace to be a soldier. I hope you will excuse this short note, will write again if I am spared, in a few days. Trusting this will find you all enjoying the best of blessings. Good-bye, dear parents, and God bless you.I am, your affectionate son,T. GOWING,Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

Camp before Sebastopol,8th June, 1855.

My Dear Parents,

Once more a few lines to inform you that I am, thank God, still in the land of the living. We have had another regular go-in in front of this doomed city. The French were passing through our camp nearly all day yesterday, and we had a good idea that something was in the wind; theyseemed all in good spirits, and we turned out and cheered them heartily, and their Chiefs seemed to appreciate it. In the afternoon, I marched off with a strong party of our regiment; we had some wild spirits of officers with us, that would lead men at anything. We soon found out that they had a nice little job cut out for us—all their outworks had to be taken from them. We were told off to take the Quarries; we had strong parties of the Light and 2nd Divisions with us, and about 5.30 p.m. the 7th Royal Fusiliers and the 88th Connaught Rangers, dashed at them. It was rough hard hitting, for about half-an-hour. It was a little piece of work well down. We routed the enemy but we had hard work to hold our own, for they came on repeatedly with strong columns, and tried to re-take them from us. The fighting then became desperate, the bayonet was freely used on both sides, but although the enemy were three and four to one, they shrank back, and although their officers tried to lead them on, they could not be brought to a determined rush. Thank God, I escaped once more, but it would be impossible for me to tell you how, only that a merciful God has been watching over me. We ran short of ammunition, and then we were in a nice mess; we used stones as we did at Inkermann, and as soon as they came close enough, we went at them with that ugly piece of cold steel. We proved them again to be cowardly beggars in the open field. Oh! I do wish they would let us go in and finish them off, for with all this dilly-dallying we are daily losing a number of our best men, and the men that are being sent out to fill up the gaps are too young for this rough work, but they are mixed up with the older hands, and they stick to it well. I must tell you that our Allies, the French, went at the enemy in a masterly style, column after column, but I fear their loss has been heavy; as one entire column of about 2,000 men was blown into the air; we hear their loss amounts to upwards of 3,000 men. We have taken three noble positions from them, and I hope you will now soon hear news that will set the church bells of Old England ringing again for victory, as after the Alma, Balaclava, and Inkermann. But, dear parents, who will live to tell the tale of the fall of this town, only One above knows. But when one comes to look at it seriously, it’s terrible work; many a poor mother has to mourn a noble boy, that was hale and hearty yesterday morning. But there, we must not look at it in that light, or we could never do our duty. I know our loss must have been heavy, not much short of 800 killed and wounded. But the Light Division, as at the Alma, has borne the brunt of it. Camp life at present is very pleasant, we have now plenty to eat, and as much as we require to drink; and this I know, if any one wants more fighting than we get, heis a glutton, for we are often at it from morning until night, and from night until morning, but no grumbling. We will try and give Mr. Bull, some of these mornings, something to talk about. I see by the papers, that the people at home begin to find out that it’s no disgrace to be a soldier. I hope you will excuse this short note, will write again if I am spared, in a few days. Trusting this will find you all enjoying the best of blessings. Good-bye, dear parents, and God bless you.

I am, your affectionate son,T. GOWING,Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

Returning to camp next morning, we were thanked for our conduct by Lord Raglan, who promised to report all for the information of Her Most Gracious Majesty. We were heartily greeted by our comrades. Our loss had been very heavy. In killed and wounded the Mamelon, Quarries, and Circular Trench had cost the Allies close upon 3,500 officers, non-commissioned officers, and men, but yet our people were full of hope; the enemy had lost all their outworks, and every inch of ground was hotly disputed. The Quarries were afterwards well named “The Shambles,” for we daily up to the 8th September lost a number of men in them from the cross-fires of the enemy.

We had now some rough work. From the 7th to the 17th June it was one continual fight. We had a magnificent army around or in front of the south side of the town, and our men were burning to go and take it, or die. We had now been some nine months besieging the town, which had for that time defied the united powers of France, England, and Turkey, assisted by some 15,000 Sardinians. It is true the latter had nothing to do with the actual siege, but they took the place of our men or the French in guarding our communications. One great battle—Alma—had been fought to get at it, and two others had been fought in order to prevent the raising of the siege—Balaclava and Inkermann; and the civilized world were again asking when the last greatcoupwould be made.

SEBASTOPOL AGAIN BOMBARDED.

On Sunday, the 17th June, 1855, the third bombardment of Sebastopol opened with a terrible crash, and from morning until night they kept it up as hard as they could load and fire; the very earth seemed to shake beneath the crash of guns. We all marched into the trenches full of hope that the grand and final struggle was about to commence. We thought we had come to the last scene in the great drama. The Old Fusiliers were told off for the post of honour. We were to lead the way. It was not the first time we had done it, and from the colonel downwards all seemed in good spirits; and on that memorable 18th June, the 40th anniversary of Waterloo, we were to combat side by side with our old enemy, and thus avenge that historic battle.

ATTACK BY THE ALLIES AND ITS BLOODY REPULSE.

At a given signal away went the French at the Malakoff with a ringing cheer ofVive l’Empereur. It was quite dark, for it was just about 2 a.m. The Malakoff looked like a vast volcano, with a continual stream of men going at it. At another signal off we went at a rapid pace, with our Colonel in front, sword in one hand and revolver in the other; they let us get well out into the open so that we had no cover, and then, reader, such a fire met us that the whole column seemed to melt away. Still on we went, staggering beneath the terrible hail. Our Colonel fell dead, our Adjutant the same, and almost every officer we had with us fell dead or wounded, but still we pressed on until we were stopped by thechevaux-de-frise, and in front of that our poor fellows lay in piles. We were there met with a perfect hell of fire, at about fifty yards from us, of grape, shot, shell, canister, andmusketry, and could not return a shot. Our men could not advance and would not retire, but were trying to pull down the barrier orchevaux-de-frise. We might just as well have tried to pull down the moon. The “retire” was sounded all over the field, but the men stood sullen and would not heed it. Our men and those of other regiments were fast dropping; at last the remnant of the attacking column retired to the trenches amidst a storm of grape, which nearly swept away whole companies at a time. The enemy mounted the parapets of the Redan, and delivered volley after volley into us. They hoisted a large black flag and defied us to come on. At length, our Artillery got into play, and literally swept them down, so that they did not have it all their own way long. Our front trench was nearly 800 yards from the Redan. The cry of “Murder” could be heard on that field, for the cowardly enemy fired for hours upon our countrymen as they lay writhing in agony and blood. As some of our officers said, “This will never do, we will pay them for all this yet!” We would have forgiven all, had they not brutally shot down poor helpless wounded men.

On the left attack they were a little more fortunate, led on by the gallant 18th Royal Irish and the 9th, the Norfolk, Regiment. These regiments let the enemy know what they might expect if we could only get at close quarters with them. Major-General Eyre addressed them in Irish, and said that he hoped their deeds that morning would make many a cabin in Old Ireland ring again. The men of that regiment were wrought up to a state of madness, and on they went, right into the town, but, as the other attacks had proved failures, they likewise were compelled to retire, and lost a great number of men the like of which could not easily be replaced. The Royal Irish and the 9th were backed up by the 28th, 38th, and 44th Regiments, and as they carried all before them it was hard lines thatthey had to fight their way out of the town again. The Allies had been kept at bay for upwards of eight months—and out of all that vast army employed only two regiments managed to cut their way into Sebastopol on that terrible 18th June, and one of them was “the Holy Boys.” Herein is another source of pride for Norfolk.

Major-General Eyre’s address had a wonderful effect upon the 18th Royal Irish, and it was not lost upon the Norfolk regiment. The fighting in the cemetery was desperate. Not a shot did those two noble regiments fire, but with a ringing cheer they dashed at the enemy. No powder was wasted, but the Russians were fairly pitched out of their works. Their general’s appeal had touched them to the quick, and these gallant regiments seemed to vie with each other in the rapidity of their movements, and in their deeds of valour. A few prisoners were taken. One huge Grenadier, profusely bleeding, might have been seen dragging by the collar of his coat a monster of a Russian. Pat had fought and subdued his antagonist, and then remembered mercy, exclaiming, “Go it, lads; there are plenty more of them yonder. Hurrah for ould Ireland!” The bayonet was used with tremendous effect by these regiments; but the other attacks had been driven back, or, in other words, mowed down with a fearful slaughter, and could not close in with the enemy. The French lay in piles in front of the Malakoff, and the ground beyond our then front trench was saturated with some of the best blood of Britain. There lay some hundreds of those who had led the way up the heights of Alma, side by side with those who had taken a leading part in driving the Russians from the heights of Inkermann, who had fought with Vicars in the trenches, and, night after night and day after day, had kept the enemy at bay. Our gallant Blue Jackets lay in heaps. They had volunteered to carry the scaling ladders for us,“The Stormers,” and I must pay them a tribute of respect, for they stuck to us well under great difficulties, carrying heavy ladders, and died almost to a man rather than let the enemy see their backs. “All honour to the bravest of the brave.” The columns of attack had not been driven back by the weight of numbers. Nay, they were mowed down with grape, canister, musketry, and broadside after broadside from the shipping; and, I am sorry to have to record it, the enemy seemed to take delight in shooting down poor helpless wounded men, who were trying to limp or drag their mangled bodies away from the devouring cross-fires. For hours during that dreadful day they would not answer the flag of truce; but the black flag, or flag of defiance, was flying upon all their batteries, while some hundreds, yea, thousands of our poor fellows were lying with every description of wound, exposed to a burning sun—and here the reader should remember that the heat in the Crimea in summer is equal to that of India. There lay, I repeat, poor helpless men weltering in their blood, with an unnatural enemy actually firing upon them, and laughing at their calamity—such were the brutes that we had to fight against. At length the white flag was seen to float upon the Redan, the Malakoff, and all the other batteries. The enemy placed a strong chain of sentries all along the front of their works—evidently picked men—and they had actually had a wash, and some of them a clean shave. All our men that had fallen in front of thechevaux-de-frisethey brought and lay for us to take away. Reader, this was humiliating to the feelings of a Briton. They were, moreover, very insulting, and it would not have taken much, if our officers had not been firm, for our men (some of them at least) to have dashed their brutal heads half off with “one straight from the shoulder”; for they had no arms, except the sentries placed in front of our trenches. Our men were very quiet andsullen, but one could read “revenge” written on their countenances. As soon as all the dead and wounded had been removed, the short truce terminated, the white flags on the different batteries were waved to and fro, and down they went, but were hardly out of sight when “bang” went the heavy guns at it again. And our sailors and artillerymen worked them as hard as they could load and fire, which soon made the frowning Redan, the Malakoff, and all the enemy’s batteries very warm corners; for our huge 13-inch shell sent guns, platforms, and all that was anywhere near, flying into the air. So Mr. Russia found to his cost that we were not going to give the game up just yet.

Well, it must be confessed we had had what might be called a good sound drubbing, and I can affirm that our people are not good hands at putting up with much of that; officers and men wanted “to go at it again” and wipe out the stain or die—but we had to obey orders. We had been beaten, both French and English combined, and our men could hardly believe it. In returning to camp that morning, one could not get a civil answer from any of the men. If you told a man to do anything he would turn round and tell you to do it yourself. It was almost a miracle how any of the storming columns escaped. My clothing was cut all to pieces, I had no fewer than nine shot holes through my trousers, coat, and cap, but, thank God, I was not touched. Out of my company, which went into action with 1 captain, 2 lieutenants, 4 sergeants, 4 corporals, 2 drummers, and 90 men, all that came out of it with a whole skin were 13 men besides myself; No. 3 Company returned to camp with 9 men out of 96. So I hope, reader, you will be able to see we stuck to them well before we gave in. We were burning to go at them again, but we had to pocket the defeat and wait our turn. It did not matter to whom I spoke about that bloody repulse, all were nearly mad.The fault had to be thrown on some one. I must tell the truth—it was not the fault of the officers who led, it was not the fault of the men who formed that unlucky column of stormers. But, reader, we were sold that morning (I am sorry to have to record it) by traitors from our own ranks! Men (brutes, rather,) had deserted us because they had been justly punished for misconduct, and informed the enemy the exact hour and the precise signal for the advance. I knew one of these rascals, but for the sake of the gallant regiment to which he belonged I withhold his name. I am happy to state, however, that he lived to reap a portion of his reward, for he was transported for life,—treatment too good for such a black-hearted villain, for he was the cause of some thousands of the bravest of the brave being launched into eternity. If we could have forced thechevaux-de-frise, the 9th and 18th would not have been the only regiments of the Allied Army to enter Sebastopol that morning, for we had some of the right sort of stuff with the Fusiliers. I do not believe a man of us thought one word about supports. It was simply “do or die” with that heroic column; but still the fact remains that a handful of men were sent to be slaughtered without supports. We had rated our enemy too cheaply; our commanders forgot that we could not get at them with the queen of weapons, but had to stand and be mowed down from behind good cover, and with a deep ditch between us!

Our camp presented a very mournful spectacle. Officers, non-commissioned officers, and men, were being carried home covered with wounds; some limping along, others besmeared with dirt, powder, and blood, doing their best to reach the camp, assisted by a comrade. A great number of “resurrectionists” turned up (men who did not return to camp with their companies, and were reported killed or missing). Thesehad got so far in advance that they, poor fellows, could not get back until the flag of truce was up. So some got into pits, others into large holes made by shells, and there had to lie. It would have been madness for them to have attempted to reach our trenches across the open field amidst the withering fire that the enemy could have brought to bear upon them. We were only too glad to receive them back. As it was, the poor old Fusiliers had suffered fearfully; we had paid dearly for leading the way. And although we had lost our brave Colonel and Adjutant, and almost all our officers had been hit more or less, still that indomitable pluck that will carry a Briton through fire and water was not all thrashed out of us. On all sides one heard such expressions as—“Well, we’ll warm them up for this yet!” The questions asked were “I say, have so-and-so come back?” “Have you seen ——?” “Has Sergeant —— come back?” Men were running about the camp inquiring about particular friends, and as soon as they found me writing home, I was besieged. “Sergeant, will you write a line for me, please?” I think I wrote close upon twenty short notes for our men, some of whom were wounded slightly; others had nasty cuts and bruises, and wanted to conceal them, thinking that we should have another go-in before long. Our Allies, the French, seemed down-hearted, and very low-spirited. They cannot fight a losing battle; so long as they are victorious they do not appear to care much what they lose. As far as we were concerned, we knew well that we had lost a friend—our best friend—in our dear old Colonel. He was as brave as a lion, and his familiar cry was: “Come on men; follow me.” Not half-an-hour before he fell he was in prayer. He knew that he was going to lead the way, and that thousands must fall. But, reader,that gallant soldier was ready for life or death. He could have been seen walking up and down in the trench, addressing one after another. Some of his expressions were: “Men, when we advance, move your legs; remember, not a shot; all must be done with the bayonet.” When the order was given to advance, we all rushed over the trench, the Colonel shouting, “Fusiliers, follow me, and prove yourselves worthy of your title.” I was close to him. He had ordered a number of active non-commissioned officers to keep up with him; and, as we bounded across the plain, he waved his sword and shouted, “Fusiliers, follow me; come on!” Just before he fell he stopped to have a look around. At this time our poor fellows were falling one on the top of another; for the batteries in front, right and left, were like so many volcanoes pouring forth a never-ceasing stream of fire. Truly it was an awful scene. It did not last much more than half-an-hour; and my readers may form some idea of the terrible fire we had to face, for our loss was as follows:—Killed, wounded, and missing, 7,988 French and British! But

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