MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF WAR--ADVANCE OF MY TURKISH FRIENDS
ON KAMARA--VISITORS TO THE CAMP--MISS NIGHTINGALE--MONS.
SOYER AND THE CHOLERA--SUMMER IN THE CRIMEA--"THIRSTY
SOULS"--DEATH BUSY IN THE TRENCHES.
In the last three chapters, I have attempted, without any
consideration of dates, to give my readers some idea of my life in the
Crimea. I am fully aware that I have jumbled up events strangely,
talking in the same page, and even sentence, of events which occurred
at different times; but I have three excuses to offer for my
unhistorical inexactness. In the first place, my memory is far from
trustworthy, and I kept no written diary; in the second place, the
reader must have had more than enough of journals and chronicles of
Crimean life, and I am only the historian of Spring Hill; and in the
third place, unless I am allowed to tell the story of my life in my
own way, I cannot tell it at all.
I shall now endeavour to describe my out-of-door life as much as
possible, and write of those great events in the field of which I was
a humble witness. But I shall continue to speak from my own experience
simply; and if the reader should be surprised at my leaving any
memorable action of the army unnoticed, he may be sure that it is
because I was mixing medicines or making good things in the kitchen of
the British Hotel, and first heard the particulars of it, perhaps,
from the newspapers which came from home. My readers must know, too,
that they were much more familiar with the history of the camp at
their own firesides, than we who lived in it. Just as a spectator
seeing one of the battles from a hill, as I did the Tchernaya, knows
more about it than the combatant in the valley below, who only thinks
of the enemy whom it is his immediate duty to repel; so you, through
the valuable aid of the cleverest man in the whole camp, read in the
_Times'_ columns the details of that great campaign, while we, the
actors in it, had enough to do to discharge our own duties well, and
rarely concerned ourselves in what seemed of such importance to you.
And so very often a desperate skirmish or hard-fought action, the news
of which created so much sensation in England, was but little regarded
at Spring Hill.
My first experience of battle was pleasant enough. Before we had been
long at Spring Hill, Omar Pasha got something for his Turks to do, and
one fine morning they were marched away towards the Russian outposts
on the road to Baidar. I accompanied them on horseback, and enjoyed
the sight amazingly. English and French cavalry preceded the Turkish
infantry over the plain yet full of memorials of the terrible Light
Cavalry charge a few months before; and while one detachment of the
Turks made a reconnaissance to the right of the Tchernaya, another
pushed their way up the hill, towards Kamara, driving in the Russian
outposts, after what seemed but a slight resistance. It was very
pretty to see them advance, and to watch how every now and then little
clouds of white smoke puffed up from behind bushes and the crests of
hills, and were answered by similar puffs from the long line of busy
skirmishers that preceded the main body. This was my first experience
of actual battle, and I felt that strange excitement which I do not
remember on future occasions, coupled with an earnest longing to see
more of warfare, and to share in its hazards. It was not long before
my wish was gratified.
I do not know much of the second bombardment of Sebastopol in the
month of April, although I was as assiduous as I could be in my
attendance at Cathcart's Hill. I could judge of its severity by the
long trains of wounded which passed the British Hotel. I had a
stretcher laid near the door, and very often a poor fellow was laid
upon it, outwearied by the terrible conveyance from the front.
After this unsuccessful bombardment, it seemed to us that there was a
sudden lull in the progress of the siege; and other things began to
interest us. There were several arrivals to talk over. Miss
Nightingale came to supervise the Balaclava hospitals, and, before
long, she had practical experience of Crimean fever. After her, came
the Duke of Newcastle, and the great high priest of the mysteries of
cookery, Mons. Alexis Soyer. He was often at Spring Hill, with the
most smiling of faces and in the most gorgeous of irregular uniforms,
and never failed to praise my soups and dainties. I always flattered
myself that I was his match, and with our West Indian dishes could of
course beat him hollow, and more than once I challenged him to a trial
of skill; but the gallant Frenchman only shrugged his shoulders, and
disclaimed my challenge with many flourishes of his jewelled hands,
declaring that Madame proposed a contest where victory would cost him
his reputation for gallantry, and be more disastrous than defeat. And
all because I was a woman, forsooth. What nonsense to talk like that,
when I was doing the work of half a dozen men. Then he would laugh and
declare that, when our campaigns were over, we would render rivalry
impossible, by combining to open the first restaurant in Europe. There
was always fun in the store when the good-natured Frenchman was there.
One dark, tempestuous night, I was knocked up by the arrival of other
visitors. These were the first regiment of Sardinian Grenadiers, who,
benighted on their way to the position assigned them, remained at
Spring Hill until the morning. We soon turned out our staff, and
lighted up the store, and entertained the officers as well as we could
inside, while the soldiers bivouacked in the yards around. Not a
single thing was stolen or disturbed that night, although they had
many opportunities. We all admired and liked the Sardinians; they were
honest, well-disciplined fellows, and I wish there had been no worse
men or soldiers in the Crimea.
As the season advanced many visitors came to the Crimea from all
parts of the world, and many of them were glad to make Spring Hill
their head-quarters. We should have been better off if some of them
had spared us this compliment. A Captain St. Clair, for instance--who
could doubt any one with such a name?--stayed some time with us, had
the best of everything, and paid us most honourably with one bill upon
his agents, while we cashed another to provide him with money for his
homeward route. He was an accomplished fellow, and I really liked him;
but, unfortunately for us, he was a swindler.
I saw much of another visitor to the camp in the Crimea--an old
acquaintance of mine with whom I had had many a hard bout in past
times--the cholera. There were many cases in the hospital of the Land
Transport Corps opposite, and I prescribed for many others personally.
The raki sold in too many of the stores in Balaclava and Kadikoi was
most pernicious; and although the authorities forbade the sutlers to
sell it, under heavy penalties, it found its way into the camp in
large quantities.
During May, and while preparations were being made for the third great
bombardment of the ill-fated city, summer broke beautifully, and the
weather, chequered occasionally by fitful intervals of cold and rain,
made us all cheerful. You would scarcely have believed that the happy,
good-humoured, and jocular visitors to the British Hotel were the same
men who had a few weeks before ridden gloomily through the muddy road
to its door. It was a period of relaxation, and they all enjoyed it.
Amusement was the order of the day. Races, dog-hunts, cricket-matches,
and dinner-parties were eagerly indulged in, and in all I could be of
use to provide the good cheer which was so essential a part of these
entertainments; and when the warm weather came in all its intensity,
and I took to manufacturing cooling beverages for my friends and
customers, my store was always full. To please all was somewhat
difficult, and occasionally some of them were scarcely so polite as
they should have been to a perplexed hostess, who could scarcely be
expected to remember that Lieutenant A. had bespoken his sangaree an
instant before Captain B. and his friends had ordered their claret
cup.
In anticipation of the hot weather, I had laid in a large stock of
raspberry vinegar, which, properly managed, helps to make a pleasant
drink; and there was a great demand for sangaree, claret, and cider
cups, the cups being battered pewter pots. Would you like, reader, to
know my recipe for the favourite claret cup? It is simple enough.
Claret, water, lemon-peel, sugar, nutmeg, and--ice--yes, ice, but not
often and not for long, for the eager officers soon made an end of it.
Sometimes there were dinner-parties at Spring Hill, but of these more
hereafter. At one of the earliest, when the _Times_ correspondent was
to be present, I rode down to Kadikoi, bought some calico and cut it
up into table napkins. They all laughed very heartily, and thought
perhaps of a few weeks previously, when every available piece of linen
in the camp would have been snapped up for pocket-handkerchiefs.
But the reader must not forget that all this time, although there
might be only a few short and sullen roars of the great guns by day,
few nights passed without some fighting in the trenches; and very
often the news of the morning would be that one or other of those I
knew had fallen. These tidings often saddened me, and when I awoke in
the night and heard the thunder of the guns fiercer than usual, I have
quite dreaded the dawn which might usher in bad news.
The deaths in the trenches touched me deeply, perhaps for this reason.
It was very usual, when a young officer was ordered into the trenches,
for him to ride down to Spring Hill to dine, or obtain something more
than his ordinary fare to brighten his weary hours in those fearful
ditches. They seldom failed on these occasions to shake me by the hand
at parting, and sometimes would say, "You see, Mrs. Seacole, I can't
say good-bye to the dear ones at home, so I'll bid you good-bye for
them. Perhaps you'll see them some day, and if the Russians should
knock me over, mother, just tell them I thought of them all--will
you?" And although all this might be said in a light-hearted manner,
it was rather solemn. I felt it to be so, for I never failed (although
who was I, that I should preach?) to say something about God's
providence and relying upon it; and they were very good. No army of
parsons could be much better than my sons. They would listen very
gravely, and shake me by the hand again, while I felt that there was
nothing in the world I would not do for them. Then very often the men
would say, "I'm going in with my master to-night, Mrs. Seacole; come
and look after him, if he's hit;" and so often as this happened I
would pass the night restlessly, awaiting with anxiety the morning,
and yet dreading to hear the news it held in store for me. I used to
think it was like having a large family of children ill with fever,
and dreading to hear which one had passed away in the night.
And as often as the bad news came, I thought it my duty to ride up to
the hut of the sufferer and do my woman's work. But I felt it deeply.
How could it be otherwise? There was one poor boy in the Artillery,
with blue eyes and light golden hair, whom I nursed through a long and
weary sickness, borne with all a man's spirit, and whom I grew to love
like a fond old-fashioned mother. I thought if ever angels watched
over any life, they would shelter his; but one day, but a short time
after he had left his sick-bed, he was struck down on his battery,
working like a young hero. It was a long time before I could banish
from my mind the thought of him as I saw him last, the yellow hair,
stiff and stained with his life-blood, and the blue eyes closed in the
sleep of death. Of course, I saw him buried, as I did poor H----
V----, my old Jamaica friend, whose kind face was so familiar to me of
old. Another good friend I mourned bitterly--Captain B----, of the
Coldstreams--a great cricketer. He had been with me on the previous
evening, had seemed dull, but had supped at my store, and on the
following morning a brother officer told me he was shot dead while
setting his pickets, which made me ill and unfit for work for the
whole day. Mind you, a day was a long time to give to sorrow in the
Crimea.
I could give many other similar instances, but why should I sadden
myself or my readers? Others have described the horrors of those fatal
trenches; but their real history has never been written, and perhaps
it is as well that so harrowing a tale should be left in oblivion.
Such anecdotes as the following were very current in the Camp, but I
have no means of answering for its truth. Two sergeants met in the
trenches, who had been schoolmates in their youth; years had passed
since they set out for the battle of life by different roads, and now
they met again under the fire of a common enemy. With one impulse they
started forward to exchange the hearty hand-shake and the mutual
greetings, and while their hands were still clasped, a chance shot
killed both.