Soon after his return to Cambridge troubles with Russia were "on the
tapis", and as it to show the preparedness for war which did not exist,
_Punch_, as is usually the case, began to take notice of our army and
navy. It signalised the latter by referring to an event of the day, to
wit, the sham-fight at Spithead, and represented a theatrical combat of
the melodramatic Surrey or Victoria Theatre type between two British
sailors, one being down and his comrade resting over him, hands on knees
and cutlass in suspense, with the lines beneath: "Ah, it's all werry
well, Bill, but my, if you'd been a Rooshian!"
Then sham-fights and assumed preparation for war died into thin air.
Matters came to a head, and our unpreparedness was awfully written in
disease, starvation, and death for those who studied the columns of news
from the Crimea.
All young England was in a state of excitement. The Crimean War was
upon every lip, and every hot-blooded young man burned to get to the
front. Among these was George Henty. The quiet student life at the
university became painful; the days passed in Caius College seemed to be
prison-like. He too, strung up by that natural instinct that has made
"Englishman" a name famous in the world's history, grew more and more
restless. In the nick of time he was offered an appointment in the
Commissariat Department of the army, and the first steps were taken
which enabled him to claim the rank of lieutenant in the British army,
though it was to be in the utility more than in the fighting ranks.
One of our distributors of Attic salt once wrote, in the plain and
pungent witticism of his time, that an army crawled upon its stomach in
its progress to conquest; and by a strange irony of circumstances the
young lieutenant--for, as said above, that was the rank Henty bore
during the few years he served in the British army--found himself
providing and superintending the supplies of that army in order to
enable it to progress on that portion of its anatomy which keeps it
alive, that is to say, when he was not busily engaged in superintending
hospital wards and organising arrangements, sanitary and otherwise, in
those depressing asylums for the wounded and the sick. The work was
arduous enough, but Henty was the man to do it, in spite of the fragile
promise of his youth, and the head-shaking as to his future of those who
knew him. He must have been a very disappointing man to his social
prophets, seeing that he grew above the ordinary height, and came to be
big-boned and stalwart, his powerful frame well clothed with sinew and
muscle. He was endowed with everything in fact suited to the making of
what would be called a good all-round man, while his education, fostered
by his natural pluck and determination, rendered him one who in his
early manhood was a thorough athlete. Enough indeed has been said to
show that in addition to being a powerful and skilful wrestler, and a
formidable competitor in a friendly contest with the gloves, he was a
dangerous adversary when necessity compelled him to make full use of
what was veritably the noble art of self-defence against the brutal scum
of European life with which he was brought into contact.
In the full vigour of his manly youth he was a splendid walker, thinking
nothing of doing fifty miles in a day, and this not at the expense of
exhaustion, for after a brief period of rest he could repeat the walk
with comparative ease. Muscular to a degree, he was a steady and
dependable comrade in a boat. In addition, aided by the possession and
the capacity of a broad deep chest, whose buoyancy was a tremendous
asset, he could swim with ease and untiring skill.
Then, too, he made himself a good wielder of the foils, and the usual
training of a military man enabled him to handle the service sword with
as much ability as he displayed in pistol practice or with the rifle.
Following up the ordinary education of a youth and young man with the
acquiring and strengthening of such accomplishments as these, his
appearance was such as would render him in competition one who would be
chosen on any emergency as a leader of men, one who would be obeyed, and
whose word would be law to those over whom he was placed.
Excitement was raging in England after the failures and disappointments
that were being canvassed during the Crimean War; all England was wroth
as William Howard Russell's letters were read, telling the terrible
tales of disease, starvation, and neglect suffered by our brave
soldiers. Accusations against the authorities were rife, accusations
which stirred the Government to action and to making more systematic
provision for our troops. It will be readily understood, therefore,
that the offer made by a man, so full of energy as Henty, to become a
recruit in the Purveyors' Department in the Crimea, that is to say, the
Hospital Commissariat, was accepted at once, though his place would more
naturally have been in the fighting line.
However, fate ordained that he was to do good work in connection with
the provisioning of the unfortunate soldiers who had suffered so cruelly
during the previous winter. Attacking his task with his customary
energy, as soon as he reached Balaclava in the early spring of 1855 he
was found busy among the stores which were to be distributed, or
arranging the contents of the huts which were filled with wine and the
more medicinal stimulants which were to be reserved for the sick or the
wounded that were brought into the temporary hospital.
Here he was brought into touch with the officers of the medical and
surgical department, and in connection with the transport service, for
order was now springing up fast where chaos and despair had reigned so
long.
Henty writes home about the preparation of food and comforts for the
sick, and the provision of mules and their drivers for the transport of
the sick and wounded. And now his fighting times commence--not with the
sword and revolver with which he was armed; his encounters were with the
shadow of death, as an adjunct to the strong body of surgical and
medical men who were struggling so hard to make up for the want of
preparation in the past.
With regard to the mule service there is a grim touch in one of Henty's
letters home concerning the duties of these useful, hard-working but
stubborn brutes. Where he found himself this portion of the transport
service was kept in readiness, some fifty strong, to take ammunition
down to the trenches, and on their return journey to bring the wounded
back.
A strange life this, superintending and aiding in such matters, for a
young man fresh from Cambridge University. It must have been a curious
disillusionising to be hurried out to the Crimea, nerve and brain
throbbing with warlike aspirations connected with the honour and glory
of war, and then to find himself in the sordid atmosphere of the wet
tents and rough huts, where the winter was still holding its own, while
the constant booming of the great guns added to the general misery and
wretchedness. The possibility of an explosion was another cause of
anxiety, for there was ever the prospect of a shell falling in one or
other of the magazines which supplied the batteries, and a resulting
disaster unless the fire could be extinguished in time. These alarms
generally occurred in the night, when, following upon the lurid display
of flames from some hut or workshop set on fire by Russian shot, there
would be the roar of orders, the shouting of men, and the dread of the
fire being communicated to the crowd of shipping in the little sheltered
harbour.
It was a wondrous change from the calm and quiet of the university city
to the roar and turmoil of the besieging camp with the thunder of our
batteries, the return fire from Sebastopol, and the constant shells
dropping in from the enemy's forts.
Very shortly after he reached Balaclava he seized an opportunity to ride
over the held of Inkermann, the scene of the surprise attack made by the
Russians nearly six months before, and he says that at the top of the
hill where the principal struggle took place the ground was still
covered with the remains of the contest--ammunition pouches, Russian
caps, broken weapons and other grim relics--while, rather ironically, in
allusion to the way in which the allies were surprised, he says that
this spot is now commanded by heavy batteries recently erected, and
alludes to the old adage about locking the stable door after the horse
is stolen. Even then, so many months after the fight, many bodies of
the Russians were still unburied, and lay there as though to demonstrate
the horrors of war, the while the hill slope and a valley were so
exquisite that the writer fell into raptures about the beauty of the
place. The steep cliffs were honeycombed with caverns, a ruined castle
stood on an eminence, and the place was beautifully wooded, a stream
that trickled through the valley amidst the exquisitely fresh and green
grass adding to the wonder and the beauty of the scene. But his
day-dream was given a rude awakening by a hint thrown out, of the risks
to which a war correspondent is exposed in the pursuit of his duty, for
there was the sharp crack of a rifle and the dull thud of a bullet
burying itself in a tree, having missed him narrowly, for luckily the
Russian who had fired at him had not been quite correct in his aim.
Hurrying back, he forgets the danger that he has escaped, and to his
mind it is April once more, and he begins to describe the beauty of the
wild flowers with which the slopes are clothed--irises varying in tint
from pale yellow to orange, others alternating from light blue to
purple, the early spring crocus of pure white, and wild hyacinths in
abundance.
On his way, as everything is fraternal among the besiegers, he and his
companions pass through the French camp and taste the hospitality of
their allies, receiving proof that in this camp, too, matters have been
mended after the horrors of the past winter, for the English visitors
are welcomed with what Henty declares to be first-rate provisions. But
he is dreadfully matter-of-fact and businesslike directly after, as
behoves an officer of the Purveyors' Department, for he falls
a-wondering why it is that the French bread is far superior to that made
by the bakers in Balaclava, the latter having a sour taste that is
unpleasant and, he thinks, unwholesome. For his part he prefers the
biscuit, but feels that on their return to England he and his comrades
will be entitled to a handsome compensation for wear and tear of teeth
in the service of their country. Then, as if by way of comparison with
the alarms that had suggested a fresh attack, he states that the night
was less noisy than usual. "In the early part our sharpshooters and the
Russians' were cracking away, but about eleven the Russian works opened
upon the parties engaged in the new parallel." The next night he
announces that a colonel of a French regiment of infantry was struck
down while talking in the trenches to a subaltern--"a sixty-eight pound
shot shattered him frightfully."
At this time England was in the throes of expectation. The long-delayed
assault upon Sebastopol was expected at any moment, and the main subject
of conversation out in the camp was what day would be appointed. But
Henty says, "What day that will be no one but Lord Raglan knows--even if
he does himself." However, at last the long-expected bombardment did
begin. From a complete circle of batteries round the town, jets of
smoke were bursting, while a perfect shower of shot and shell was poured
into the town and was as incessantly answered. The wonder was that
buildings did not crumble into dust before such a tremendous fire, for
from our great crescent of mortars a shell was sent every ten minutes
during the night, and the mules that bore the ammunition to the trenches
came back sadly laden with wounded.
Day after day the assault went on, and Henty devoted his spare moments
to recording the various proceedings of the historic siege--the
continuous fire of the English and their French allies, which, in spite
of their vigour, only silenced the Russian batteries for fresh ones to
be opened again after a few hours' hard work; the occasional skirmishes
where attack was made by the Russians to carry a battery and be
repelled; the destruction of rifle pits; the surprises caused by the
Cossacks beginning to show themselves out upon the plain; attacks when
prisoners were taken; replies and rescues. Then his interest was taken
by the allies who now appeared upon the field in the shape of the Turks
commanded by Omar Pasha in person. He describes them as a fine body of
men who spend most of their time in drilling; for they display a great
want of military discipline, and their movements are little better than
a shuffle. But Henty compliments them with the remark that they are
getting into order. Then he describes their arms and the excellence of
their French rifles, and goes on to display the keenness of his
observation as he seems to bring to bear old recollections of the
_Arabian Nights_ and the peculiarity of the immense number of hunchbacks
among the Turks, nearly all of whom have high round shoulders, which in
a great many amounts to actual deformity. It is hard to understand,
though, why this should be attributed to their sitting cross-legged.
However, he says the Turkish cavalry and artillery are good, the horses
small but strongly made and in good condition. Altogether he thinks the
Turkish army a most welcome reinforcement. All the time the siege goes
on vigorously, with the English men-of-war and gunboats rendering all
the help they can by checking the fire of the forts.
Something of the weird state of affairs around the young Commissariat
officer and correspondent is seen in his description of a leisurely walk
he took to one of our marine batteries. "The air," he says, "was so
still that I could hear not only the explosion but the whiz of every
shell most distinctly, though distant seven miles as the crow flies."
The delicious spring weather that lasted for a time was followed by a
gale with sleet, and then by forty hours of rain. The change was
mournfully depressing, the streets of Balaclava were a perfect sea of
mud, everything was forlorn, miserable, and deserted, the officers in
their waterproofs were dejected, and everyone was despondent. However,
the purveyor officer remarked that the Guards were by this time all
provided with waterproof coats, which kept them dry as they stood at
their posts. But a thick mist hung over everything; the rain was
soaking through all the tents; the ground had become so soft that the
horses sank in over their fetlocks, while their heads were drooping, and
they appeared the picture of discomfort. The soldiers going down into
the trenches carried a perfect load of clay upon their shoes, while
those returning came back wet, knocked up, and soaked to the skin.
In another letter, written just after this dreary time, Henty writes
that the night closed in dark and lowering with every promise of wet, a
horror for those dwelling in tents; just the sort of night, he says,
which the Russians delight in for making a sortie from the besieged
city, besides which, he says, they had been unusually quiet, a sign that
mischief was afloat; but as the attacking force was growing pretty well
accustomed to the habits of the enemy, a very strong body of men was
sent down into the trenches. In proof that this was wise, about ten
o'clock there came somewhere out of the darkness in front the sound of
men using picks and shovels, as if the Russians were raising a
breastwork prior to an attack. Then an order rang out, and from our own
trenches a sharp fire was opened upon the attacking party; but owing to
the darkness and want of aim it was probable that little damage was
done, and the defenders crowded together in utter silence, listening and
waiting for the attack that all felt was bound to come.
At last, about one o'clock, there was a dull, heavy roar from out of the
foggy night. It was the signal gun, and instantly the enemy made a rush
at the advanced trenches, to be met with a tremendous volley and stagger
back, but only to come on again bravely out of the darkness, thousands
strong, while the musketry firing was fiercer than anything that had
taken place since the commencement of the siege. This went on for two
hours, during which time the whole of the Russians, according to custom,
supplemented their fire with the most demoniacal yells, which were
responded to by their friends in the town and answered in defiance by
the cheers of our men in the other batteries at each repulse which the
Russians sustained, for never once, in spite of the bravery of the
attack, did they succeed in entering our advanced trenches. The next
morning, after they had retired, in spite of the number of wounded and
the dead, whom it was their practice to carry off with them, the ground
was covered with the fallen.
What an experience for the young war correspondent who was making his
first essay in that which was to become his profession for years, and
who in this instance proved how thoroughly adequate he was for his task!
Undaunted by their failure and their immense losses, but a short time
elapsed before the besieged made another sortie, which proved as
unsuccessful as the last; and though the Russian losses must have been
immense, in our bayonet-bristling trenches but few men suffered. Henty
goes on to say it is quite impossible to describe these night sorties
accurately, for those engaged in them know next to nothing in the
darkness and confusion. If asked in the morning, they would reply that
the Russians came out strong and that our men loaded and fired in their
direction as fast as they could, that the Russians yelled awfully, and
the shot whizzed about like hail! This was the invariable account of a
sortie by those engaged in repelling it, unless there was a surprise and
the Russians got inside our trenches, when in the darkness and confusion
all were so mixed up that it was hard to know enemy from friend. "Can
anything wilder be conceived?" Henty asks in a description of an
attempt made by the Russians to seize one of our batteries and spike the
guns. The confusion was tremendous. Imagine an attack on a dark night,
the rain pouring, the men up to their knees in mud, fighting away all
mixed up together, the constant flashes and reports of guns and
pistols--the revolver being a most useful weapon on these occasions--the
cheers of our men and the yells of the Russians. At the commencement of
one of these attacks one of our men saw someone crouching over one of
the guns. He asked him what he was doing. The only answer was a cut of
the sword, which took off luckily only the tip of his nose. He
immediately pinned the man to the gun with his bayonet. He turned out
to be a Russian artilleryman who had managed to get in to spike the gun.
These were strange surroundings for a young literary man, for a rough
hut was often the study of one who was to grow by degrees one of the
widest known of English writers. Not only the pen, but the pencil had
become familiar to his fingers, and, possibly to fill up dull moments,
he began to make sketches of such objects as took his attention; and the
idea striking him that such subjects might prove attractive to one of
the editors of an illustrated paper at home, he from time to time tried
his hand at some little scene or some quaint-looking character which had
caught his eye.
These supplemented his long letters to a relative, and the idea growing
upon him, he elaborated his writing, making these letters, evidently
with latent hopes for the future, the germs of those which later grew to
be so familiar to the British public. Everything is said to have a
beginning. Certainly this was the commencement of George Henty's life
as a war correspondent, but these efforts were not entirely successful.
The sketches were duly taken by their recipient to the different London
illustrated papers, but whether from not being up to the editorial
artistic mark, or from the fact that each paper was already fully
represented, no success attended their presentation. The letters,
however, fared better in one case, for upon their being offered to the
editor of the _Morning Advertiser_, with a statement as to who and what
the writer was, and where he was engaged, the editor promised to read
them. He kept his word, and proved his acumen by writing out to the
young lieutenant with an invitation to him to represent the paper and
send him from time to time a series of letters containing the most
interesting occurrences of the campaign that came under his notice.
The opening was eagerly seized upon, and proved highly advantageous to
both parties. The young officer was a privileged person at
head-quarters, and his letters show that he had a keen power of
observation and a great faculty for selecting subjects that were of
interest to English readers. As a consequence, he continued to
represent the _Morning Advertiser_ until he was invalided home.