mist obscured the sound; and most probably, the English soldiers,
far from considering the clashing from the belfries as the signal
for the gathering of troops, imagined that one of the multitudinous
festivals of the Greek Church was being celebrated with unwonted
ostentation. Towards morning the mist thickened, and it was
impossible to discern any object at above a few yards’ distance.
Taking advantage of the fog, the Russians conveyed their guns
to the lofty eminences beyond the Tchernaya, facing the British
position, and by almost incredible efforts, in a very brief
time, had established a formidable battery in a most commanding
situation. About four o’clock in the morning, intelligence arrived
at head-quarters that Balaklava was again threatened. General
Bosquet was immediately on the alert, with his French chasseurs,
and the indomitable Sir Colin Campbell was fully prepared to meet
any force which might be despatched against him. It was no part,
however, of the enemy’s tactics seriously to attack this position.
His purpose was fully served by the attention of the French being
attracted to this point, and the English being diverted from the
real point of assault. About five o’clock enormous bodies of
Russian infantry, under cover of the heavy fog, silently passed
the bridge across the Tchernaya, and stealthily crept up the hill
towards the weak point of the English position at the newly-erected
two-gun battery. The pickets of the 55th, on duty at this spot,
suddenly found themselves in presence of an over-whelming force of
the enemy. Desperately fighting, the courageous little band slowly
yielded ground, contesting every step, and retreating up the hill
towards the redoubt. Their smart firing, in reply to the tremendous
volleys of the enemy’s musketry, which were now poured into the
handful of men, aroused the camp, and indicated the real nature of
the enemy’s plans. General Pennefather, who commanded the Second
Division, in the absence of Sir De Lacy Evans (who was compelled
by the debilitated state of his health to leave his active duties,
and retire on board one of the ships in the harbor), immediately
hastened to the scene; and the men of his division, hastily shaking
off their sleep, quickly responded to the alarm. In a few minutes
all was bustle and activity. Officers and men, alike hurried
forward, some half-dressed, all unbreakfasted, many suffering
from sickness, and none free from the effects of privation and
over-toil. From the Second Division the intelligence of the attack
was quickly carried to the camps of the First, Fourth and Light
Divisions, and the Duke of Cambridge, Sir George Cathcart, and Sir
George Brown, instantly put themselves at the heads of their men,
and lost no time in marching to the scene of action.
When the pickets were driven in, they retreated to the little
two-gun battery, and fired through the embrasures at the masses
of the enemy, now advancing in dense columns to the attack. The
Russian batteries on the opposite hills opened a tremendous fire
upon them, and the guns of the town and the ships in the harbor
threw enormous volleys of shell and shot right into the camp of
the Second Division, tearing up the ground, and destroying the
tents. For a few moments the gallant fellows of the 51st held their
ground, but no courage could long contend against such fearful
odds. In spite of their fire, much too feeble to stay the advance
of such massive columns, the Russians advanced at a rapid pace up
the hill, the few shots of the undaunted defenders of the redoubt
telling fatally in their ranks. Almost before the English could
reload, the Russians were swarming around the battery, and leaping
over the embrasure. Many were hurled back again by the bayonets of
the undaunted picket, who at length, borne down by the weight of
the attack, were driven from the work, and retreated down the hill.
The 41st and 49th now came into the action, and forming into line,
charged the advancing Russians, and drove them back to the redoubt.
Again was this little work the scene of a tremendous contest.
The two regiments discharging a brisk volley from their Minié
rifles, levelled their bayonets, and driving the enemy pell-mell
before them, hurled them out of the battery, and once more the
English were masters of the position. The retreating Russians
were speedily met and reinforced by other columns of infantry, and
then doubled in numbers, again advanced to the attack. The fire,
too, from their batteries, poured unceasing destruction into the
thin ranks of the English regiments. Already the dead and dying
were lying thick around, and many of the bravest and best among
them had fallen beneath the intense fire of the enemy. The Russian
masses literally surged up the hill, and hurled themselves once
more at the devoted little band. A fearful struggle followed. Hand
to hand was the combat waged, the bayonet doing deadly havoc upon
friend and foe. In vain the brave defenders of their post struggled
against the unequal odds; in vain the officers heroically exposed
themselves and encouraged their men to the desperate encounter;
and in vain the men themselves emulated their leaders’ undaunted
courage--the enemy, so immensely superior in numbers, drove them,
after a sanguinary defence, from the work, and pursued them,
desperately fighting in their retreat, towards the camp of their
division.
The alarm had now spread throughout the entire camp, and even
reached Balaklava, rousing the sleepers on board the ships in
the harbour. The heavy booming of the cannon told how fierce was
the contest. Sir De Lacy Evans forgot his sickness, and leaving
the bed to which for many days he had been confined, insisted on
being rowed ashore; and mounting a horse, which he was almost too
weak to guide, started for the field of battle. Lord Raglan, with
his staff, had by this time reached the spot, and at once saw the
critical position of the Allies; and saw, too, the blunder which
the enemy had committed. General Soimonoff, who should, upon
issuing from the ravine near Careening Bay, have turned to the
right and attacked the centre of the English line, weakened by the
tremendous assault on the extreme left of the position, mistook
the direction and marched to the left, thus reaching the ground
occupied by the Second Division, and embarrassing General Pauloff’s
operations by permitting the concentration of the English forces
to repel his assault, instead of diverting their attention by an
attack at a comparatively remote point. For a General of Raglan’s
experience to take advantage of this blunder was an easy task.
He immediately made such arrangements of the small means at his
command as would enable him to present two fronts of resistance
on the threatened points, while preserving the solidity of his
position.
The 20th and 47th regiments now arrived to the assistance of the
gallant 49th and 41st, driven with such dreadful slaughter from the
two-gun battery. The brave Colonel Carpenter, of the 41st, had
fallen pierced with many bullets; and the blood-thirsty Russians,
with that tiger-like ferocity which has made the day of Inkermann
so fearfully memorable, mutilated the senseless form of the
grey-headed old warrior, clubbing their muskets, and beating him on
the face till it was almost impossible to distinguish his features.
Covered with blood, frightfully mangled, and recognised only by his
uniform, the colonel was at length, when the enemy retreated, found
by his men, and borne, still breathing, from the field, to linger
for a few days in acute agonies, and then to breathe his last.
Amidst a hurricane of bullets from the Russian troops, and exposed
to a deadly storm of missiles from the enemies’ batteries, the 20th
and 47th fearlessly charged the opposing masses, and endeavoured
to take the redoubt. They were successful in the attempt. The
Russian lines trembled before their impetuous onset. The levelled
bayonets, borne onwards by the resistless vigour of Englishmen, now
maddened by the excitement of battle, cheered by their officers,
and with the memory of Alma, swept down the hordes of irresolute
Muscovites, and with a ringing cheer, the victorious Britons were
once again in the earthwork. There, indeed, was a sight to rouse
their hearts--if, indeed, further stimulant were needed--to deeds
of vengeance. Not one of those who in the previous attacks had
fallen wounded was now alive. The remorseless Russians--assassins
rather than soldiers--had bayonetted every one who showed signs of
life. The little battery was choked with heaps of dead. Englishmen
and Russians lay as they fell stiff in their blood, and disfigured
by the agonies of death. Not one was left to tell his victorious
comrades, who leaped shouting into the redoubt, how bravely their
companions in arms had disputed its possession, how dearly the
enemy had purchased a temporary success, or how basely that success
had been consummated by the most brutal murder of wounded and
unarmed men. But the Russians were not disposed to submit to the
loss of this important position which they had made so many efforts
to retain. Fresh legions were launched against the two regiments
who had been thus far successful; and in irresistible strength,
still another attempt was made to regain the post. Against such
numbers it was impossible to contend successfully. The brave
holders of the redoubt fought desperately, with that unyielding
pertinacity for which the British infantry, beyond any soldiery in
the world, is distinguished. But the shot from the batteries on the
hills beyond the river swept through their lines; on every hand
brave fellows fell pierced with bullets, or mangled by exploding
shells. The enemy was tenfold their number, and swept on like a
torrent against their feeble defence. After a brief but most heroic
struggle, the noble remnant of the gallant 20th and 47th yielded to
a force they could no longer withstand, and retreated to the main
body, leaving the Russians for the third time the masters of the
two-gun battery.
The masters, it is true; but not the undisputed masters. A yet
bloodier contest was to be waged for its possession--a contest
which should make that small unfinished work, on which as yet no
gun had been mounted, renowned throughout Europe. By the time
that the 20th and 41st had been driven back, as we have just
recorded, the Duke of Cambridge had reached the scene of action
with the brigade of Guards--those renowned soldiers whose bayonets
had carried the heights of Alma, and whose prowess was a theme
of terror in the Russian camps. No soldier who had shared in or
witnessed that tremendous fight could forget the terrible onslaught
of those bear-skinned warriors, when the choicest troops of the
Czar were trampled under foot, or scattered like chaff before their
irresistible charge. The Coldstreams, no longer the magnificent
battalion which a few months before left the shores of England,
but reduced by the casualties of war and sickness to a few hundred
badly fed and miserably-clothed men, though retaining all the
ancient courage, heightened, indeed, by the hardships they had
endured and the memory of their former achievements,--advanced
in close ranks, at a rapid pace and with fixed bayonets, against
the living wall of the Russians, who held the crown of the hill.
Though the enemy were as ten to one, they yielded and broke before
that matchless onset. Scattering the foe before them, the valiant
Guardsmen swept like a hurricane into the battery, and the defeated
Russians were precipitated, a flying and disordered mass, down
the hill. The Coldstreams had well avenged their comrades’ fall,
but they had not yet gained an undisputed success. On came fresh
battalions of the Russians. The flying regiments were mingled with,
or sought refuge behind the advancing legions. Again the dense mass
struggled up the hill, and again did it devolve upon English valour
to defend the post which had been so dearly won. Not less than 6000
Russians advanced in a compact mass towards the two-gun battery.
The defenders did not muster more than as many hundreds. Nothing
daunted, they fired through the embrasures and from the brow of the
hill smart volleys; and when their ammunition failed, as at length
it did, many hurled stones at the enemy. But moment by moment the
advancing host drew nearer and nearer. The summit of the hill is
reached, they surround the fort, leap over the earthworks, and
in an instant there is a hand to hand struggle, such as, perhaps,
was never excelled in modern warfare. They are repulsed--literally
dashed down the hill. Twice the assault renewed; the second time
they are again defeated; the third time they are once more in the
battery. Bayonet crosses bayonet in rapid thrusts, fearful shrieks
of agony are mingled with the shouts and curses of infuriated men,
the floor is cumbered with the fallen and slippery with blood; the
gallant Coldstreams are alone and unaided, and every moment fresh
foemen rush into the deadly _mêlée_. Hundreds fall before the
fatal bayonets of the dauntless Guards--their places are supplied
by hundreds more, fresh and unwounded. In front, on either side,
they swarm around, ferocious and malignant. Back to back, the
English heroes meet their tremendous charge. In all the horrors of
that scene, amid all the carnage which surrounds them, their high
courage never fails, their firm bearing is never relaxed. Though
many fall mortally wounded, their comrades bestride their bodies,
and there is still the bristling _chevaux-de-frise_ of bayonets,
against which the foe hurl themselves in vain, and only to fall in
hundreds, thrust to the heart by the fatal steel, wielded by the
hands of the most determined soldiers in the world. At length the
limit is reached beyond which resistance is impossible, and slowly
yielding to the immense superiority of numbers, the Guards give
ground, and prepare to leave the battery once more in the hands of
the enemy. They retreat from the spot, and then see that their path
is barred by another and fresh force of the enemy. Death appears
inevitable; other soldiers might lay down their arms, and few
would doubt their courage, so great is the disparity of strength.
But the Guards are not dismayed even then. Struggling into line,
with rapidity gained only by their perfect discipline, they level
their bayonets, charge the fresh foe, and in an instant are among
them. Down go the Russian infantry, stabbed and trampled on. A
brief struggle, and the invincible Coldstreams have cut through the
masses of the foe, and sweeping all opposition from their path,
have rejoined the main body of their comrades.
While this deadly contest was waging, the battle on the left of
the position was rivalling it in intensity. Soimonoff’s army had
attacked, and the greater portion of the Second Division were
bravely opposing their advance. The English artillery were ordered
up to the support, and taking position on the hill, did good
service, and sent many a Russian to his great account. But at
length their ammunition was exhausted, and the enemy advancing in
great force, after a stirring combat, in which Major Townsend,
a gallant and experienced officer, was killed, and prodigies of
valour were performed, succeeded in capturing four of our guns.
The battle had now assumed tremendous proportions. The whole of
the Second and Fourth Divisions were engaged, as well as portions
of the First and Light Divisions, about 8000 men in all. Including
the fresh regiments which Dannenberg now brought into action,
not less than 60,000 Russians were in the field. Against this
overwhelming force the English bravely held their ground. The
brigade of Guards, gallantly led by their royal commander, had
again united, and waged a desperate warfare against unequal odds.
In front, the Light Division and a portion of the Second preserved
a firm bearing, and opposed themselves fearlessly to the shock of
the advancing battalions. On the left, Soimonoff’s _corps d’armée_
was met by the remainder of the Second Division, who bore the
assault of the enemy, inspirited by their success in driving back
the artillery and capturing the guns. Their exultation was fated
to be of brief duration, for the gallant Second, having repulsed
their first attack, now assumed the offensive, and charging the
Russian columns, after a sanguinary struggle, drove them back, and
recaptured the guns.
The ground to which the struggle was now confined was hilly and
covered with thick brushwood, sloping towards the harbour, the
ships in which, moored so as to command the English lines, poured
a destructive fire into our ranks. The brigade of Guards, forced
by the enormous odds to quit the Two-gun Battery, after such a
terrific contest, were now engaged in hand-to-hand conflict with
nearly ten times their number of the enemy. It was impossible,
from the fierceness of the contest and the nature of the ground,
to preserve military order. The battle was a series of detached
groups, sometimes a few dauntless Guardsmen, bareheaded and back
to back, disputing every inch of ground, and with their bayonets
inflicting terrible execution on the enemy; sometimes a young
officer, rallying a few of his men around him, dashing with a
ringing cheer at a phalanx of the foe, and as their dense mass was
broken by the impetuosity of the attack, falling pierced by a dozen
bullets, with his last breath cheering on his men to the charge.
So fell Lieut.-Colonels Mackinnon and Cowell; so fell Sir Robert
Newman; and so fell many another brave soldier and good man. The
Duke of Cambridge, affected almost to tears by the sight of so many
lying in their blood, was everywhere in the thick of the fight,
urging on his men, and setting them an example of the most daring
courage. Almost alone, he dashed into the _mêlée_, amid a shower
of bullets from the Russian rifles. Once he had nearly fallen a
victim to his own enthusiasm and contempt of danger. Conspicuous
by his uniform and fine person, he presented a prominent mark for
the aim of the ambushed enemy. Reckless of the danger, he disdained
even ordinary precautions. In this emergency, Dr. Wilson, anxious
to lend his professional services to the wounded, saw the peril of
the Duke, and collecting a handful of men, dispersed the enemy’s
riflemen, and rescued the too daring leader. Nothing could exceed
the deadly nature of the combat. The Guards fought as only men can
fight, when utterly desperate. There seemed but small probability
that one of that noble brigade would leave the ground unhurt. The
Russians, strong in their numbers, inspirited by intoxication and
fanaticism, poured their legions in vain against the resistance
of such unquenchable heroism. Heaps of dead covered the ground,
and the assassin Muscovites, unable to subdue the living, wreaked
a miserable vengeance on the fallen, bayonetting and madly
disfiguring with their clubbed muskets every prostrate antagonist.
When the battle was over, many a brave fellow, who had fallen
wounded, was found an unrecognisable mass of mangled flesh and
blood. Rendered nearly mad by the sight of such devilish atrocity,
the survivors redoubled their almost surpernatural efforts,
and though pressed on every side, maintained the struggle with
unfailing valour, still the same invincible Guardsmen, so terrible
at Alma, so heroic at the fight for the Two-gun Battery.
The Light Division meanwhile maintained its reputation in the
vigorous struggle in which they were now engaged. Sir George Brown,
their General, was severely wounded, and borne from the field,
his white hair streaming in the wind, and his face deadly pale,
from the acuteness of his suffering. A five-gun battery, under the
direction of Sir Thomas Troubridge, Major of the 7th Fusiliers, did
good service against the advancing columns of the enemy; but the
brave fellows who manned it suffered terribly from the fire from
the batteries of the town. Sir Thomas himself had his right leg
and left foot carried away by a thirty-nine pounder from the Round
Tower, or Malakoff. Notwithstanding the severity of the injury, and
the excruciating agony he must have endured, he refused to permit
his men to carry him to the rear; but ordered them to lift him
to a gun-carriage, whence, streaming with blood, he continued to
give the word of command, nor quitted his post till the enemy were
routed.
Seeing the desperate nature of the contest, Sir George Cathcart
conceived the idea that by descending the side of the hill, he
might take the enemy in flank, and so relieve the Guards from
the unequal struggle in which they were engaged. He despatched
General Torrens, with portions of the 46th and 68th regiments on
this duty. They advanced rapidly, but from either hand rained the
bullets of the Russian riflemen, concealed in the brushwood. The
horse of General Torrens fell pierced by five bullets, and on every
side, the number who were struck down attested the severity of the
fire to which they were exposed. Torrens himself received a ball
through his lungs, and was carried senseless from the field. Sir
George Cathcart, seeing the fierce opposition which his brigade
sustained, immediately dashed forward with the remainder of his
men, and fearlessly charged the enemy. Too late he saw the error
into which he had been led. He was perfectly surrounded by the
enemy, who held the high ground commanding the valley into which
he had led his brigade, in the hopes of making a vigorous flank
attack. For some time, his little band returned sharp volleys to
the enemy’s rifles. Then a cry was raised that their cartridges
were exhausted. There was no retreat, and the fierce fire poured
like hail into their ranks. “You have got your bayonets!” shouted
their dauntless leader, and dashed forwards followed by his men. As
he raised himself in his stirrups, a bullet pierced his brain, and
the heroic Cathcart, the subduer of the Cape savages, fell headlong
from his horse, quite dead. By his side fell Colonel Seymour,
Adjutant-General of the Fourth Division, sharing his leader’s fate.
He was wounded before Sir George, but concealed his hurt. When the
General fell, Colonel Seymour dismounted to render him assistance.
The brigade had swept on, unable to pause in their career, and then
the enemy rushing on the wounded Seymour cruelly murdered him,
as he stooped over the body of his friend, and consummated their
infamy by basely stabbing with their bayonets the insensible body
of the noble Cathcart.
It was now eleven o’clock, and it seemed impossible that the
English could much longer withstand the terrible assault. They were
driven back exhausted by the long struggle; hundreds of their best
and bravest had fallen heroically; and the enemy was still pouring
fresh legions into the fray. The fog and drizzling rain obscured
the scene of action, so that it was impossible for the Generals
to concert a scheme of operations, or even to know accurately
the state of affairs: it was rather a series of battles than one
action. Lord Raglan and his staff were eagerly watching the fray,
but unable to control the movements of the troops. Nothing could
save the entire army but the self-devotion and valour of the men:
tactics were unavailable, and generalship useless. Now, however,
came the crisis of the struggle. General Bosquet had by this time
discovered that the threatened attack on Balaklava was but a feint;
and warned by the thunder of cannon and the roll of musketry of
the real point of attack, hastened to, the rescue. Two troops of
horse-artillery were speedily despatched, and took up a position
whence they could effectively play upon the Russian guns. Hastening
to the spot, with his dashing regiments of Zouaves and Chasseurs
Indigènes, he precipitated himself upon the left flank of the
Russian hordes. General Canrobert, too, at the same time, ordered
up several French regiments of the line to the assistance of the
English Second Division, on the left.