NEW YEAR IN THE CRIMEA--GOOD NEWS--THE ARMISTICE--BARTER
WITH THE RUSSIANS--WAR AND PEACE--TIDINGS OF
PEACE--EXCURSIONS INTO THE INTERIOR OF THE CRIMEA--TO
SIMPHEROPOL, BAKTCHISERAI, ETC.--THE TROOPS BEGIN TO
LEAVE THE CRIMEA--FRIENDS' FAREWELLS--THE CEMETERIES--WE
REMOVE FROM SPRING HILL TO BALACLAVA--ALARMING SACRIFICE
OF OUR STOCK--A LAST GLIMPSE OF SEBASTOPOL--HOME!
Before the New Year was far advanced we all began to think of going
home, making sure that peace would soon be concluded. And never did
more welcome message come anywhere than that which brought us
intelligence of the armistice, and the firing, which had grown more
and more slack lately, ceased altogether. Of course the army did not
desire peace because they had any distaste for fighting; so far from
it, I believe the only more welcome intelligence would have been news
of a campaign in the field, but they were most heartily weary of
sieges, and the prospect of another year before the gloomy north of
Sebastopol damped the ardour of the most sanguine. Before the
armistice was signed, the Russians and their old foes made advances of
friendship, and the banks of the Tchernaya used to be thronged with
strangers, and many strange acquaintances were thus began. I was one
of the first to ride down to the Tchernaya, and very much delighted
seemed the Russians to see an English woman. I wonder if they thought
they all had my complexion. I soon entered heartily into the then
current amusement--that of exchanging coin, etc., with the Russians. I
stole a march upon my companions by making the sign of the cross upon
my bosom, upon which a Russian threw me, in exchange for some pence, a
little metal figure of some ugly saint. Then we wrapped up halfpence
in clay, and received coins of less value in exchange. Seeing a
soldier eating some white bread, I made signs of wanting some, and
threw over a piece of money. I had great difficulty in making the man
understand me, but after considerable pantomime, with surprise in his
round bullet eyes, he wrapped up his bread in some paper, then coated
it with clay and sent it over to me. I thought it would look well
beside my brown bread taken from the strange oven in the terrible
Redan, and that the two would typify war and peace. There was a great
traffic going on in such things, and a wag of an officer, who could
talk Russian imperfectly, set himself to work to persuade an innocent
Russian that I was his wife, and having succeeded in doing so promptly
offered to dispose of me for the medal hanging at his breast.
The last firing of any consequence was the salutes with which the good
tidings of peace were received by army and navy. After this soon began
the home-going with happy faces and light hearts, and some kind
thoughts and warm tears for the comrades left behind.
I was very glad to hear of peace, also, although it must have been
apparent to every one that it would cause our ruin. We had lately made
extensive additions to our store and out-houses--our shelves were
filled with articles laid in at a great cost, and which were now
unsaleable, and which it would be equally impossible to carry home.
Everything, from our stud of horses and mules down to our latest
consignments from home, must be sold for any price; and, as it
happened, for many things, worth a year ago their weight in gold, no
purchaser could now be found. However, more of this hereafter.
Before leaving the Crimea, I made various excursions into the
interior, visiting Simpheropol and Baktchiserai. I travelled to
Simpheropol with a pretty large party, and had a very amusing journey.
My companions were young and full of fun, and tried hard to persuade
the Russians that I was Queen Victoria, by paying me the most absurd
reverence. When this failed they fell back a little, and declared that
I was the Queen's first cousin. Anyhow, they attracted crowds about
me, and I became quite a lioness in the streets of Simpheropol, until
the arrival of some Highlanders in their uniform cut me out.
My excursion to Baktchiserai was still more amusing and pleasant. I
found it necessary to go to beat up a Russian merchant, who, after the
declaration of peace, had purchased stores of us, and some young
officers made up a party for the purpose. We hired an araba, filled it
with straw, and some boxes to sit upon, and set out very early, with
two old umbrellas to shield us from the mid-day sun and the night
dews. We had with us a hamper carefully packed, before parting, with a
cold duck, some cold meat, a tart, etc. The Tartar's two horses were
soon knocked up, and the fellow obtained a third at a little village,
and so we rolled on until mid-day, when, thoroughly exhausted, we left
our clumsy vehicle and carried our hamper beneath the shade of a
beautiful cherry-tree, and determined to lunch. Upon opening it the
first thing that met our eyes was a fine rat, who made a speedy
escape. Somewhat gravely, we proceeded to unpack its contents, without
caring to express our fears to one another, and quite soon enough we
found them realized. How or where the rat had gained access to our
hamper it was impossible to say, but he had made no bad use of his
time, and both wings of the cold duck had flown, while the tart was
considerably mangled. Sad discovery this for people who, although,
hungry, were still squeamish. We made out as well as we could with the
cold beef, and gave the rest to our Tartar driver, who had apparently
no disinclination to eating after the rat, and would very likely have
despised us heartily for such weakness. After dinner we went on more
briskly, and succeeded in reaching Baktchiserai. My journey was
perfectly unavailing. I could not find my debtor at home, and if I had
I was told it would take three weeks before the Russian law would
assist me to recover my claim. Determined, however, to have some
compensation, I carried off a raven, who had been croaking angrily at
my intrusion. Before we had been long on our homeward journey,
however, Lieut. C---- sat upon it, of course accidentally, and we
threw it to its relatives--the crows.
As the spring advanced, the troops began to move away at a brisk pace.
As they passed the Iron House upon the Col--old for the Crimea, where
so much of life's action had been compressed into so short a space of
time--they would stop and give us a parting cheer, while very often
the band struck up some familiar tune of that home they were so gladly
seeking. And very often the kind-hearted officers would find time to
run into the British Hotel to bid us good-bye, and give us a farewell
shake of the hand; for you see war, like death, is a great leveller,
and mutual suffering and endurance had made us all friends. "My dear
Mrs. Seacole, and my dear Mr. Day," wrote one on a scrap of paper left
on the counter, "I have called here four times this day, to wish you
good-bye. I am so sorry I was not fortunate enough to see you. I shall
still hope to see you to-morrow morning. We march at seven a.m."
And yet all this going home seemed strange and somewhat sad, and
sometimes I felt that I could not sympathise with the glad faces and
happy hearts of those who were looking forward to the delights of
home, and the joy of seeing once more the old familiar faces
remembered so fondly in the fearful trenches and the hard-fought
battle-fields. Now and then we would see a lounger with a blank face,
taking no interest in the bustle of departure, and with him I
acknowledged to have more fellow-feeling than with the others, for he,
as well as I, clearly had no home to go to. He was a soldier by choice
and necessity, as well as by profession. He had no home, no loved
friends; the peace would bring no particular pleasure to him, whereas
war and action were necessary to his existence, gave him excitement,
occupation, the chance of promotion. Now and then, but seldom,
however, you came across such a disappointed one. Was it not so with
me? Had I not been happy through the months of toil and danger, never
knowing what fear or depression was, finding every moment of the day
mortgaged hours in advance, and earning sound sleep and contentment by
sheer hard work? What better or happier lot could possibly befall me?
And, alas! how likely was it that my present occupation gone, I might
long in vain for another so stirring and so useful. Besides which, it
was pretty sure that I should go to England poorer than I left it,
and although I was not ashamed of poverty, beginning life again in
the autumn--I mean late in the summer of life--is hard up-hill work.
Peace concluded, the little jealousies which may have sprung up
between the French and their allies seemed forgotten, and every one
was anxious, ere the parting came, to make the most of the time yet
left in improving old friendships and founding new. Among others, the
47th, encamped near the Woronzoff Road, gave a grand parting
entertainment to a large company of their French neighbours, at which
many officers of high rank were present. I was applied to by the
committee of management to superintend the affair, and, for the last
time in the Crimea, the health of Madame Seacole was proposed and duly
honoured. I had grown so accustomed to the honour that I had no
difficulty in returning thanks in a speech which Colonel B----
interpreted amid roars of laughter to the French guests.
As the various regiments moved off, I received many acknowledgments
from those who thought they owed me gratitude. Little presents, warm
farewell words, kind letters full of grateful acknowledgments for
services so small that I had forgotten them long, long ago--how easy
it is to reach warm hearts!--little thoughtful acts of kindness, even
from the humblest. And these touched me the most. I value the letters
received from the working men far more than the testimonials of their
officers. I had nothing to gain from the former, and can point to
their testimony fearlessly. I am strongly tempted to insert some of
these acknowledgments, but I will confine myself to one:--
"Camp, near Karani, June 16, 1856.
"My dear Mrs. Seacole,--As you are about to leave the
Crimea, I avail myself of the only opportunity which may
occur for some time, to acknowledge my gratitude to you,
and to thank you for the kindness which I, in common
with many others, received at your hands, when attacked
with cholera in the spring of 1855. But I have no
language to do it suitably.
"I am truly sensible that your kindness far exceeded my
claims upon your sympathy. It is said by some of your
friends, I hope truly, that you are going to England.
There can be none from the Crimea more welcome there,
for your kindness in the sick-tent, and your heroism in
the battle-field, have endeared you to the whole army.
"I am sure when her most gracious Majesty the Queen
shall have become acquainted with the service you have
gratuitously rendered to so many of her brave soldiers,
her generous heart will thank you. For you have been an
instrument in the hands of the Almighty to preserve many
a gallant heart to the empire, to fight and win her
battles, if ever again war may become a necessity.
Please to accept this from your most grateful humble
servant,
"W. J. Tynan."
But I had other friends in the Crimea--friends who could never thank
me. Some of them lay in their last sleep, beneath indistinguishable
mounds of earth; some in the half-filled trenches, a few beneath the
blue waters of the Euxine. I might in vain attempt to gather the wild
flowers which sprung up above many of their graves, but I knew where
some lay, and could visit their last homes on earth. And to all the
cemeteries where friends rested so calmly, sleeping well after a
life's work nobly done, I went many times, lingering long over many a
mound that bore the names of those whom I had been familiar with in
life, thinking of what they had been, and what I had known of them.
Over some I planted shrubs and flowers, little lilac trees, obtained
with no small trouble, and flowering evergreens, which looked quite
gay and pretty ere I left, and may in time become great trees, and
witness strange scenes, or be cut down as fuel for another besieging
army--who can tell? And from many graves I picked up pebbles, and
plucked simple wild-flowers, or tufts of grass, as memorials for
relatives at home. How pretty the cemeteries used to look beneath the
blue peaceful sky; neatly enclosed with stone walls, and full of the
grave-stones reared by friends over friends. I met many here,
thoughtfully taking their last look of the resting-places of those
they knew and loved. I saw many a proud head bowed down above them. I
knew that many a proud heart laid aside its pride here, and stood in
the presence of death, humble and childlike. And by the clasped hand
and moistened eye, I knew that from many a heart sped upward a
grateful prayer to the Providence which had thought fit in his
judgment to take some, and in his mercy to spare the rest.
Some three weeks before the Crimea was finally evacuated, we moved
from our old quarters to Balaclava, where we had obtained permission
to fit up a store for the short time which would elapse before the
last red coat left Russian soil. The poor old British Hotel! We could
do nothing with it. The iron house was pulled down, and packed up for
conveyance home, but the Russians got all of the out-houses and sheds
which was not used as fuel. All the kitchen fittings and stoves, that
had cost us so much, fell also into their hands. I only wish some cook
worthy to possess them has them now. We could sell nothing. Our horses
were almost given away, our large stores of provisions, etc., were at
any one's service. It makes my heart sick to talk of the really
alarming sacrifices we made. The Russians crowded down ostensibly to
purchase, in reality to plunder. Prime cheeses, which had cost us
tenpence a pound, were sold to them for less than a penny a pound; for
wine, for which we had paid forty-eight shillings a dozen, they bid
four shillings. I could not stand this, and in a fit of desperation, I
snatched up a hammer and broke up case after case, while the
bystanders held out their hands and caught the ruby stream. It may
have been wrong, but I was too excited to think. There was no more of
my own people to give it to, and I would rather not present it to our
old foes.
We were among the last to leave the Crimea. Before going I borrowed a
horse, easy enough now, and rode up the old well-known road--how
unfamiliar in its loneliness and quiet--to Cathcart's Hill. I wished
once more to impress the scene upon my mind. It was a beautifully
clear evening, and we could see miles away across the darkening sea. I
spent some time there with my companions, pointing out to each other
the sites of scenes we all remembered so well. There were the
trenches, already becoming indistinguishable, out of which, on the 8th
of September, we had seen the storming parties tumble in confused and
scattered bodies, before they ran up the broken height of the Redan.
There the Malakhoff, into which we had also seen the luckier French
pour in one unbroken stream; below lay the crumbling city and the
quiet harbour, with scarce a ripple on its surface, while around
stretched away the deserted huts for miles. It was with something like
regret that we said to one another that the play was fairly over, that
peace had rung the curtain down, and that we, humble actors in some of
its most stirring scenes, must seek engagements elsewhere.
I lingered behind, and stooping down, once more gathered little tufts
of grass, and some simple blossoms from above the graves of some who
in life had been very kind to me, and I left behind, in exchange, a
few tears which were sincere.
A few days latter, and I stood on board a crowded steamer, taking my
last look of the shores of the Crimea.
CONCLUSION.
I did not return to England by the most direct route, but took the
opportunity of seeing more of men and manners in yet other lands.
Arrived in England at last, we set to work bravely at Aldershott to
retrieve our fallen fortunes, and stem off the ruin originated in the
Crimea, but all in vain; and at last defeated by fortune, but not I
think disgraced, we were obliged to capitulate on very honourable
conditions. In plain truth, the old Crimean firm of Seacole and Day
was dissolved finally, and its partners had to recommence the world
anew. And so ended _our_ campaign. One of us started only the other
day for the Antipodes, while the other is ready to take any journey to
any place where a stout heart and two experienced hands may be of use.
Perhaps it would be right if I were to express more shame and
annoyance than I really feel at the pecuniarily disastrous issue of my
Crimean adventures, but I cannot--I really cannot. When I would try
and feel ashamed of myself for being poor and helpless, I only
experience a glow of pride at the other and more pleasing events of my
career; when I think of the few whom I failed to pay in full (and so
far from blaming me some of them are now my firmest friends), I cannot
help remembering also the many who profess themselves indebted to me.
Let me, in as few words as possible, state the results of my Crimean
campaign. To be sure, I returned from it shaken in health. I came home
wounded, as many others did. Few constitutions, indeed, were the
better for those winters before Sebastopol, and I was too hard worked
not to feel their effects; for a little labour fatigues me now--I
cannot watch by sick-beds as I could--a week's want of rest quite
knocks me up now. Then I returned bankrupt in fortune. Whereas others
in my position may have come back to England rich and prosperous, I
found myself poor--beggared. So few words can tell what I have lost.
But what have I gained? I should need a volume to describe that
fairly; so much is it, and so cheaply purchased by suffering ten times
worse than what I have experienced. I have more than once heard people
say that they would gladly suffer illness to enjoy the delights of
convalescence, and so, by enduring a few days' pain, gain the tender
love of relatives and sympathy of friends. And on this principle I
rejoice in the trials which have borne me such pleasures as those I
now enjoy, for wherever I go I am sure to meet some smiling face;
every step I take in the crowded London streets may bring me in
contact with some friend, forgotten by me, perhaps, but who soon
reminds me of our old life before Sebastopol; it seems very long ago
now, when I was of use to him and he to me.
Where, indeed, do I not find friends. In omnibuses, in river
steamboats, in places of public amusement, in quiet streets and
courts, where taking short cuts I lose my way oft-times, spring up old
familiar faces to remind me of the months spent on Spring Hill. The
sentries at Whitehall relax from the discharge of their important duty
of guarding nothing to give me a smile of recognition; the very
newspaper offices look friendly as I pass them by; busy Printing-house
Yard puts on a cheering smile, and the _Punch_ office in Fleet Street
sometimes laughs outright. Now, would all this have happened if I had
returned to England a rich woman? Surely not.
A few words more ere I bring these egotistical remarks to a close. It
is naturally with feelings of pride and pleasure that I allude to the
committee recently organized to aid me; and if I indulge in the vanity
of placing their names before my readers, it is simply because every
one of the following noblemen and gentlemen knew me in the Crimea, and
by consenting to assist me now record publicly their opinion of my
services there. And yet I may reasonably on other grounds be proud of
the fact, that it has been stated publicly that my present
embarrassments originated in my charities and incessant labours among
the army, by
Major-General Lord Rokeby, K.C.B.
H.S.H. Prince Edward of Saxe Weimar, C.B.
His Grace the Duke of Wellington.
His Grace the Duke of Newcastle.
The Right Hon. Lord Ward.
General Sir John Burgoyne, K.C.B.
Major-General Sir Richard Airey, K.C.B.
Rear-Admiral Sir Stephen Lushington, K.C.B.
Colonel M'Murdo, C.B.
Colonel Chapman, C.B.
Lieutenant-Colonel Ridley, C.B.
Major the Hon. F. Keane.
W. H. Russell, Esq. (_Times_ Correspondent).
W. T. Doyne, Esq.
THE END.
London: Printed by Thomas Harrild, 11, Salisbury Square, Fleet Street.
Transcriber's Note
Minor typographic errors have been corrected without note.
Page 42--omitted 'I' added--"I must do them credit to say, that they
were never loath ..."
Page 94--omitted 'the' added--"... which is hired by the Government, at
great cost ..."
There are also a few Scots words in this text. These include 'waesome',
meaning sorrowful, woeful; and 'brash', meaning attack. Some archaic
spelling is also used (for example, secresy), which has been retained.
The few oe ligatures have not been retained in this version.