Chapter 4

PLAN OF THE HEAVY CAVALRY CHARGE.

THE GALLANT UNION BRIGADE.

“In spurs and out sabres, now bend to your labours, Inniskilling and gallant Scots Greys,Full oft, too, in the light you aforetime stood neighbours, but ne’er in more desperate fray;The Fourth Royal Irish are hard on your track, with the Fifth Dragoon Guards by their side,And the gallant First Royals that never showed back, nor found foe that their onset defied.On they dash, boot to boot, bend to bend, and blade to blade;What care they for the numbers against them arrayed.In pell-mell on the foe, like a bolt from a bow,With a cheer loud and clear as a trumpet they go;Through a line twice their length, and ten deep for their one,They have passed like a blast; but their work is not done:Fresh squadrons close round them—’tis one man to three,Out-flanked and out-numbered, what rescue may be?Hurrah! the Dragoons and the Royals so true,They’ll finish what work you have left them to do:Soon they clear all the rear with the swathes of their blades,And that shout tells the rout of the Russian Brigade!”

On they dash, boot to boot, bend to bend, and blade to blade;What care they for the numbers against them arrayed.In pell-mell on the foe, like a bolt from a bow,With a cheer loud and clear as a trumpet they go;

Through a line twice their length, and ten deep for their one,They have passed like a blast; but their work is not done:Fresh squadrons close round them—’tis one man to three,Out-flanked and out-numbered, what rescue may be?

Hurrah! the Dragoons and the Royals so true,They’ll finish what work you have left them to do:Soon they clear all the rear with the swathes of their blades,And that shout tells the rout of the Russian Brigade!”

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

But we now come to where someone had blundered. The light cavalry had stood and witnessed the heroic deeds of their comrades, the heavies. Had we had an Uxbridge, a Cotton, or a Le Marchant at the head of our cavalry, not many of the enemy’s heavy column, which had just received such a mauling from the heavy brigade, would have rejoined their comrades. The light cavalry would have been let go at the right time and place, and the enemy would have paid a much heavier price for a peep at Balaclava. The noble Six Hundred had not to wait much longer. They were all on the look-out for something. It comes at last. A most dashing soldier, the late Captain Nolan, rode at full speed from Lord Raglan with a written order to the commander of our cavalry, the late Lord Lucan. The order ran thus:—

“Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance to the front, and try to prevent the enemy carrying away the guns. Troop of horse artillery may accompany. French cavalry is on your left. Immediate.(Signed) “R. Airey.”

“Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance to the front, and try to prevent the enemy carrying away the guns. Troop of horse artillery may accompany. French cavalry is on your left. Immediate.

(Signed) “R. Airey.”

Anyone without a military eye will be able to see at a glance that it wasour guns(from which the Turks had run away), our commander wished the cavalry to re-take from the enemy. It could have been donewithout much loss, as Gen. Sir G. Cathcart was close at hand with his division. The honest facts are these: The intrepid Nolan delivered the order to Lord Lucan for the cavalry to attack “immediately.” Mind this was not the first order our commander had sent to the commander of our cavalry. The former order ran thus:

“Cavalry to advance and take advantage of any opportunity to recover the heights; they will be supported by the infantry, which have been ordered to advance on two fronts.”

What heights? Why, the heights on which our spiked guns are, that the Turks had bolted from. It must have been very amazing to our commander that his orders had not been obeyed, although some thirty-five precious minutes had elapsed. From the high ground he could see that the enemy were about to take our seven guns away in triumph, hence the order “immediately.” The commander of our cavalry evidently lost his balance with the gallant Nolan, as we find from authentic works upon the war. Lord Lucan, who was irritable, to say the least of it, said to Nolan, “Attack, sir, attack what? What guns, sir?” “Lord Raglan’s orders,” he replied, “are that the cavalry should attack immediately.” Nolan, a hot-blooded son of the Green Isle, could not stand to be snapped at any longer, and he added, “There, my Lord, is your enemy and there are your guns.” The order was misconstrued, and the noble Six Hundred were launched into the valley of death. Poor Captain Nolan was the first that fell. But they and he shall live renowned in story.

Thus far I had been an eye-witness of one of the noblest feats of arms that ever was seen upon a battle-field. It spoke volumes to the rising generation. Go and do likewise. Never say die. A brave man can die but once, but a cowardly sneak all his life long. It told the enemy plainly the metal our cavalry were made of. They said that we were red devils at the Alma; it must be acknowledged that they got well lathered then,and now the Union Brigade of heavy horse had shaved them very roughly. As for the Light Brigade, with sickness, disease, a strong escort for our commander-in-chief, and mounted orderlies for the different generals, it hardly mustered the strength of one regiment on an Indian footing. There was a lot of excitement on the hill-side when we found the Light Brigade was advancing, first at a steady trot, then they broke into a gallop. Their noble leader, the Earl of Cardigan, might well say, “Here goes the last of the Cardigans!” Some one (an officer) said, “What on earth are they going to do? Surely they are not going to charge the whole Russian army? It’s madness.” But, madness or not, they were simply obeying an order. And this noble band pressed on towards the enemy, sweeping down the valley at a terrific pace in all the pride of manhood. Every man’s heart on that hill-side beat high. “They are lost! they are lost!” burst from more than one spectator. The enemy’s guns, right, left, and front, opened upon this devoted band. A heavy musketry fire was likewise opened; but still they pressed on. The field was soon strewn with the dead and wounded. It was a terrible sight to have to stand and witness, without the power of helping them. The excitement was beyond my pen to express. Big briny tears gushed down more than one man’s face that had resolutely stormed the Alma. To stand and see their countrymen rushing at a fearful pace right into the jaws of death was a most exciting scene to stand and witness. The field was now covered with the wreck of men and horses. They at last reached the smoke. Now and then we could hear the distant cheer and see their swords gleaming above the smoke, as they plunged into one of the terrible batteries that had swept their comrades down. An officer very kindly lent me his field glass for a short time. The field presented a ghastly sight, with the unnatural enemy hacking at the wounded; some trying to drag theirmangled bodies from the awful cross-fires, but a few escaped the bloodthirsty Cossack’s lance. We could see the enemy formed up to cut off all retreat; but it was now do or die. In our fellows went, with a ringing cheer, and cut a road through them; and now to our horror, the brutish enemy opened their guns with grape upon friend and foe, thus involving all in one common ruin, and the guns again opened on their flanks. It was almost miraculous how any of that noble band escaped. Our gallant allies, the French, had witnessed the heroic deeds of the Light Brigade, and now the Chasseurs went at the enemy in a most dashing manner to help to rescue the remains of such a noble band. The chivalrous conduct of our allies, the French, on this field will always be remembered with gratitude; they had ten killed and twenty-eight wounded. The loss sustained by the Light Brigade will be found in the table of losses. This was the only field on which our cavalry were engaged during the campaign. At the Alma, a few squadrons were on the field, but not engaged. At Inkermann a portion of the cavalry were formed up; they then would have had a chance if the enemy had broken through the infantry. As far as the siege was concerned, they only did the looking-on part. Our gallant allies, the French, admired much the conduct of our cavalry, both heavy and light. General Bosquet said that the charge of the heavies was sublime; that of the Light Brigade was splendid; “but it was not war.” We have not the slightest hesitation in asserting that the Light Brigade was sacrificed by a blunder. It is but little use trying to lay the blame on the shoulders of poor Captain Nolan; had he lived the cavalry would have gone at our guns and re-captured them, or had a good try for it. It was Lord Lucan, and no one else, that ordered the charge. To say the least of it, it was a misconception of an order. But I am confident that Old England will long honour the memory of the noble Six Hundred.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

Half a league, half a league,Half a league, onward,All in the Valley of Death,Rode the six hundred.“Forward the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!” he said:Into the Valley of DeathRode the six hundred.“Forward the Light Brigade!”Was there a man dismay’d?Not though the soldiers knewSome one had blunder’d:Their’s not to make reply;Their’s not to reason why;Their’s but to do and die:Into the Valley of DeathRode the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley’d and thunder’d;Stormed at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode, and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of Hell,Rode the six hundred.Flash’d all their sabres bare,Flash’d as they turn’d in air,Sabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder’d;Plung’d in the battery-smoke,Right through the line they broke,Cossack and RussianReel’d from the sabre stroke,Shatter’d and sunder’d.Then they rode back, but not—Not the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley’d and thunder’d;Storm’d at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so well,Came thro’ the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them—Left of six hundred.When can their glory fade?Oh, the wild charge they made!All the world wonder’d.Honour the charge they made,Honour the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

“Forward the Light Brigade!”Was there a man dismay’d?Not though the soldiers knewSome one had blunder’d:Their’s not to make reply;Their’s not to reason why;Their’s but to do and die:Into the Valley of DeathRode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley’d and thunder’d;Stormed at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode, and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of Hell,Rode the six hundred.

Flash’d all their sabres bare,Flash’d as they turn’d in air,Sabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder’d;Plung’d in the battery-smoke,Right through the line they broke,Cossack and RussianReel’d from the sabre stroke,Shatter’d and sunder’d.Then they rode back, but not—Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley’d and thunder’d;Storm’d at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so well,Came thro’ the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them—Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?Oh, the wild charge they made!All the world wonder’d.Honour the charge they made,Honour the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

My readers will please remember that my party was unarmed, hence my keeping out of harm’s way. Had we been armed, I should most likely have gone down the hill at the double, and formed up on the left of the thin red line—the 93rd Highlanders. Shortly after the sanguinary charge of the Light Brigade I moved forward as fast as I could. On arriving at Balaclava I found the stores closed up, and the Assistant Quartermaster-General ordered me to take my party on to the field, to assist in removing the wounded, as far as it lay in my power. Off I went at once. I found the cavalry still formed up. The Light Brigade were but a clump of men! Noble fellows, they were few, but fearless still. I was not allowed to proceed further for some time, and I had the unspeakable pleasure of grasping more than one hand of that noble brigade. There was no mistaking their proud look as they gave me the right hand of fellowship. A sergeant of the old Cherry Pickers, who knew me well, gave me a warm shake of the hand, remarking, “Ah! my old Fusilier, I told you a week ago we would have something to talk about before long.” “But,” I replied, “has there not been some mistake?” He said, “It cannot be helped now; we have tried to do our part. It will all cone out some day.” My men carried a number of the Heavies from the field to the hospitals; then I got my store of priceless blankets, and off we plodded through the mud back to camp. We had something to talk about onour way home. Our gallant allies, the French, were in high glee, they could hardly control themselves. As soon as they caught sight of us, they commenced to shout “Bon Anglais, Bon Anglais!” and so it continued until I reached our camp. But exciting and startling events now rapidly succeeded each other: the victorious cavalry had hardly sheathed their swords, after their conflict with the enemy, when about ten thousand, almost maddened with drink and religious enthusiasm, took another peep at our camp next day, supported by some thirty guns. They were driven back into the town quicker than they came out. This was afterwards called Little Inkermann, and was a stiff fight while it lasted.

But it was such desperate deeds as we are recounting that brought out the material that has built up this vast and glorious old Empire, the home of the undefeated race of happy men; this “beautiful isle of the sea,” which is, so to speak, the citadel of an empire such as the world has never before seen. It is five times as large as that under Darius, four times the size of that which owned the sway of ancient Rome, sixteen times greater than France, forty times greater than united Germany, three times larger than the United States. Australia alone is nearly as large as the States. India has 1,250,000 square miles, Canada 600,000 square miles. Our empire has nearly 9,500,000 sq. miles, with a population of 310,000,000. And this has been built up by such indomitable pluck as that displayed at Albuera, Assaye, Balaclava, Delhi, Ferozeshah, Inkermann, Plassey, Pyrenees, Salamanca, Trafalgar, Vittoria, Waterloo, and scores of other fields, by the sons of Albion, side by side the undaunted sons of the Green Isle. I have not the slightest hesitation in asserting that the English-speaking nation will be the universal nation. We have for many years past been compelled to send our children away to make room in this tight little isle. The vast continent of North America ispeopled from the stout old loins of this God-defended isle. Our language is already spoken in more than half the civilised world. All we want is unity with the English-speaking race, and we have nothing to fear.

THE NOBLE SIX HUNDRED.

The wind of dawn is breathing, the mists of night are wreathingUp from the valley in white swathes, the mountain range is sheathing;Watch-fires are burning dimly, hill batteries frowning grimly.Troop horses in the plain below at their pickets tethered trimly.When in with hot haste riding, our out-pickets bring tidingsThat the Russians within the eastern gorge were hiding:“Boot and saddle” andreveilléin the cool clear air, ring gaily,And horse and foot are forming, all eager for the melée.Would to God that gallant charge had closed the bloody day,Then clear of blame had shown the fame of Balaclava’s fray;But who is there with patient tongue the sorry tale to tell?How our Light Brigade, true martyrs, to the point of honour fell.’Twas “sublime,” but ’twas not warfare, that charge of woe and wrack,That led six hundred to the guns and brought two hundred back.Enough, the order came to charge, and charge they did like men,Whilst shot and shell and rifle-ball played on them down the glen.Though thirty guns were ranged in front, not one e’en bated breath,Unfaltering, unflinching, they rode upon their death;Nor by five times their numbers of all arms could they be stayed,And with two lines for one of ours, e’en then the Russians paid.Till torn with shot and rent with shell, a spent and bleeding few,Life worn against those fearful odds from the grapple they withdrew;But still like wounded lions their faces to the foe,More conquerors than conquered, they fall back stern and slow.With dinted arms and wearied steeds, all bruised and soiled and torn,Is this the wreck of all that rode so bravely out that morn?Where thirty answered muster at dawn now answered ten,Ah! woe’s me for such officers, woe’s me for such men.Whose was the blame? name not his name, but rather seek to hide.If he live leave him to conscience, to God if he have died.But for you, brave band of heroes, your country knows you well;It asks not to what purpose, it knows but how you fell.

Would to God that gallant charge had closed the bloody day,Then clear of blame had shown the fame of Balaclava’s fray;But who is there with patient tongue the sorry tale to tell?How our Light Brigade, true martyrs, to the point of honour fell.’Twas “sublime,” but ’twas not warfare, that charge of woe and wrack,That led six hundred to the guns and brought two hundred back.Enough, the order came to charge, and charge they did like men,Whilst shot and shell and rifle-ball played on them down the glen.

Though thirty guns were ranged in front, not one e’en bated breath,Unfaltering, unflinching, they rode upon their death;Nor by five times their numbers of all arms could they be stayed,And with two lines for one of ours, e’en then the Russians paid.Till torn with shot and rent with shell, a spent and bleeding few,Life worn against those fearful odds from the grapple they withdrew;But still like wounded lions their faces to the foe,More conquerors than conquered, they fall back stern and slow.

With dinted arms and wearied steeds, all bruised and soiled and torn,Is this the wreck of all that rode so bravely out that morn?Where thirty answered muster at dawn now answered ten,Ah! woe’s me for such officers, woe’s me for such men.Whose was the blame? name not his name, but rather seek to hide.If he live leave him to conscience, to God if he have died.But for you, brave band of heroes, your country knows you well;It asks not to what purpose, it knows but how you fell.

MILITARY HEROISM.

To overcome in battle, and subdueNations, and bring home spoils with infiniteManslaughter, shall be held the highest pitchOf human glory, and for glory doneOf triumph, to be styled great conquerors,Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of gods!Destroyers rightlier call’d, and plagues of men!Milton.

Well, reader, the charge of our Light Brigade at Balaclava, backed up by that of the Heavies, will not die; it will be remembered when the bones of those who there sustained the honour of our Island lie rotting in the tomb!

LITTLE INKERMANN.

But I have something else in store. Our turn came next day, 26th October—Little Inkermann, as our men named it. About mid-day the enemy came out of the town in very strong columns, and attacked us just to the right of the Victoria Redoubt; the fighting was of a very severe nature. The 2nd Division, under Sir De Lacy Evans, received them first; and a part of the Light Division had a hand in it. The enemy made cock-sure of beating us and brought trenching tools with them, but were again doomed to be disappointed. We were hardly prepared for them; but soon collected ourselves, and closed upon them with the bayonet, when, after some hard fighting, they were hurled from the field. They paid dearly for a peep at our camp, leaving close upon 1000 dead and wounded. They retired much quicker than they came, with our heavy guns sweeping them down by scores, and cutting lanes through their columns. Our Artillery on this occasion did great execution, whilst a continuous rain of Minié rifle balls mowed their ranks like grass, and for the finishing stroke they got that nasty “piece of cold steel;” our huge Lancaster guns simply killed the enemy by wholesale.General Bosquet kindly offered assistance, but the reply of our commander was, “Thank you, General, the enemy are already defeated, and too happy to leave the field to me.”

The attack of the 26th was nothing more nor less than a reconnaissance in force, preparatory to the memorable battle of Inkermann; but it cost them heavily, while we also lost a large number of men. On this field the brutal enemy distinguished themselves by bayoneting all our wounded that the picquets were compelled to leave behind in falling back for a short distance. The stand made by the picquets of the 30th, 55th, and 95th on our right was grand, for they retired disputing every stone and bush that lay in their way. The following morning our commander, under a flag of truce, reminded the Russian chief that he was at war with Christian nations, and requested him to take steps to respect the wounded, in accordance with humanity and the laws of civilized nations. Nevertheless, the remonstrance did not stop their brutality. A few days later, on the memorable field of Inkermann, the Russians murdered almost every wounded man who had the misfortune to fall into their hands. Whilst the picquets were holding on with desperation, the Royal Fusiliers and portions of the Royal Welsh, 33rd Duke’s Own, and 2nd battalion Rifle Brigade, went with all speed to the five-gun battery, to reinforce our picquets there, and a portion of us were directed to the slopes of the White-house ravine. We had just got into position when we observed one of the enemy retiring towards Sebastopol with a tunic on the muzzle of his rifle belonging to one of the Fusiliers, who was on fatigue in the ravine cutting wood when the attack commenced. Having nothing to defend himself with, he had to show his heels. One of the Rifle Brigade at once dashed off shouting that the tunic should not go into the town. As the Rifleman neared the Russian he turned and brought his rifle to the present. John Bull immediatelydid the same. As luck would have it, neither of them were capped. They closed to box, the Briton proving the Russian’s superior at this game, and knocked him down, jumping on the top of his antagonist: but the Russian proved the strongest in this position, and soon had the Rifleman under. We watched them, but dared not fire. A corporal of the Rifles ran as fast as he could to assist his comrade, but the Russian drew a short sword and plunged at our man, and had his hand raised for a second. The corporal at once dropped on his knee and shot the Russian dead. Our men cheered them heartily from the heights. They were both made prisoners of by an officer, and in due course brought before the commander of our forces, who made all enquiries into the case, and marked his displeasure with the young officer by presenting £5 to the gallant Rifleman for his courage in not allowing the red coat to be carried into Sebastopol as a trophy, and promoted the corporal to sergeant for his presence of mind in saving the life of his comrade. No end of dare-devil acts like the above could be quoted, for the enemy always got good interest for anything which they attempted.

Our numbers were now fast diminishing from sickness and hardship; our clothing began to get very thin; we had none too much to eat, and plenty of work, both by night and by day, but there was no murmuring. We had as yet received no reinforcements; though the enemy had evidently been strongly reinforced. Day after day passed without anything particular being done except trench work. Our men went at it with a will—without a whimper—wet through from morn till night; then lay down in mud with an empty belly—to get up next morning, perhaps, to go into the trenches and be peppered at all day; to return to camp like drowned rats, and to stand to arms half the night.

ACROSTIC ON NAPOLEON.

The following acrostic on Napoleon, told in “Literary Eccentricities and Curiosities,” was composed by a professor at Dijon, as soon as the entrance of the Allies into that town had enabled its loyal population to declare in favour of its legitimate sovereign:—

N ihil fuit;A ugustus evenit;P opulos reduxit;O rbem disturbavit;L ibertatem oppressit;E cclesiam distraxit;O mnia esse voluit;N ihil erit.

It would be difficult to give a more concise and more faithful history of Napoleon’s whole career. The following is a translation of the lines—a rough one, it is true; but it still retains the acrostic characteristic of the original:—

Naught he was;A monarch he became;P eoples he reduced;O verturned the world;L iberty he cursed;E cclesiastics he worried;O mnipotent he wished to be;N aught he shall be.

The following letter was written from the

Camp before Sebastopol,October 27th, 1854.My Dear Parents,Long before this reaches you, you will have heard that our bombardment has proved a total failure; if anything, we got the worst of it. The French guns were nearly all silenced, but our Allies stuck to us well. But you will have heard that we have thrashed the enemy again, on two different fields. On the 25th inst., they attacked our position at Balaclava, and the people that we are fighting for (the Turks,) bolted, and let them take our guns. Our cavalry got at them—it was a grand sight, in particular the charge of the Heavy Brigade, for they went at them more like madmen than anything that I can explain; the Greys and Enniskillens (one a Scotch and the other an Irish regiment) went at them first, and they did it manfully. They rode right through them, as if they’d been a lot of old women, it was a most exciting scene. I hear that the Light cavalry have been cut to pieces,particularly the 11th Hussars and the 17th Lancers. The rumour in camp is that someone has been blundering, and that the Light Cavalry charge was all a mistake; the truth will come out some day. The mauling that our Heavy Cavalry gave the enemy they will not forget for a day or two. I was not engaged in fighting, but simply going down to Balaclava on fatigue. You will most likely see a full account of the fight in the papers, and I feel that you will be more interested in our fight, which we had yesterday (the 26th.) What name they are going to give it, I do not know. It lasted about an hour-and-a-half, but it was very sharp. The 2nd and Light Divisions had the honour of giving them a good thrashing, and I do not think they will try their hands at it again for a little while. We had not much to do with it; it was the 30th, 41st, 49th, and 95th that were particularly engaged, and they gave it them properly. We supported them; the field was covered with their dead and wounded—our Artillery simply mowed them down by wholesale. The Guards came up to our assistance, but they were not engaged more than they were at Balaclava. We charged them right to the town. I heard some of our officers say they believed we could have gone into the town with them; but our noble old commander knew well what he was about. I mean Sir De Lacy Evans, for he commanded the field. You must excuse this scrawl, as I must be off; I am for the trenches to night. It is raining in torrents, so we are not likely to be short of water; but I am as hungry as a hunter. Don’t be uneasy; thank God I am quite well, and we must make the best of a bad job. As long as we manage to thrash them every time we meet them, the people at home must not grumble—while they can sit by their firesides and smoke their pipes, and say we’ve beat them again. We begin to get old hands at this work now. It is getting very cold, and the sooner we get at the town and take it, the better. It is immensely strong, and looks an ugly place to take, but we will manage it some day. The enemy fight well behind stone walls, but let us get at them, and I will be bound to say, that we will do the fighting as well as our forefathers did under Nelson and Wellington. Bye-the-bye, our sailors who man our heavy guns, are a tough and jolly set of fellows. I shall not finish this letter until I come off duty.October 29th.Well, I’ve got back to camp again. We have had a rough twenty-four hours of it; it rained nearly the whole time. The enemy kept pitching shell into us nearly all night, and it took us all our time to dodge their WhistlingDicks (huge shell), as our men have named them. We were standing nearly up to our knees in mud and water, like a lot of drowned rats, nearly all night; the cold bleak wind cutting through our thin clothing (that is now getting very thin and full of holes, and nothing to mend it with.) This is ten times worse than all the fighting. We have not one ounce too much to eat, and, altogether, there is a dull prospect before us. But our men keep their spirits up well, although we are nearly worked to death night and day. We cannot move without sinking nearly to our ankles in mud. The tents we have to sleep in are full of holes; and there is nothing but mud to lie down in, or scrape it away with our hands the best we can—and soaked to the skin from morning to night (so much for honour and glory). I suppose we shall have leather medals for this one day—I mean those who have the good fortune to escape the shot and shell of the enemy, and the pestilence that surrounds us. I will write as often as I can; and if I do not meet you any more in this world, I hope to meet you in a far brighter one. Dear mother, now that I am face to face with death, almost every day, I think of some of my wild boyish tricks, and hope you will forgive me; and if the Lord protects me through this, I will try and be a comfort to you in your declining days. Good bye, kind and best of mothers. I must conclude now. Try and keep up your spirits—And believe me everYour affectionate son,T. GOWING,Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

Camp before Sebastopol,October 27th, 1854.

My Dear Parents,

Long before this reaches you, you will have heard that our bombardment has proved a total failure; if anything, we got the worst of it. The French guns were nearly all silenced, but our Allies stuck to us well. But you will have heard that we have thrashed the enemy again, on two different fields. On the 25th inst., they attacked our position at Balaclava, and the people that we are fighting for (the Turks,) bolted, and let them take our guns. Our cavalry got at them—it was a grand sight, in particular the charge of the Heavy Brigade, for they went at them more like madmen than anything that I can explain; the Greys and Enniskillens (one a Scotch and the other an Irish regiment) went at them first, and they did it manfully. They rode right through them, as if they’d been a lot of old women, it was a most exciting scene. I hear that the Light cavalry have been cut to pieces,particularly the 11th Hussars and the 17th Lancers. The rumour in camp is that someone has been blundering, and that the Light Cavalry charge was all a mistake; the truth will come out some day. The mauling that our Heavy Cavalry gave the enemy they will not forget for a day or two. I was not engaged in fighting, but simply going down to Balaclava on fatigue. You will most likely see a full account of the fight in the papers, and I feel that you will be more interested in our fight, which we had yesterday (the 26th.) What name they are going to give it, I do not know. It lasted about an hour-and-a-half, but it was very sharp. The 2nd and Light Divisions had the honour of giving them a good thrashing, and I do not think they will try their hands at it again for a little while. We had not much to do with it; it was the 30th, 41st, 49th, and 95th that were particularly engaged, and they gave it them properly. We supported them; the field was covered with their dead and wounded—our Artillery simply mowed them down by wholesale. The Guards came up to our assistance, but they were not engaged more than they were at Balaclava. We charged them right to the town. I heard some of our officers say they believed we could have gone into the town with them; but our noble old commander knew well what he was about. I mean Sir De Lacy Evans, for he commanded the field. You must excuse this scrawl, as I must be off; I am for the trenches to night. It is raining in torrents, so we are not likely to be short of water; but I am as hungry as a hunter. Don’t be uneasy; thank God I am quite well, and we must make the best of a bad job. As long as we manage to thrash them every time we meet them, the people at home must not grumble—while they can sit by their firesides and smoke their pipes, and say we’ve beat them again. We begin to get old hands at this work now. It is getting very cold, and the sooner we get at the town and take it, the better. It is immensely strong, and looks an ugly place to take, but we will manage it some day. The enemy fight well behind stone walls, but let us get at them, and I will be bound to say, that we will do the fighting as well as our forefathers did under Nelson and Wellington. Bye-the-bye, our sailors who man our heavy guns, are a tough and jolly set of fellows. I shall not finish this letter until I come off duty.

October 29th.

Well, I’ve got back to camp again. We have had a rough twenty-four hours of it; it rained nearly the whole time. The enemy kept pitching shell into us nearly all night, and it took us all our time to dodge their WhistlingDicks (huge shell), as our men have named them. We were standing nearly up to our knees in mud and water, like a lot of drowned rats, nearly all night; the cold bleak wind cutting through our thin clothing (that is now getting very thin and full of holes, and nothing to mend it with.) This is ten times worse than all the fighting. We have not one ounce too much to eat, and, altogether, there is a dull prospect before us. But our men keep their spirits up well, although we are nearly worked to death night and day. We cannot move without sinking nearly to our ankles in mud. The tents we have to sleep in are full of holes; and there is nothing but mud to lie down in, or scrape it away with our hands the best we can—and soaked to the skin from morning to night (so much for honour and glory). I suppose we shall have leather medals for this one day—I mean those who have the good fortune to escape the shot and shell of the enemy, and the pestilence that surrounds us. I will write as often as I can; and if I do not meet you any more in this world, I hope to meet you in a far brighter one. Dear mother, now that I am face to face with death, almost every day, I think of some of my wild boyish tricks, and hope you will forgive me; and if the Lord protects me through this, I will try and be a comfort to you in your declining days. Good bye, kind and best of mothers. I must conclude now. Try and keep up your spirits—

And believe me everYour affectionate son,T. GOWING,Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

A MOTHER’S LOVE.

A mother’s love—how sweet the name,What is a mother’s love?A noble, pure, and tender flameEnkindled from above,To bless a heart of earthly mould;The warmest love that can grow cold,—This is a mother’s love.James Montgomery.

“The gates of mercy shall be all shut up:And the fleshed soldier,—rough and hard of heart,—In liberty of bloody hand, shall rangeWith conscience wide as hell: mowing like grassYour fresh fair virgins and your flowering infants.”Shakespeare.

THE BATTLE OF INKERMANN.

On the morning of the 5th November the enemy attacked us in our trenches in broad daylight. Our heavy guns gave it them prettily, and mowed down their dense columns by wholesale; but still they came on, until they felt the bayonet. Then, after some stiff fighting, which lasted more than an hour, they were compelled to beat a hasty retreat, our heavy guns sweeping lanes through them, and we plying them with musketry both in front and flank. We found they could run well, only too glad to get under cover. A sortie has no chance of success unless the besieging army can be taken by surprise; but no doubt this attack was made in order to distract our commander’s attention from the vital point.

The ever-memorable battle was then raging on our right rear, and by the shouts of the combatants and the tremendous firing, we knew that something very serious was going on, so as many of us as the General could spare were ordered to march as fast as our legs could carry us to the assistance of our comrades, then at the dreadful fight raging at Inkermann. As we had just drubbed the enemy terribly, our blood was up, but we were hungry: many of us had had nothing to eat for twenty-four hours, and were wet through to the skin. They say an Englishman will not fight unless his belly is full; that’s all bosh: let him once be roused, and you will soon see whether he will or not. Well, to the field we went, and the sights were something horrible, but there was not a desponding voice; the fog was so dense that at times we could not see twenty yards. Our men were falling very fast, for the enemy were in overwhelming strength, particularly in guns. But it is impossible to disguise the fact that the crafty Muscovites in the darkness and fog had stolen a march upon our commanders; that the Allies were taken completely by surprise; and that only theintrepidity of the picquets of the Light and Second Divisions saved the entire Allied Armies from an overwhelming disaster. We can now say without boasting that the heroic conduct of a mere handful of Britons were, and are to this day, the admiration of all. The determined rushes of the Muscovites were hurled back time after time. Their princes boasted that they would drive us all into the sea. So they would, perhaps, if weight of numbers could have done it; but that nasty piece of cold steel stood in the way. At this critical moment the startling intrepidity of the sons of Albion, side by side with the heroic boys of the green isle, came out in all its native splendour, to shine by the side with that displayed at Trafalgar, Albuera, and Waterloo. Their deeds are to-day stimulating their descendants on the banks of the Nile, and will do till the end of time, or as long as we have an enemy to face, whether they are to be found on the burning plains of Egypt or the frontiers of Afghanistan. The queen of weapons was used with deadly effect, the drunken massive columns of the enemy were pitched over the rocks by men who might die but never surrender, and who had a strong objection to a watery grave. Our highest martial interest, honour, was at stake; but, reader, it was safe withal, from our much-respected Commander-in-Chief to the drummer-boy. They had all made up their minds to conquer or to die. Children yet unborn will exclaim “all honour to that band of heroes.” The odds were heavy, but from the brutes we had to face we had no mercy to expect. Our Fourth Division—composed of the following regiments, the 20th, 21st, 57th, 63rd, 68th, and 1st Batt. Rifle Brigade, under Cathcart—fought at a disadvantage, having been armed with the old Brown Bess musket, against the Needle-Rifle which the enemy were armed with. Our weapons were almost as much use as a broomstick. Yet with all these disadvantages we smote the enemy with a terrible slaughter, and there was seen again with whatmajesty the British soldier fights. Our loss was heavy: three generals fell and every mounted officer, but our men fought to the bitter end, and stood triumphant on the rocky ridge, cheering for victory—the unconquerable heroism of the handful of men we knew would set the church-bells of old England ringing and clashing for victory, and give schoolboys a holiday. All regiments vied with each other, as the following will prove:—At the Alma and Balaclava we had fought for victory; but at the fight that was now raging, a mere handful of Britons were contending for very existence, for to be beaten here meant an ignominious death at the hands of a lot of fierce brutes, mad with drink—Dutch courage had to be poured into them to make them face our ranks. The drunken yells of their massive columns were answered by volley after volley at point-blank range, and then, with a clear and distinct cheer for old England, we closed upon them with the bayonet, and stuck to them like wax until they were hurled from the field. We had no supports or reserves, but every man, as fast as he could reach the field, went straight at them, with a shout that seemed to strike terror into them; and so the fight went on, hour after hour. In many parts of the field it was a horde of half-drunken madmen attacking cool and collected Britons, determined to conquer or die. Our Guards were the admiration of the whole army; their deeds at Inkermann will never fade. Led by His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge, they repeatedly buried themselves in the Russian columns, as cheer after cheer went up in defiance to the enemy’s unnatural yell. The Guards, all must admit, set a glorious example, for if they had to die, they acted upon the old 57th motto, “Let us die hard.” The daring, courage, and obstinacy of our Guards was grand; the terrible odds that they faced on this field puts Hougoumont in the shade, and ranks beside the unconquerable heroes of Albuera, fully justifying their high prestige in the army.

THE BATTLE OF INKERMANN.The memorable foggy morning, 5th November, 1854.

Some who read this may think that I am an old Guardsman—so I am; I had the pleasure of guarding the honour of our beloved Isle, in the 7th Royal Fusiliers. But, I wish to give honour where honour is due. The 7th, however, were not behind when hard fighting had to be done. One of our Majors—a Norfolk hero—Sir Thomas Troubridge, although he had both his feet shot away, would not give in, neither would he allow himself to be carried off the field, but continued fighting to the end. When he was lying apparently bleeding to death, with both his stumps resting upon a gun-carriage, he called upon us to “shift those fellows with the bayonet,” animating us by voice and gesture. Although the poor man could not lead us, he could cheer us on. And on we went with an irresistible rush, and routed them then and there. On one occasion after he was wounded, he called upon us not to forget our bayonets, adding, “They don’t like cold steel, men.” Neither did I. It was here that I received two bayonet wounds, one in each thigh, and would most likely have been despatched, but that help was close at hand, and the fellows who wounded me fell at once by the same description of weapon, but not to rise again and write or talk about it. Revolvers and bayonets told heavily that foggy morn, and when our men were short of ammunition, they pitched stones at the enemy. My legs were quickly bandaged, and after giving the enemy a few parting shots at close quarters, which must have told upon their crowded ranks, I managed to hobble off the field, using my rifle and another I picked up as crutches. We could spare none to look after the wounded; it was every man for himself. After hobbling some distance out of the range of fire, I lay down, for I could get no further without a little rest. Our allies, the French, were then coming up to our assistance in a right mood for fighting. The Zouaves passed me with a ringing cheer of “Bon Anglais” and “Vive l’Empereur,” repeated over andover again. A mounted officer of rank, who was with them, stopped and asked me a number of questions in good English. He turned and spoke to his men, and they cheered me in a most lusty manner. The officer kindly gave me a drink out of his flask, which revived me considerably, and then, with a hearty shake of the hand, bade me good-bye, and passed on into action, shouting out something about the enemy walking over his body before he would surrender. Thus was Waterloo and Trafalgar avenged, by the descendants of the vanquished advancing with rapid strides and a light heart, but with a strong arm, to assist the sons of Albion in one of the most unequal and bloody contests ever waged. Let us hope that the blood then spilt may have cemented for ever the friendship between the two nations who are so near neighbours. The French fought in a most dashing manner, side by side with us, till the enemy were driven from the field. The Russian officers fought with desperation, though their men hung back unless almost driven to it. But the reader must remember our men and the Zouaves plied the queen of weapons with terrible effect, and all met the enemy with an unconquerable energy, while we often stimulated each other by asking—what would they say of us in England?

But I could do no more; I had done all I could, and now had to remain and take my chance of being killed by a stray shot. It was hard work to lie there for upwards of an hour-and-a-half in suspense. I felt as if I should like to be at them, for a little satisfaction; but I had to lie passive.

I am proud to record that no regiment on that memorable field could take the shine out of the gallant old 7th Fusiliers. I lay on the field bleeding, when I heard the welcome shout of victory; I was shortly afterwards attended to, and carried to hospital, there remained for a day or two, and was then sent onto Malta, to be patched up ready for another go in at them.

I saw Inkermann’s Heights on that memorable foggy morn,A name now respected by Britons not then born;The odds were seven to one, there was no desponding cry,But, remember the Heights of Alma, we conquer or we die.

The enemy’s loss was exceedingly heavy; twenty thousand men is the estimated loss of the Russians, in their endeavours to take the Heights of Inkermann on that memorable Sunday, 5th November, 1854. The carnage was something frightful, as our close point-blank fire had told heavily upon the enemy’s columns. Our total strength on the field was about nine thousand, upwards of one third of whom fell killed or wounded; while of the six thousand French who came to help us, they lost seventeen hundred. But the enemy were completely routed, and England confessed that every man that foggy morn had done his duty. We had been fighting against heavy odds, and men armed with as good weapons as ourselves, while they were wrought up to a state of madness or desperation with drink.

Inkermann will not admit of much description, particularly from one who was in the thick of it. The fighting all day on that awful Sabbath was of a furious character. The bayonet was the chief weapon, and the Minié rifle balls told heavily upon the crowded ranks. To sum it up in a few words, every man had to, and did fight, as Britons ought to do when the honour of the nation is at stake. The best of Generals might have lost such a fight as Inkermann,—none could direct, for the fog was so dense that one could not see, at times, twenty yards. On came the Russian columns, but they had to go back time after time much quicker than they came.

The bayonet was used with terrible effect by all regiments. The enemy, driven on by their braveofficers, had to and did literally climb over the heaps of their slain countrymen and ours, to renew this bloodthirsty contest, but they were met by British cold steel, and were hurled or pitchforked from the field. We might appropriately say of a number of the brave men who fell on that field in the hour of victory—

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