TRACES OF WAR.
We started one fine, sunny morning, at eight o'clock, for a long
expedition to Cathcart's Hill and St. George's Monastery. We left
the town by the valley beneath the Redan, but instead of taking the
turn to the left that leads to the fort, followed the course of the
defile until we arrived at some table land, where are the remains of
the English Picket House. Close by is the burial-ground of the Light
Division. It is surrounded by low but well-built walls. Neglect,
however, and the rapid growth of weeds have made many of the
inscriptions, and even some of the graves, invisible. In the centre
stands a pyramid, bearing inscriptions both in English and Russ to the
officers and men belonging to the Light Division. One monument had the
following words, deeply cut in the stone: "Sacred to the memory of the
officers, non-commissioned officers, and men of the 77th Regiment, who
lost their lives in the service of their country during the campaign in
the Crimea. This monument is erected by the officers of the Regiment,
as a humble tribute of respect to the fortitude and bravery of their
fallen comrades."
Pushing aside the grass and rank weeds, we found the names of many
friends, and with the aid of parasols and sticks, cleared some
graves from the tangled growth of years, and planted upon them
tufts of sweet-scented thyme and a little blue flower very like
the forget-me-not. From some we gathered a few coarse wild-flowers,
and even blades of grass, to bear home to mothers whose hearts are
still aching for the brave young dead who have but a soldier's grave
so far from home and from those who loved them. Many we had known
well, in the brightest hours of their youth and happiness, were
sleeping here in bloody graves. No words can adequately express the
depression of spirits which must come after passing hours in going
from burial-ground to burial-ground, only to see where those, once
so loved in life, so honoured in their death, now lie--uncared for,
unthought of--in cemeteries that, instead of being evidences of a
nation's gratitude and reverence, are now untended and forgotten,
a tangled mass of weeds, and but fit homes for the jackal and the fox.
Leaving the Woronzoff road on the right, we came to a knoll, or patch
of rising ground, from whence an excellent view of the town can be
had. It was here that the non-fighting visitors usually took up their
position, for not only could a good general view of the camps and
town be obtained, but, with glasses, it was easy to see the people
walking in the streets.
The road passes by a small village, where, standing in the midst of
some neat enclosures, with a well-filled farmyard at its rear, is a
low one-storied house. This unpretending little building was once
the head-quarters of the English staff, and here poor Lord Raglan
breathed his last.
Notwithstanding the severe losses and sufferings that were caused
to its owners by their home and property being seized by the enemy,
Monsieur and Madame B---- receive with kindness and hospitality any
English who may wander here. We are, however, at present the only
foreigners who have visited Sevastopol this year.
In a small sitting-room a marble slab has been let into the wall, over
the place where the bed stood on which Lord Raglan died. In the wood
of the folding doors are cut the names of Field-Marshal Lord Raglan,
General Simpson, and Sir William Codrington. The temporary grave in
which the body of the noble old soldier was placed previous to its
removal to England, has also been well cared for. Willows hang over
the spot, and it is surrounded by a border of rose-bushes and flowers.
A tale of the troubles caused by war is always sad to hear, and the
family, at whose hospitable board we were seated, had been absolutely
ruined by their losses, and were now attempting to begin the world
afresh; but though Monsieur B---- is an energetic farmer and works, his
wife says, early and late, he has hitherto reaped but little reward for
his toil. Life, commerce, energy, have alike deserted Sevastopol, and
there is but little or no market either there or in the neighbourhood.
Poor little Madame B----, with tears in her pretty eyes, deplored
in fervent language the loss of her comfortable home. Her husband
was with his regiment on the north side, when the rapid approach
of the allies obliged her and her children to fly for safety to
Simpheropol. She left a house, well, almost luxuriously furnished,
and returned at the end of the war to find but bare walls--not even
a chair had been left. The farm and garden gone--gone also the woods
and valuable vineyards, the very roots of which had been torn up and
burnt. Our graceful little hostess, however, with a tender regard
for the feelings of her stranger guests, hastened to add that the
ruin of the place was not owing to the English army, whose generals
had kindly striven to save and to spare as much as possible, but to
those human locusts, the Tartar camp-followers.
From Cathcart's Hill we drove to Kerani, a desolate little village
lying amongst the hills near Balaclava. There were about half-a-dozen
half-ruined wooden hovels, and a couple of better-class houses,
although these were also built of wood. To one of these we were most
kindly welcomed by Colonel S----.
The long sloping roofs, weighted by large stones, and the peculiarly
small windows, only seen in stormy countries, showed how severe the
winters must sometimes be here, and we were told that, though cold
is seldom of long continuance, and though snow rarely remains for
many days upon the ground, yet the gales of wind during the winter
months are of extraordinary violence, the long narrow gullies with
which the hills are intersected acting as funnels, down which the
raging tempest hurries with increasing fury and strength. In general,
however, the gales, though severe, are short, and in the memory of
man no such terrible winters had been known as those experienced by
our troops during the two years they were in the Crimea. Never before
had such intense cold been known; never before had the storms been
so prolonged and incessant. Direct manifestations, it was believed
by the lower order of Russians, that Providence itself was against
the unrighteous invasion of the land.
We had a pleasant luncheon at Colonel S----'s, and the live stock
of the yacht was increased by the kind gift (rather to Mr. Harvey's
horror) of a pair of quite lovely geese. We had not believed the
usually despised goose could be so beautiful a bird. These geese
were as white as snow, had backs and wings covered with long curling
feathers like ostrich plumes, and had bright pink bills and feet;
but for their unfortunate voices they might have set up for swans. Our
dear birds, however, did not approve of being summarily torn from the
paternal pond and packed in a basket, so they hissed and cackled all
the rest of the day in a thoroughly goose-like and provoking manner.
From Kerani we went to St. George's Monastery--a long low building,
standing apparently in a flat, ugly country; but on passing through an
archway, and descending a few steps, an enchanting view was before us.
The convent is built upon the extreme edge of a steep wooded cliff
overhanging a little bay. Paths had been cut through the wood, and
wound down between trees and rocks to the verge of the sea, where tiny
waves were coming quietly in upon a shining beach, trickling back
amongst the many-coloured shells and stones with a pleasant murmur,
most refreshing on such a burningly hot day. But the sun was now
glowing with almost blinding heat upon this the western side, so we
retired into the interior of the building until the intolerable glare
should have somewhat subsided.
There are now only five brethren of the order living at
St. George. Since the war the number has greatly diminished, and
some are required for another house at Simpheropol. We were invited
to have some tea, an offer we thankfully accepted, and while it
was getting ready were asked to pay a visit to the cells. They were
fairly comfortable, indeed better than may be found in many religious
houses in Italy and France, that have not so strict a rule as the
Greek convents.
Each brother was provided with a table, a stool, some boards on
tressels for a bed, a mattress (certainly very thin), and a blanket;
but what can monks wish for more? In the Greek Church, the severity of
monastic life consists principally in the length and rigid observance
of the frequent fasts, and in the small amount of sleep that is
permitted. There is scarcely a religious house in which meat is ever
eaten, and twice a week, during the long fast of Easter, only one
meal a day is allowed, consisting of beans boiled with oil.
As there are no inns in this part of the world, excepting in towns,
monasteries answer the purpose, and though payment is not permitted,
each traveller, ere he departs, is expected to drop an offering into
the poor-box.
While waiting for the tea, some water was brought from the famous
spring of St. George. It is celebrated for miles around, and well
deserves its fame. Fresh, sparkling, and cold as if iced, it was
really nectar. Well for us it was so, for we needed some little
compensation for the disappointment that awaited us with respect to
the much-wished-for, long-promised tea. The eagerly-expected beverage,
when it did at last arrive, was brought in tumblers, without either
milk or sugar, and being a very strong decoction of something bitter,
between sloes and haystalks, it was so like a horrid medicine called
"black draught," that nothing but the strongest exertion of good
manners could enable one to swallow even a few drops.
At six o'clock we went into chapel for the Ave Maria. The chapel is
a neat little building, detached from the monastery, and has some
altar-pieces remarkably well painted. The pictures of the saints
were covered with plaques of gold and silver in alto-relievo, and
had glories of precious stones around their heads.
The congregation was very limited, for it consisted of only three
brethren, the sacristan, and one old woman, but the service was
got over with wonderful speed, though with no apparent disrespect of
manner. Vespers over, we were shown the chapel. Behind the altar-screen
was an exceedingly good picture of The Crucifixion, but as it was
in a part of the building that women are not allowed to profane by
their unholy presence, my sister and I had to remain on the other side
of the altar, the monks most good-naturedly drawing aside curtains,
and trying to give us as good a view as possible.
The evening had by this time become cool and pleasant, so we strolled
down the cliffs to look at the ancient chapel, the hanging gardens,
and the renowned spring. Excepting its antiquity, the former possesses
no interest; it is a very small stone building, supposed to have been
erected by the Genoese when they occupied this country, but both in
form and decoration it is remarkably simple.
The stream poured forth from the rock with delicious freshness,
dashing, in a series of tiny cascades, from terrace to terrace, ever
sprinkling with a shower of brilliant drops the mosses and tender
ferns that grew on its banks, until, on reaching the good monks'
gardens, it flowed decorously through appointed channels. Then,
its duties over, it gave one glad bound, as a miniature waterfall,
over the rocks into the sea, and was lost in the embrace of its mighty
mother. The terrace-gardens are beautifully kept, for the monks labour
in them unceasingly. The good fathers are the principal doctors of the
district, and grow, therefore, not only vegetables for their own use,
but most of the plants and herbs required for medicinal purposes.
It was late before we returned to Sevastopol, but the drive back in
the cool night air was very refreshing. As we descended the heights
into the town, we could see the bright lights of our many-coloured
little Turkish lanterns shining a cheerful welcome to us from the
yacht. It is worth while to feel very tired, in order to experience
the inexpressible feeling of comfort that comes over one when, on
getting on board, we find the tea-table invitingly prepared on deck,
the samovar bubbling merrily under the teapot, the little kitten ready
for a game of play, and everything speaking of the snugness and rest
of home.
The country immediately around Sevastopol looks rather pretty, and
is pleasant enough in fine weather. The air on the heights is fresh
and invigorating, and the clearness of the atmosphere gives a charm
to the distant views both over sea and land. A very few hours' rain,
however, makes the place quite detestable, for it is impossible to move
out, either in the town or beyond it, without having to wade through
a perfect slough of sticky white mud. The misery and illness that
must have prevailed in the camps, after days of continued down-pour,
can be easily imagined.
Our first visit to Marshal Pelissier's head-quarters was made on one
of these melancholy days. A Scotch mist, that had been driven in from
the sea, gradually changed into a steady, soaking rain, but we were
too far from home to turn back, and being fortunately well cloaked
and shod, in forlorn procession we waded through puddles and mud from
graveyard to graveyard. To the credit of the French nation, they are
far better tended than ours. Still the scene was gloomy enough to suit
the gloomy day. The huts, formerly inhabited by the troops, have fallen
into ruins, and the wood is rotting on the ground. Here and there are
huge mounds of broken bottles and other refuse, and near them again are
great pits, where infected clothing, &c., were burnt during the time
the cholera was raging. The French head-quarters seem to have been
very well placed, for though on a commanding height, they must have
been in a great measure protected from the cruel north wind that blew
with such bitter severity into the English tents on Cathcart's Hill.
Even black clouds and depressing rain could not make us insensible
to the beauty of the valley of Tchernaia. It lies deep amongst rocks,
with a fine range of chalk hills in the distance. The long white lines
on their rugged sides looked like snow whenever a straggling ray of
light fell upon them through the dark and heavy mass of clouds. Quite
at the upper end of the valley, where it turns to the right towards
Balaclava, are two low hills, covered with the ruins of Sir Colin
Campbell's camp. The long flat piece of ground beneath these will be
ever memorable as the scene of the famous charge of cavalry. The little
plain forms a sort of amphitheatre, as it is partly surrounded at
one end by a series of hillocks or rising ground. On these commanding
positions were posted the Russian guns. Even an inexperienced eye could
see at a glance that the devoted regiments must have been rushing
to certain death. It seems marvellous that men can be so trained
to passive obedience, that, without a murmur, they hurry to their
doom. Every officer, at any rate, was probably aware that the heroic
effort could but be a useless sacrifice of human life. What must have
been the agony of those who were forced to look on at such frightful
and unnecessary carnage, powerless to prevent, and powerless to aid?
Balaclava is a quaint little place, completely shut in by hills and
rocks. The entrance to the harbour from the sea is very difficult
to find even when quite close to it, so curiously does the channel
twist and turn about. It must have been once a better-class village
than any we had yet seen, for the church, though in a dilapidated
state, is large, and the houses, though partly in ruins, are of good
size. Some have been repaired, and most are inhabited, but everything
speaks of ruin and discouragement. The landing-place is rotting in the
water, the warehouses made by the English are rotting on the shore,
and the dirty, dreary-looking people seem as if they were decaying
away in their poverty and hopelessness.
Drinking is unhappily the prevailing vice in the Crimea. We rarely
went on shore without seeing several tipsy men. Towards evening one
generally meets wives and daughters dutifully wheeling their husbands
and fathers home in barrows. Yesterday we met a procession of five
being thus brought back in triumph from some prolonged carouse. To
the credit of the fair sex, it is but just to say we have not seen
one woman so degradingly overcome.
The Russian women we have hitherto seen, though they cannot be called
pretty, have generally very pleasant faces. Their voices are sweet
and low, and the gentleness of their manner is very prepossessing. It
is impossible, however, not to feel that so much timidity probably
originates in the harsh treatment they experience in their homes, for
the men, though humble and cringing when addressing their superiors,
are coarse and boorish to their inferiors. These observations, of
course, only refer to the lower classes. Amongst the higher ranks,
Russians of both sexes are quite remarkable for their charm of manner
and peculiar talents for society. The extraordinary kindness we
received from every family whose acquaintance we made during our stay
in the Crimea, quite endeared these kind people to us, and personal
experience enables us to say that Russian friendship does not limit
itself to charming manners alone.
During our stay in Sevastopol, we became well acquainted with several
of the ladies who had remained in the town during the siege. With the
exception of one, all were wives or daughters of officers in command,
and who, with noble devotion, had refused to leave their relations in
the hour of danger. With unwearied zeal they laboured in the hospitals,
for, notwithstanding every effort, the amount of attendance was
lamentably deficient, and it was only possible to provide for the more
pressing need of the sufferers. All unite in saying that the courage
and fortitude of these ladies were beyond praise. Many of them were
quite young girls, but, regardless of personal danger, they not only
visited the hospitals, but wherever illness or suffering required
their presence these true Sisters of Mercy were to be found. Death
was ever before them, for who could tell where or when would come
the fatal shot? Day and night shells were exploding in the devoted
town. No spot was safe. When sleeping in their homes, or praying in
their churches, the fiery shot might come crashing through the walls,
dealing death and destruction around. The narrow escapes related to us
might fill a volume. One lady had barely left the side of a wounded
man, when a shot came through the roof, instantly terminating the
sufferings of the patient, and injuring another in a neighbouring
bed. One charming young girl, Mademoiselle Androvna R----, daughter
of a general commanding a division, had been in Sevastopol from the
beginning of the siege until the end. She was an only daughter,
but her father and two brothers were soldiers, and she remained
with them to be, as they said, "their guardian angel." Although
so many years have now elapsed, Androvna was strongly moved as she
spoke of the anguish of that terrible time. Parting almost daily,
in ignorance as to whether they should ever meet again, when again
they met the little family felt as if it were impossible they could
all be much longer spared. Sometimes a brother would have to proceed
to an advanced post, and then it might be days before they would know
whether he was amongst the living or the dead.
One day, as Androvna was on her way to the hospital, she met the
sad procession of the wounded as they were carried in, and found
her youngest brother amongst the number; but the young man, though
he bears the marks of a fearful sword-cut across the face, and has
lost an arm, still lives, to love and cherish his devoted sister, who
nursed him through his sufferings with the tenderest care. Who could
think of personal danger when in such agony of anxiety for loved ones,
who were hourly exposed to far greater peril? So great was the strain
upon the nerves, that Androvna says she believed she should have gone
mad but for the supporting duty she felt it to attend the sick and
wounded in the hospitals. By the bedside of these poor sufferers self
was for a time forgotten, and when she could occasionally creep away
to some neighbouring church, and on her knees before her patron saint
lay down her burden of sorrow and anxiety, then peace and courage
returned to her heavily-laden heart.
She had, however, personally some narrow escapes. One day, for
instance, she was sitting in her room, with a pet dog lying at her
feet, when a shot came crashing through part of the house. The little
animal at her side was crushed to death by a falling piece of wood,
but the young girl happily escaped with a few slight bruises.