THE EIGHTH OF SEPTEMBER.
Trip to Kamiesch--Bornet’s love for war--Dangerous
quarters--Arrival at Kamiesch--Town of pasteboard--The 8th of
September--Orders for the assault--Carousals--Looking on--Stopped
by the sentinels--Get by at last--The batteries open fire--The
French flag on the Malakhoff--Wounded men--The officer’s
wife--Naval officers trying to dodge the sentries--Become my
guests--Reports respecting General Wyndham--Cathcart’s Hill--The
Duke of Newcastle--Dine with General Wyndham on the day of the
attack upon Sebastopol--Sir John Campbell and the French cook--An
excellent dinner--Rare autographs--General Wyndham summoned to
head-quarters.
Early on the 3rd of September we started for Kamiesch; but, as usual,
Bornet could not forget his old trade, and love for his fellow-soldiers.
“Governor,” said he, “the 3rd Zouaves who were on duty in the trenches
last night are on their return to camp. It is eight o’clock, and if we
take this ravine we shall meet some of them, and learn what is going
on.”
Having the whole day before us, I consented to go; we took the road
called the French Ravine, which led from the French head-quarters to the
trenches before Sebastopol. The returning Zouaves we met, but the cannon
balls also met us. Being in the ravine, we were not in great danger, as
they passed over our heads and fell on our left side. The principal
danger was when they struck a large stone, causing it to roll down the
side of the ravine, sometimes at a terrific rate.
The shells were far more objectionable; but, thanks to Providence, none
hit us. While retreating, Bornet said, “By a thousand bombs, governor,
it must be a fresh battery they are firing from: we always used to go
this way to the trenches.”
“Well,” said I, “new or old, let us get out of it.”
Putting our horses to a gallop, we were soon out of danger, and on the
road to Kamiesch. Near the French head-quarters we met two Zouaves. They
told us the French trenches were now within twenty yards of the
Malakhoff tower. “The cannon,” they said, “project about twenty feet
over our heads, and cannot touch us; but the grenades, which the
Russians throw among us by hundreds, cause the loss of many men, though
we extinguish a great number when they fall.”
Bornet now proposed the _vin blanc_, but to his regret and my delight,
they refused, or we should probably not have seen Kamiesch that day. In
many instances I have known French soldiers refuse.
At length we arrived at Kamiesch, which I had so long seen from my
quarters, but could not reach before, owing to the engrossing nature of
my occupations. This French town of pasteboard, or light wood, was so
different from Balaklava, that I cannot give my readers a better idea of
it than by stating that it bears the same resemblance to Balaklava that
Ramsgate does to Boulogne in the height of the season. The traffic,
business, markets, restaurants, cafés, billiard-rooms, theatre, &c.,
display the difference of character between the French and English, as
forcibly as Balaklava does the English from the French.
It was really remarkable to see the type of two great nations, such near
neighbours, on the same foreign soil, so far from their native homes, so
distinctly preserved, while the people agreed so well together. Some of
the restaurants were pretty good, very expensive, not very clean, but
always full. Money seemed of no consequence, as every one tried to get
it out of you if you were rash enough to eat, drink, or purchase
anything.
The sea-port was very fine; Kamiesch, flat, sandy, and unpicturesque.
Balaklava was a perfect garden; Kamiesch a well populated desert.
The evening of the 7th of September was a memorable one. Each mind was
animated; men of the most pacific disposition were transformed into
lions or tigers, furiously seeking to devour their prey.
Amidst the most terrible discharges of cannon, the order for the general
attack was announced to the troops for the following day. The news
acted like an electric spark, and inspired all hearts. Each soldier
appeared to breathe more freely; hope, the enchantress, filled the
hearts of the brave with enthusiasm; fear was unknown; all faces were
radiant with lust of glory and vengeance.
Having heard that the attack was to take place, at midday I visited the
French camp with my Zouave, where we found the same animation and
excitement. One of the soldiers said to my Zouave:
“By all the camels in Arabia, Bornet, are you coming to join in the
dance? If you are, I invite you for the first quadrille; but you must
play the clarionet (slang term for gun). Here’s a chance of having your
portrait spoiled--it just suits me.”
“What do you think of it, governor--shall I go?”
“It is impossible, my dear fellow, for me to oblige you upon this
occasion, as your services will be more useful to-morrow, when no doubt,
whichever way the victory may turn, the hospitals will be full.
Therefore I hope you will forgive me for saving your life against your
will. I am sure, if you had a chance, you would be the first to mount
the breach, and consequently the first to be knocked over.”
His late comrades in arms did not see the force of this. They knew he
had some money, and did not like to part with him. The idea struck me to
order a few bottles of wine at the canteen near their tents, in return
for their hospitality in offering us their ration rum and brandy. About
five-and-twenty more joined us when I gave the invitation. I knew that
Bornet had only a few shillings in his pocket, which shillings,
by-the-bye, were very liberally taken by the vivandière as a great
favour, at the value of a French franc. After several farewells we
parted.
The morning of the 8th of September, 1855, arrived. Aurora smiled gaily
upon the far-famed city, the sentinels on all sides were at their posts,
and in the Russian camp no doubt the watchword circulated as usual. It
was thus in the allied camps, but pronounced quicker; the step of the
relief guard was that of quick march, every nerve was in action, and
strained to the utmost. The scene at the race for the Derby alone could
give the reader an idea of the sudden energy which filled every bosom,
on hearing that the attack was to take place, with this difference, that
life seemed of less consequence to every one in the Crimea than the loss
of money on that terrible day of chance. All had a share in the lottery.
Glory was to turn the wheel of fortune, and every one seemed sure of
winning. All hoped to gather laurels from the arid soil so long
moistened with blood.
At four o’clock we were all up; about five the Guards were on their
march towards the besieged city; troops from all quarters were silently
marching in the same direction; every heart was beating high; the day
had at last arrived which was to decide a great question. At seven all
were at their post. Bornet and myself started on horseback directly,
after seeing the Scots Fusiliers pass through the Guards’ camp, close to
our tents. On catching sight of them, my Zouave exclaimed, “What a
splendid regiment, gouverneur, que ces Montagnards Ecossais! I have a
great mind to follow them: I shall, too!”
“I am sure you sha’n’t,” said I, clutching him by the coat collar.
After making a long détour, a sentinel let us pass. As we were nearer
the Woronzoff Road than the Cathcart Hill Cemetery, we went in that
direction, and took up our position to witness the grand spectacle. For
some time a profound silence reigned amongst the troops, who seemed as
though they were buried in the trenches. The weather, which had been
fine the preceding days, and even till sunrise on that eventful morning,
suddenly changed. In a short time the elements assumed a threatening
aspect, and a furious tempest raged in every direction. A clouded sky
had replaced the azure blue, the fierce gusts of wind raised thick
clouds of dust, which rolled majestically towards us like a moving
castle, blinding every one for a time. The cold air chilled everybody,
and was so violent that one could scarcely keep one’s saddle, or see
twenty yards in advance. Showers of hail burst here and there over the
now excited and infuriated camp and Sebastopol; the scene of action was
almost invisible. It appeared as though the evil genius of the storm had
on that glorious day attached his seal of destruction to that desecrated
spot. Even the sun (_l’ami Soleil_), the world’s friend, seemed to fear
to face this scene of horror and desolation, and while smiling upon the
remainder of the mighty globe, had, in appearance, withdrawn from the
harrowed city of Sebastopol.
Suddenly the batteries opened fire in every direction, shaking the very
soil on which we stood. Clouds of smoke enveloped the besieged city. Not
a thing could be seen or heard but a continuous rolling noise similar to
that of an earthquake. All at once the noise ceased, and the rattle of
musketry was heard, with, at intervals, cannon and mortar shot. By
degrees, thanks to the heavy gale, the atmosphere got clearer, and by
the aid of a telescope one could distinctly see the French flag floating
from the Malakhoff, and the troops mounting to the assault. An hour had
scarcely elapsed when the news was brought of the capture of the
Malakhoff by the French, and of the Redan by the English. Aides-de-camp
were flying in every direction; and numbers of wounded were on their way
to the hospitals. We quitted our post to go to the General Hospital, in
order to see whether our services were required. As we were crossing the
English camp, a corpse was borne past us, carried by four soldiers. Upon
inquiry I learned, with sorrow, that it was the body of Colonel H. R.
Handcock, whom, a few days before, I had had the pleasure of
entertaining at my kitchens, with his young and very interesting wife.
The latter had been an eye-witness of the assault, and I was informed
that, by the greatest imprudence, the mutilated body of her husband had
just been uncovered before her. She fainted at the sight, and was borne
to her residence, where she lay for some time dangerously ill. This will
account for the sudden alteration in her appearance before mentioned.
The fight still raged, the weather was a little calmer, and we left the
field of battle, intending to gallop at once to the hospital. On
reaching the line of sentries, we met two naval officers who were trying
to pass, in order to obtain a view of the action from Cathcart’s Hill.
They were having a rather warm discussion, the sentry doing his duty by
stopping them. I pulled up my horse, and told them that unless they had
an order from head-quarters they could not pass. Though much vexed, they
thanked me, and submitted to the disappointment. I was about leaving
them, when I heard one say to the other--
“What shall we do? I would give any money for a glass of wine or a cup
of coffee.”
“So would I,” said the other. “Where is there a Canteen, sentry?”
“It would be of no use my telling you,” the sentry replied, “as they are
all closed during the siege, or at least for to-day, in order to prevent
men left in the camp from quitting their post. Several robberies were
perpetrated in camp upon former occasions.”
I overheard their conversation, in which they stated that they had
started without breakfast, and been a long way round--nearly seven miles
among the hills--and had seen nothing after all, as the pickets would
not let them pass the line of Balaklava.
“Gentlemen,” said I, “if you will come with me to my tent, I think I can
keep you from starving, and have no doubt you will fare there as well,
if not better, than in a Canteen. I can also give you a description of
the siege, having been an eyewitness of the same.”
They thanked me, and accepted my offer. On our way to quarters, I
recounted the melancholy death of Colonel Handcock. My Zouave had by
this time arrived--no one but the groom was at home, and he could speak
neither French nor English, being a Greek--so I set my Zouave to lay the
table; and with my magic stove I cooked some ration-mutton, made an
omelette, brought out a piece of cold beef, bread, &c., and gave them a
bottle of ale and a glass of sherry. In twenty minutes their hunger was
appeased, and I told them they were welcome to stay, but that I must
proceed to my duty. At the same time I informed them, that at six
o’clock dinner would be ready, and they were welcome to partake of it if
they happened to be about the camp; but that they were on no account to
wait for me in case I did not return, as I did not know what I might
have to do in the hospitals. They thanked me for my hospitality, and
said they would try and see something of the battle, and if anywhere
about my quarters, would be too happy to return to dinner.
We then parted; they proceeding towards Sebastopol, and I to the
hospital. On my arrival I found, to my surprise, that not one wounded
man had been brought in. After waiting some time I saw Dr. Mouatt, and
inquired if anything extra was wanted; his reply was, “We have all that
is needed for their reception.”
I then went to the purveyor, and to the kitchen; but fearing, as the
battle was raging fiercely, the number of wounded might exceed the means
at their disposal, I remained about the hospitals. I did this in case my
services might be required, as I was well aware of the importance of
speedy relief to the sufferers.
Towards evening the wounded began to arrive, though not in great
numbers. I left my Zouave there and returned to the camp, telling him if
anything was required, to ride home at once and inform me, as the
doctors would be so much engaged--and in particular Dr. Mouatt, who
would most probably not be able to devote his time to the culinary
department. As I rode towards Sebastopol, to have another look at the
battle, I met only a few wounded. Upon inquiring of the orderlies in
charge whether there were many more, they replied that they could not
say, but they believed that there were a great number. I then returned
to my tent, and a few minutes afterwards my naval friends arrived. The
dinner was served up, and they told me that they had had a good view of
the besieged city from the French lines. In the course of conversation,
they informed me that Colonel (now General) Wyndham had invited them to
dinner that day. I replied, “I am very anxious about him, as he led the
storming party in the Redan, and I have heard the attack has been very
severe, and many were killed and wounded on both sides.” I also heard
that it had been retaken by the Russians, and feared he might have been
taken prisoner, if not wounded or killed.
When dinner was over, I proposed to pass them through the lines and make
inquiry about him. We proceeded to Cathcart’s Hill--it was then nearly
dusk--I on horseback, they on foot. The camp around us was as still and
deserted as in the morning; scarcely any one was to be seen till we
reached the lines. Very few shots were heard, but every one was at his
post. Upon reaching Cathcart’s Hill, I alighted to speak with his Grace
the Duke of Newcastle, who had been in the trenches all day and had just
returned. He was kind enough to give me the details of the attacks on
both sides, and said that he was waiting for General Bentinck, who had
not yet been seen, and that he hoped nothing had happened to him. I
observed, “This is a most anxious hour for all who have friends engaged
in so serious and dangerous an encounter.”
While conversing with the Duke, I missed my two companions. Thinking
they knew the position of Colonel Wyndham’s quarters, I went there
expecting to find them. My first and most anxious inquiry of the
servant, who knew me well, was, “What news of the Colonel?”
“Oh, all right, Monsieur Soyer,” he replied with great satisfaction. “If
you wish to see him, he is gone to Colonel Wood’s tent--you know where
it is.”
“No I don’t.”
“Then I’ll show you--he will be glad to see you.”
“I will not trouble you, as I would not disturb him on such a day for
the world. I am glad to hear he is safe; but have you seen two
gentlemen?”
“No one excepting yourself, sir. You must come with me; my master is
alone, waiting for the Colonel, and I’m sure they will both be happy to
see you.”
Colonel Wyndham had just changed his clothes before going to the
Colonel’s to dine. His servant showed them to me; they were covered with
blood and dust. I followed him to Colonel Wood’s hut, and found Colonel
Wyndham walking quickly to and fro in the hut, apparently much
preoccupied and excited. His eyes emitted flashes of fire, his open
countenance had assumed its usual majestic calm and dignity, his lips
were parched, his proud brow betokened much restlessness, and though his
forehead was covered with glory, you could perceive through the wreath
of laurel which had only a few hours before been deposited there by
Mars, a deep shadow of thoughtfulness and care. His physiognomy told a
tale. Victory had of him made a great hero, without having had time to
put her final seal to his martial and petulant ardour. Another battle
was yet to be fought.
Seeing me, he came forward and shook me by the hand, inviting me to
enter. We were together about half-an-hour, and he related to me the
great events of the attack upon the Redan, now so well known to the
public. Colonel Wood came in, also free from wounds, to the delight of
all, and invited me to dine with them. I told him that I had already
dined, but could not refuse the honour upon so memorable an occasion.
We then sat down to dinner. François,[20] the Colonel’s French cook,
with whose culinary capacities I was well acquainted, having dined
several times with the Colonel, told me he never felt less interest, or
prepared a dinner with so much reluctance, fearing no one would return
to eat it after such a sanguinary battle. Highly delighted was he when
Colonel Wyndham came in, and more so when he found that his excellent
governor (as he called him) had returned safe and sound. Every officer
in the camp knew François, and the Colonel’s table got quite in repute
through the exertions of this culinary disciple of Vattel. He used to go
to the trenches, leaving his own batteries to brave those of the enemy,
and all this for the comfort of his excellent governor. He was much
liked by all, and always had a budget of anecdotes, some of them very
interesting. He had lived as cook and major domo for several years with
Madame Grisi. The last time I saw him he was in daily expectation of the
Sebastopol medal.
The dinner was served, but I must say it was not so _recherché_ as on
former occasions; it seemed to have been prepared for sick epicures, or
at least those who hovered between life and death. The conversation upon
the events of the day was so animated that no one but myself perceived
the difference. The Colonel’s excellent wine was highly relished, and in
drinking the health of Colonels Wyndham and Wood, I requested the former
to make a note of the fact that I had the honour of dining with him and
Colonel Wood a few hours after the battle, as probably no one would
credit it. This the Colonel immediately did, and Colonel Wood added his
autograph, of which the following is a copy:--
_8th September, 1855, 9_ P.M.
I had the pleasure, after my return from leading the storming party
of the 2nd Division to the Redan, of dining with Colonel D. Wood,
and meeting at dinner Monsieur Soyer.
D. WOOD,
_Lieut.-Col. Commanding,
R.A. 4th Division_.
C. A. WYNDHAM,
_Col. Commanding,
2nd Battalion_.
They had hardly signed this when a loud knock was heard at the door, and
an orderly entered with a dispatch from General Simpson, who wished to
see Colonel Wyndham directly. The Colonel lost no time in attending to
his commander’s orders, and we mounted our horses and started for
head-quarters. “An immediate attack on the Redan is what I shall
recommend to the General-in-Chief” were the last words uttered by the
Colonel before leaving the hut. The firing had ceased; the night was
very dark, but the weather calm. It was with great difficulty we found
our way through the camps, which appeared very silent after such a
stormy day and day of storm. In about a quarter of an hour Colonel
Wyndham observed, “Monsieur Soyer, I believe you are close to your
quarters,” pointing to several lights. “There,” said he, “is the Guards’
camp.” I wished him good evening, and we separated.
My Zouave had not returned from the hospital, but shortly after made his
appearance rather intoxicated. He related all that he had seen, and said
that a few wounded Russians had been brought to the hospitals. “They
have all they require,” said he; “and, in case of need, I told a man to
call us up.” When he had put everything in order, he said, “I’ll keep
watch,” and commenced singing his favourite songs. He made so much noise
that we could not sleep if we had wished to do so, especially as the
soldier-cooks and servants joined him in chorus.