And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Notwithstanding the opposition and ill-feeling with which the lower
orders regard soldiers who may at times be called out in aid of the
civil power, it is gratifying to think that, in the event of a war
breaking out, it is extremely improbable that our Government would be
compelled to have recourse to the objectionable practice which has
frequently been pursued by other nations with regard to the draft or
conscription. The lower classes are ever more ready to voluntarily
enlist in time of war than in peace; and although we are generally
understood to be a peaceable, industrious people, and designated as "a
nation of shopkeepers," no other nation on the face of the earth could
muster more voluntary recruits, able-bodied and enthusiastic, in time of
war, than the British Government. The civilians, too, during the period
of a popular war, vie with each other in their treatment and general
admiration of the soldier. Many of our militia regiments volunteered to
a man to serve "wherever Her Majesty should please to direct" during the
Crimean campaign; and should we ever be so unfortunate as to be again
embroiled in another struggle of the same nature, I have no doubt that
the ranks of the regular army will at once be augmented to the required
number from our militia and volunteer regiments. Though the latter may
only be engaged and required, under their present conditions, to fight
in defence of our homes in case of invasion, they would be sure to be
fired with a desire to participate in the honours and distinctions
always to be attained in a more or less degree by brave and
well-conducted men in the regular army. I am not, of course, presuming
that all, or perhaps one-fourth, of the volunteers enrolled would
respond to the probable call for men to proceed on active service, in
case of a war breaking out; neither would any stigma of cowardice or
want of loyalty rest upon those who chose to stay at home. It is at all
times advisable for men to stay at home who really cannot enter upon the
active and arduous duties of a campaign with a full determination to
fight and distinguish themselves, so as to attain not only honour but a
pecuniary consideration in the form of pension on discharge, or such
promotion while living and serving in the army, as will compensate the
respectable civilian for exchanging a comparatively easy life at home
for one of privations, dangers, and hardships in a foreign land.
The majority of our soldiers are enlisted from a different class to
volunteers. The same restrictions, rigid rules, and discipline to which
the former are subjected would be exceedingly distasteful to the latter,
whose superior knowledge and discrimination between right and wrong
would render them very troublesome to the school of commanding officers
of the present day. They would grumble and spread discontent to a
degree that might be dangerous to the discipline of the army as at
present constituted. It is true that very many of our soldiers are
drawn from the strongest, the hardiest, and I may add the most
headstrong class of people in the world: for the most part, they are
given to habits of intemperance, and always taught from boyhood to
consider independence a virtue, and to look upon the higher classes as
their enemies. When, however, they become soldiers, they are required
at once to abandon all such thoughts, and yield implicit obedience to
the restrictions on their habits and feelings. I have already stated
that this class of men are really benefited by the change from a civil
to a military life, and also set forth my reasons for so stating. But
such a change for the majority of our volunteers as they are at present
constituted would be anything but welcome, for it must be remembered
that, however gallant they may be in action, or however well conducted
generally, promotion is very slow in the British army, and, after all,
it is not scrupulously awarded according to merit. The habits and
manners of the British volunteer in civil life are far different to
those of three-fourths of the regular army before they enlisted. But
when divested of his clownish manners and rendered obedient to his
superiors, the common labourer is in every point of view (except that of
making him into a non-commissioned officer) a better man for military
purposes than the son of a tradesman. He is quite as moral, as docile,
and can stand the change of climate better than three-fourths of the
volunteers we see marching so gaily through the streets of our large
towns and cities. Soldiers are required to march, to fight, to starve,
to encounter storms at sea, pestilence on land, to abandon their native
country, relatives, and friends, for years--often for life. They have
little pay, few promises of rewards, and still fewer rewards; and when
worn out and miserable, and racked with pain from long hardships and
wounds, they are too often sent in poverty to their native places, and
pine away their lives the lowest of the lowly. The life of a private
soldier, infantry or cavalry, would be considered on the whole as one
irksome and distasteful to the natural feelings of a great number of our
volunteers. The duty of the former is to "work at soldiers," and the
latter only to "play at soldiers." But, rich or poor, educated or
uneducated, they must all be kept in strict subordination in the army,
and do their duty, whatever it may be, with scrupulous exactness and
punctuality. On the field of battle the one is as good as the other;
and who can say that the national spirit, the vital energy, of the
thorough Englishman, Irishman, or Scotchman, has not always been as firm
on the battle-field with the men descended from poor parents as those
who can boast of the great and rich for their progenitors?
My object in making the above observations is to press upon the minds of
such of my readers as are already or may eventually become volunteers,
that in the event of a war breaking out, and the spirit of patriotism
extending, as it invariably does, to militia and volunteer corps, it
would be the height of folly to enter the regular army, without first
calculating the consequences of so great a change from the "feather-bed
soldiering" at home to that I have described as a matter of imperative
duty to the regular soldier on a campaign.
The maintenance of a large volunteer force at home is as much a matter
of policy with our Government, as it is to send the regular army abroad
to meet the enemy. Therefore, morally, the volunteer is, considering
his capability, as much entitled to credit as his brethren in arms, who
by nature are better fitted to the post of danger and hardships assigned
to them. A certain class of civilians (speech-makers at public
meetings, and the like) frequently state that "a better system of
rewards, and a milder discipline, would bring a better class of men into
the army." No change that could be devised would bring a better class
of men into the army. The British army has nearly always conquered
every army it encountered: this, therefore, should be proof sufficient
that it is the best army. But good as it undoubtedly has been, and,
moreover, sorely put to the test, through the incompetency of its
leaders and administrators, it never was in anything like the state of
efficiency it is at the present time; and it doubtless will continue to
improve until engaged in another campaign. When on the line of march, I
have often heard civilians question soldiers as to their feelings and
individual experience in action. "Did you not feel frightened?" they
would say; and I daresay that many of my readers would like to hear the
same query truthfully answered. Now, I am well aware that there are
some enthusiastic people who would almost consider it a "national
crime," so to speak, for any person to assert, or in the most distant
manner insinuate, that at the commencement of a battle a British soldier
feels anything approaching to fear; yet in making a few remarks upon
this subject, I am compelled to admit that all British soldiers are men,
and it is peculiar to the constitution of man to be afraid on the
approach of death, unless he becomes so excited that his passions
overcome his reflection.
The British soldier must have credit, over all others, for steady
unflinching courage and cool discipline in standing still under the
raking fire of an enemy, until his commander sees a proper opportunity
to give the order to advance; but on these occasions the faces of the
bravest often change colour, and the limbs of the most resolute tremble,
as the fatal thud of the enemy's bullets is heard and seen to take
effect upon some respected comrade or favourite officer. Those who have
not experienced this peculiar feeling can form but little idea of the
effects which it produces on the mind of a soldier at such a time. On
such occasions no conversation is supposed to be going on, but now and
then a stifled whisper expressing an anxious desire to hear the welcome
sound of the trumpet to "advance" is heard. Every minute seems an hour,
as bullet after bullet whistles through the ranks, and the round shot,
first ploughing up the ground or scattering the dust in front of the
brigade, comes crashing amongst the men and horses. Sometimes a huge
shell is seen "whizzing" through the air, and hovering for an instant
ere it explodes and deals death and destruction in every direction.
This appears like cool, unexcited courage, and no troops in the world
have ever displayed it with less flinching than the British. But it
would be absurd to say that it is done with out fear of death. It is
hard to stand still or sit still on your horses and be shot at, with a
consciousness that every second of time may be your last, and the next
you may be in eternity. But when once the order is given to "advance"--
first at a "walk," then a rapid trot, then a fast canter, and finally,
amidst the clash of the sabre-scabbards on the stirrup-irons, and the
rumbling roll of the horses' hoofs, the shrill voice of the commander is
heard as he turns his head to the trumpeter and shrieks out the order
"charge," and the latter turns in his saddle and sounds the blast which
calls many a good soldier to his last account--instantly the horses
stretch out their necks, lay back their ears, and dash into a gallop at
full speed; each man clenches his teeth, drops the hilt of his sabre on
his right thigh, firmly clutched in his hand, and leaning forward in his
stirrups, he is rapidly borne to the ranks of the enemy. Sometimes he
has to encounter, as at Balaclava, a field-battery, bellowing and
belching forth fire and smoke, first seen, then terribly realised as the
men and horses that happen to be riding in the line of fire tumble heels
over head in a quivering mass of mangled flesh, blood, and ghastly
splinters of bone--seen but for one instant, when seen at all, but long
enough to make you remember it for ever; and it renders you temporarily
insane with excitement for the time being: your only desire is to kill.
On, on, you ride, amidst the fire and the smoke, the blood and the
thunder, until you meet the foe hand to hand: a streak of fire flashes
simultaneously from end to end of the enemy's front. Many saddles are
emptied, and many horses are plunging here and there without riders.
Strong men, shot through the heart or the head, throw up their arms,
and, falling backwards from their horses, are seen no more; if any life
be left in them it is soon trampled out. Behind the field-battery is a
solid square of infantry; the front ranks are kneeling with bayonets
presented the height of the horses' chests, the rear ranks are standing
with their arms at the "present." On, on, the cavalry dash, over the
guns or through the narrow passages between them. Those gunners, with
here and there an officer, who stand bravely to their field-pieces to
the last, are only like so many chopping-blocks for the rear squadrons,
who dash forward in rapid succession and keep the front ranks intact.
And now the work of carnage is at hand. Crashing into the solid squares
with one wild British hurrah, the rattle of bayonets and the clash of
sabres are awful evidence that the death-struggle between cavalry and
infantry has fairly begun. But little firing is heard beyond an
occasional shot from an officer's revolver (the best of all firearms in
close conflict); the smoke is not so dense, and you can plainly see the
whites of your enemies' eyes, which have a strange supernatural
appearance, many rolling in the agonies of death. Now and then you feel
the spurting of blood on your hands and face, unconscious at the moment
whether it be from your own body, your comrade's, or your foe's.
Nothing intelligible is heard beyond the shrieks of the dying, the
rattle of steel, the loud groan of some horse who, mortally wounded,
drops on the ground, rolls on his back, and struggles with his shoes
upwards, until all is over; but you cannot stay to see the end.
The incidents of an action are all taken at a glance; you don't think
until safe out of it; and sometimes days elapse before you call to mind
the many things that have flitted before your vision in the heat of an
engagement. You may see a trooper fairly cleave the head of an enemy,
like cutting through the heart of a cabbage; the point of a sword enter
the mouth of another enemy and peep out at the other side; a swinging
cut or two from your own arm may be delivered so as to sever the jugular
vein and all the arteries of the neck of a man on your right, whose
bayonet may be within an inch of your ribs. On the other hand, the
desperate infantry will thrust their bayonets up to the hilt into the
breast or behind the shoulder of a horse and pierce his heart, so that
he rolls over, and before the trooper can clear his stirrups, and rise
to form his guard, his foe has pinned him to the ground with a thrust
through the pit of his stomach, and leaves man and horse to mingle their
life's blood together. The cuts one and two with the point are the most
effective in close fighting with infantry; but the latter, if well
drilled to the use of the bayonet, are at all times the most formidable
opponents that cavalry have to contend with.
Nothing but good horses, with plenty of bone and substance, ridden at a
very rapid gallop by determined men, can break up a solid square of
infantry composed of good men well drilled in the use of the bayonet.
Such squares formed by our own men in the face of the best cavalry that
could be brought to bear against them have never yet been broken; but,
on the other hand, our cavalry have never been known to fail in breaking
up solid squares of our enemies' infantry. A reference to the history
of any of our great battles will be sufficient to confirm this
statement.
A battle between two regiments or brigades of cavalry is, however, a
species of fighting in which our own dragoons excel over every other
mounted troops that ever were, or in my opinion, ever will be, opposed
to them in action. They are most unnecessarily encumbered with a heavy,
unwieldy firearm (the carbine), when a neat and exceedingly effective
weapon--a repeating pistol, or revolver--could be loaded with five
rounds of ball-cartridge before going into action, and when fairly
engaged and surrounded with enemies on every side, the revolver could be
drawn from a holster-pipe, and every round it contained fired at such
close quarters as to render it a matter of certainty that a man would be
killed at every shot.
As an illustration of the value of this weapon, I may state that the 8th
King's Royal Irish Hussars (one of the regiments engaged in the Light
Cavalry charge at Balaclava) had fifty of these revolvers served out to
them before embarking for India to assist in quelling the Mutiny in
1858. Soon after their arrival, they were called into action at
Gwalior, where they charged the rebels, and in a few minutes the latter
were put to flight, leaving upwards of one hundred dead on the field.
On examining the bodies, it was found that, with one or two exceptions,
they had all been killed by the men armed with revolvers, who composed
the front rank. Now, if the leading squadron had simply been armed with
a carbine and sabre, the manner in which the majority of our cavalry
regiments (except lancers) are armed, the odds are that not a man of the
enemy would have been killed, inasmuch as the rebels would have fled
before our troops had been near enough to use the sabre.
The carbine, by its great weight, adds materially to the load which the
horse has to carry in long and forced marches. Its weight and length
also render it a cumbersome and awkward weapon to load and fire in close
action; and the continual plunging, unsteady movements of the horse make
it a pure matter of chance whether the soldier can take a correct aim so
as to hit an enemy at any range. Then, again, it is much in the way of
the sword-arm in cutting to the right, and the manner in which it is
attached to the saddle is at all times extremely dangerous to the
soldier when mounting in a hurry, or if, when a horse is hit or killed
in action (a thing of very frequent occurrence), the animal should fall
on his off (right) side, the soldier's thigh being wedged, as it were,
between the stock of the carbine crosswise, the man's thigh is snapped
like a twig, and he is therefore incapable of releasing himself.
After the famous charge at Balaclava some noise was made about the
inefficiency of the carbine, and the necessity of equipping our dragoons
with a better weapon; but it is very difficult to introduce such a
change into the British army.
Corporal Shaw, the life-guardsman, threw his carbine away on the field
of Waterloo, and trusted to his sabre, with which he killed eleven men.
In the face of the improved equipment of foreign cavalry, it is to be
hoped that our dragoons will not be left with this unwieldy, cumbersome,
and most useless weapon in future campaigns.
Further reference to this subject, together with my own experience on
active service, must be reserved for the concluding chapters of my
story. For the present, it will be my especial business to endeavour to
amuse my readers with the continuous events and other matters connected
with my term of service at home.