THE KILTED WARRIORS OF THE NORTH--THE TERRIBLE
STRUGGLE FOR KOURGANÉ HILL--THE IMPETUOUS
93RD--VICTORY!
At this stage of the battle all our available forces were being
hurried into action.
The three regiments that had remained with Evans were terribly cut up
in attempting to hurl back the Russian infantry, supported by
batteries that disputed possession of the post-road.
The 41st and 49th were advancing towards the eminence on which Lord
Raglan and his staff were situated; while the Third Division, under
General England, with six regiments and two field batteries, was
crossing the Alma to their support.
But we must leave General Codrington doing his best to rally his
regiments and form another division to advance, while we seek
adventure farther to the left. Not, however, till I tell you one
incident of this heroic fight. As I have already said, then, the
centre battalion of the Guards--namely, the Scots Fusiliers--was
hurled back with Codrington's beaten men, and with, alas! a loss to
the Scots of Lord Clinton and three sergeants killed, ten officers
and thirteen sergeants wounded, and 154 rank and file lying dead or
wounded on the brae side. This left a gap between the Grenadiers and
the Coldstreams. Well, having got together some of his brigade,
Codrington sent forward to ask Colonel Hood of the Grenadiers if he
should place his newly-formed men between the two battalions to fill
up this gap.
One cannot help feeling for Codrington, for the answer from Hood was
a snappish one. "No; certainly not," he said.
Colonel Hood, with his now-open left bravely advancing to the attack,
was in reality disobeying the last order he had received. This was
that he should conform to any movement on his left.
"Mercy!" he exclaimed, when the centre battalion was swept down the
hill, "the movement on my left is defeat and retreat. Am I to
conform to _that_? I'll be hanged if I do. On, men. Forward!"
"Thank Heaven!" he afterwards said, "I disobeyed orders."
So might our sailor-hero Nelson have said, for he disobeyed orders,
and put the glass to his blind eye.
Let Hood continue to advance with his Grenadiers; and the cool,
courageous, precise Coldstreams go onwards too. Both have deadly
work before them.
But here we are among the Highlanders; and is it not true what Scott
says?--
"Ne'er in battle-field throbbed heart more brave
Than that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid."
And now they were going into action--to do or to die. Yes, to do or
to die. They have never been in battle before--that is, in a real
fight like this. But it never occurred to them that they might or
could be beaten. They were nearly all young soldiers those kilted
warriors of the north--of the 42nd or Black Watch, the 93rd or
Sutherland Highlanders, and the 79th or Camerons. Most of them spoke
their native Doric, broad and harsh, yet kindly even in the ear of an
Englishman, or the Gaelic; and many of them had left the
plough-stilts or the flail, to flail the Russians in another fashion,
with that bravest of soldier-Scots, Sir Colin Campbell, at their head.
These men were strong and tough as the heather on their native hills,
lithesome too, swinging in step, and with no end of courage, go, and
stay.
No wonder that Campbell was proud of his Highlanders on this day of
all days; and it was a leader like him they needed, and nothing else,
to take them straight forward into the cauldron of fire and death.
But not only was Campbell proud of them, but the whole army also,
just as they were of the Guards.
It will be observed, too, that theirs was the most select situation
in the battle--that is, as a brave soldier would select it. For what
more likely than that the Russians should mass on their own right,
and with cavalry, infantry, and artillery attempt, when opportunity
offered, to turn the left of our whole formation.
"Now, lads," cries Campbell, waving his sword, "up and at them."
And on we dash towards the hills. We, you and I, reader, are
attached to the 93rd. Our three regiments find it not easy to get
through the rough ground and over the river.
We are across now, though. Our formation is figured below. It is in
_échelon_, the 42nd leading.
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Black Watch.
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Sutherland Highlanders.
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Camerons.
We pass the 88th, who are in square, as if expecting a charge of
cavalry; also the 77th, in line. Both are falling back.
Sir Colin cannot restrain his indignation at what he looks upon as
arrant cowardice. His Scotch blood leaps in all his veins, and he
shouts something like a command to the 88th to form line and advance.
"Go on, Scotties," cries some one in the square. "You can do the
work."
Sir Colin and his regiments do rush on.
The hero of the day soon has the 42nd in alignment with, and in
advance of, the Guards. Our regiment and the Camerons, still in
echelon, are rapidly hurrying up.
The left of the Coldstreams have their staff officers near to where
the grenadier company of the 42nd now are, with Sir Colin at their
head.
Down below the hill the discomfited regiments that Codrington is
getting into order again are firing at random, up hill, on the
redoubt.
It is the most critical part of the battle. In fact, since the
Highlanders and Guards began to climb the heights we may call it a
new battle.
Something tells us that we will not be beaten this time, but that we
may leave our bodies on the field. See, yonder is brave and stalwart
young Llewellyn. The ensign-bearer has fallen, but he has seized the
colours; and his wild slogan can be heard high above the roar of
battle as he urges us on. How gallant he looks! No wonder we follow.
But it is just at this moment that Sir Colin hears the voice of some
staff officer of the Coldstreams advising the retreat of that fine
regiment. The odds, he thought, were far too great.
"The brigade of the Guards," he cried, "will be cut to pieces. They
should retire and recover their formation."
Then comes Sir Colin's answer, uttered in the wildness of angry
passion, and sounding far and near over the field. "Better, sir," he
shouts, "that every soldier in Her Majesty's Guards should lie dead
upon the field, than that they should for a single moment turn their
backs upon the foe!"
There is an answering cheer.
That brave voice seems to turn the whole tide of battle.
Then Sir Colin speaks to H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge. "I counsel
your Grace," he said, "to go straight on with the Guards. I will
move up with the 42nd and turn the redoubt."
And up we go.
From the bridge over the Alma, for about a mile and a half, there now
stretched all along that thin red line of mostly two deep that so
astonished the Russians and eventually led to victory.
Where all fought so well it is almost unfair to say which was the
bravest part of the line. But the Russians fought like furies, too;
markedly the Vladimir and Kazan columns, with which our Guards had
most to do in this second struggle for Kourgané Hill and victory.
But you and I, reader, are with the Highlanders, and we want no
braver companions.
See, Sir Colin rides forward quickly and alone to reconnoitre.
Terrible seems the odds against him. He is upon a ridge abreast of
the now empty redoubt, from which the enemy had fled. Bullets whiz
and ping around him. Twice is his horse struck, but falls not. He
quickly takes in the situation, and is in a position to lead his
troops to the best advantage up that formidable hill.
It is to the Black Watch that Sir Colin shouts, "We'll have nane but
Highland bonnets here." We of the 93rd are more impetuous. Wildly
so. Hark how our slogans ring over the field! We feel nothing but a
burning desire to be breast to breast with the foe.
And yet the odds is terrible.
With three battalions Sir Colin is to meet and fight no less than
twelve. Our battalions, however, are in line; those of the enemy are
massed together in five columns. We are Highlanders; they are
Russians. No, no; we do not despise our enemies, they are men of
solid, ay and stolid courage, but--
The 42nd he allowed to attack two columns by itself, unaided; in the
hollow, too, betwixt him and the hill, he himself being at its head.
It is a critical moment now, for a column of Russians of great
strength comes marching on, evidently with the intention to attack
the 42nd's flank. Then just as he is preparing to receive it with a
front of five companies, the 93rd come wildly charging to the crest.
This is a regiment of regiments in the Crimea, filled with
dare-devils from regiments left at home, who desire to see war and
fighting at its best or worst. It is under the fire of the advancing
column. Hardly is it dressed up, hardly in formation; and hence the
danger. It may hurl itself on this steady, strong column, and
literally be dashed to pieces like a ship that strikes a rock. Sir
Colin is quick to see the peril, and gallops on towards us. His
voice can check an assault as surely as it can lead one, so perfect
is the trust his Highlanders put in him; and so the regiment soon
recovers its disordered formation, and once more moves on.
Colin's horse is again shot now, and gently slides down beneath
him--dead. Poor horse! But once more our hero is mounted.
Onwards and onwards we advance, vomiting forth fire and smoke. Our
great stature, our determined visages, our kilts and waving plumes,
we learn afterwards from the wounded Russians, struck a strange
terror to their inmost hearts. The two regiments effect this; but
when still another--the 79th--comes bounding onwards, the columns of
the enemy give way, and all along the hillsides rise our cheers of
victory, mingled with the wailing of the defeated foe. The Ouglitz
battalions are still to be defeated. But once more the Highland
brigade--one and all of us--being re-formed, pours in its volleys,
and the Ouglitz column is forced to flee.
* * * * *
Our victory was most complete, though our losses had everywhere been
very great--that is, on the side of the British; the French suffered
nothing in comparison with what we did.
Brave Sir Colin was everything to his men and officers. Indeed they
fought as if the great master's eye was ever on them, and it is true
that few acts of heroism escaped his notice.
Llewellyn's heart was filled therefore with a pride that positively
brought tears to his eyes, when his chief complimented him on his
valour.
"But," added Sir Colin with a kindly smile, as he placed his hand on
the young soldier's shoulder, "one must always in battle be calm as
well as brave, and at one time to-day I really thought my gallant
boys of the 93rd had lost their heads."
* * * * *
Victory! Yes, a glorious victory! When the news came to England,
and to Scotland, Ireland, and Wales--for did we not all take our
share in this memorable battle?--people went positively daft with
joy. Yet I fear there was a good deal of braggadocio mixed up with
the general rejoicing.
The bells were set a-ringing; there were more balls and parties over
it than if it had been Christmas, and thanksgiving was heard in every
pulpit throughout the land.
But those who had sons, brothers, husbands, or fathers at the far-off
war, went in anxious suspense for the account of the killed and
wounded. And sorrow came at last, and there was weeping and wailing
in many a family.
Well, the glory that Alma brought us was "real real," as a Yankee
would say. I do not know exactly what the weight of glory is, nor am
I acquainted with its exact value per square inch. Anyhow in this
case the French praised us, and we patted and praised the French,
while even the Russians allowed they had been fairly beaten--by force
of numbers.
Had the Russians, however, defended the roads and passes, or
obliterated them; had they used their cavalry and reserves, and not
pulled away their guns, it is evident that our victory would have
been a far more costly one to us, even if it had not ended in
disaster.
At the time that Codrington's beaten regiments swept their
supports--the Fusiliers--down the hill, it was touch and go.
Had not Colin Campbell with his brigade of heroes come in the nick of
time, defeat, it seems to me, would have been ours.
If the Russians made mistakes, so did we. For there was an utter
absence of concerted action, no unity of purpose, nor were the
regiments in action supported as they should have been.
Ah! we shall hug the glory of Alma to our hearts all our lives
nevertheless; for our gallant fellows--English, Irish, and Welsh, as
well as Scots--were, in a manner of speaking, Johnnie Raws (I say it
in no disrespectful way)--good soldiers, and clever in peace and on
parade. But we had not been to war for forty years before, so I
think we did very well, considering everything.
And to tell you the truth, reader mine, whenever I go along the
Strand, or enter a club room, or pass the door of a great book
emporium, or even clothier's shop, and see a straight, sturdy,
grey-haired commissionnaire with a silver medal and a clasp or two on
his breast bearing the sacred names of Alma, Inkermann, Balaklava, I
feel very much inclined to lift my hat to him. Don't you?