became signally expert. In the hunt, the trial of skill, all the labors
and sports of the youthful mountaineers, he was an adept, and so valiant
and resourceful that his admiring countrymen at length chose him as
their Iman, or governor, during the defence of their country against the
Russian invaders.
The first battle in which Schamyl engaged was behind the walls of his
native village. Himri, well situated as it was, was hurled into ruin by
the artillery of the foe, and among its prostrate defenders lay Schamyl,
with two balls through his body. He was left by the enemy as dead, and
in after-years the mountaineers looked upon his escape and recovery as
due to miracle.
Schamyl was thirty-seven years of age when he became leader of the
tribes. Of middle stature, with fair hair, gray eyes shadowed with thick
brows, a Grecian nose, small mouth, and unusually fair complexion, he
was one of the handsomest and most distinguished in appearance of the
mountaineers. He was erect in carriage, light and active in tread, and
had a natural nobility of air and aspect. His manner was calmly
commanding, while his eloquence was at once fiery and persuasive.
"Flames sparkle from his eyes," says one, "and flowers are scattered
from his lips."
In 1839 the Russians made one of their most determined efforts to crush
the resistance of the mountaineers. Schamyl's head-quarters were then at
Akhulgo, a stronghold perched upon the top of an isolated conical peak
around whose foot a river wound. Strong by nature, it was well
fortified, trenches, earthworks, and covered ways now taking the place
of those stone walls which the Russian cannon had so easily overturned
at Himri.
Other fortified works were built on the road to Akhulgo, which was
retained as a last resort, behind whose defences the mountaineers were
resolved to conquer or die. Its garrison was composed of the flower of
the Circassian warriors, while some fifteen thousand men beside stood
ready to take part in the fight.
In the month of May the Russians advanced, with such energy and in such
force that the anterior works were soon taken, and the mountaineers
found themselves obliged to take refuge in their final fortress of
defence. The fight here was fierce and persistent. Step by step the
Russians made their way, pushing their parallels against the intrenched
works of their foes. Point after point was gained, and at length, in
late August, the crisis came. A sudden charge carried them into the
fort, and the defenders died where they stood, leaving only women and
children to fall as prisoners into the Russians' hands.
But Schamyl had disappeared. Seek as they would, the chief was not to be
found. The fortress, the approaches, every nook and corner, were
explored, but the famous warrior, for whom his foes would have given
half their wealth, had utterly vanished, no one knew how. To make sure
of his death they had scarcely left a fighting man alive, yet to their
chagrin the redoubtable Schamyl was soon again in the field.
How the brave mountaineer escaped is not known. Of the stories afloat,
one is that he lay concealed until night in a rock refuge, and then
managed to swim the river while some of his friends attracted the
attention and drew the fire of the guards. All that can be said is that
in September he reappeared, ready for new feats of arms, and was seen
again at the head of a gallant body of mountain warriors.
His head-quarters were now fixed at Dargo, a village in the heart of the
mountains and in the midst of the primeval forest. But the chief had
learned a lesson from his late experience. The Circassians were no match
for the Russians behind fortifications. He resolved in the future to
fight in a manner better suited to the habits of his followers, and to
wear out the foe by a guerilla warfare.
Three years passed before the Russians again sought to penetrate the
mountains in force. Then General Grabbe, the victor at Akhulgo,
attempted to repeat his success at Dargo. But the experience he gained
proved to be of a less agreeable type. At the close of the first day's
march, when the soldiers had eaten their evening meal and stretched
their limbs to rest after a hard day's march, they were suddenly brought
to their feet by a rattling volley of musketry from the surrounding
woods. All night long the firing continued, no great damage being done
in the darkness, but the soldiers being effectually deprived of their
rest. When day dawned there was not a Circassian to be seen.
Near noon, as the column wound through a ravine in the forest, the
firing sharply recommenced, a murderous volley pouring upon the vanguard
from behind the trees. The number of wounded became so great that there
were not wagons enough for their transportation. Still General Grab be
kept on, despite the advice of his officers, only to be attacked again
at night as his weary men lay in a small open meadow among the hills.
All night long the whiz of bullets drove away repose, and at every step
of the next day's march the woods belched forth the leaden messengers of
death.
The goal of the march was near at hand. The little village of Dargo
could be seen on a distant hill-top. But it was to be reached only by a
path of death, and the Russian commander was at length forced to give
the order to retreat. On seeing the column wheel and begin its backward
march the Circassians grew wild with excitement and triumph. Slinging
their rifles behind their backs, they rushed, sabre in hand, upon the
enemy's centre, breaking through it again and again, while a deadly hail
of rifle-shots still came from the woods. In the end, of the column of
six thousand, two thousand were left dead, the remainder reaching the
fortress from which they had set out in sorry plight.
For several years Schamyl made Dargo his head-quarters. Not until 1845
did the Russians succeed in taking it, their army now being ten thousand
strong. But it was a village in flames they captured. Schamyl had fired
it before leaving, and the Russians were so beset in coming and going
that their empty conquest was made at the cost of three thousand of
their men.
In the spring of the following year the valiant chief repaid the enemy
in part for these invasions of his country. He had now under his command
no less than twenty thousand warriors, largely horsemen, and in the
leafy month of May, taking advantage of a weakening of the Russian line,
he dashed suddenly from the highlands for a raid in the neighboring
country of the Kabardians.
Two rivers flowed between the mountain ranges and the Kabardas, and two
lines of hostile fortresses guarded the frontier, containing in all no
less than seventy thousand men. Between the forts lay Cossack
settlements, and beyond them the Kabardians, an armed and warlike race.
Schamyl had no artillery, no fortresses, no depots of provisions and
ammunition. All he could do was to make a quick dash and a hasty return.
Down upon the Cossacks he rode, followed by his thousands of daring
riders. Plundering their villages, he halted to take no forts except
those that went down in the whirl of his coming. Before the garrisons in
the strongholds fairly knew that he was among them he was gone; and
while the Kabardians believed that he was lurking in the mountain
depths, he suddenly dashed into their midst. Sixty populous Kabardian
villages were plundered, and the mountaineers proudly refused to turn
till they had watered their horses in the Kuban and even reached the
more distant banks of the Laba.
But how were they to return? Thousands of horsemen had gathered in the
way. Long battalions of infantry had hurried to cut off the raiders on
their retreat. Schamyl knew that he could not get back by the way he
had come; but, turning southward, he galloped at headlong speed through
the Cossack settlements in that quarter, and, with his cruppers laden
with booty and his saddle-bows well furnished with food, evaded his foes
and reached the mountains again. May seemed to bloom more richly than
ever as the wild riders dashed proudly back to the doors of their homes
and heard the glad shouts of joy that greeted their safe return.
The whole story of the exploits of the famous Circassian chief is too
extended and too full of stirring incidents to be here given even in
epitome. It must suffice to say, in conclusion, that ten years after his
escape from Akhulgo that stronghold was again attacked and taken by the
Russians, and as before Schamyl mysteriously escaped. Completely
baffled, nothing was left for the Russians but to wear out the chief and
his people by continued invasions of their mountain land. Again and
again their armies were beaten by their indomitable foe, but the
continuance of the struggle slowly exhausted the land and its powers of
resistance.
The Circassians were helped during the Crimean War by the foes of
Russia, who supplied them with arms and money, but after that war the
Russians kept up the struggle with more energy than ever, and, by
opening a road over the mountains, cut off a part of the country and
compelled its submission. At length, in April, 1859, twenty-five years
after the struggle began, Weden, Schamyl's stronghold at that time, was
taken, after a seven weeks' siege. As before, the chief escaped, but the
country was virtually subdued, and he had only a small band of
followers left.
For months afterwards his foes pursued him actively from fastness to
fastness, determined to run him down, and at length, on September 6,
1859, surprised him on the plateau of Gounib. Here the devoted band made
a desperate resistance, not yielding until of the original four hundred
only forty-seven remained alive. Schamyl, the lion of the Caucasus, was
at length taken, after having cost the Russians uncounted losses in life
and money.
With his capture the independence of Circassia came to an end. It has
since formed an integral part of the Russian empire, and its subjugation
has opened the gateway to that vast expansion of Russia in Central Asia
which since then has taken place. The captive chief had won the respect
of his foes, and was honorably treated, being assigned a residence at
Kaluga, in Central Russia, with an annual pension of five thousand
dollars. He, like his countrymen, was a Mohammedan in faith, and removed
to Mecca, in Arabia, in 1870, dying at Medina in the following year.
_THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE._
The Crimean War, brief as was the interval it occupied in the annals of
time, was one replete with exciting events. And of these much the most
brilliant was that which took place on the 25th of October, 1854, the
famous "Charge of the Light Brigade," which Tennyson has immortalized in
song, and which stands among the most dramatic incidents in the history
of war. It was truthfully said by one of the French generals who
witnessed it, "It is magnificent, but it is not war." We give it for its
magnificence alone.
[Illustration: MOUNT ST. PETER, CRIMEA.]
First let us depict the scene of that memorable event. The British and
French armies lay in front of Balaklava, their base of supplies, facing
towards Sebastopol. They occupied a mountain slope, which was strongly
intrenched. A valley lay before them, and some two miles distant rose
another mountain range, rocky and picturesque. In the valley between
were four rounded hillocks, each crowned by an earthwork defended by a
few hundred Turks. These outlying redoubts formed the central points of
the famous battle of October 25.
In the early morning of that day the Russians appeared in force,
debouching from the mountain passes in front of the allied army. Six
compact masses of infantry were seen, with a line of artillery in
front, and on each flank a powerful cavalry force, while a cloud of
mounted skirmishers filled the space between. Fronting the line of the
allies were the Zouaves, crouching behind low earthworks, on the right
the 93d Highlanders, and in front the British cavalry, composed of the
Heavy Brigade, under General Scarlett, and, more in advance, the Light
Brigade, under Lord Cardigan. Such were, in broad outline, the formation
of the ground and the position of the actors in the drama of battle
about to be played.
The scene opened with an attack on the advanced redoubts. No. 1 was
quickly taken, the Turks flying in haste before the fire of the Russian
guns. No. 2 was evacuated in similar panic haste, the Cossack
skirmishers riding among the fleeing Turks and cutting them mercilessly
down. The guns of No. 2 were at once turned upon No. 3, whose garrison
of Turks fired a few shots in return, and then, as in the previous
cases, broke into open flight. After them dashed the Cossack light
horsemen, flanking them to right and left, and many of the turbaned
fugitives paid for their panic with their lives. The Russians had won in
the first move of the game. They had taken three of the redoubts before
a movement could be made for their support.
Next a squadron of the Russian cavalry charged vigorously upon the
Highlanders. But a deadly rifle fire met them as they came, volley after
volley tearing gaps through their compact ranks, and in a moment more
they had wheeled, opened their files, and were in full flight. "Bravo,
Highlanders!" came up an exulting shout from the thousands of spectators
behind.
It was evident that Balaklava was the goal of the Russian movement, and
the heavy cavalry were ordered into position to protect the approaches.
As they moved towards the post indicated, a large body of the enemy's
cavalry appeared over the ridge in front. These were _corps d'elite_,
evidently, their jackets of light blue, embroidered with silver lace,
giving them a holiday appearance. Behind them, as they galloped at an
easy pace to the brow of the hill, appeared the keen glitter of
lance-tips, and in the rear of the lancers came several squadrons of
gray-coated dragoons as supports. As the serried ranks of horsemen
advanced, their pace declined from a gallop to an easy trot, and from
that almost to a halt. Their first line was double the length of the
British, and three times as deep. Behind it came a second line, equally
strong. They greatly outnumbered their foe.
It was evident that the shock of a cavalry battle was at hand. The
hearts of the spectators throbbed with excitement as they saw the Heavy
Brigade suddenly break into a full gallop and rush headlong upon the
enemy, making straight for the centre of the Russian line. On they went,
Grays and Enniskilleners, in serried array, while their cheers and
shouts rent the air as they struck the Russian line with an impetus
which carried them through the close-drawn ranks. For a moment there was
a glittering flash of sword-blades and a sharp clash of steel, and
then, in thinned numbers, the charging dragoons appeared in the rear of
the line, heading with unchecked speed towards the second Russian rank.
The gallant horsemen seemed buried amid the multitude of the enemy. "God
help them! they are lost!" came from more than one trembling lip and was
echoed in many a fearful heart. The onset was terrific: the second line
was broken like the first, and in its rear the red-coated riders
appeared. But the first line of Russians, which had been rolled back
upon its flanks by the impetuous rush, was closing up again, and the
much smaller force in their midst was in serious peril of being
swallowed up and crushed by sheer force of numbers.
The crisis was a terrible one. But at the moment when the danger seemed
greatest, two regiments of dragoons, the 4th and 5th, who had closely
followed their fellows in the charge, broke furiously upon the enemy,
dashing through and rending to fragments the already broken line. In a
moment all was over. Less than five minutes had passed since the first
shock, and already the Russian horse was in full flight, beaten by half
its force. Wild cheers burst from the whole army as the victors drew
back with almost intact ranks, their loss having been very small.
Thus ended the famous "Charge of the Heavy Brigade." Its glory was to be
eclipsed by that memorable "Charge of the Light Brigade" which became
the theme of Tennyson's stirring ode, and the recital of which still
causes many a heart to throb. We are indebted for our story of it to
the thrilling account of W.H. Russell, the _Times_ correspondent, and a
spectator of the event.
As the Russian cavalry retired, their infantry fell back, leaving men in
three of the captured redoubts, but abandoning the other points gained.
They also had guns on the heights overlooking their position. About the
hour of eleven, while the two armies thus faced each other, resting for
an interval from the rush of conflict, there came to Lord Cardigan that
fatal order which caused him to hurl his men into "the jaws of death."
How it came to be given, how the misapprehension occurred, who was at
fault in the error, has never been made clear. Captain Nolan, who
brought the order, was one of the first to fall, and his story of the
event died with him. All we know is that he handed Lord Lucan a written
command to advance, and when asked, "Where are we to advance to?" he
pointed to the Russian line, and said, "There are the enemy, and there
are the guns," or words of similar meaning.
It is a maxim in war that "cavalry shall never act without a support,"
that "infantry should be close at hand when cavalry carry guns," and
that a line of cavalry should have some squadrons in column on its
flanks, to guard it against a flank attack. None of these rules was
carried out here, and Lord Lucan reluctantly gave the order to advance
upon the guns, which Lord Cardigan as reluctantly accepted, for to any
eye it was evident that it was an order to advance upon death. "Some one
had blundered," and wisdom would have dictated the demand for a
confirmation of the order. Valor suggested that it should be obeyed in
all its blank enormity. Dismissing wisdom and yielding to valor, Lord
Cardigan gave the word to advance, the brigade, scarcely a regiment in
total strength, broke into a sudden gallop, and within a minute the
devoted line was flying over the plain towards the enemy.
The movement struck Lord Raglan, from whom the order was supposed to
have emanated, with consternation. It struck the Russians with surprise.
Surely that handful of men was not going to attack an army in position?
Yet so it seemed as the Light Brigade dashed onward, the uplifted sabres
glittering in the morning sun, the horses galloping at full speed
towards the Russian guns, over a plain a mile and a half in width.
Not far had they gone when a hot fire of cannon, musketry, and rifles
belched from the Russian line. A flood of smoke and flame hid the
opposing ranks, and shot and shell tore through the charging troops.
Gaps were rent in their ranks, men and horses went down in rapid
succession, and riderless horses were seen rushing wildly across the
plain. The first line was broken. It was joined by the second. On went
the brigade in a single line with unchecked speed. Though torn by the
deadly fire of thirty guns, the brave riders rode steadily on into the
smoke of the batteries, with cheers which too often changed in a breath
to the cry of death.
Through the clouds of smoke the horsemen could be seen dashing up to and
between the guns, cutting down the gunners as they stood. Then,
wheeling, they broke through a line of Russian infantry which sought to
stay their advance, and scattered it to right and left. In a moment
more, to the relief of those who had watched their career in an agony of
emotion, they were seen riding back from the captured redoubt.
Scattered and broken they came, some mounted, some on foot, all
hastening towards the British lines. As they wheeled to retreat, a
regiment of lancers was hurled upon their flank. Colonel Shewell, of the
8th Hussars, saw the danger, and rushed at the foe, cutting a passage
through with great loss. The others had similarly to break their way
through the columns that sought to envelop them. As they emerged from
the cavalry fight, the gunners opened upon them again, cutting new lines
of carnage through their decimated ranks. The Heavy Brigade had ridden
to their relief, but could only cover the retreat of the slender remnant
of the gallant band. In twenty-five minutes from the start not a British
soldier, except the dead and dying, was left on the scene of this daring
but mad exploit.
Captain Nolan fell among the first; Lord Lucan was slightly wounded;
Lord Cardigan had his clothes pierced by a lance; Lord Fitzgibbon
received a fatal wound. Of the total brigade, some six hundred strong,
the killed, wounded, and missing numbered four hundred and twenty-six.
While this event was taking place, a body of French cavalry made a
brilliant charge on a battery at the left, which was firing upon the
devoted brigade, and cut down the gunners. But they could not get the
guns off without support, and fell back with a loss of one-fourth their
number. Thus ended that eventful day, in which the British cavalry had
covered itself with glory, though it had only glory to show in return
for its heavy loss.
Such is the story as it stands in prose. Here is Tennyson's poetic
version, which is full of the dash and daring of the wild ride.
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well;
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,
Rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not--
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them,
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
_THE FALL OF SEBASTOPOL._
The history of Russia has been largely a history of wars,--which indeed
might be said with equal justice of most of the nations of Europe. In
truth, history as written gives such prominence to warlike deeds, and
glosses over so hastily the events of peace, that we seem to hear the
roll of the drum rising from the written page itself, and to see the hue
of blood crimsoning the printed sheets. This dominance of war in history
is a striking instance of false perspective. Nations have not spent all
or most of their lives in fighting, but the clash of the sword rings so
loudly through the historic atmosphere that we scarcely hear the milder
sounds of peace.
So far as Russia is concerned, the torrent of war has rolled mainly
towards the south. From those early days in which the Scythians drove
back the Persian host and the early Varangians fiercely assailed the
Greek empire, the relations of the north and the south have been
strained, and a rapid succession of wars has been waged between the
Russians and their varying foes, the Greeks, the Tartars, and the Turks.
For ten centuries these wars have continued, with Constantinople for
their ultimate goal, yet in all these ten centuries of conflict no
Russian foot has ever been set in hostility within that ancient city's
walls.
Of these many wars, that which looms largest on the historic page is
the fierce conflict of 1854-55, in which England and France came to
Turkey's aid and Russia met with defeat on the soil of the Crimea. We
have already given the most striking and dramatic incident of this
famous Crimean war. It may be aptly followed by the final scene of all,
the assault upon and capture of Sebastopol.