1854--THE SIEGE OF SEVASTOPOL
Captain Peel’s heroic conduct--My only two pocket-handkerchiefs--
Dr. William Howard Russell’s eulogy of the sailors--Horse
Artillery going into action--Battle of Inkerman--Sailors
prepare to spike their guns--Foraging at Balaklava--The great
gale of the 14th November--“Well done, _Queen_.”
The English batteries, Right and Left Attack, had only eight guns
dismounted, and re-opened fire soon after daybreak on the 18th October.
The French were sanguine the previous day that they would be ready next
morning, but they were not, and asked for twenty-four hours’ delay for
the assault; but their batteries were not then re-armed, and a further
delay became necessary. Indeed, before our Allies were ready, the
Russians had repaired their damages, and were in better condition than
they had been after a few hours’ fire on the 17th October. By the 20th
the English batteries had lost the undoubted mastery they had obtained
on the first day.
Early on the 18th Captain Peel gave us a proof of remarkable courage. A
shell weighing 42 lbs. penetrating the parapet, rolled into the centre
of a gun’s crew, who threw themselves on the ground. This would not,
however, have saved them, for there were several cases of powder being
passed into the magazine on the spot, but Peel stooping down lifted the
shell, and resting it against his chest carried it back to the parapet,
and, stepping on to the ledge of earth termed Banquette, rolled it over
the Superior crest, on which it immediately burst.
About noon I had been relieved, and was eating my ration of raw salt
pork, a biscuit, and an onion, with some tea without milk or sugar. I
was sitting alongside a gun, one of the three I had been working, on
the far side of which there was a magazine built into the parapet, when
a shell bursting on the top of the magazine set fire to the roof and
sent a shower of sand over my pork. I was more interested in trying
to save it than in the effect of the shell, until the flames created
some trepidation, and the officer who had relieved me (not belonging
to the _Queen_) demoralised the men by his excited demeanour. There
was really no danger of the magazine exploding unless another shell
struck it in the same spot, but the officer yelled, “Shell burst in the
magazine, sir; magazine on fire.” Now Ridge, First Lieutenant of H.M.S.
_Diamond_, was as cool and unconcerned as if he had been shifting
topsails, and responded without the slightest excitement in his tone,
“Ay, ay, put it out,” suggesting means which might have been used by
Smollett, but cannot here be recorded. The shouts were repeated, and
eventually, as the men were still flat on the ground, I put down,
though unwillingly, my ration, and got up on the magazine, stamping
out the burning bags, and kicking earth into the crater made by the
explosion. I soon scorched my socks and the lower part of my trousers,
and then extinguished the fire by squatting on the sand-bags, which
being filled with earth made only a fitful flame.
While I was thus engaged I felt somebody working alongside of me, but
I did not pause to look up, for shells and bullets were striking the
parapet around us, and thus it was not a spot in which one would stay
any longer than was necessary. When the fire was out, a decided voice
said, “Jump down,” and then I saw it was Captain Peel. He ordered the
gun’s crew to fall in, sent away the officer who had caused the alarm,
and made a speech in praise of my conduct. This was the beginning of a
friendship which lasted till his death, in 1858. He was twice my age,
and at that period the gulf between a Midshipman and a Post Captain was
immense, but as Sir John Robinson, the observant Editor of the _Daily
News_, used to contend, “There is a special bond of comradeship between
those who have stood together in critical moments of war. Nothing can
quite approach it--they have been revealed to each other in a supreme
test of moral and physical value. They have been close to God, and have
seen each other as He and posterity will appraise them.”
I have often been asked if I was nervous the first time I came under
fire, and I have always answered truthfully, “Yes,” although I cannot
say that my statement has always been credited. Not only was I nervous
the first time, but throughout my service the first shot in every
action passing near me has been acutely felt, unless I had some duty on
hand at the moment. The sense of duty preoccupies a man, and not only
from what I felt, but from what I have seen in many actions, the strain
on the nerves of a gun detachment is considerably lessened by the fact
that the service of a gun being dependent on combined action, compels a
Gunner to concentrate his thoughts on his work.
I believe Generals, or any officers in command, who have
responsibility, if they are the right sort, lose all sense of personal
fear. At the end of the first bombardment, which lasted a week, I was
conscious of a decided feeling of exultation in the presence of danger,
such as men feel when they do well in manly sports, or women feel when
they realise they are pre-eminent among their compeers.
The events which I have related of the carrying up of the powder[20]
and the extinguishing of the fired magazine were reported at the time
to the Commander-in-Chief, Lord Raglan, and when the Victoria Cross
was instituted a year later, with retrospective effect, caused my name
to be put forward for the decoration, and eventually obtained for me a
Commission without purchase in the Army.
When we opened fire, being very proud of ourselves, we named that
part of the 21-gun battery, the guns of which were manned by sailors,
the Koh-i-noor Battery, a play on the name of Captain Peel’s ship,
H.M.S. _Diamond_. “Koh-i-noor” was painted in black letters on a white
signboard, and near it was hoisted a Union Jack in the centre of our
section of half the battery. Neither the board nor the Union Jack
remained after an hour’s firing. As wood and paint were scarce, we gave
up the board; but the flag-staff was replaced again and again. Captain
Peel refixed it twice on the 17th, and in replacing it on the 18th I
had a curious escape. The battery was built on a slightly descending
slope, about that of St. James’s Street, London, S.W., and as the flag
stood above the trench or big ditch which formed the battery, shots
just missing the top of the parapet, which was about four feet above
the surface of the ground, often cut the flag-staff or one of its
supports. When the pole had been much reduced in length by its numerous
fractures, we fastened the flag on to a spare rammer. This rammer was
cut away on the 18th, and as I did not like to remain in sight of the
enemy while digging a fresh hole, I collected some trucks or wheels of
guns’ carriages which had been injured, and in them placed the rammer
with the flag, filling up the space with stones and fragments of broken
shell. I was just putting the finishing touches to what I thought would
give a firm hold, when a shot struck the pile of trucks, and cut them
down to the ground.
On the 19th of October our Commander and Lieutenant Douglas were
checking the aim of the gun on which my friend Mr. Sanctuary had been
wounded: we were not satisfied with our shooting, for it was not till
many days later that we realised that two of the Russian guns in the
Malakoff Battery which appeared to us to be in the same alignment were
not so, one being nearer to us than the other gun standing apparently
next to it. The nearer Russian gun required less elevation on our gun
for the target, but as we thought the enemy’s guns were equidistant
from our battery, we believed that the error of “shorts and overs” was
due to bad “laying.” While the officers were discussing the laying of
the gun with the captain of it, the crew of eight men on either side,
a 13-inch mortar shell falling immediately in front of the gun close
to the carriage, exploded. The result was so strange as to be almost
incredible. Our gun was cut in two bits, the charge exploded, and the
shot went in the air, the carriage and breech of the gun upsetting,
and flying backwards without hurting a man. The following day there
was a somewhat similar case. A cart loaded with round-shot had been
by error brought in daylight up to the battery, and two men were in
the cart throwing out the shot, when a Russian round-shot struck the
centre of the load in between the two men without touching either, one
man actually having one of our shot in his arms; but the enemy’s shot,
while it missed them, struck the heap in the cart, scattered the load
high in the air, wounding severely three sailors.
That afternoon I gave up a pocket-handkerchief to tie up Able-seaman
Simmons, of H.M.S. _Diamond_, who was dangerously wounded by a shell
splinter in the thigh. He returned to the battery six months later,
bringing back the handkerchief, and thanking me for the loan! On the
20th I gave up my only other handkerchief to save a man’s nose. A shell
burst immediately over the gun which I was working, striking down
several of the crew, amongst others Edward Hallett, of H.M.S. _Queen_.
He was injured in several places, and as I helped the doctor to turn
him on his back--for all the wounds were in front of his body--we
noticed that his nose was nearly off, hanging by a bit of skin. The
doctor used my handkerchief to wipe off some of the sand, and then
refixed the nose with it. The nose joined satisfactorily, but Hallett
died two years later from his other wounds. Dr. William H. Russell,
_Times_ correspondent, wrote the following tribute to the work of the
Bluejackets: “The Sailors’ Brigade suffered very severely; although
they only worked about thirty-five guns in the various batteries, they
lost more men than all our siege train, working and covering parties
put together.”
On the 24th, the firing, which had slackened down daily, ceased. I
spent that night in battery, and returned to camp at daylight. Soon
after I returned we heard the sound of firing near Balaklava. Captains
Peel and Lord John Hay were the only officers of the Naval Brigade who
saw the charges, one of which was immortalised by Tennyson, and as
they did not return to our camp till evening we had little idea of the
world-wide story. One of our officers who had been to Balaklava, in the
evening observed, when we were going to sleep, “That was a smart little
affair that the Cavalry had this morning.” But we “stood to Arms” until
the Infantry reinforcements, which moved to the “Col,”[21] returned to
their camps.
The difference between the sister Services was noticeable in an
incident that day. A Commander was Senior on parade. He had given an
order, “Examine arms, draw ramrods,” and the Bluejackets having dropped
the ramrod to the bottom of the barrel, and removed it, were holding
the head an inch from the muzzle. The Inspecting Officers passed round,
but the Commander could not remember the next order, “Return ramrods.”
A soldier would have blundered or asked, but the Commander called, “Go
on, men; you know the rest.” And they did, without any outward sign of
merriment.
I was sent to battery again that night, and having returned to camp at
daylight, witnessed at a distance of about a mile and a half the sortie
made by the Russians, who, while on the Inkerman crest, were that
distance or less from our parade-ground. At one o’clock I was strolling
in the camp, when rapid firing commenced near the 2nd Division camp.
Bugles sounded all around, and the Naval Brigade fell in, and got out
the ammunition. Then I witnessed a most inspiring sight. “E,” or “the
Black Battery,” now the 12th Field Battery, was encamped near Lord
Raglan’s Headquarters, and after we had “fallen in,” passed our camp
at top speed, the teams stretched down, and every driver “riding” his
horse. I was so much impressed by the set, determined look on the faces
of the men, that I have never forgotten it. Not an eye was turned to
the right or to the left as the guns swept past us, and nobody seemed
to notice the little bank and surface drain on either side of the
Woronzow road, which sent the guns jumping up in the air. In silence we
watched the battery pass on, until it seemed they came into action in
the midst of the Russians, and in a few minutes the enemy fell back.
It was on this day that my friend Hewett[22] gained the Victoria Cross
by bravely fighting his battery of two guns, which he had been ordered
to spike and retire.
On the morning of the 5th November we breakfasted at 2.30 a.m. as
usual, marching to battery at three o’clock. It had rained all night,
was drizzling when day broke, and there was a fog, dense in the
ravines, but which lifted occasionally on the crest-line of the Upland.
At four o’clock we heard plainly the bells ringing in Sevastopol, and
the noise of Artillery wheels, but at 5.30 p.m. the pickets reported,
“All quiet in Front.” I tell nothing of the battle-story now, which
I narrated in _The Crimea in 1854-’94_, ten years ago, but it is
interesting to recall that when our soldiers were being heavily
pressed, the Generals commanding the Light and 4th Divisions declined
the aid of Bosquet’s Division, which was encamped to the south of the
2nd Division. It came later to help us when invited by Lord Raglan.
The roads from the Upland into the city of Sevastopol follow the
ravines or fissures mentioned on p. 37, two of which join the Careenage
ravine, passing at the northern end under precipitous cliffs, with
gradients of 1 in 4. The Russians therefore sent Reserves and
ammunition trains by a track which passes to the east of the Mamelon,
and then southward down Gordon’s Hill into the middle ravine, whence it
turns back northwards to the Careenage ravine. We did not understand at
the time how greatly the movements of the Russians were cramped by the
ground, and we thought that the columns descending Gordon’s Hill were
coming to turn the flank of the 21-gun battery. Now the guard of the
trenches was so weak that it could not protect them in front and on the
flank, and therefore our position appeared precarious.
As the sound of firing on the Inkerman ridges trended farther
southwards, six of our guns on the right were run back to fire along
the flank, and spikes for disabling all were issued, and the men
were shown the line of retreat. The head of a Russian column turned
eastwards and disappeared when 1100 yards from our guns, but must
have halted, for the tail of it remained for a long time exposed to
our fire, at ranges varying from 1100 to 1500 yards, and under its
destructive action gradually dissolved. I saw a shell from one of our
guns explode in a powder waggon, destroying all the men and horses
near it. The enemy endured this heavy fire with resigned courage,
their comrades in the Malakoff and the Redan doing all they could to
help them by concentrating their fire on the 21-gun battery. The fight
was over by one o’clock. If the Russians had not been hampered by the
ground, divisions which they intended should ascend by two slopes,
getting on to one ridge, the result must have been a disaster for the
Allies.
Captain Peel was not in the battery that day, going with Mr. Daniel
straight from camp to Inkerman. During the fight, when officers and
non-commissioned officers were killed, groups of privates collecting
under some natural or self-elected leader of men, charged again and
again, and we heard next day that Captain Peel led seven such counter
attacks.
When I got back to camp at sunset, I went over to see a shipmate,
Captain March, of the Royal Marines, who had been wounded in the fight.
We had sent fifty of our two hundred Marines to Eupatoria on the 14th
September, and the balance landed at Balaklava, which they garrisoned
till a few days before the 5th November, when the Light Division had
been so weakened by continuous work as to be unable to relieve their
pickets.[23] Captain March was a favourite with everyone on board
the _Queen_, and maintained his reputation by his cheery demeanour
when badly wounded. He had been struck just behind the mouth by a big
bullet, which had made an enormous hole in his jaw, but had left no
sign of its exit; he lived, however, for forty years after the battle.
There were mingled feelings in our camps that evening: the officers
felt intense pride in their men’s enduring courage, but they reflected
uneasily that we had narrowly escaped a disaster. I think that with
the exception of some night-fighting in the trenches our Infantry
never fought during the war with so great, resolute, and sustained
determination as on the 5th November.
Three days after the battle I visited the field for motives of business
as well as curiosity, for I was nearly barefooted. When on the 1st
October we were warned that we must carry everything we took on shore,
I limited my load to a shirt, two blankets, two pocket-handkerchiefs,
and two pairs of socks. My light sailor’s shoes were worn out within
a week, in carrying messages for our Commander while he and my
shipmates were at meals. I could not have gone on working, but that
John Handcock, the Marine who had looked after me on board, and who
was stationed on Balaklava Heights, hearing of my shoeless state,
sent me down a pair of his own boots. These were also worn out, for
although I rode my pony down to Balaklava, it was necessary for me to
walk up, as it could not carry me and the things I brought for the
Mess. I did not like the idea, however, of despoiling a dead man, so I
took a Bluejacket with me, to whom I promised half a sovereign for a
satisfactory fit. These he soon produced, and I had reason to praise
the good workmanship of the Russian boot contractors.
During the last days of October the small quantities of grass remaining
in the valleys failed, and it was more and more difficult to keep
any flesh on my pony. Elsworthy (_vide_ p. 43) and I, in one of our
earliest visits to Balaklava, had cast covetous eyes on the stacks of
barley laid out on the wharves ready for the ration parties, and later
we took the pony down, I carrying ostentatiously the accumulations
of my rum ration in a bottle. There was a sentry over the barley,
but he perceiving the pony and two men with lashings, one carrying a
suggestive bottle of rum, walked to the end of his “beat,” and looked
steadily towards the mouth of the harbour until we had balanced a
sack on the saddle and lashed it securely. As we departed, the sentry
returned and picked up the bottle I had placed between two sacks. This
method was followed throughout the winter, and until the month of May,
when, being appointed an Aide-de-Camp to Captain Peel, I was able to
obtain barley in a legitimate manner, on requisition.[24] I put up a
rough shed for the pony, giving it one of my blankets, and had full
advantage of its services, as it was never sick or sorry.
The last few days in October were pleasantly warm during the day
although cold at night, but after the battle of Inkerman the weather
grew daily worse. From the 10th, rain fell heavily, and continued
incessantly for many days. That day I had to admit I was sick. I had
been suffering from constant diarrhœa, induced by eating salt pork,
often uncooked, and now the malady, aggravated by the cold and rainy
weather experienced all night in the trenches, had made me seriously
ill. The doctor directed me to remain lying down as much as possible,
but on the morning of the 14th there befell the troops a great
misfortune. It was blowing heavily in gusts at 4 a.m. when the battery
Relief marched off, and sheets of rain beating on the tent made me
congratulate myself I had been excused duty. At about 5 a.m. the tent
pole was bending so ominously that the two Lieutenants in the tent
with me, having put on all the clothes they possessed, held the pole
by turns. At six o’clock, however, while the pole still held intact, a
heavier blast of wind, lifting the tent right up in the air, carried
it away. I was certainly uncomfortable with the rain beating down on
me, and yet my sufferings were as nothing in comparison with hundreds
of our soldier-comrades, some of whom wounded, and many sick, lay for
hours exposed to the fury of the elements; for the hospital marquees,
owing to their great spread of canvas, offered so much resistance to
the wind that they were the first to fall. Several men in our Army who
were “at duty” were found dead in the morning at their posts. Nearly
all our horses broke loose from their picket ropes, and wild with
terror careered over the Upland, and sixty of the very few we had,
died that night. The force of the gale overturned waggons, and it was
impossible for even a strong man to walk upright against the wind. When
the tent blew away, my two companions took shelter under a low wall of
stones which we had built round the powder magazine about a hundred
yards from where our tent had stood, and when the storm moderated a
little, more rain falling, I tried to join them; but the wind knocked
me down, and I travelled the intervening distance on my hands and
knees. Even in this fashion, however, the wind was too much for my
remaining strength, and I should not have got to the wall but that our
Gunnery Lieutenant and two Bluejackets going down on their knees, and
joining hands, stretched out to intercept me. When I got under the
shelter of the wall my comrades did all they could to help me, giving
me the most sheltered spot.
As we looked around, we could not see more than two or three tents in
any of the camps still standing, and these were protected by stone
walls. We lay huddled together, thinking what might have happened to
the ships, and watching the storm-driven kit which was swept through
our camp. During the height of the gale two drums were borne along
close to each other, and afforded us much interest. They rolled rapidly
until caught by a stone or a tent peg, when the wind would turn them
upright for a few seconds, and then a fresh gust carried them on again.
Not far from where we were lying there were two bell-tents still
standing, belonging to different ships’ detachments. The _Queen’s_
were on friendly terms with the officers of both, but the Commanders
were very different in their nature. When the Senior in one was asked
whether he would receive a sick Midshipman, he replied he was not going
to have his tent made wet and dirty. About nine o’clock the officers
who were in the other tent, belonging to H.M.S. _Bellerophon_, heard of
my state, and two of them came over to invite me in. They supported me
down, but to open the door would have had the effect of carrying the
tent away, so I had to crawl in through a pool of water, which added
to the mud already covering my jacket and trousers. My hosts, however,
made light of this inconvenience, and regardless of the effect of my
dirty state, covered me up in their clean dry blankets. I slept till
awakened by the voice of our Commander, on his return from the battery,
shouting, “Where, and how, is young Wood?”
About twelve o’clock the south-west wind veered to the westward, and
then sleet fell, followed by snow, which lay on the hills; but from two
o’clock the wind, though colder, was moderating, and the Naval Brigade
set to work to repitch our camp, and by nightfall had collected, in
many cases from afar, what remained of it.
Our losses that day were great both in lives and in stores, twenty-one
vessels being wrecked off the mouth of Balaklava Harbour. A magazine
ship carrying ten million rounds, and the _Prince_, one of our largest
transports, laden with warm clothing and stores of all descriptions,
went down. The French lost a line-of-battle ship and the _Pluton_ off
Eupatoria, where a Turkish line-of-battle ship sank with all hands.
Many of the houses in Sevastopol were unroofed in the height of the
gale.
The Admiral again made the signal, “Well done, _Queen_.” She was
anchored off the mouth of the Katcha River, six miles north of
Sevastopol, and during a lull in the storm sent boats to rescue men
from several Austrian and Greek ships which had gone ashore. It was
work of considerable danger, increased by the stupid barbarity of a
few Cossacks, who fired on the rescue parties, wounding two of our
men. Captain Michell, to whom this rescue was due, was not only brave
himself, but possessed the more uncommon courage, that of daring to
order others to risk their lives. He had previously offered to break
the boom which closed the harbour mouth, by taking his ship at it under
all plain sail; but, not unnaturally perhaps, his offer was declined by
the Admiral. The rudder-head of the _Queen_ was cracked by the action
of the waves, and a week later I see by the Captain’s letters to his
wife, and to the Commander who was with the brigade on shore, when
the Admiral wished to send the _Queen_ and the other sailing vessels
down to the Bosphorus, Michell objected on the ground that if the
line-of-battle ships could not physically assist the troops, yet their
presence might do something to encourage them. Later he was ordered
down, and writing to the Admiral from the Bosphorus in January 1885,
mentions he has only 330 men on board out of 970 the establishment, all
the others having landed.