8th September, 1855, 9P.M.I had the pleasure, after my return from leading the storming party of the 2nd Division to the Redan, of dining with Colonel D. Wood, and meeting at dinner Monsieur Soyer.D. Wood,Lieut.-Col. Commanding,R.A. 4th Division.C. A. Wyndham,Col. Commanding,2nd Battalion.
8th September, 1855, 9P.M.
I had the pleasure, after my return from leading the storming party of the 2nd Division to the Redan, of dining with Colonel D. Wood, and meeting at dinner Monsieur Soyer.
They had hardly signed this when a loud knock was heard at the door, and an orderly entered with a dispatch from General Simpson, who wished to see ColonelWyndham directly. The Colonel lost no time in attending to his commander’s orders, and we mounted our horses and started for head-quarters. “An immediate attack on the Redan is what I shall recommend to the General-in-Chief” were the last words uttered by the Colonel before leaving the hut. The firing had ceased; the night was very dark, but the weather calm. It was with great difficulty we found our way through the camps, which appeared very silent after such a stormy day and day of storm. In about a quarter of an hour Colonel Wyndham observed, “Monsieur Soyer, I believe you are close to your quarters,” pointing to several lights. “There,” said he, “is the Guards’ camp.” I wished him good evening, and we separated.
My Zouave had not returned from the hospital, but shortly after made his appearance rather intoxicated. He related all that he had seen, and said that a few wounded Russians had been brought to the hospitals. “They have all they require,” said he; “and, in case of need, I told a man to call us up.” When he had put everything in order, he said, “I’ll keep watch,” and commenced singing his favourite songs. He made so much noise that we could not sleep if we had wished to do so, especially as the soldier-cooks and servants joined him in chorus.
Sad scenes—Ride to Cathcart’s Hill—Glorious news—Animated groups—First spoils—Refreshment for the wounded—Chloroform—Dinner at the Carlton—Sebastopol in flames—A night expedition—Letter to Messrs. Routledge—Visit to Sebastopol—Russian fare—Poisoned bread—Culinary trophies—Interior of the Malakhoff—Bornet’s funeral oration over a dead comrade—The Russian hospital—Harrowing scenes.
Sad scenes—Ride to Cathcart’s Hill—Glorious news—Animated groups—First spoils—Refreshment for the wounded—Chloroform—Dinner at the Carlton—Sebastopol in flames—A night expedition—Letter to Messrs. Routledge—Visit to Sebastopol—Russian fare—Poisoned bread—Culinary trophies—Interior of the Malakhoff—Bornet’s funeral oration over a dead comrade—The Russian hospital—Harrowing scenes.
TWOdays before I had been invited to dine with Colonel de Bathe, in order to partake of a Crimean fat goose. Though disappointed of my dinner, I was anxious to know if anything had happened to him and his brave companions in arms, and I therefore went round the camp and visited the Coldstream and Fusilier Guards. Many had not returned. Those off duty had retired to rest, which can be easily understood after the fatigues of such a day. I therefore returned, and laid down for a few hours. About four in the morning I went to the hospital, and found that every ward would soon be encumbered with sick and wounded. The cooks overfatigued, having been up all night at work. I at once proposed to furnish Dr. Mouatt with what he required, provided the purveyor would send the provisions to the Guards’ camp. The doctor thanked me for the offer, and gave an immediate order to that effect. My Zouave had brought me a cross, which had been worn by a Russian officer who was killed. I presented it to one of the prisoners, who kissed it fervently and passed it to his comrades. There were about fifteen of them. No difference was made in the attendance or care bestowed upon them and that shown to our own troops, though not less than four or five hundred were in the hospital at the time, and more were coming in. Such a scene ofsuffering can never be effaced from memory, and is not to be described.
While waiting for the provisions, I galloped as far as Cathcart’s Hill, and was much surprised to find that hostilities had entirely ceased. I met Colonel Steele just returning from the Redan.
“It’s all over, Monsieur Soyer,” said he.
“What do you mean, Colonel?” I replied.
“The Russians have retreated and abandoned Sebastopol! I have just been in the Redan, which exhibits a fearful scene. The loss has been great on all sides.”
He then left in a great hurry, saying he must return to head-quarters and telegraph the news to the War-office. A few houses were burning, and thick smoke was issuing from various parts of the city. Some of the Russian ships were burning in the bay. The weather was as calm, as it had been boisterous the day before. Amongst the group upon the hill were the Duke of Newcastle, Mr. Russell, and a few others, not above twenty in all. Our attention was attracted by the arrival of a soldier with the first spoils of the conquered city. These consisted of two chairs, a dressing table and a looking-glass. He also carried a hare in one hand. On being asked where he got these various articles, he answered, “From the city. The French troops are plundering, and not a Russian is to be found. Yet the place is very dangerous, as explosions are continually taking place.”
Shortly after, a long train of wounded, carried on mules, was seen going towards the General Hospital, amongst whom were a number of Russians. Thecortègewas followed by about twenty Russian prisoners; and I could not help remarking the youthful appearance of the latter, their age not exceeding from eighteen to twenty-five. This, I concluded, was owing to the immense number the enemy must have lost during the campaign.
My Zouave had, unknown to me, left on an expedition to the city. Although much against my will, it was impossible to stop him. My endeavours to impress upon his mind the importance of remaining with me upon that occasion were of no avail.
On returning to the camp I prepared a quantity of lemonade, arrowroot, beef-tea, arrowroot-water, barley-water, rice-water and pudding, boiled rice, &c., and through the kindness of Colonel Daniell and Major Fielden, twelve men were sent to carry them to the hospitals. I spent the remainder of the day in the hospitals, which were situated about a mile from the Guards’ camp, where I witnessed the most painful scenes and numerous amputations. Amongst those operated upon were several Russians. I could not help remarking what a blessing to the sufferer chloroform proved. Wonderful was the kindness and celerity with which the doctors performed the operations. These were so numerous that before night several buckets were filled with the limbs, and the greater part of those operated upon were doing well. The hospitals, although they contained nearly forty wards, were full. Some of our wounded, as well as the Russians, were placed under marquees and other tents. The wounds received by some of the Russians were fearful, and the groans of those who were mortally wounded awful. Having done all that was required at the hospital I returned to the camp, where an invitation awaited me to dine at the Carlton Club. This I was much pleased to accept. The painful scenes I had witnessed weighed heavily upon the heart and mind, and a little relaxation became necessary. At about eight o’clock I repaired to the appointed place, and eight or nine guests sat down.
The dinner was very good; and though the bill of fare was rather extensive, every dish was cleared. Was this due to the skill of thechef de cuisine, or to the sixteen hours of hard work in the trenches? If the latter was really the cause of this, I should recommend a blasé epicure, who has lost his appetite, to try this simple and effective process. It will not fail to succeed—that is, should he escape with life after sixteen hours of shooting or being shot at, like pigeons at the Red House. The conversation became very animated, and so interesting that a small pamphlet might be written upon it. All had seen something and had something to relate.My description of the hospitals was the great feature of the evening, as none present had seen them, having other occupation at their posts with the various regiments. The Queen’s health, that of the Emperor of the French, and of the Sultan, were toasted with three times three and one more cheer. In the midst of this, Buckingham!! the renowned Buckingham!!! who had displayed all hissavoir fairein theservice de table, acting upon that occasion asmaître d’hôtel en chef, with a few utensils made a display worthy of a first-rate à la mode beef house, nothing to be laughed at in a Crimean popotte, rushed into the tent, crying “Colonel! Colonel! the whole of Sebastopol is in flames.” It was true. In less than ten minutes streets had taken fire with the rapidity of a firework, and every minute the conflagration seemed to be upon the increase. Nothing but fire and smoke could be seen from the Guards’ camp. I proposed that we should order our horses and go to Cathcart’s Hill to see what was going on. To my surprise, no one seemed inclined to move. They all said that they had had enough of Sebastopol, and were tired to death. On urging the matter, the only answer I got from some of my gallant friends was, “Not to-night, Monsieur Soyer, not to-night.”
“Surely,” said I, “gentlemen! you don’t expect the Russians will set a Sebastopol on fire every day at a few hours’ notice to please you.”
“That is not likely,” said Major Fielden; “but for all that I feel convinced that no one will go.”
As the fire seemed to extend and the sky became one lurid mass, I determined to go and get a sight of it. I bade my companions adieu, went back to my tent, ordered my horse, and tried to awake my Zouave in order to take him with me. He was so intoxicated I could not succeed. He had spent the day with some of his comrades, and completely lost his senses. As I could not find either groom or any of my men, I went to Mr. Mesnil’s tent. My major domo being an old campaigner, had as usual turned in all dressed to be ready for any contingency. Rousing him, I requested him to accompanyme. The eternal reply of “Not to-night” was again heard.
“Oh, hang the place, let it burn,” said he.
As this was my last resource, I would not leave him. At last, in no very kindly mood, he turned out and agreed to go. The night was pitch dark, so we preferred going on foot. My friend was armed with a Russian sword and a night glass; I with a poignard-revolver and a lanthorn. Our intention was to get as near the city as possible, and we were prepared for any unpleasant encounter by firelight instead of moonlight. The purlieus of the camp were at this period anything but safe. With much difficulty, we reached Cathcart’s Hill, having lost our way in trying what we thought would be a short cut. The camp was silent, and apparently deserted. Although only eleven o’clock, we did not meet a soul, with the exception of sentries, on our way.
So sublime was the scene witnessed by us from the summit of Cathcart’s Hill, that it induced me, in my business correspondence with my publishers, Messrs. Routledge and Co., to forward them the following descriptive letter of the extraordinary effects this monstrous scene produced upon my senses. It has already appeared, I believe, in the public prints.
Flagstaff, Cathcart’s Hill, near Sebastopol,9th September, 1855.Gentlemen,—Sebastopol has fallen, and almost every part of its superstructure is in flames. From the very spot I write, I can distinctly enumerate at least fourteen different conflagrations. The sight is at once sublime and terrific. A Martin or a Danby alone could trace on canvas, with their vigorous tints and their wild genius, the stupendous scene which my eyes are now beholding. The incessant roaring of the cannon, the explosion of shells, the blowing of the trumpet, the beating of drums, mingled with the groaning of the wounded and the anxious bustling of myriads of souls—adding to this the most tempestuous hurricane, the coldness of the weather, falling of hailstones, and the previously forest-like clouds of dust springing out from the harrowed Crimean soil, which raged during the whole of yesterday over the Allies’ camps, have suddenly given place to the most profound calm and glowing breeze. The semi-defunct city and all the camps are as silent as the graves by whichI am now surrounded. Ten yards from here lie the remains of the immortal Cathcart, encircled by several of his noble companions in arms. From half-past eleven to this present time, twoA.M., not a living creature, save myself and a friend, besides the picket-sentinel, has been here to witness, from this remarkable spot, the downfall of the venerated Russian city.With the highest consideration, I have the honour to be,Your most obedient servant,A. Soyer.
Flagstaff, Cathcart’s Hill, near Sebastopol,9th September, 1855.
Gentlemen,—Sebastopol has fallen, and almost every part of its superstructure is in flames. From the very spot I write, I can distinctly enumerate at least fourteen different conflagrations. The sight is at once sublime and terrific. A Martin or a Danby alone could trace on canvas, with their vigorous tints and their wild genius, the stupendous scene which my eyes are now beholding. The incessant roaring of the cannon, the explosion of shells, the blowing of the trumpet, the beating of drums, mingled with the groaning of the wounded and the anxious bustling of myriads of souls—adding to this the most tempestuous hurricane, the coldness of the weather, falling of hailstones, and the previously forest-like clouds of dust springing out from the harrowed Crimean soil, which raged during the whole of yesterday over the Allies’ camps, have suddenly given place to the most profound calm and glowing breeze. The semi-defunct city and all the camps are as silent as the graves by whichI am now surrounded. Ten yards from here lie the remains of the immortal Cathcart, encircled by several of his noble companions in arms. From half-past eleven to this present time, twoA.M., not a living creature, save myself and a friend, besides the picket-sentinel, has been here to witness, from this remarkable spot, the downfall of the venerated Russian city.
With the highest consideration, I have the honour to be,
Your most obedient servant,A. Soyer.
By the aid of the night-glass we obtained so good a view that we did not deem it advisable to proceed further. The heat of the fire was felt even at that distance, and explosions were frequent. The cause of the solitude in the camp at that hour can only be attributed to the excessive fatigue consequent upon the tremendous exertions of the previous day; the curtain had fallen on this grand drama—all was repose. We then returned to quarters through the same mournful solitude, not having met a soul either going or returning. This dreariness impressed me with the idea of chaos, after the destruction of a world and its empires.
Early the following morning, attended by my Zouave, who had recovered his sober senses, I started for the General Hospital.
We saw about thirty dead bodies laid out in a row, and stitched up in their blankets, with their name and nation marked upon each. I believe there was not a single case of amputation amongst them; they had all been mortally wounded. This speaks volumes in favour of the use of chloroform, the efficacy and safety of which, for a time, was much doubted, even by eminent medical men. Amputations were still being performed with skill and celerity worthy of a Guthrie or an Astley Cooper. The principal medical men were Drs. Mouatt, Lyons, &c. &c., who appeared to vie with each other in their kind attention to the sufferers.
Perceiving that nothing further was required for the present, and that all was going on well, I went to visit Sebastopol. My Zouave knew the road, as he had been there the day before. Our first visit was to the Redan, where we were refused admission. My intrepidZouave, not contented with this rebuff, took me round another way, and, leaving our horses outside, we scaled the works and got in. The scene of death and destruction here was awful, and has been described too often for me to dwell upon it. Nothing but the effects of a devastating earthquake can give any one an idea of thedébrisof the interior, or of the destruction caused by the fire of the Allies, and the explosions that had ensued. We proceeded to the city by the Arsenal, on the British side. The town was still burning. On reaching the large barracks, we visited the kitchens and bakeries. In the former, some of the boilers contained cabbage-soup; others, a kind of porridge made with black flour. In the bakeries, loaves of bread were still in the ovens, and dough in the troughs. We removed a loaf from the oven and tasted it. As we had brought no provision with us, and there was none to be obtained in the burning city, we ate about half a pound of bread each, and finished our frugal repast with a good draught of water: the latter was retailed at the small charge of sixpence a pint. A quarter of an hour after, I looked my Zouave hard in the face, saying, as I placed my hand upon my stomach, with a rueful face and in a piteous tone of voice—
“Bless me, Bornet! do you feel anything wrong?—because, if you don’t, I do!” Looking still more pitiful, I continued—“Iamconfident the bread has been poisoned!”
“The deuce it has!” he replied, turning pale, and putting his fingers in his throat in order to throw off the dreadful meal, but without success.
I laughed at him, and called him a coward.
“Coward!” said he; “no, no, governor, I am no coward. I should not mind a round-shot, sword, or bayonet wound, in the field of battle; but, by Jupiter! to be poisoned ingloriously like a dog, would be base in the extreme.”
“You’re right,” said I. “Come, don’t fear, let’s go and taste the soupe-aux-choux.”
To this invitation he most decidedly objected, saying, “No more of their relishes for me, if you please.”
In my culinary ardour I tasted it, and found it extremely bad and entirely deprived of nutritious qualities, but no doubt in it was to be added some black bread which would improve it.
Among the culinary trophies we brought away, were a long iron fork, a ladle, some of the dough, biscuits, and a large piece of the black bread taken from the oven. I intended to test its merits upon my return to the camp. After visiting the docks, in which the vessels were still burning, as well as some in the harbour, we went to the Malakhoff, at the foot of which lay a number of dead bodies and horses. I met several acquaintances, and, on obtaining permission, visited the tower and its interior. The scene here was the same as at the Redan—one of destruction and desolation, though this place was not so much knocked about—but none could fail to appreciate the talent and skill displayed by the Russians in their style of fortification. The electric wires connected with the mines had been discovered and cut, rendering our visit comparatively safe. The men were busy burying the dead in all directions. My Zouave drew me towards the Black Battery, by which the division Bosquet had so severely suffered in valiantly defending their position. On arriving there, he recognised the dead body of one of his late comrades, and he implored me to allow him to remain till it was buried. As it was getting dark, and it was not probable that they would bury him that evening, I promised to allow him to return in the morning. Looking pitifully at the corpse, he said—
“Poor Adrien, what fun we had in Algeria! and now you are dead.” Stooping down over the body and kissing it on both cheeks, he continued—“To-morrow I will return and perform the last sad duty of a friend. Look, governor, would you not think he smiles? He was such a fine fellow—I am sure his soul has gone straight to head-quarters.”
It was almost dark, and we galloped home. The next morning my Zouave attended the funeral of his friend, and it took so long that I did not see him again forforty-eight hours. When he returned, he brought two Zouaves with him, and they were all laden with trophies; among them was an entirely new tent, which, from its very superior quality, was supposed to have belonged to some general officer. The Zouaves had pitched upon Prince Orloff as the owner, no doubt to increase its value. It really was worthy of a commander-in-chief. I purchased it, and have it still in my possession. The rest of the booty consisted of guns, swords, church relics, &c.—in fact, all they could lay hands upon which was likely to be converted into money. The only thing which surprised me was, that he had returned sober. While I was reprimanding him for his long absence, he coolly replied—
“You are right, governor; but you see, after paying the last duties to poor Adrien, in order to drown the melancholy feeling of human existence, I got boosy enough to make all the wine-sellers, and even old Father Bacchus himself, turn pale. When I began to find that I could no longer see, I said to myself, ‘Bornet, my friend, you must not disgrace the governor’s quarters. Go to bed upon the straw like a pig as you are.’ In ten hours my drunken fit had passed away like a vaporous cloud; and here, governor, is your Zouave, in a fit state, ready to dance upon a rope without a balance-pole.”
The original and comic nature of the excuse caused me to laugh at him, instead of scolding him.
He then proposed to go in the evening and find the remaining part of Count Orloff’s tent, spend the night in Sebastopol, and meet me the next morning at the Greek church in the town.
All was going on well at the General Hospital. It was crammed full, and amputations were being performed night and day. I called there daily with some of my men, and sent the others in various directions. The next day I visited Sebastopol, and went to the French side. I could not find Bornet, but saw one of his friends, who told me that he had slept in the French camp. I therefore gave him up, and determined to get rid of him as soon as possible. After visiting the town in company with a few friends whom I happened to meet there, wewent to the Russian hospital, which we had been told was full of dead, sick, and wounded. During the few days that had elapsed since the capture of the city I had witnessed many awful scenes, but this was the most harrowing of all.
Perhaps one of the most awful and sickening sights possible for humanity to conjure up was witnessed by myself and many others in the Russian hospital in the interior of Sebastopol. Piled up one on the other, or lying singly on the bare flooring, were strewn hundreds of Russians, dead and dying. The view would have struck terror into the heart of the greatest stoic. These men seemed to have been placed here out of the way to suffer and die, uncared for, unattended. On one side might be seen a poor creature writhing in the last throes of dissolution; on the other, a fine fellow with almost divine resignation, who had just rendered himself up to his Maker, having died in dreadful agony. Men without legs or arms, and some with frightful body wounds or bayonet thrusts, lay huddled in helpless confusion. Desolation and death grimly met us at each step. Then the effluvia arising from the bodies was horrible beyond description.
Business suspended—Holiday-time for the cooks—Breakfast in the Malakhoff—Transferred to the Mamelon Vert—Attack of Crimean fever—Kind attentions—Relapse—An unexpected visitor and a conversation—Laughable incident—Trip to Scutari—Captain Brown of theImperador—Fellow-travellers—Fame in America—Brigadier-General Storks—Consolations—Bornet’s consideration—His farewell—Soyer House—Third illness—Severe attack of dysentery—Recovery—Grand ball at the English Embassy—The Sultan attends—“Elizabeth Quadrilles”—Arrival of my field-stoves—Off again to the Crimea—Letters suggesting improvements in the hospitals.
Business suspended—Holiday-time for the cooks—Breakfast in the Malakhoff—Transferred to the Mamelon Vert—Attack of Crimean fever—Kind attentions—Relapse—An unexpected visitor and a conversation—Laughable incident—Trip to Scutari—Captain Brown of theImperador—Fellow-travellers—Fame in America—Brigadier-General Storks—Consolations—Bornet’s consideration—His farewell—Soyer House—Third illness—Severe attack of dysentery—Recovery—Grand ball at the English Embassy—The Sultan attends—“Elizabeth Quadrilles”—Arrival of my field-stoves—Off again to the Crimea—Letters suggesting improvements in the hospitals.
FORa few days all business seemed suspended in the camp, and the rage with every one was to visit the ruins of the far-famed city. The hospitals in the camp and at Balaklava were quite full, though most of the patients were going on very satisfactorily. Much bustle was observed at both the French and English head-quarters. As the soup was no longer required for the soldiers in the trenches, the order for the field-stoves remained some time in abeyance, and all appeared like holiday time. In fact, people kept flocking, with and without permission, into Sebastopol. Deeming this a favourable opportunity, I proposed giving a déjeûner in the Malakhoff two days after its capture, and cooking it with my magic bivouac-stove. Among the guests invited were Colonels Daniell, De Bathe; Brigadier Drummond; Majors Fielden, Armitage; Captain Tower, &c. &c. We were to muster about twelve; the great dish was to be thepoulets sautés à la Malakhoff, cooked on my pocket bivouac-stove in the open air. All was prepared, and we were about to start, when I learnt that we should not be allowed to enter the tower. Colonel Daniell, who had some business at head-quarters,promised to try and obtain permission. I at once went to General Pelissier for the order, which could not be granted in his absence. I saw General Rose, who said any other day he should be happy to make the request. The appetites of my invited guests were sharpened and the stomachs waiting, and they would have grumbled had they not been satisfied. We therefore agreed that in lieu of having it in the Malakhoff, we should make ourselves satisfied with the Mamelon Vertà la Carleton; and a very jovial reunion we made of it. Alas! it was the last I was destined to enjoy for some time.
Seven or eight days after, I was laid up with a very severe attack of Crimean fever. Not being aware of the nature of my illness, I thought rest was all I required, after the fatigue I had undergone: I therefore went to bed—but what kind of bed?—under damp canvas, with a muddy floor, as it had rained heavily for some days. I felt so ill, that I could neither lie, sit, nor stand, without great suffering. Imagining that I could conquer the disease, I did not send for the doctor. Fortunately for me, a short time after my attack, as I lay in bed, Dr. Linton, who often visited me, chanced to call at my tent. I told him of my indisposition, and he at once sent me some medicine, more blankets, and kindly offered his services; at the same time informing me that I had a serious attack of fever. I was in the Coldstreams’ camp; and Dr. Wyatt claimed me as his patient, and paid me a visit. He immediately ordered me to keep my bed. For some days he watched my case most diligently, and under his skilful care I soon got better. During my illness I received visits and kind inquiries from almost all the heads of the forces, for which I shall ever feel grateful; their attention was most gratifying to my feelings, and I am proud of the consideration evinced for me by that noble band, the British army.
Directly I recovered and was allowed to go about, I felt anxious to have a decided answer respecting the stoves—for the matter was at that time in abeyance. I also wished to visit the various regimental hospitals in which my men were engaged teaching the soldiers. Inmy eagerness to attend to these things, I overfatigued myself, and brought on a second attack, much worse than the former. Dr. Wyatt was almost in despair, and privately informed Mr. Mesnil that I was in great danger. However, owing entirely to his great care and kind attention, in three weeks I had partly recovered, but was so much altered that scarcely anybody could recognise me. I one day visited Lord William Paulet, who had left Scutari, and was on board theLeanderin Balaklava Bay. I was so much changed, that neither Admiral Freemantle nor his lordship knew me. Miss Nightingale had returned, and was much in want of my services. Not being aware of my illness, she sent for me; and as soon as I recovered, I waited upon and accompanied that lady to the Monastery Hospital. The fatigue consequent upon my exertions brought me so low, that Dr. Wyatt insisted upon my leaving the Crimea, saying he would not be responsible for my safety any longer in that climate.
A few days before my departure the following laughable circumstance occurred, which has already been related in the columns of theIllustrated Newsby an amateur correspondent:—
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR AND A CONVERSATION.I had an amusing adventure the other evening. A stranger visited me, and I entertained a late distinguishedattachéof the Reform Club unawares. It was getting dusk, and I was very tired, having been engaged in the hospital marquees all day—for we had a very sudden and violent outbreak of cholera. Phillipo, my Maltese servant, was down on his hands and knees, blowing the lighted charcoal in my fireplace, with the intention of expediting dinner. My fireplace, I must tell you, consists of a hole dug in the earth, with three pieces of iron hooping stretched across by way of grate; and a very admirable kitchen-range it is. Phillipo had just afforded me the agreeable information that dinner would not be ready for nearly an hour, and I was in the act of lighting my pipe, when I heard an unaccustomed step climbing up the rock side, close to my tent, and a musical and hilarious voice exclaimed, “Is Guy Earl of Warwick at home?” I laid down my pipe utterly astounded; and in another moment a hand drew aside the canvas, a head appeared at the entrance of my tent, and the portly figure of a man speedily completed the apparition. For a moment my visitor surveyedme, evidently as much astonished as I was. “Ah! I see, I have made one grand mistake!” (he spoke tolerable English, but with a decided French accent). “You will think me strange. I was looking for my old friend Warwick, and made sure this was his tent. We call him Guy Earl of Warwick. Ah! ah! badinage. It may be you know him?”By this time I had fully surveyed my visitor. He was a tall, stout, rather handsome-looking man, aged about fifty years. He wore a drab-coloured “wide-awake” wrapped round with a red scarf, and a white blouse, heavily braided about the sleeves. His hair had been black, now rapidly changing into grey; and his whiskers, moustache, and beard (the latter primly cut), were of the same “Oxford mixture.” Observing that the walk up the hill had slightly affected his breathing, I invited him to take a seat on one of my bullock-trunks, the only “ottoman” of which my Turkish tent could boast. (It is no slight exertion to get up to my tent, as I have pitched it almost at the top of a hill, in order, if possible, to evade the rats, which swarm in the Crimea; indeed, I scarcely know whether rats, flies, or fleas are the greatest nuisance.) In a few moments we got into conversation.“I am going to Balaklava shortly,” said the stranger; “I am going on board ship. I have been out here some few months; my health has been gone ever since I came. They tell me I am older ten years this last five months. I am going to England.”“And I am only waiting till this Crimean drama is over to follow your example,” said I. “I must see the Russians finally driven out, and then I go home too. As to campaigning, the curiosity which brought me here is gratified; as to the moving accidents of war, I have supped full of horrors!—But here comes Phillipo with the dinner.”The Maltese entered, and placed upon the table a piece of beef baked in an iron pot, also some boiled potatoes. I observed that my visitor eyed the dinner curiously, and I was almost angry to observe the instantaneous elevation of his eyebrows, when with great difficulty I succeeded in whittling off with a sharp carving-knife a slice of the outside.“Nice beef, but not done quite enough,” said my visitor.He might well say so; it was almost raw. I stuck a fork into the potatoes; they were as hard as pebbles. I was in despair. The stranger laughed aloud. I was rapidly getting sulky.“I see you have a good fire outside,” said my visitor; “that charcoal gives a beautiful heat. Now, if you will take my advice, I should say, cut a slice or two——““Excuse me,” I replied, “but if there is one thing more than another that I pride myself on, it is my cooking. I can cook with any fellow in the Crimea, perhaps excepting Soyer; and some people say that he is a great humbug.”“Do they indeed?” said he. “Well, he must be rather a clever humbug to sell 40,000 of his books.”“I must confess,” I said, “that his shilling Cookery-book is a great invention. I have made many capital dishes by its direction. The fact is, I generally superintend the cooking myself.”“And your politeness to me has spoiled your dinner. Now look here.”And, almost before I could interpose a word, my potatoes were in slices, a large onion was dissected piecemeal, my beef was submitted to the knife, a pinch or two of ration salt and pepper completed the preparations, and my little canteen-pan was on the fire. I looked on, regarding these proceedings with much astonishment, and not a little jealousy. After a few minutes the stranger gave the pan a graceful wave or two over the fire, and then replaced it on the table. There was a dinner fit for Sardanapalus! Never shall I forget the elegant curl of that steam, or the exquisite odour which soon pervaded the atmosphere of my tent. I could not help thinking of and half excusing a certain hairy man who lived in the first ages, and who for just such a mess of potage disposed of his estates.“How do you like it?” said the stranger.“Don’t talk at present,” I answered; “I consider dinner one of the most serious duties of life.”“Ah! ah! then you would not call Soyer a humbug to make this?”“Soyer!” I said in disdain—“Soyer never made or invented a dish half as good in his life! Talk about French slops in comparison with prime English beef and onions! Bah!”I was carried away by my enthusiasm, and quite forgot that I was at that moment eating part of the carcase of a wretched Armenian beast, that would not have fetched 50s. in an English market. At last dinner was over.“One more glass of sherry,” said the stranger, “and then I go. I am very glad to have made your acquaintance, and I hope you will come and see me when you come down to Balaklava. I shall be on board the shipEdwardin the bay. I am going to stop there a little time for my health. Come on board and ask for me.”“With very great pleasure—and your name?”“Oh! my name—Soyer,” said he; and he sat down and laughed till the tears stood in his eyes.W. C.
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR AND A CONVERSATION.
I had an amusing adventure the other evening. A stranger visited me, and I entertained a late distinguishedattachéof the Reform Club unawares. It was getting dusk, and I was very tired, having been engaged in the hospital marquees all day—for we had a very sudden and violent outbreak of cholera. Phillipo, my Maltese servant, was down on his hands and knees, blowing the lighted charcoal in my fireplace, with the intention of expediting dinner. My fireplace, I must tell you, consists of a hole dug in the earth, with three pieces of iron hooping stretched across by way of grate; and a very admirable kitchen-range it is. Phillipo had just afforded me the agreeable information that dinner would not be ready for nearly an hour, and I was in the act of lighting my pipe, when I heard an unaccustomed step climbing up the rock side, close to my tent, and a musical and hilarious voice exclaimed, “Is Guy Earl of Warwick at home?” I laid down my pipe utterly astounded; and in another moment a hand drew aside the canvas, a head appeared at the entrance of my tent, and the portly figure of a man speedily completed the apparition. For a moment my visitor surveyedme, evidently as much astonished as I was. “Ah! I see, I have made one grand mistake!” (he spoke tolerable English, but with a decided French accent). “You will think me strange. I was looking for my old friend Warwick, and made sure this was his tent. We call him Guy Earl of Warwick. Ah! ah! badinage. It may be you know him?”
By this time I had fully surveyed my visitor. He was a tall, stout, rather handsome-looking man, aged about fifty years. He wore a drab-coloured “wide-awake” wrapped round with a red scarf, and a white blouse, heavily braided about the sleeves. His hair had been black, now rapidly changing into grey; and his whiskers, moustache, and beard (the latter primly cut), were of the same “Oxford mixture.” Observing that the walk up the hill had slightly affected his breathing, I invited him to take a seat on one of my bullock-trunks, the only “ottoman” of which my Turkish tent could boast. (It is no slight exertion to get up to my tent, as I have pitched it almost at the top of a hill, in order, if possible, to evade the rats, which swarm in the Crimea; indeed, I scarcely know whether rats, flies, or fleas are the greatest nuisance.) In a few moments we got into conversation.
“I am going to Balaklava shortly,” said the stranger; “I am going on board ship. I have been out here some few months; my health has been gone ever since I came. They tell me I am older ten years this last five months. I am going to England.”
“And I am only waiting till this Crimean drama is over to follow your example,” said I. “I must see the Russians finally driven out, and then I go home too. As to campaigning, the curiosity which brought me here is gratified; as to the moving accidents of war, I have supped full of horrors!—But here comes Phillipo with the dinner.”
The Maltese entered, and placed upon the table a piece of beef baked in an iron pot, also some boiled potatoes. I observed that my visitor eyed the dinner curiously, and I was almost angry to observe the instantaneous elevation of his eyebrows, when with great difficulty I succeeded in whittling off with a sharp carving-knife a slice of the outside.
“Nice beef, but not done quite enough,” said my visitor.
He might well say so; it was almost raw. I stuck a fork into the potatoes; they were as hard as pebbles. I was in despair. The stranger laughed aloud. I was rapidly getting sulky.
“I see you have a good fire outside,” said my visitor; “that charcoal gives a beautiful heat. Now, if you will take my advice, I should say, cut a slice or two——“
“Excuse me,” I replied, “but if there is one thing more than another that I pride myself on, it is my cooking. I can cook with any fellow in the Crimea, perhaps excepting Soyer; and some people say that he is a great humbug.”
“Do they indeed?” said he. “Well, he must be rather a clever humbug to sell 40,000 of his books.”
“I must confess,” I said, “that his shilling Cookery-book is a great invention. I have made many capital dishes by its direction. The fact is, I generally superintend the cooking myself.”
“And your politeness to me has spoiled your dinner. Now look here.”
And, almost before I could interpose a word, my potatoes were in slices, a large onion was dissected piecemeal, my beef was submitted to the knife, a pinch or two of ration salt and pepper completed the preparations, and my little canteen-pan was on the fire. I looked on, regarding these proceedings with much astonishment, and not a little jealousy. After a few minutes the stranger gave the pan a graceful wave or two over the fire, and then replaced it on the table. There was a dinner fit for Sardanapalus! Never shall I forget the elegant curl of that steam, or the exquisite odour which soon pervaded the atmosphere of my tent. I could not help thinking of and half excusing a certain hairy man who lived in the first ages, and who for just such a mess of potage disposed of his estates.
“How do you like it?” said the stranger.
“Don’t talk at present,” I answered; “I consider dinner one of the most serious duties of life.”
“Ah! ah! then you would not call Soyer a humbug to make this?”
“Soyer!” I said in disdain—“Soyer never made or invented a dish half as good in his life! Talk about French slops in comparison with prime English beef and onions! Bah!”
I was carried away by my enthusiasm, and quite forgot that I was at that moment eating part of the carcase of a wretched Armenian beast, that would not have fetched 50s. in an English market. At last dinner was over.
“One more glass of sherry,” said the stranger, “and then I go. I am very glad to have made your acquaintance, and I hope you will come and see me when you come down to Balaklava. I shall be on board the shipEdwardin the bay. I am going to stop there a little time for my health. Come on board and ask for me.”
“With very great pleasure—and your name?”
“Oh! my name—Soyer,” said he; and he sat down and laughed till the tears stood in his eyes.
W. C.
Soon after I left Balaklava for Scutari on board theImperador, Captain Brown. His humorous countenance would alone have sufficed to restore the gaiety of the most shattered constitution, setting aside his good-nature and continual kindness to his numerous passengers, particularly the invalids. What visitor to the Crimea has not known or heard of Captain Brown of theImperador? His heart was as large as his ship, and his mind as brilliant as his gorgeous saloon: moreover, his table wasworthy of any yachting epicure. He was in every way a credit to that noble class of men, the pet children of the ocean, the captain’s kingly race. At the time of my trip he was an invalid, having broken two of his ribs; but he did not consider the case a serious one, and consoled himself by saying this accident was nothing compared with the one he had met with a few months before. “Then,” said he, laughing, “I actually fell into the coal-hole, and broke my collar bone; and (showing his lame arm) I shall be lame for life through it. However, these broken ribs are nearly set again, and I shall soon be well. But pray do not make me laugh—come, let us have another glass of port,” closed his argument. (This was cheese-time dialogue.)
We had a fine passage, as well as agreeable companions in the passengers, amongst whom were three American gentlemen just returning from Russia. They were in Sebastopol during the storming on the 8th of September, and had been sent by their Government upon important duty. Owing to my weakness at the time, I have forgotten the purport of their mission. They had been introduced to the Emperor Alexander, and spoke in high terms of his Majesty’s courtesy. They had come from America in their own ship, which was at that time in the Bosphorus undergoing repairs. I was invited to dine with them some day, which I promised to do, but was not able to keep my promise, in consequence of my continued illness. “The dinner,” said one of them, “shall be cookedà laSoyer, for we have your book on board—the one called theModern Housewife.”
I felt much flattered when they afterwards told me that my book was very extensively used in America. “Your Cookery-book, Monsieur Soyer, is the national book, or ‘household words.’ Every respectable family has it. Indeed, you are as well known by reputation in America as in England. Take this for a standing invitation. Should you ever come as far as our American land of freedom, we invite you to be our guest.”
At this I was highly gratified, and almost promised,if I recovered, to accept their invitation. At all events, in case I should not go, I take this opportunity of thanking them heartily for their kind invitation, in hopes that this book, like its predecessors, will cross the Atlantic, and come under their notice.
To me everything on board the magnificent shipImperadorwore a smiling aspect, and I began to feel myself again. I no sooner arrived at Scutari, than I went and visited Brigadier-General Storks, with whom I had not the pleasure of being acquainted. He had succeeded Lord William Paulet. I was kindly received by the general. He congratulated me in flattering terms upon the good system I had introduced into the kitchen department of the hospitals, of which he was at that time the governor. I felt myself quite at home with the general, who, though an Englishman, could have taught me my own language. He certainly spoke it more fluently than I did myself: I had been so long in England, and had, moreover, employed so many people of different nations—Greeks, Armenians, Turks, French, Italians; and I must not omit two Maltese, who, to render them justice, were worth all my other cooks put together for intelligence and activity—that I began to forget my native tongue. My readers can easily suppose that, amidst such a miscellany of languages, one might easily murder one’s own. General Storks is not only a good French scholar, but has all the tournure and appearance of the Frenchbeau idéal. After about half-an-hour’s chat upon business and other matters, I left the general, and promised to have the pleasure of visiting him frequently during my stay in Scutari, which was to be about a week—it being then my intention to return to England to regain my health.
I visited my first Crimean doctor, Dr. Linton, who had left the Crimea to replace Dr. Cumming. He would hardly condescend to know me, so much had I altered; and I found this to be the case with every one I met. I frightened my cooks when I entered the kitchen. They had heard that I was dead, which I afterwards personally denied; but they did not think it possible I could lookso bad. Purveyors, comptrollers, civilian and military doctors, Sisters of Mercy, all consoled me by saying, “I fear you will never get over it, Monsieur Soyer.”
“Well,” I replied to some of them, “that’s my business; at all events, I will do my best to deceive you.”
Nothing is less likely to restore a man when he is half dead than trying to persuade him that he must succumb. Thanks to my lucky star, I have deceived them all; and some richly deserve it, as they had laid bets upon my chance, particularly my Zouave and another of my men. The former answered all inquiries respecting the state of my health by, “The governor, you see, is in a very bad way. His hash is settled; it is all over with him. It is a pity, for he is a good man, and he had promised to take me with him to London, a place I very much wish to visit.”
A few days after my arrival in Constantinople my health again failed me, and having no further need for the services of my Zouave, to his great regret we parted, but on such friendly terms, that he afterwards often observed, “Look ye, governor, you have been a good master to me, and if you ever recover from your serious illness, which is not very probable, send for me—I am still your man, and will follow you anywhere and everywhere, even to England; and if any fellow annoys you, here is the arm (showing it to the shoulder) which will make them bleed to death and bury them after.”
I took up my residence at Soyer House, where I enjoyed the gay and interesting prospect for an invalid of the monster lugubrious cemetery, or Grand Champ des Morts, on one side, and the hospital on the other. The weather was wet and wretched—the house, as usual, splendidly ventilated, and had been robbed of its furniture by a Greek servant I had left there. It was, moreover, populated by rats and other vermin. Before I could set it in order, I fell ill for the third time, and had, in addition to my former malady, a severe attack of dysentery. I left my dismal abode, now become unbearable, crossed the Bosphorus to Pera, and took up my lodgings at anhotel for a few days, as I then anticipated, having determined upon my departure for England. However, instead of improving in health, I grew worse and worse, and was laid up for three months; in fact, I began to fear my Zouave would win his wager. During this time, I received notice that the order had been given for four hundred stoves, which were to be forwarded as fast as they could be made. I therefore decided upon remaining at Constantinople, in the hope of being able, in the event of getting better, of returning to the Crimea, and distributing them to the different regiments.
One day I had crossed over to Scutari, in order to visit Miss Nightingale, who had just arrived from Balaklava, when I met the celebrated Dr. Sutherland, who, like the rest, gave me a very encouraging view of his scientific opinion upon the state of my health. “For God’s sake, Soyer,” said he, “do leave this country, and go immediately to Malta—not England—or you are a dead man.”
“Not so, doctor,” I replied; “I am much better these last few days. In fact, I am going back to the Crimea; my stoves are expected daily, and I must go and distribute them.”
“In that case, don’t forget to take your tombstone with you.”
“A very interesting thing to do, doctor; but I shall chance the voyage for all that, if I improve; and as to the tombstone, I shall leave that to friendly hands in case it is required.”
I thanked him for the valuable medical advice he had given me, as well as the suggestion of a visit to Malta. I left my German doctor, Mr. Morris, a very eminent man I believe, but his German style of treatment did not seem to agree with my John Bull constitution. I had no sooner left him and adopted the English style of treatment, (and here I cannot refrain from expressing my thanks to a young medical gentleman named Ambler, who was most assiduous in his kind attentions to me, and through following his prescriptions, which were very strengthening, I ultimately recovered,) and was able to cook nice things for myself, instead of starvingà l’Allemandeupon a rigorous diet, than I regained strength enough to go about and look to business, and even to ride from hospital to hospital—go to the Isles des Princes, Therapia, Buyukderé, &c., for change of air, and was at last strong enough to accept the following invitation to the grand ball at the English Embassy:—
La Vicomtesse Stratford de Redcliffe prie Monsieur Soyer de venir passer chez elle la soirée de Jeudi, 31 Janvier, à 10 heures.Bal Costumé.
La Vicomtesse Stratford de Redcliffe prie Monsieur Soyer de venir passer chez elle la soirée de Jeudi, 31 Janvier, à 10 heures.
Bal Costumé.
This grand annual festival, so eagerly looked for by the fashionables of Pera and Constantinople, presented this year quite a new phase. In addition to the usual diplomatic corps of the various nations represented by their ambassadors and their noble families, there were theéliteof the Allied armies. The full-dress costumes of the diplomatic corps, as well as those of the military men, intermixed with hundreds of exquisite fancy costumes, formed a ravishingtout ensemble.
Such an assemblage of members of all nations probably never met beneath the same roof, and very likely never will again—the advent of the war being the cause. The greatest attraction of the ball was the assemblage of ladies in their brilliant costumes. Independent of those from the various embassies, were French, English, German, Greek, Armenian, Italian, and Circassian ladies—in fact, all nations except the one the ball was given to, viz., Turkish ladies, the only lady in that Oriental costume turning out to be a colonel of cavalry. At an early hour, the magnificent ball-room, which is lit from the roof by thousands of wax lights, was full. At nine precisely the cannon was heard announcing the arrival of the Sultan at the Palais d’Angleterre. Thecoup-d’œilwas really fairylike, upon the entrance of his Majesty and suite, the latter attired in full uniforms, which could not fail to astonish the most initiated eye by the gorgeous display of gold, jewels, and diamonds, coupled with the idea that such a scene had never before been witnessed except on high Turkish festivals, which are even more solemn than our grand ceremonies. Upon this occasion were assembled all the grandees andchief Turkish officers, attired in their sacred festival uniforms, with a smile upon their countenances, instead of the usual stolid and serious cast of features so peculiar to the Moslem during their grand ceremonies. His Sublime Majesty was nobly though plainly attired, and shone above his suite by his magnificent simplicity.
Lord Stratford de Redcliffe met the Sultan at the foot of the great marble staircase, that architecturalchef-d’œuvreof the Palais d’Angleterre; and her ladyship and family, surrounded by her noble circle, received him at the summit. His Majesty, with great affability, expressed through Lord de Redcliffe the gratification he felt at being presented to her ladyship and her numerous visitors. He was shown through the various saloons, which were brilliantly illuminated and profusely decorated with choice flowers: they were all crowded. The expression of his Majesty’s countenance showed that he took the most vivid interest in the novel scene witnessed by him for the first time. The ladies’ fancy dresses were in exquisite taste, particularly the “Elizabeth Quadrilles,” led by Lady de Redcliffe and the young ladies, forming a perfect representation intableau vivantof the Elizabethan period, brilliantly executed. The costumes most to be admired in that assemblage of aristocratic beauty were, the Pompadour, Ninon de l’Enclos, ancient Greek, Circassian, Roman peasant, Albanaise, Catalanaise, and Pierrettes.
All the gentlemen, except the diplomatic and high military corps, were in fancy character, which gave a cheerful appearance andensembleto the ball; and the Sultan, prior to his departure, expressed to Lord and Lady de Redcliffe the gratification he felt at witnessing such a lively scene.[21]
Towards five in the morning, its dazzling grandeur had disappeared, and very forcibly presented to some of us the reverse of the medal. To a mild evening succeeded a most tempestuous and cold morning: snow fell heavily in the Oriental city. The change of temperature was so sudden and violent, that one might have fancied oneself transferred by enchantment from summer to winter, or from Paradise to Pandemonium. The sudden change of scene and temperature presented a sad contrast to the mind. A few friends accompanied me who were, like myself, very lightly clad, being in character, and we had to go home in that storm of snow on foot. On reflection, I felt that I had acted very imprudently in going at all, in the state I was then in, and that it might prove fatal to me. “After all,” said I to my friends, who, like myself, were floundering about in the snow, by that time six inches deep in some places, “I should very much regret not having been, no matter what may be the consequences. To be present at an entertainment which the Padischah for the first time had honoured with his presence, viz., a Christian ball, is far from being a common thing.”
We reached our hotel door as wet as frogs, the movements of which reptile we had been for some time imitating by jumping from tombstone to tombstone in the Petit Champ des Morts, that being our nearest road home. The door was opened, after we had knocked about twenty times. Nevertheless, we had no reason to be dull or impatient, as there was defiling before us the everlasting caravan of donkeys laden with coffins for the daily consumption of the French hospital at Pera. Never, perhaps, upon any stage was there such a sudden change from the sublime to the gloomy. The door at last opened, and we were saluted with a “Very sorry, gentlemen, to keep you waiting, but we did not expect you so early.” It was only half-past sixA.M.
I made sure that I should be ill after such a series of events, and, wishing to be quiet, I gave special orders that no one should be permitted to disturb me, excepting the doctor, who was in the habit of calling occasionally.I had scarcely fallen asleep, when I was aroused by a knock at the door, and a letter was put into my hands apprising me that part of my stoves had arrived. I was, therefore, obliged to rise immediately and to go in person to the Admiralty, as my head man had left for Scutari the night before. The steamer was on its way to Balaklava, and the captain did not know what he was to do with them. I immediately wrote to Colonel Blane at head-quarters upon the subject, and received the following letter in reply:—