After peace negotiations had been settled, the Russians, our late

enemies, came into our camp in droves, and we entertained them as

friends, regaling them with the best that our stores could produce. The

exchange of prisoners had taken place, and some of our men who had been

in Russian hands for upwards of twelve months, proved themselves very

useful as interpreters. Our old enemies made themselves quite at home,

walking about, arm in arm, with the very men they had so often

confronted in deadly combat. The French and the Russians, however, did

not get on well together; and whenever they were under the influence of

drink this was manifest, for they often exchanged blows, and our people

had to rush in and separate them. On two or three occasions a party of

Russian sergeants, numbering from twelve to twenty, dined with us, and

seemed delighted to think we were once more friends. We were repeatedly

invited over to their camp to spend a day with them, and our

non-commissioned officers and men went in numbers, and were hospitably

entertained. On one occasion a wag of a sergeant of ours got up a party

of some twenty-five non-commissioned officers (all picked men) from

various regiments of the Light Division--not a man under six feet. We

obtained permission from our respective commanding officers, met at the

place of rendezvous, and away we started. We quietly walked into

Sebastopol, crossed the harbour, and were welcomed by a party, who had

on more than one occasion dined in our mess. We were taken first to Fort

Constantine, and shown all over that noble structure, and from thence to

other fortifications. All ranks seemed to vie with each other in showing

us attention. The whole of our party had on their breasts the Crimean

medal with three clasps, viz., Alma, Inkermann, and Sebastopol, which

seemed to afford much attraction to all ranks, and, as far as we could

see, the higher in rank the more courteous they were towards us. We all

dined together, on the best the camp could afford. The greatest drawback

was that we had not a sufficient number of interpreters. After we had

dined there was a little speech-making, and many kind things were said,

one half of which we did not understand. Our leader proposed the health

of their Emperor, which was received with applause, and drunk with three

times three, all standing uncovered. After a short time the chief of

our hosts proposed the health of Her Most Gracious Majesty, which was

drunk with tremendous applause. As we were about to resume our seats,

some four or five French sergeants walked in, which seemed to have a

very happy effect. After any amount of embracing and kissing, they were

requested to take their seats, and make themselves at home. The health

of the Emperor Napoleon was now proposed, and responded to in flowing

glasses, with cheers that could be heard for a mile. Some two or three

Russian officers entered, one of them a very venerable-looking

gentleman. He shook hands all round, and embraced one of our party,

expressing a hope that we should never again meet as foes, and that

those who made the quarrels might do the fighting. A number of our party

at once surrounded the old gentleman. He eyed us from head to foot and

inquired what Division we belonged to; and when it was explained to him

that we all belonged to the Light Division, it seemed to tickle him, for

he wanted to know, if we were specimens of the Light, what the Heavies

were like--several of our party being considerably over six feet, and

stout in proportion. The old gentleman then proposed the health of the

Light Division, which was responded to, and drunk with tremendous

cheering. After a time he inquired about the regiment that rode grey

horses,[12] and what they were, "for," said he, with his eyes flashing,

"they are noble fellows, and I should like to embrace one of them." He

took but little notice of the French. After embracing some eight or ten

of our party (the writer being one of them) he took his leave. He had

not been gone more than half-an-hour, when two men brought up a case of

brandy from the old general (for that was his rank), with a note

requesting that we would drink the Emperor's health, and his also, if

we thought him worthy--a request that was, I need not say, at once

complied with. Before we parted we found it required no small amount of

generalship to keep ourselves sober; for, had we drunk one quarter of

what they wanted us to do, we should not have slept with the Light

Division that night. As it was, however, we parted with our friends on

the best of terms, perfectly sober, they coming down to the water's edge

with us; and after much embracing we jumped into our boats, bidding them

farewell, and asking them to come and see us whenever they pleased.

Shortly after this we had a review in our camp on a grand scale before

Prince Gortschakoff. With French, English, Sardinians, and Turks, we

mustered nearly 300,000 men. It took us from morning till late at night

to march past. It was a grand sight. As far as the Light Division was

concerned we were nearly up to our full strength--not made up with boys,

but with men who had been frequently wounded, but had recovered, and

returned to their duty--and went by the Prince with trailed arms, at a

swinging pace, to the tune of "Ninety-five--I'm Ninety-five." This was

one of the greatest military sights that has been beheld during the

present century.

THE RUSSIAN PRIEST'S WIFE.

In Russia it is a common mode of expression to say: "As

happy as a priest's wife." The reason why she is so happy is

because her husband's position depends upon her. If she

dies, he is deposed and becomes a layman, and his property

is taken away from him and distributed, half to his children

and half to the Government. This dreadful contingency makes

the Russian priest careful to get a healthy wife if he can,

and to take extraordinary good care of her after he has

secured her. He waits upon her in the most abject way. She

must never get her feet wet, and she is petted and put in

hot blankets if she has so much as a cold in the head. It is

the greatest possible good fortune for a girl to marry a

priest--infinitely better than to be the wife of a noble.

THE ROYAL FUSILIERS.

We will claim for this noble regiment the honour of being second to

none--either in the field for its dashing intrepidity, or in quarters

for its steady, soldier-like qualities. It is one of the most famous

regiments in the British army. It has fought and conquered in all

quarters of the globe, and has proved that neither the storms of autumn,

the snows of winter, nor the heat of an Indian summer--that neither the

sword nor the bayonet, nor musketry fire, can subdue them. Napier might

well call them "the astonishing infantry." It has traditions of glory

which inspire and maintain that _esprit de corps_ so valuable in the

hour of peril--so animating in the crisis of battle. The Royal Fusiliers

was raised in June, 1685, as an ordnance regiment, not from any

particular county, but from every part of the United Kingdom. Some of

the noblest sons of Albion and Erin's Isle have served in its ranks, and

the haughtiest sons of Adam's race have had to bow before them, and give

up the palm to the matchless Fusiliers.

We find that Lord George Dartmouth was appointed its first colonel; its

second was no other than the brave and talented nobleman, the Duke of

Marlborough, who made the French to quail before him on field after

field. Its third colonel was Lord George Hamilton. And on the 9th of

April, 1789, His Royal Highness Prince Edward, Duke of Kent (Her Most

Gracious Majesty's father) was appointed its commander. The following

pages will show that his Royal Highness was a soldier of no mean sort,

and his courage knew no bounds.

In their maiden fight with the French (25th August, 1689) the regiment

evinced firmness and intrepidity, for they rolled the enemy up in a

masterly style, killing some 2000 of the frog-eaters. King William was

well satisfied with the conduct of his Fusiliers. This was the first

field, but not the last, on which they well stamped their initials upon

the French. On the field of Steenkirk (24th July, 1692) they again

confronted the foe, and taught the French to respect our flag. On the

field of Landen (19th July, 1693) they again displayed the stern valour

of British soldiers. Their loss was heavy, but they proved that they

were worth their title, and taught the French such a lesson that they

did not forget it for some time to come. In the battles following they

proved by their contempt of danger, when the honour of the nation was at

stake, that they were determined to overcome all difficulties or perish

in the attempt. And, reader, when a fine body of men have so made up

their minds, it is better to build a bridge of gold for them to pass

over than to try and stop them.

At the siege of Nemur, in 1695, the old corps fought with desperation.

The French here got a taste, and a good taste too, of what they were

destined to have plenty from this dashing corps, viz., the bayonet. We

next find them at Vigo, in 1702, dressing the Spaniards down, and they

did it well. In 1703 we find the old regiment afloat, acting with the

fleet; but the enemy kept out of their way. Again, we find the Fusiliers

defending the deadly breach at Lerida, in 1707, with admirable courage.

Once more we find the gallant old regiment afloat, acting as marines.

They were in the action with the French fleet on the 20th May, 1756, and

proved that they could fight for the honour of old England on the raging

billows as well as on land. We next find them, in 1775, defending

Quebec, and repulsing the Americans with a terrible slaughter. We also

find them on a number of battle fields against the Americans, ever

prompt in performing their duty, throughout the unfortunate War of

Independence.

The Fusiliers again were in collision with their old hereditary enemy,

the French, in March, 1794, at Martinique, commanded by His Royal

Highness the Duke of Kent. The old regiment went at the enemy in

masterly style. His Royal Highness addressed the storming column as

follows: "Grenadiers, this is St. Patrick's Day. The English will do

their duty in compliment to the Irish, and the Irish in compliment to

the Saint. Forward, Grenadiers!" And away went the Fusiliers. And a

number of poor Gauls paid the penalty for opposing such a dashing body

of men. During the five years that His Royal Highness was in command of

the Fusiliers, no fewer than eight non-commissioned officers were

rewarded with commissions, as suitable acknowledgments for meritorious

service. His Highness endeared his name to the grateful remembrances of

both officers and men.

The Fusiliers were next employed at Copenhagen, in 1807. Napoleon's

plans had been frustrated by the destruction of his fleets at the Nile

and Trafalgar, by the immortal Nelson, and the Corsican tyrant was

determined, if possible, to obtain possession of the Danish fleet to

help to carry out his plans. But our Government were not to be caught

napping; a strong fleet and a nice little land force was despatched, and

demanded the whole of the Danish fleet, by treaty or by force. The brave

Danes fought for it, and lost all--"except their honour;" and the

Fusiliers returned to England with the victorious fleet.

We will now trace the gallant old Fusiliers through one of the brightest

pages in the history of our dear old isle--the Peninsular War. No

heavier effort had been made by our army since the days of Marlborough.

Our noble Jack Tars had carried all before them, and their gallant deeds

resounded throughout the world. All were compelled to admire. But the

time was now approaching when the matchless "thin red line" taught

Europe to beware; for all the brave sons of Albion and Erin's Isle were

not yet afloat. The proud and haughty Imperial Guards had stood as

conquerors on field after field, and had polluted every capital in

Europe except ours. But the usurper met his match for the first time on

a grand scale on the 27th and 28th July, 1809, on the bloody field of

Talavera; and the so-called "invincible pets of a tiger" were, so to

speak, lifted or pitchforked from the field by this dashing old corps.

The old "second-to-none" boys took the conceit out of the haughty

legions of Napoleon, and captured seven guns from them; and all the

attempts of the enemy to re-take them were in vain. The bayonet was used

with terrible effect, and the guns remained in the hands of the

Fusiliers. Wellington, with the eye of an eagle, watched the desperate

fighting, and thanked the Fusiliers on the field for their conduct.

The next field on which the Fusiliers made the acquaintance of the

French was that of Busaco (27th September, 1810)--"Grim Busaco's iron

ridge," as Napier, the military historian, terms it. Here the enemy were

driven from crag to crag and rock to rock, and the "thin red line"

followed them up. All the regiments engaged seemed to take delight in

thrashing the invincibility out of the boasting enemy. The grim-faced

old veterans had been victorious on the fields of Austerlitz, Jena,

Wagram, and Eylan, and had never once been defeated; but they had now

met their match, and more than their match, in the "contemptible" sons

of Albion. The columns of attack came rushing forward with such

impetuosity that it appeared impossible to stop them; but they were all

driven back with fearful slaughter, and the Fusiliers had a good hand in

the pie. Thus ended the vain boasting of the French that they would

drive all the English leopards into the sea. So they would if weight of

numbers could have done it; but that nasty piece of cold steel was in

the way, and in the hands of men who might die, but who had a strong

objection to a watery grave; and at the close of the desperate fight the

Fusiliers were one of the regiments that stood triumphant on that grim

rocky ridge. About this time the 23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers joined the

army from America, and the famous Fusilier Brigade was formed, which

was destined to shake the bullies of the continent out of their boots,

and play "Rule Britannia" on the field. The Fusiliers were engaged in a

number of minor affairs about this time. Our conquering commander was

determined, after the fall of Ciudad Rodrigo, to wrench Badajoz from the

hands of the enemy, and the Fusiliers assembled under its walls. But

Marshal Soult was not asleep, and a strong army under that crafty

commander flew to the rescue of the brave General Phillipon, and Marshal

Beresford was compelled to raise the siege, and retire to the heights of

Albuera--a name that shortly afterwards resounded from one end of Europe

to the other. Again we would repeat, the fame of the mere handful of

Fusiliers echoed throughout the civilized world, and Europe stood amazed

at their doings. Lo! the Fusiliers had in a desperate struggle routed a

host--an entire army--of the proudest and haughtiest sons of Adam's race

from the blood-stained heights of Albuera. They rushed upon the enemy

with vehement courage; bayonet crossed bayonet; sword clashed against

sword. Backwards and forwards rolled the eddying fight. The din was

terrible, the carnage awful. But in the end, although the Marshal of

France did all he could to encourage and animate his countrymen, they

had to yield to the Fusiliers. The conduct of the Fusilier Brigade on

this field was the admiration of both friend and foe. "Gallantry," says

one of the bravest of the brave (Lord Hardinge) "is hardly a name for

it. In this terrible charge, which swept the veterans of France from the

field, the Fusiliers lost 638 men, 34 sergeants, and 32 officers. It was

here Sir William Myers fell, and no man died that day with more glory,

yet many died; and there was much glory." Happy the nation which can

find such true-hearted men to meet the foe. But the remainder stood

triumphant on that fatal hill (see p. 434). The list of killed and

wounded proclaim with dreadful eloquence the sanguinary character of

the contest the Fusiliers had just decided. Decided what? A doubtful

field? No; but won back a lost field, and once more fastened victory to

our glorious old standard. The word "Fusilier" after this was almost

enough for a Frenchman's breakfast. We again find the old regiment

advancing with rapid steps to assist their hard-pressed comrades, the

5th Fusiliers, on the field of El Bodón (see p. 436). And on this

occasion the determined appearance of the Fusilier Brigade was enough.

They stopped the pursuit of the boasting steel-clad squadrons of France.

Again, at Aldea de Pont, the dear old corps charged the enemy with such

vehemence as to drive them from the field. And now we retrace our steps

to Badajoz. After no end of hardships in the trenches, the hour of

assault draws near. Everything that could be thought of was done to

repel an assault. It was known that the enterprise was a desperate one;

powder-barrels and live shells by hundreds were embedded in the earth

just at the foot of the deadly breach, all ready for an explosion. A

large _chevaux-de-frise_ was placed across the breach, and at the bottom

of the ditch long planks with spikes, bayonets, and sword-blades

fastened into them, and pointing upwards, ready for our poor fellows to

jump upon. The Fusiliers led the way at the deadly breach of Trinidad

with heroic valour. The fires of hell seemed to have broken upon them to

destroy the old regiment. With a tremendous cheer, however, they mounted

the deadly breach, only to fall back into the ditch below. Others then

rushed up, nothing daunted, to be hurled back upon their comrades. The

enemy fought with desperation. More men pressed forward while the dying

and wounded were struggling in the ditch. At other places the ladders

were too short, while, to add to the horror of the scene, a mine was

sprung. But the Fusiliers never quailed. At length an entrance was

forced, and in a short time Badajoz was at the conqueror's feet. But,

alas! five thousand poor fellows lay in front of those deadly breaches.

The loss to the Fusiliers was heavy--18 officers, 14 sergeants, and 200

men.

After a number of minor combats, in all of which they came off

victorious, we trace the old corps to the field of Salamanca. The enemy

were taught a short but sharp lesson on this field. The Fusiliers were

in the thick of it, but they were determined to maintain the honour of

the corps, and, with cheer after cheer, they rushed at the enemy with

levelled steel. Here again their loss was heavy--12 officers, 8

sergeants, and 199 men; but the remainder stood as conquerors. Then,

after a lot of marching and counter-marching, we again find the old

regiment on the field of Vittoria. On this field they had the post of

honour, and were the admiration of all except the foe. It was here that

the French lost all, including their honour. It was a most decisive

victory for the English.

We now trace the Fusiliers to the sanguinary battles of the Pyrenees,

where, with rapid and headlong charges, and with shouts of victory, they

stormed position after position which appeared almost impregnable,

hurling the enemy down the mountain sides. The old regiment, side by

side with the 20th, 23rd Welsh Fusiliers, and the 40th, fought

valiantly. As the ranks of conquering bayonets rushed at them, the shock

of cold steel was too much for Napoleon's spoilt invincibles. Each

column was met in mid-onset, and forced back with great slaughter. Four

times the Fusiliers precipitated themselves on a host of fresh

opponents, and in each case proved victorious. Here our Commander again

thanked the men on the spot, and in his despatch to the Government

expressed his admiration of the deeds of the gallant old Fusiliers; for

his Grace openly affirmed that the Royal Fusiliers had surpassed all

former good conduct, and that the valour of the Fusiliers had won his

approbation. His Grace might well say, "With British soldiers I will go

anywhere and do anything." The loss of the old regiment was heavy, being

11 officers, 14 sergeants, and 188 men; but they inflicted a terrible

loss upon the enemy. They had been forced from ten strong mountain

positions, and all had been carried with the queen of weapons--the

bayonet. The passage of the Bidassra followed. Then the enemy's army was

driven from a strong position on the Neville. The gallant regiment now

stood triumphant, firmly established on the "sacred soil" of France.

Retribution had overtaken guilty, haughty, insulting France. The tyrant

Napoleon had hurled the thunderbolts of war against the nations of

Europe. The whole of the sovereigns of the continent had been on their

knees before this tyrannical usurper, but he now saw them attack him

with fury. The enemy took up a formidable position at Orthes, but no

advantage of position could stop our victorious army. Marshal Soult

(Napoleon's pet General) here got a sound drubbing.

The old Fusiliers are again side by side with the Royal Welsh, well to

the front, for our victorious General opened the ball with them. The

enemy were beaten at all points, and routed from the field. After a

number of minor engagements, in all of which they were victorious, we

come to the closing scene--the field of Toulouse. But Dame Fortune would

not smile upon the French eagle, for the enemy got another sound

beating, and had to retire from the field, leaving it in the hands of

the conquering sons of Albion. Thus the Fusiliers had carried our

triumphant standard from victory to victory. We pass from one brilliant

deed to another with almost breathless rapidity. The succession of

victories had dazzled the whole of Europe, who stood amazed at the

gallant deeds of the "astonishing infantry." Peace was now declared, and

the Fusiliers returned home, after an absence of nearly seven long years

of toil and triumph. We need hardly say that they got a worthy

reception, being greeted with hearty cheers from crowds of their fellow

countrymen. They had frequently been acknowledged to be a most

brilliant, heroic, and dashing body of men by those who were competent

judges. Their conduct had often been the admiration of all, for where

all were brave, they were acknowledged to be "the bravest of the brave."

The Fusiliers' stay at home was of short duration. Our big cousins

across the Atlantic, thinking our hands were full, must "kick up a row"

with us; so the Fusiliers were despatched to teach them better

behaviour. After a number of engagements with our kinsmen, with but

little honour on their part (and it is not at all pleasant to thrash

one's own flesh and blood), peace was patched up, and the Fusiliers

returned home; for the disturber of the world was again in the field,

and on the red field of Waterloo. The conqueror of nations, backed by an

army of old and grim veterans, threw down the gauntlet at the feet of

our conquering chief, Wellington, and the bright dream of the "hundred

days" was rudely dissipated. But the old Fusiliers this time were not in

it; they landed at Ostend on the day of the battle, and pushed on

rapidly, but all was over with Napoleon before they reached the field.

They marched on into France with the victorious army, and remained with

the Army of Occupation until 1818. A long period of peace and

tranquility followed. Europe had had enough of war. And the old

Fusiliers, as the sequel of this book will show, nobly maintained, on

the heights of Alma, and Inkermann, and throughout the siege of

Sebastopol, the reputation acquired by their forefathers. Lord Raglan

knew well what he was about when he selected the Royal Fusiliers,

together with the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, to lead the way at the Alma.

The two old regiments had often been shoulder to shoulder; and his

lordship on this field was not disappointed, for they urged each other

on to desperate deeds of valour. Up they went, forcing back a huge

column of the enemy, until they gained the blood-stained heights, and

then stood triumphant. And repeatedly during that trying campaign the

Royal Fusiliers led the way. Since then the mutineers could not say that

the Fusiliers were napping when wanted; and I am confident that their

countrymen are well satisfied with their conduct in the Afghan campaigns

of 1863 and the late go-in at Candahar; and that the honour of our dear

old flag may still with safety be left in the hands of the ROYAL

FUSILIERS.

Their mettle has been well proved on the following fields:--Walcourt,

Steenkirk, Landen, Namur, Cadiz, Rota, Vigo, Lindau, Minorca, Quebec,

Satur, Montgomery, Clinton, Philadelphia, Newhaven, Charlestown, Cowpens,

Copenhagen, Martingal, Oporto, Talavera, Busaco, Olivenze, Albuera,

Aldea de Pont, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Montevite, Vittoria,

Pampeluna, Pyrenees, Bidassra, Orthes, Toulouse, New Orleans, Fort

Bowyer, Alma, Inkermann, throughout the siege of Sebastopol, India

(1857-8-9), Lalo, Umbeyla Pass, and Candahar (1880). Their valour was

displayed on the heights of Alma and Inkermann in a manner most heroic.

Multiplied and almost unheard-of proofs were given, I do not say merely

of courage, but of devotion to their country, quite extraordinary and

sublime.

The following are a few of the "Second to None" boys who have been

presented by Her Most Gracious Majesty with that priceless decoration,

THE VICTORIA CROSS.

Lieut. H. M. Jones, 1st.

Lieut. W. Hope, 2nd.

Ass.-Surgeon T. E. Hale, 3rd.

Private W. Norman, 4th.

Private M. Hughes, 5th.

And during the Afghan campaign, at a sortie from Candahar, Private James

Ashford won the cross by carrying wounded comrades from the field under

a most tremendous fire, after all the troops had re-entered the

fortress.

The Fusiliers have, as the records prove, been largely recruited from

Norfolk, Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Yorkshire, and Lancashire, with a

good sprinkling of the boys of the Green Isle.

We will now bid farewell to the Royal Fusiliers, or "second to none"

boys, wishing them "God speed."

THE VICTORIA CROSS.

"Worth! What is a ribbon worth to a soldier?

Worth! Everything! Glory is priceless!"

"Every village has its hero,

And every fire-side its story."

SEVENTH ROYAL FUSILIERS.

Lieutenant HENRY MITCHELL JONES (afterwards Captain in the

regiment; retired 28th August, 1857).--Date of act of

bravery, 7th June, 1855.--For having distinguished himself

while serving with the party which stormed and took the

Quarries before Sebastopol, by repeatedly leading on his men

to repel the continual assaults of the enemy during the

night. Although wounded early in the evening, Captain Jones

remained unflinchingly at his post until after daylight the

following morning.

Lieutenant WILLIAM HOPE (retired 3rd March, 1857).--Date of

act of bravery, 18th June, 1855.--After the troops had

retreated on the morning of the 18th of June, 1855,

Lieutenant W. Hope, being informed by the late

Sergeant-Major William Bacon, who was himself wounded, that

Lieutenant and Adjutant Hobson was lying outside the

trenches, badly wounded, went out to look for him, and found

him lying in an old agricultural ditch running towards the

left flank of the Redan. He then returned and got four men

to bring him in. Finding, however, that Lieutenant Hobson

could not be removed without a stretcher, he then ran back

across the open to Egerton's Pit, where he procured one, and

carried it to where Lieutenant Hobson was lying. All this

was done under a very heavy fire from the Russian batteries.

Assistant-Surgeon THOMAS E. HALE, M.D.--Date of act of

bravery, 8th September, 1855.--1st. For remaining with an

officer who was dangerously wounded, Capt. H. M. Jones, 7th

Fusiliers, in the fifth parallel, on the 8th September,

1855, when all the men in the immediate neighbourhood

retreated, excepting Lieutenant W. Hope and Dr. Hale; and

for endeavouring to rally the men in conjunction with

Lieutenant W. Hope, 7th Royal Fusiliers.--2nd. For having,

on the 8th September, 1855, after the regiments had retired

into the trenches, cleared the most advanced sap of the

wounded, and carried into the sap, under a heavy fire,

several wounded men from the open ground, being assisted by

Sergeant Charles Fisher, 7th Royal Fusiliers.

Private (No. 3443) WILLIAM NORMAN.--On the night of the 19th

December, 1854, he was placed on single sentry some distance

in front of the advanced sentries of an outlying picquet in

the White Horse Ravine, a post of much danger, and requiring

great vigilance; the Russian picquet was posted about 300

yards in his front; three Russian soldiers advanced, under

cover of the brushwood, for the purpose of reconnoitering.

Private William Norman, single-handed, took two of them

prisoners, without alarming the Russian picquet.

Private (No. 1879) MATTHEW HUGHES.--Private Matthew Hughes,

7th Royal Fusiliers, was noticed by Colonel Campbell, 90th

Light Infantry, on the 7th June, 1855, at the storming of

the Quarries, for twice going for ammunition, under a heavy

fire, across the open ground; he also went to the front and

brought in Private John Hampton, who was lying severely

wounded; and on the 18th June, 1855, he volunteered to bring

in Lieutenant Hobson, 7th Royal Fusiliers, who was lying

severely wounded, and in the act of doing so was severely

wounded himself.

THE 9TH OR NORFOLK REGIMENT.

Some of our most distinguished commanders have served in this gallant

regiment, that is "second to none." This is the regiment that young

Colin Campbell first joined in 1808--its colours, then virgin, being

about to be decorated with the names of battles in which he first saw

fire. It decided, or helped to decide, many a hard-fought battle. It

boldly confronted the hitherto victorious Republicans on the field of

Roliça; and in fight after fight in the Peninsula the North Folk's blood

was up, and the victors of Jena, Austerlitz, and Wagram had to bow

before them and bolt--_they did not even wait to accept a twenty

minutes' swimmer_--from the hitherto contemptible sons of Albion. The

Iron Duke did not give the enemy breathing time, but in four days closed

with them on the field of Vimiera, when the old 9th again, with the

queen of weapons, leaped upon the pets of Napoleon and routed them. On

the memorable field of Corunna this regiment took a distinguished part;

again, on the field of Busaco, the Imperial Guards of France were, so to

speak, pitchforked over the rocks by this dashing regiment, and from

crag to crag and rock to rock they followed them up, using the bayonet

with fearful effect. The career of this fine regiment through

"Salamanca," "Vittoria," "Saint Sebastian," "Nive," "Cabul, 1842,"

"Moodkee," "Ferozeshah," and "Sobraon," was one continued series of

victories; and at the siege of Sebastopol it was clearly proved that the

old 9th could hold its own, for the Russians were often glad to get out

of its reach. Since then this regiment has made the acquaintance of the

Afghans on several fields, taking another peep at "Cabul" without an

invitation. And, more recently still, the Egyptians found that they had

not forgotten the use of the bayonet. Therefore the honour of Old

England might with safety be left in the hands of the old 9th, the

Norfolk Regiment, "The Holy Boys." I have heard that the nickname was

given them during the Peninsula war, for selling their bibles for grog,

but I will not vouch for the truth of the story.

THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS.

We now trace the honourable records of a most dashing regiment--the

Connaught Rangers. Its motto is "_Quis separabit_"--Who shall divide us.

The Connaught Rangers were raised at the outbreak of the French

Revolutionary war in 1793, and was soon called upon to receive from the

Republicans its "baptism of fire," at Alost, 6th July, 1794. The sprigs

from Connaught, although attacked with fury, repulsed the enemy with

unshaken fortitude, and for the first time nobly upheld the honour of

the flag of Old England, well stamping their motto, "who shall divide

us," upon the foe, and proving, under proper guidance, their fierce

native bearing. Burning to meet the enemy, it endured with much patience

the misery of a winterly retreat from overwhelming odds. Numbers dropped

down completely overpowered by the intense cold, and were frozen to

death. The Rangers in 1795 were quartered at Norwich, and a number of

the wild boys of Norfolk helped to fill its ranks. Shortly after this

the regiment sailed for the East Indies, but its stay there was of short

duration. It formed a portion of Sir David Baird's expedition to Egypt,

and was one of the first regiments that marched across that long, dreary

desert to measure its strength with Napoleon's Invincibles. But it was

all over with that usurper as far as Egypt was concerned before they

reached the field. The regiment returned to England with Nelson's

victorious fleet, and some 250 of the Derbyshire Militia volunteered to

join their ranks. On a number of fields in Portugal, Spain, France, and

America it was proved that they were worthy to fight beside the wild

boys of Connaught and Norfolk.

We will now pass on to the most glorious period in the present century,

the Peninsula War, in which the Connaught Rangers immortalised

themselves upon field after field. No regiment in the whole British army

gained more glory than the Rangers, yet much was gained. The 88th first

met the Imperial Guards of France on the memorable field of Talavera,

and well thrashed them. The enemy advanced in broad and deep columns

with the swiftness of a sand-storm, with drums beating and colours

flying, in all the majesty of war, but the sons of Erin and Albion stood

unmovable and dauntless, until they received the order to advance. They

then defeated the hitherto victorious legions of France with a terrible

slaughter, and with thrilling shouts of "Faugh-a-Ballagh" and "Hurrah

for ould Ireland," they rushed at the foe. Bayonet crossed bayonet,

sword crossed sword; backwards and forwards rolled the eddying mass, but

the French columns were routed. The conflict was renewed with fresh

troops which had never before been beaten, but time after time this

noble regiment largely contributed to hurl them from the field with

terrible carnage. The next field on which this noble regiment took a

conspicuous part was Busaco. The furious charges with the queen of

weapons made by the Rangers won the admiration of all. The enemy were

pitched over the rocks from crag to crag and from rock to rock. They

followed the foe, and although the crafty French commander brought up

the Irish brigade in the service of Napoleon, these noble sons of Erin

proved that they were loyal sons, routing their unfortunate countrymen

from the field by the side of the much vaunted "heroes of Austerlitz."

Wellington with the eye of an eagle watched the dreadful strife, and

thanked the regiment on the spot for its conduct. We next find the

Rangers on the hard-contested field of Fuentes de Oñoro, where the odds

were heavy against us. Again they crossed bayonets with Napoleon's old

guards, and routed them from the field. The 79th Highlanders were by the

side of them, and their brilliant conduct was the theme of general

admiration. They put the finishing stroke on the "spoilt child of

fortune," and largely helped to nail victory to our glorious old flag.

Again we find the gallant sons of Connaught under the walls of Ciudad

Rodrigo. The hero of Assaye was determined to wrench that stronghold

from the enemy, and with a masterpiece of generalship it was besieged.

On the 19th January, 1812, the order was issued, "Ciudad Rodrigo must be

stormed this evening." The Rangers' answer was, "We will do it;" and

right well they did it. Their fire-eating commander, Picton, addressed

them briefly: "Rangers of Connaught," he exclaimed, "it is not my

intention to expend any powder this evening, we will do this business

with cold iron." The word "Forward" was then given. After a fierce

hand-to-hand fight the main breach was gained, the enemy driven from

street to street, our proud old flag was floating from its walls, and

the fortress lay at the conqueror's feet. The "hero of a hundred fights"

again thanked the Rangers for their heroic conduct.

We now trace the sprigs of Connaught to the walls of Badajoz, where they

take a conspicuous part, planting our proud old flag on its lofty

castle. The fiery Picton led them under a terrible fire of musketry,

showers of heavy stones, logs of wood, and bursting shells. The ladders

were quickly raised, and these undaunted veterans strove who should

first climb them. The ladders were overthrown, the French shouted

"Victory," the stormers were baffled, but not defeated. The gallant

Ridge of the 5th Fusiliers and the heroic Canch of the Rangers sprang

forward, and called with the voice of thunder for their men to follow.

The ladders were again raised, under a terrible fire, and in less than

one minute those two heroic leaders stood conquerors on the ramparts of

the castle, whilst the sons of Connaught with the sons of Albion rushed

up the ladders. The garrison was amazed, not suspecting that an entrance

could be made there. It was a most glorious achievement; the intrepid

Ridge fell in the hour of victory. If a chariot of fire had been sent

for him he could not have departed with more glory.

We now trace the Rangers to Salamanca, where they immortalised

themselves; the brunt of the fighting fell on the third division. The

Rangers for some time had been under a terrible fire of artillery, and

becoming impatient, their commander, Major-General the Hon. Pakenham,

noticed it, and called out to their colonel to let them loose. The noble

regiment at once dashed with a headlong charge at the enemy; the

fighting was desperate but short; the enemy were completely overthrown,

and routed from the field. An incident occurred here worth recording.

The Duke of Wellington knew well how and where to hit, and ordered

General Pakenham to take the hill in his front. "I will, my Lord," was

the reply of that noble soldier, "if you will give me a grasp of that

conquering right hand," and, parting with a true English grasp, Pakenham

swept all before him, although the enemy advanced to meet him with

drums beating and colours flying until they came close enough to mark

the frown on our men's faces. It was too late then; the Rangers dashed

at them, side by side with the Sherwood Foresters. The boldest of the

French officers rushed to the front to inspire the quailing souls of

their countrymen. The commander of the Rangers was shot dead, and the

men were mad to revenge their beloved chief. Albuera was here repeated,

but all had to yield to the vehement charge, as this noble regiment

closed with the enemy. Then was seen with what determination our men

fight. They smote that mighty column into fragments, and rolled it back

in indescribable confusion. At this moment the gallant Le Merchant's

heavy brigade of cuirassed cavalry burst through, and went straight at

the reeling masses of the enemy. The column was cut to pieces, and two

eagles, eleven pieces of cannon, and seven thousand prisoners were

captured on the spot. Our commander, Wellington, might well thank the

commander of the fighting third division on the spot. The Connaught

Rangers and Sherwood Foresters had knocked all the conceit of fighting

man-to-man out of the enemy, and, as at Albuera with the Fusiliers, and

at Busaco, the conceit was taken out of them. But we must pass on to the

field of Vittoria. Here, again, the Rangers were as firm as the rocks of

their native shore, and with fortitude this glorious old regiment came

out in all their native lustre, proving that nothing could daunt and

nothing dismay them, for Picton's heroes on this field swept all before

them. We note that it was on this field that Picton led his division on

with his night-cap on, and did not find it out until he was in the thick

of the fight, and both officers and men laughing at him, when he

exclaimed, waving his plumed hat, "Come on, you fighting devils, come

on;" and the pride of France were swept from the field, leaving all

their guns, 151, in the hands of the victors. They bolted from the field

like a well-greased flash of lightning, our cavalry chasing them for

miles, capturing prisoners at every stride. King Joseph's coach and all

his State papers fell into our hands. One million sterling was the booty

of this field. It was a most crushing defeat. The fighting third

division had suffered fearfully, and largely contributed in nailing the

victory to our glorious standard.

But we must pass on to note that throughout the battles of the Pyrenees

and on the field of Neville, this dashing regiment well sustained the

reputation of our flag. At Orthes it especially distinguished itself, by

routing the legions of Napoleon from the field, side by side with the

gallant old 52nd, snatching victory from the hands of the crafty Marshal

of France, Soult. Their loss on this field attested the brilliancy of

its services; nearly half the regiment fell.

We now come to the closing scene of the Peninsula War--the field of

Toulouse. Only three companies of the Rangers were engaged, but they

well sustained the reputation of the good old corps. We now emphatically

say that the Rangers of Connaught have on field after field proved their

loyalty to our beloved Sovereign, and have often maintained the honour

of our glorious old flag. After the battle of Toulouse the regiment,

like a number of others, was drafted off to America, to help to teach

our big cousins better manners; and to the honour of the Rangers be it

said, not a man did they lose by desertion, although hundreds deserted

and went over to the enemy. On Napoleon bursting from his narrow prison

at Elba, the Rangers were ordered home, but too late for the crowning

victory of Waterloo.

Colonel A. J. Wallace, who had so often led this noble regiment on to

victory, obtained permission from His Royal Highness the Duke of York,

in 1818, to present to the surviving veterans of the Peninsula War

silver medals and clasps, as a testimony of their unshaken fortitude.

These were divided into three classes. The first class were composed of

men who had been present in twelve general actions; the second class,

men who had been present in from six to eleven actions; and the third

class, men who had been present in any number less than six. The

following are the numbers of the different ranks that received and wore

them with pride:--

Sergts. Corpls. Drumrs. Privates.

First Class 13 6 6 45

Second Class 7 9 3 126

Third Class 19 10 3 185

-- -- -- ----

Total 39 25 12 356

We would here note that the only medal issued to the non-commissioned

officers and privates up to 1848 by our Government was one for Waterloo.

In 1848 the surviving veterans of the Peninsula campaigns were served

with medals and clasps to commemorate the brightest military page in our

history. The Rangers were stationed in all parts of our vast empire

during the "piping times of peace" from 1815 to 1854. When Russia

disturbed the peace of Europe the boys of Connaught were once more

called upon to uphold the honour of our dear old flag, and the writer

can testify that they had not degenerated from their unconquerable

forefathers, who fought and vanquished on field after field under the

immortal Picton and Wellington. As far as the Alma was concerned, the

Rangers had not much to do with it, but, reader, it was not their fault,

or they would have been by the side of us, the Fusiliers, at the great

redoubt. But at Inkermann they nobly revenged themselves; they advanced

with level steel with such vehemence as to hurl the enemy's huge columns

from the field time after time. At one period they were completely

surrounded by the assailing drunken multitudes, and a desperate

hand-to-hand encounter ensued, which proved their valour. Their loss was

terrible, but the Connaught loyal boys yielded not one inch of ground on

this bloody field. As fast as one column of the enemy was broken into

fragments another took its place, to share the same fate from these

gallant heroes. The carnage was terrible, the dead and wounded of both

friend and foe lying in piles. All regiments seemed to vie with each

other in fortitude, but the Rangers would not be second to any. At one

time one of our batteries was captured and the gunners were all shot

down or bayoneted, but the Connaught boys were close at hand. The enemy

were exulting over their victory with wild yellings, when the "two

eights" were let loose at them, and rushed at the foe with a wild shout

of "Faugh-a-Ballagh" and "Hurrah for ould Ireland," which soon stopped

their crowing. The enemy were fairly lifted from the field with the rush

of cold steel, the guns were re-captured, and handed over to some of our

artillery officers. I have heard a good tit-bit about this, and feel I

must give it. A big grenadier of the 88th, profusely bleeding,

addressing an artilleryman just after, said, "Now just see if yer can

take better care of your thundering guns this time, for, be jabers, I am

kilt entirely in takin' them back for yers." The battle was raging, and

our men were almost exhausted, when our noble Allies, the French, rushed

to the rescue with a ringing cheer of "_Vive l'Empereur_" and "_Bon

Anglais_;" but a resolve was taken by all hands--"death or victory." We

say again that the eight thousand grim bearded Britons had made up their

minds not to be beaten, although the odds against them were on some

parts of the field twelve to one; and no love of peace will ever deaden

in the hearts of true and honest Britons an admiration for such stubborn

intrepidity, for the fame of the deeds of the handful of the sons of

Albion, side by side of the boys of the Green Isle, who fought and

conquered on grim Inkermann's rocky ridge, will surround our standard

with a halo of glory, and will live in the page of history to the end of

time; and now, March, 1885, it is stimulating their descendants under

Sir G. Graham, on the burning plains of Egypt. Under the greatest

difficulties the British soldier or sailor will shine forth in all his

native splendour that nothing can daunt, nothing dismay. We say it is

the bounden duty of every Briton to help to keep up that _esprit de

corps_ which no danger can appal. We claim for the Rangers of Connaught

all that makes a true soldier--an unconquerable spirit, patience in

fatigue and privation, and cheerful obedience to his superiors.

Throughout the terrible winter of 1854 they were ever prompt in

performing their duty, and ready to meet the foe under all

circumstances. On the night of the 22nd March, 1855, the night on which

some of the best blood of Britain was spilt, the "two eights" helped to

avenge the death of one who was beloved by all, Captain Hedley Vicars.

The enemy were driven back with the bayonet with a terrible slaughter.

"Faugh-a-Ballagh" could be distinctly heard amid the din of fight. Day

after day, night after night, week after week, month after month, the

unconquerable sons of Connaught fought to desperation to uphold the

honour of our flag. On the 7th June, 1855, the Rangers of Connaught were

let loose side by side the Royal Fusiliers. "At them, my lads," could be

heard, and at them they went, and the enemy were lifted out of the

Quarries, although they came on in overwhelming numbers to try and

re-take the position from us. The Rangers and Fusiliers routed them. All

the officers of the 88th fell dead or wounded; the sergeants then took

command of companies, and led the men on. On the morning of the 8th this

heroic band stood triumphant; the fighting had been of the Inkermann

stamp, stones being freely used by our men when ammunition failed, and

the bayonet was used with fearful effect. The same valour and constancy

which glowed in the breasts of the heroes of Albuera and Busaco animated

the Rangers and Fusiliers that night to desperate deeds of valour. The

eyes of Europe were upon them, and it was acknowledged that they were

worthy descendants of the conquerors of Salamanca. Fight followed fight

night after night from the 7th to the 18th of June. The enemy on every

occasion were driven back from our batteries by that nasty piece of cold

steel, the bayonet. The hitherto victorious "red line" had carried all

before them. On the morning of the 18th June the Connaught boys were on

tiptoe to be let loose at the great Redan. About 2 a.m. the signal for

attack was thrown up; away went the Fusiliers, well supported by the

Rangers and other regiments. But we were doomed to disappointment. The

column was met with a perfect hail of fire from hundreds of guns loaded

with grape and canister, whilst broadside after broadside from some of

the largest ships afloat in any waters carried death and destruction

into that noble band. The brave fellows fell in heaps. The retreat was

sounded all over the field, but that heroic column stood sullen, and

would not turn their backs on the foe. The officers had, so to speak, to

drag their men from the devouring cross fires. I noticed a powerfully

built man of the Rangers had, in advancing across the plain up to the

Redan, trod upon an infernal machine, as we called them. Off it went,

blowing every stitch of clothing off the poor fellow, but not hurting

him otherwise. When I saw him he was in a state of nudity swearing

vengeance against the cowardly Russians. But, reader, we had to pocket

it; it was a defeat for us. But wait a while, and you will find we soon

got out of debt, giving them good interest, for it only roused us the

more, and set us longing to get to close quarters with them. The enemy

were delighted to think they had beaten us for once. There was no

holding them, and they openly boasted that they would drive us all into

the sea (see attack 26th June). The Rangers was one of the regiments

that held the post of honour that night, nobly doing their duty, and

hurling the boasting enemy from the field with fearful slaughter. The

Fusiliers and Connaught Rangers again, as on the 7th June, vied with

each other in desperate deeds of valour. The vast columns of the enemy

were driven back completely bewildered by the determined rushes of our

men. We pretty well knocked all the conceit for fighting out of them.

But I must pass on. The attention of Europe was directed to that

renowned fortress; the honour of our flag was at stake. We had been kept

at bay for nearly twelve months, and, let the consequence be what it

might, it must fall; and fall it did. It is not my intention to go into

details now, as they will be found in other parts of the book. The

Rangers was one of the regiments that went at the great Redan, and they

nobly sustained their reputation. Again, we find the Connaught boys

taking tea with the mutineers at Cawnpore, Lucknow, and Central India,

in fight after fight. Since then the 88th have been stationed in all

parts of our vast empire, and both in the field and out of it the

Rangers of Connaught have proved good loyal sons of the Emerald Isle;

and should it ever be our lot to face the Muscovite battalions, let us

go shoulder to shoulder at them by the side of the heroic sons of Erin's

loyal boys--"_Quis separabit_." The haughty sons of Adam's race could

not do it, so let us do justice, and give the right hand of fellowship

to the "bravest of the brave." We will now bid adieu, wishing the

Rangers of Connaught a hearty God speed.--T. G.

EMBARKED FOR HOME.

Well, we at last broke up camp, and embarked for dear old England,

leaving those cold, bleak, inhospitable regions behind. The first night

on board ship, homeward bound--what a night for reflection! A flood of

thoughts came across my mind regarding the different fields I had fought

on, and the many hairbreadth escapes I had had. I thought of the Alma,

and my Christian comrade who lay buried beside the river; I thought of

the wild charge of our handful of Cavalry at Balaclava, of our

desperate fight at Inkermann, of our terrible work in the

trenches--night after night, day after day, up to our ankles in mud,

half frozen, half dead, as hungry as hunters, with nothing to eat, but

yet having to fight like a lot of lions. And after all I had gone

through--death in a thousand shapes, both in the field and camp, for

upwards of twelve long months staring me in the face--truly I had much

for meditation, verily I had much to be thankful for. Thousands had

fallen all around me, heap upon heap, and pile upon pile; and yet I had

been spared. I thought of poor Captain Vicars, and what a noble fellow

he was--he fell in almost his first fight; and yet a merciful God had

thought fit to throw His protecting arm of love around me. What a night

of reflection! I found myself on board a noble ship--homeward bound. I

knew well that a grateful country was waiting to receive us, and that we

should most likely have a warm reception, to say nothing of the

affectionate greetings from those who were near and dear to us by the

ties of nature. I will pass over the voyage home as quickly as possible,

for it was a very pleasant one; every morning brought us nearer to that

dear old isle that many of us had shed our blood for. At last we arrived

in Portsmouth Harbour, on the 26th July, 1856. We at once landed and

marched to the Railway Station, or rather we eventually found ourselves

there safe, for how we got there it would be difficult to say--one would

have thought that the good people had gone mad. They had witnessed

hundreds come home from the seat of war, maimed in a most frightful

manner, mere wrecks of humanity. They had now got hold of the men that

they had read so much of. In their excitement they lifted us right out

of the ranks, and carried us on their shoulders through the streets,

which were packed by thousands of people, who were determined to give us

a cordial welcome. They wanted to kill us with kindness, for as soon as

they got hold of us, it was brandy in front of us, rum to the right of

us, whiskey to the left of us, gin in rear of us, and a cross-fire of

all kinds of ales and lemonades--to say nothing of the pretty girls, and

we got many a broadside from them. It did not matter much which way one

went, all appeared determined to give the men who had stormed the

Heights of Alma, defended against such odds the Heights of Inkermann,

routed the hordes of Muscovites from the Plains of Balaclava, and twice

stormed the bloody parapets of the Redan--a hearty reception, and well

they did it! We did not want to tell them what hardships we had to

endure in the trenches; we did not want to tell them how often we had

faced the foe--they knew it all.

Many a loving wife embraced her fond but rough-looking husband. The dear

children did not in many cases know their long-bearded fathers. Mothers

that had come for miles fell fainting into the arms of their soldierly

but affectionate sons: many brothers and sisters, too, had come great

distances to meet and welcome long absent brethren,--all helped to swell

that mighty throng that were only too happy to welcome home the

conquering sons of Albion. As for sweethearts, I will leave my young

readers to guess all about that, for the "pretty little dears" were as

warm-hearted and had as long tongues in 1856 as they have now; but we

could not get on well without them. The whole nation appeared to have

made up its mind to do honour to the Crimean Army. Hundreds, yea,

thousands had previously come home maimed, and many had since found rest

in the quiet grave, but all were looked after by the nation at large.

Her Most Gracious Majesty shewed a kind motherly feeling, shedding many

a tear as she looked at her maimed soldiers. This evidence of Her

Majesty's sympathy was most touching, and as a rough loyal old soldier

from the Emerald Isle called out at Aldershot, after the Queen had said

a few kind words to the troops, and thanked us for doing our duty,

"Where is the man who would not fight for such a Queen?" I would re-echo

that cry and add "Where is the Briton who would not do or die to uphold

our glorious old flag?"

One of the most touching scenes, that melted many to tears, was

witnessed on the 18th of May, 1856, when Her Most Gracious Majesty,

accompanied by the late Prince Consort, the then young Prince of Wales,

the Duke of Cambridge, and a host of others, assembled to witness the

presentation of the Crimean Medals to a number of Officers,

Non-commissioned officers and Men that had faced the foe on many

hard-fought fields. Her Majesty betrayed much emotion, her whole frame

indicating the deep throbbing of her heart. When each maimed warrior was

brought into the presence of Her Majesty, the whole mighty assembly gave

utterance to their feelings, but not in cheers; it was as if an audible

throb broke from the heart of Queen and people at once; the people felt

that they had a Sovereign worth battling and bleeding for. Three

officers were wheeled up in chairs, Sir Thomas Troubridge, of the 7th

Royal Fusiliers, was the first; he had lost both his feet at Inkermann;

that kind motherly heart could not stand that, it was too much for her,

and she burst into tears. The other two were both of the Light Division,

Captain Soyer of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, and Captain Cuming of the

19th Foot. During this scene Her Majesty must have been amused by Jack's

dumbfounded expression and bearing--he appeared to be out of his

latitude, but there was no mistaking his proud look after receiving the

distinction. A number of officers and men had to move slowly along by

the aid of a stick, or the assistance of a comrade; others could only

approach Her Majesty on crutches. Queen and people were deeply

affected.

And now, before closing this narrative, as far as the Crimean campaign

is concerned, I wish just to relate a few amusing incidents that came

under my own observation, and in which I was an actor.

ANECDOTES.

Paddy isn't half such a fool as he is often taken to be. During the

Crimean campaign, a genuine son of the Emerald Isle was brought before

his Commanding officer for stealing his comrade's ration of liquor.

Being (as most of his countrymen are) witty, he was not at a loss for a

defence when brought before the green baize covered table, and the

charge was read out to him. His Commanding officer asked him what he had

to say for himself. "Well, sur, I'd be sorry indade, sur, to be called a

thief. The Quartermaster sergeant put the liquor into the same bottle

that mine was in, and shure enough I was obliged to drink his, to get at

my own. Och! shure sur, I'd scorn the action; a thief I never was." This

ingenious defence got him over it, with a fool's pardon.

* * * * *

Another, a man of my company, was continually getting himself into

trouble. He had proved himself, from the commencement of the campaign, a

valiant soldier. About a month before Sebastopol fell, I gave him some

money with which to go and purchase some soap; at the same time Pat

asked for the loan of a couple of shillings. He did not turn up any more

that day. Next morning he was a prisoner in the guard tent. We all knew

that he was on his last legs; but as he was a general favourite with the

company, the men pitied him. Some were of opinion that his wit would not

forsake him when brought before the Commanding officer, and he told the

man who brought his breakfast to him that morning that he would get over

it with flying colours. In due course he was brought before the

tribunal and the charge read out--"Absent from camp, from 10 a.m. on the

15th August, until 5 a.m. 16th August." "Well, Welsh, you have heard the

charge. What have you got to say for yourself?" The old rogue pulled a

long face, and then commenced: "Shure, yer honour, the whole regiment,

you know, was very fond of our poor old Colonel Yea, that was kilt on

the 18th of June, and shure, yer honour, I would'nt tell ye a word of a

lie, but I wint and sat on the poor old jintleman's grave, and I sobbed

and sobbed, till I thought my heart would break, for sur, he was a

sodjur every inch of him; and shure, I fell asleep and slept till

morning, and then got up and walked to the guard tent." "Now Welsh, are

you telling the truth? for you know I promised you a Court Martial, if

ever you came before me again for absence." With both hands uplifted, he

exclaimed--"Och! shure yer honour, never a word of a lie in it." Some of

the young officers came to the rescue, and stated that they had

frequently seen men standing and sitting around the Colonel's grave; and

thus he got over it without punishment.

* * * * *

Private Patrick Lee was a "Manchester Irishman," that is to say, his

parents were both from the "land of praties and butter-milk," but he

himself was born at Manchester. He was a powerful athletic fellow, and

knew well how to use his hands, feet, or stick. Some six months after

Sebastopol had fallen, I was Sergeant in charge of the Quarter Guard.

Pat had, contrary to orders, gone into the French camp to look up some

cognac, for he was fond of "his drops." It appears that he had paid for

two bottles of liquor, but could neither get the liquor nor his money

returned. But Paddy was not such a fool as to put up with that without

knowing the reason why, so he quickly took the change out of the

Frenchman by knocking him head-over-heels, and with the unearthly row

the delinquent Frenchman made, he soon brought others to the rescue. In

less time than it takes me to write it, Pat had some half-dozen

Frenchmen sprawling on the ground like a lot of "nine-pins." They had

each received one straight from the shoulder. Pat then armed himself

with a good cudgel which he had picked up, as by this time he was

surrounded by enough "frog-eaters" to eat him. They appeared determined

either to kill him or take him prisoner, but he fought his way through

them all, and like a deer bounded into our camp and gave himself up a

prisoner to me. He was covered with blood, and appeared much exhausted.

Next morning he was brought before the Commanding officer on the charge

of trying to obtain liquor in the French camp. Some fifteen or sixteen

Frenchmen, with their arms in slings, and their heads bandaged, appeared

to testify to Paddy's rough usage; and a French officer stated that some

of his men had been so fearfully kicked and knocked about, that they

were unable to appear against him. The man was sentenced to be severely

punished, and the Frenchmen left our camp apparently satisfied. But when

Pat came out of the tent from the presence of his Commanding officer, he

gave the Frenchmen such a horrible look that one needn't ask how men

appear when they are frightened. After the Frenchmen had cleared our

camp, the prisoner was recalled and asked why he had disgraced himself

and his Regiment in such a manner, when he told the whole story in true

Irish brogue--"that the blackguards robbed him, and then set to to bate

him, but he floored them all as fast as they came up to him. They wanted

to take him prisoner. He found it was getting rather hot, so he gave

them all leg bail, and ne'er a one, nor the whole French army, could

catch him." The Colonel then told the prisoner that, had he allowed

himself to be taken prisoner by the French, he would have tried him by

Court Martial, but as it was he mitigated his punishment.

COMMISSARIAT MULES.

One day in March, 1855, I was one of the sergeants, with a party of men,

that had been sent to Balaclava to bring up supplies, in the way of

biscuit and pork, or salt junk (salt beef). We had a young officer with

us, well mounted, who had but little compassion for poor fellows who

were doing their best, trudging through the mud up to their ankles, with

a heavy load upon their backs. The party were not going fast enough to

suit the whim of our young and inexperienced commander, who called out

to the writer, "Take this man's name, sergeant, and make a prisoner of

him when we get home." The unfortunate man was doing his best to keep

up, and he gave our young officer such a contemptuous look as I shall

not forget as long as I live. Throwing his load of biscuit down in the

mud, he exclaimed, "Man indade! soger indade!--I am only a poor

broken-down commissariat mule." Here a light-hearted fellow burst out

with--

"There's a good time coming, boys!"

The poor fellow was made a prisoner of at once, for insubordination; but

when I explained the case to our gallant, noble-hearted colonel, he took

quite a different view of the matter, forgave the man, and presented him

with a pair of good warm socks and a pair of new boots; for the poor

fellow had nothing but uppers, and no soles on his old ones; and, in

order to teach our smart young officer how to respect men who were

trying to do their duty, sentenced him to three extra fatigues to

Balaclava, and to walk it the same as any other man. On another

occasion, I had to take charge of a party of men (about forty), march

them to Balaclava, to bring up blankets. In due course, after trudging

through the mud for nine miles, I presented my requisition to the

Deputy-Assistant Quartermaster-General, who informed me that it was not

signed by the Quartermaster-General of the Division, and that I should

not have an article until it was duly signed. I informed him that the

men were dying daily for the want of blankets. He ordered me to be

silent, and, with language that is not parliamentary, he informed me he

did not care--(a correct return, or no stores)--shouting like a half-mad

man: "Here, take this document back, and when it is correctly signed you

can then have the blankets." I informed him that I had a party of forty

men with me, and that if he gave me the blankets, the return should be

sent back, correctly signed. But, no! He had not the feelings of

humanity in him. I was ordered out like a dog. I at once handed my men

over to another sergeant of ours, that was stationed at Balaclava to

look after the interests of the regiment, and, with a little coaxing,

managed to borrow a good strong mule; and away I went back to camp, as

fast as the poor brute could move, straight to the colonel's tent. The

first salute I got, from one that had the feelings of humanity, and who

had frequently proved himself as brave as a lion (Col. L. W. Yea), was:

"What's up, Gowing?" I at once explained all, handing the document to

him. As quick as thought he called to his servant: "Brock, get this

sergeant something to eat and drink." Mounting his old cob, that had

carried him through the fields of the Alma (where he was bravely

followed by his Grenadiers, whilst shot and shell flew like hail about

their ears), Little Inkermann, and throughout that memorable foggy morn

at Inkermann, away he went, and in less than fifteen minutes was back

again. Rushing into the tent, he exclaimed: "Well, sergeant, what are

you going to do now?" "Go back; sir, and get the blankets, if you have

got the signature of the Quartermaster-General." "Here you are, then."

I was up and out of camp before he had time to say more. I found my

mule had a lot of pluck in him, so I gave him his head and let him go.

We looked a pair of beauties when I pulled up at our young swell's

hut, and presented the signature. I at once got my stores of priceless

blankets, and marched back. I found that a number of my men had been

taking water well diluted during my absence. A wild youth from the

Green Isle said that that was the best fatigue he had had since he

left ould Ireland--handing me a bottle to whet my eye with. I found

that most of my party had something besides blankets to keep out the

cold; but we got home all right, without any trouble. In less than a

month after, I had the pleasure of meeting our gallant Deputy-Assistant

Quartermaster-General in the trenches, up to his knees in mud and

water, like the remainder. He had been sent to his duty. I thought at

once of his treatment of me and my party. He appeared such a shiftless

creature, shrivelled up with cold, that I felt compelled to offer

him my tin pot of hot coffee, to revive him a little. He, poor lad,

recognised me, and apologised for his treatment, which I knew well

arose from want of experience and thought.

HEAVY ODDS.

The true Briton generally comes out in his proper colours when under

difficulty. During the Crimean campaign, a man joined us who had some

little experience in the prize ring. There was nothing particular to

note about him, further than that he was a fine specimen of humanity,

about five feet eleven inches, and forty-six in. round the chest; he was

strong as Hercules, and knew it. But he was as meek as a lamb unless

well roused, and it took not a little to accomplish that. Only once

during that trying campaign was he ever known to stand upon his dignity,

and that was with a big bully, whom he settled in less than five

minutes. Whilst the fighting lasted, our gallant allies, the French, got

on well with us. It was nothing strange to hear them applauding us with

_Bon Anglais, Bon Anglais_. They were loud in their expressions of

admiration at our conduct at Balaclava, and after Inkermann their

exultation was beyond all bounds. They looked at our men in wonderment;

they knew well we were but a handful against a host; and with thrilling

shouts of _Vive l'Empereur_ and _Bon Anglais_, they threw their arms

around many a grim face covered with powder, blood, and mud, and

impressed kiss after kiss in token of admiration. But what a lot of

faces some people carry under one hat; and we proved before we parted

with our excitable little neighbours that we could not stake horses well

together. After the fall of that far-famed town, Sebastopol, we had but

little to do but drink each other's health, which often ended in a row;

and it was nothing strange to see one of our men defending himself

against half-a-dozen half drunken Frenchmen, and proving the victor. If

they started to kick, some of our Lancashire lads would soon give them a

lesson in "pausing" and "purring." So things went on week after week.

A YORKSHIRE BITE.

Some six months after the fall of Sebastopol, when peace negotiations

were being carried on, some four or five non-commissioned officers (I

being one of them) had been out for a walk on a Sunday afternoon.

Returning home to camp up one of the ravines that had been the scene of

the desperate strife at Inkermann, we met a party of some fifteen

half-drunken Frenchmen coming down the hill. It was an awkward place for

a row. The road was narrow; on one side was a solid rock, and the other

a nasty slope of some thirty or forty feet, like an ugly railway

embankment. As soon as the French caught sight of us they commenced to

shout _Anglais non bon; non bon Anglais_--"English, you are no good; you

are no good." One of our party was the gallant bruiser, to whom I have

before alluded. He was what is called a well-scienced man, and of

tremendous strength--"Yorkshire bite," we had nick-named him, as he

hailed from Leeds. He immediately took command of us, directing us to

sit down under the rocks. "Now lads, set thee doon," said he. "If these

fellows interfere with us, you set still, and leave this little lot to

me, and if I cannot settle them, my name is not Jacky Frith." They were

rapidly approaching us, still shouting like madmen, "_Anglais non bon;

non bon_," and cursing us with all the most filthy oaths they could

muster, which we all understood, having been mixed up with them for two

years. Well, we all sat still under the embankment, with the exception

of our Yorkshire sprig. A monster of a French artilleryman was the first

to come up--and the first to go down. He deliberately spat in our hero's

face, shouting disdainfully _Anglais non bon_. The Yorkshireman's arm at

once came into play,[13] with a blow that lifted him clean off his feet

and sent him rolling from top to the bottom of the cudd. Another, or

two, went at him, and he sent them to look after their comrade. Others

rushed at him, but he proved himself more than a match for the lot. As

far as we could see, one blow was quite enough. We all sat looking at

the fun, almost bursting our sides with laughter, until the last had

disappeared down the cudd. Our hero then put his hands into his pockets,

and, looking over the cudd, shouted out that the English were _bon_

enough for them on the field of Waterloo, and were so now; and turning

round to us with "Come on, boys, let's go home," left the French to get

out the best way they could. Next day there was a parade for all hands,

in order to pick out the men who had so disgraced themselves and the

regiment, as our friends had stated that they had been overpowered by

numbers, and that those who had attacked them belonged to the

Fusiliers. I must say they all looked in a most pitiable plight; some

with their heads bandaged, some with black eyes, others with their arms

in slings, and some limping with the assistance of a stick. They were

accompanied by a French general officer (I think MacMahon). After a

minute inspection up and down the ranks, not a man could be picked out,

but they still persisted that the party that had given them such an

unmerciful beating belonged to us. The colonel then formed square, with

this nice little party in the centre. He then addressed us, expressing a

hope that those who had disgraced themselves would step to the front.

Four out of the five who had constituted our party at once complied. We

were made prisoners, and the colonel proceeded to question us; but when

it was made known to him that _we_ had been attacked and grossly

insulted, and that one man, who was not then on parade, had settled the

whole, without any assistance from us, the regiment was at once

dismissed, and our gallant pioneer corporal sent for. As soon as our

friends caught sight of him, there was no need to ask if they recognized

him, for they at once commenced to jabber like a lot of magpies. When

Gen. Mac Mahon had satisfied himself that we had been the injured party,

and that this solitary man had settled the lot, and further stated that

he was ready for as many more, provided they came singly, the general

laughed heartily, and applauded the man's conduct, requesting the

colonel not to punish any of us. We were at once released, and the case

dismissed.

THE HORRORS OF WAR.

The following incident occurred at the Campo Mayor affair, on the 25th

of March, 1811. "A French captain of dragoons demanded permission, under

a flag of truce, to search among the dead for his colonel. His regiment

was a fine one, with bright brass helmets and black horsehair. It was

truly a bloody scene, being almost all sabre wounds. It was long before

he could find the French colonel, for he was lying on his face, his

naked body weltering in blood; and as soon as he was turned up, the

officer knew him: he gave a sort of scream and sprang off his horse,

dashed his helmet on the ground, knelt by the body, took the bloody hand

and kissed it many times in an agony of grief: it was an affecting and

awful scene. There were about six hundred naked dead bodies lying on the

ground at one view. The French colonel was killed by a corporal of the

Thirteenth. This corporal had killed one of his men, and he was so

enraged, that he sallied out himself and attacked the corporal, who was

well mounted and a good swordsman, as was the colonel himself. Both

defended for some time; the corporal cut him twice across the face; his

helmet came off at the second, when the corporal slew him by a cut which

nearly cleft his skull asunder, cutting in as deep as the nose through

the brain."

ESPRIT DE CORPS.

Private Stevenson, of Ligonier's Horse, having had his horse shot under

him shortly after the commencement of the battle of Fontenoy, on the

11th May, 1745, did not rejoin his regiment until the evening of the

following day. A court-martial was demanded by the man, before which he

produced Lieutenant Izard, of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, who deposed

that the prisoner acquainted him with the death of his horse, and

requested permission to carry a firelock in the grenadier company under

him. His request was granted; he behaved throughout the day with

uncommon intrepidity, and was one of the nine grenadiers which he

brought out of action. He was then promoted to a lieutenancy in the

Royal Welsh Fusiliers.

WHAT HAVE YOU SEEN IN THE CRIMEA?

I have seen majestic nature in grandeur displayed,

With the hills and the valleys which the ocean hath made;

I've seen the eagle and vulture with pinions extended,

And battles so well fought that no hero could mend it.

I saw the Light Division leading the van

With their Allies, who also would die to a man

Before they would yield to an Autocrat's rule,

Or turn back on their march to Sebastopol.

I saw the Heights of Alma, on the 20th September,

There the maiden British army first faced the foe,

There the Russian, bear, with all his ugly cubs,

Was taught to use his heels as fast as he could go.

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, but no desponding cry--

Remember the Heights of Alma, boys, we conquer or we die!

I've seen Inkermann's Heights and its Valleys of snow,

Where many a brave soldier a rooting did go,

In search of some fuel his breakfast to cook,

With a pick on his shoulder, and axe or bill-hook.

I've seen the Mamelon and the Malakoff tower,

When the grape shot and shell on our trenches did pour.

While Mars sat in triumph to test our renown,

And meet us with laurels as we stormed the great town.

I've seen the Quarantine Battery, Fort Paul, and the docks;

With the Bear and the Eagle contending for rocks,

And vultures in numbers near the Worrensoff road,

That once was the highway to the Russian's abode.

I've seen sorties and struggles by the Russians, 'tis true,

But their banners were stained by the Red, White and Blue,

We sent them some pills their system to cool,

Which worked them in thousands from Sebastopol.

I've seen Lord Raglan, Pellisier, and their brilliant staff,

While the band of the 7th played "Larry O'Gaff;"

I've seen Lord Brown in the trenches, for war he was ripe,

Dressed as plain as a ploughman, with a little short pipe.

I've seen the great English battery upon the green hill,

Work with deadly precision the Russians to kill;

With terrific grandeur the balls they did fly,

Illuminating the heavens like stars in the sky.

I've seen Arabs, Frenchmen, and Bashi-Bazouks,

Russians made prisoners, and sad were their looks;

Their pitiful tales I've heard them unfold

Of the hardships they suffered from hunger and cold.

I've seen General Codrington on his charger so grey,

Riding out on the bills at the dawning of day,

With an eye like an eagle and a heart like a lion,

Inspecting the trenches where soldiers were dying.

On June the 7th I saw the Allies in action,

Their heroic deeds were the source of attraction;

They fought and fought bravely, their cause to maintain,

They took the great Mamelon, but thousands were slain.

On that 7th day of June I saw the English too.

Not far from their Allies, combat with the foe;

Their deeds were praiseworthy, they never did flinch,

They took the great Quarries and the Circular Trench.

On the 18th of June I saw that disastrous fight,

Led on by young Waller, Fitzclarence, and Wright;

When our Colonel got shot, the brave daring Yea,

And many were the victims of that bloody affray.

I've seen Kazatch Bay and the great combined fleet,

Where the French and the English each other did greet;

They mixed and they mingled, the ships and ship's crew,

The Blue, White, and Red, and the Red, White, and Blue.

I've seen those interesting and gay Vivandiers

March with their soldiers with smiles and with cheers;

I've seen them on horseback astride like a man,

To describe their attractions is more than I can.

I've seen the explosion of a French magazine,

With great loss to the Emperor and our lady the Queen;

It knocked down our huts and our tents it turned o'er,

And numbers of men were never seen more.

Our troops were alarmed as the explosion it spread,

And for self-preservation from the camp they fled;

But Young Hope was active, and his part he played well,

As the missiles were flying, the round shot and shell.

Near the scene of excitement, on the top of the hill,

Stood the great magazine which they call the Windmill;

Had it once taken fire our loss had been great,

And Britain would have mourned her army's sad fate.

I've seen the brave Turner and his friend Major Peck,

Who sailed from old England to make an attack;

Though Boreas did buffet our weather-beaten screw,

She skipped o'er the billows with her Crimean-bound crew.

I've seen Monsieur Français, his eyes beaming with pride,

Take our young lads on the spree to drink his cognac;

I've seen the triangles to which men were fast tied.

While the drummers served fifty upon their bare back.

I've seen Balaclava, a magnificent sight,

With its cloud-covered castle high up on the right,

Once embellished by art, and built on the great rock,

A shelter for shipping and Nature's wild flock.

I've seen Balaclava by night and by day,

With its lofty rough mountains and foaming black sea--

The billows embracing the proud bosomed rock,

Where the porpoises sport and the seagulls do flock.

I've seen Balaclava all covered with snow,

On a cold winter's night when on sentry I'd go;

The scene it was lovely, the stars glittered bright,

Fair Luna was shining, Nature's mantle was white.

I saw the Valley of Death, where thousands lay low,

Not half of whom ever fell by the hands of the foe;

The causes are many, as well known to the State,

But I might give offence if the truth I relate.

I saw the Valley of Death, and going to the trenches,

I looked on the graves and thought of the wenches[14]

In silence lamenting some dear friend or brother,

I thought of the orphan and the heart-broken mother.

I've seen the Valley of Death, the cross and the tomb,

O'er the graves of those heroes--oh, sad was their doom;

Where the wild dogs are prowling--what a horrible sight!

Where the carrion-crows gather, and owls screech by night.

I've seen the Valley of Death--but here I will not dwell,

It would take me too long my sad story to tell;

'Tis like some pandemonium--cursed region below--

Sometimes hot like a furnace, then covered with snow.

I've seen Colonel Wellesley, who had lately come here,

A man much respected by each bold Fusilier;

His discipline was gentle, his mind was serene,

A friend to the 7th, his country, and Queen.

I've heard that our Colonel will open a school,

To teach art and science near Sebastopol;

The soldiers to cipher, to write, and to read,

Then march to the north side the Russians to bleed.

The arts and the sciences, what wonderful things,

They open up coal-beds and artesian springs;

We are going to Cronstadt in scientific tubs,

To take the old bear and all his young cubs.

I've seen one rare thing--the right man in his right place,

One Sergeant Silvester, who has charge of the peace;

He is cock of the walk, and a gander 'mong geese;

He keeps down bad morals with his rural police.

The brave sons of Britain, they never did flinch

From the bullet-swept plains, or the cold bloody trench;

They have planted their standard--who dares pull it down?

In conjunction with France, in Sebastopol town.

And now, to conclude my short but truthful tale,

I've seen those kind sisters, and the famed Nightingale,

Attending the wounded on beds that were gory,

And this is the end of my Crimean story.

By Sergt. T. GOWING,

And Private A. CRAWFORD.