It was a new thing indeed for our hero to have real relatives, and those
who may happen to have read these chapters, and are placed in a position
similar to his, will realise with what eagerness he hoped that it should
turn out that he and Douglas McNeil were cousins.
True, Phil had had an adopted father and mother who, if not indulgent,
were at least kind after their own way. But home life for him had
always lacked that sympathy and that geniality which are the makings of
a happy family circle. Where all was austerity, Joe Sweetman's ruddy,
smiling face had come like the sun to lighten the gloomy house. No
wonder that Phil took to him from the first, and no wonder that, now
that the real secret of his birth seemed to be on the point of
discovery, in which case he would have friends, aunts, uncles, and
cousins like others he met every day of his life, he was more than a
little excited. He and Douglas had many a chat over the possibility of
their being relations, and before Scutari was reached the latter had
written a long letter of explanation to his parents, while Phil wrote to
Joe and to Mr Western, telling of his new life and fortunes, and asking
for particulars of the place and the woman from whose house he had been
brought many years before. Then, as nothing further could be done to
settle the matter, they dropped the subject by mutual consent.
A week after they left Balaclava the huge barracks which now served as a
hospital for the sick and wounded British hove in sight, and by evening
Phil and his new friend were comfortably quartered in a small ward in
which were three other officers. Fortunately neither was dangerously or
seriously ill, though their wounds were sufficiently grave to make them
incapable of active service for some time to come. Thanks, however, to
healthy constitutions they were rapidly recovering strength, and
therefore not in much need of attention. And it was well for them that
matters were in such a satisfactory state, for the huge hospital, built
on the quadrangular system, and with sides a quarter of a mile long, had
some two miles and more of corridors and wards, all packed to
overflowing.
"I never saw such a thing," remarked Phil sadly, after he and Douglas
had been placed in their cots. "The men are almost lying on top of one
another, and it cannot possibly be good for them. This overcrowding
must have a harmful influence on their wounds."
"You are right there," answered one of the other officers bitterly. "I
am a doctor, and I can tell you that the overcrowding and bad
ventilation are killing the men in scores, and when to that trouble is
added the lamentable fact that the hospital staff is quite inadequate,
and attendants are too few and far between, you can imagine what
suffering there is."
"But surely there should be sufficient orderlies to nurse and look after
the men?" exclaimed Douglas indignantly.
"Undoubtedly there should be," answered the doctor, a man of some fifty
years of age; "but the fact remains that there are not nearly enough.
Who is to blame I do not know. Probably the lack of system is the chief
cause of all our troubles, for without a regular system everything goes
to the wall. It must be the case, especially when the strain comes, and
it has come now with a vengeance. Men are simply falling sick in
hundreds, and really you cannot be surprised, for as Balaclava is eight
miles from the trenches, it is almost impossible to keep up supplies,
and in consequence the men are nearly starved. Then the storm destroyed
all their warm clothing, and as the rains have now set in, and many
hours have to be spent in the earthworks, it means that our poor fellows
are nearly always wet through. I can tell you that, after serving in
many parts of the world, I have come to the conclusion that where an
Englishman cannot live it is not worth the while of others to go. He
can put up with most things in the way of heat or cold, providing he is
well fed and clothed. But starve the strongest man, and see how quickly
he will succumb to cold and exposure."
That this was true could not be doubted, for, continually drenched as
our soldiers were, cut by icy blasts of wind, and almost starved, they
fell ill in vast numbers. Overworked by long hours in the damp
trenches, and continually harassed by a musketry fire from the
rifle-pits, they flung themselves down upon the mud and greasy mire at
night, and snatched a few fitful moments of repose, wrapped in a blanket
as worn out as themselves, and almost certainly dripping with moisture.
It was no one's fault, this lack of clothing and supplies. It was the
absence of a commissariat system of wide teaching power and with ample
funds at its command. Given a base in England, with men there to choose
and forward the necessary supplies in hired transports, there must still
be others at the base in the invaded country to distribute what is sent,
and yet again there must be more with clear brains and ready hands to
bring those stores of food and clothing, and a thousand-and-one other
things, to the very outskirts of the camp. Otherwise another burden is
thrown upon your already hardly-taxed fighting regiments. And to
distribute stores in this thorough manner, horses and carts are
required, and, since the former cannot live on air, forage with which to
feed them. Horses, too, like men, are apt to sicken and die, especially
if ill-fed and exposed to bitter winds; and therefore remounts are
always required, and these must often be sent for from far-off
countries, and brought in big transports specially fitted for the
purpose.
All this was admirably carried out in the Boer War of 1899-1900. A
perfect system of transport and supply had long before been arranged,
and officers and men trained to carry it out. Those who have seen will
give unstinted praise, for supplies, remounts, clothing, every
conceivable thing, were obtainable, often brought to the front at the
cost of no small amount of labour and forethought by those responsible
for the work.
In the days of the Crimea there was no such system, and, to add to
everything, horses were extremely scarce, while eight long miles of mud
intervened between the harbour of Balaclava and the trenches. Daily,
men made beasts of burden of themselves, waded through the mud to
Balaclava, and struggled back with food, which, when distributed, had
too often to be eaten in an uncooked state, for fuel was at a premium.
It is no wonder, then, that men were incessantly falling ill, and that
the hospital at Scutari was thronged with soldiers, who died at an
alarming rate. Up to and during that November, one poor wretch died out
of every two, for if there was no transport or supply system, there was
likewise no hospital organisation worthy of the name. Surgeons were few
and far between, and too much occupied in their work of mercy to be able
to give time to other matters. Thus, the hospital at Scutari, never
noted for cleanliness, became a hovel of filth and insanitation, to
which the alarming death-rate gave ample, if painful, evidence.
Well was it for our poor soldiers that correspondents accompanied that
army. By their publications, and by aid of the telegraph, the cry of
the dying soldier smote the heart of the British nation, and roused it
to wrath and pity. A fund was raised, and, better than all, those sent
out by whose aid it should be rapidly and systematically distributed.
Florence Nightingale, that grand lady of undying fame, instituted her
band of nurses, and by her untiring energy and ready brain brought for
the first time some system and order into the management of the hospital
at Scutari.
With a glance she conquered the whole working staff, doctors readily
gave over the conduct of affairs to her, and in a wonderfully short
space of time the death-rate had fallen vastly, dirt was hustled from
the buildings, unhealthy sanitary arrangements were swept away and more
suitable ones introduced, and last, but not least, a kitchen was built
by means of which a thousand special diets could be prepared.
Those who have fallen ill at home, and never ceased to fill the air with
praises and thanks to the attentive nurse who cared for them so
devotedly, can perhaps imagine what it means to some poor ailing
soldier, sick almost to death, and with only the rough surroundings of
war about him, to have some gentle hand to nurse him. It is better than
all the delicacies under the sun, for where the womanly mind comes the
material comforts will follow to a certainty.
Phil and Douglas did not stay long at Scutari. A consultation was held
on their cases, and it was declared that months must pass before they
could be fit for hard work again. Accordingly they were sent on board a
transport returning to England.
"I'm jolly glad to get away, Phil," exclaimed Douglas with a sigh of
relief. "Of course I'd rather have been with the regiment, but I fully
realise that our advisers are right, and that we both require a long
rest and change. To tell you the truth, too, I am not altogether sorry.
All the big affairs in the campaign seem to be over, and now our
fellows are having a miserable time in the trenches, waiting for the
fortress to surrender. Besides, since we met, that little matter of
your birth has puzzled me, and you can't tell, old fellow, how anxious I
am to have it settled, though I feel quite sure now that you are my
cousin. Every time I look at you I see the resemblance to my mother and
aunt and to myself."
"I agree with you there," answered Phil. "I've looked at myself more
attentively in the glass than ever before, and I think it is no fancy,
but that there is in reality a similarity of feature. I trust it will
be proved that I am your cousin. I shall be a lucky fellow if it turns
out true."
"Perhaps you will be more fortunate than you imagine," said Douglas,
with a gay laugh.
"Why? How?" asked Phil inquisitively.
"Oh! if you are my cousin, you will have little need to do hard work in
the future."
"Why? I don't understand you, Douglas," Phil answered doubtfully.
"Great goodness! old man, you will be quite a Croesus," Douglas replied,
with a laugh. "To tell you the whole truth, my grandfather was overcome
with remorse, and, believing you would eventually be found, settled a
large sum of money on you--larger than on any of his other children. My
mother is one of the trustees of that fund, and I happen to know that it
is now considerably swollen, having been most happily invested."
"It would be nice to have an independent income," Phil mused
thoughtfully, "but I think, Douglas, that I would far rather have the
new relations. See what an interest they would give me in the future."
"Yes, I think they would, Phil, particularly the cousins. I believe
there are some fifteen of the latter, and ten at least are girls, one
being my sister. Oh yes, old fellow! I've no doubt there would be a
great amount of interest; for a young chap who wins his way from the
ranks by a series of plucky acts, and who, moreover, is a gentleman and
a cousin too, must necessarily be of absorbing interest to new
relations."
Douglas laughed merrily, while Phil coloured hotly.
"I'm afraid I'm a shy fellow with girls," he stuttered, "but you'll
stand by me, Douglas, won't you?"
"Rather, old man, and do my best to be of more interest than you,"
laughed his friend. "Cousins, particularly of the fair sex, are
exceedingly charming company. It'll be a regular picnic, old man."
And now, before lowering the gangway and landing Phil, Douglas, and Tony
on England's shore, let us briefly glance at the closing scenes of the
Crimean war. In February, while our poor fellows were beginning to
recover from their misery, and supplies, and even luxuries, were pouring
into the trenches, the Russians attacked the town and port of Eupatoria,
close to which the Allies had first disembarked, and which was now
strongly held by the Turks and commanded by the guns of the fleet. The
grey-coated battalions were driven back with considerable loss.
And meanwhile, through all the dreary weeks, Allies and Russians crept
towards each other, cutting new trenches, sapping in all directions, and
endeavouring to place their opponents at a disadvantage. On March 22nd
a huge sortie was made from Sebastopol upon the French line of
earthworks, while another column was launched at our right. Both
failed, and the Russians retired with a loss of 1300.
Spring found the Allies in far better condition than they were earlier
in the war, and particularly was this the case with the British.
Supplies were now abundant, and, thanks to private enterprise, a railway
extended from Balaclava to the camp, and so saved the labour of
porterage.
Accordingly the siege was prosecuted with renewed energy, and on April
9th another general bombardment of the fortress took place and continued
for ten days, ten awful days for the Russians, for a few hours had been
sufficient to reduce many of the fortifications, and, fearful of an
assault at any moment, large reserves had of necessity to be kept close
at hand. Through the ranks of these unfortunate but truly devoted men
the iron hail poured, tearing them here and there and toppling masses of
masonry on to them. In those terrible days 6000 or more of the enemy
were killed or wounded, and if Scutari had been a sight to bring tears
to one's eyes, then the Assembly Rooms and other temporary hospitals in
Sebastopol were perfect shambles, while the streets and the road from
the fortress were lined with unburied dead.
Thankful indeed must we of more modern days be for the safety which the
Geneva Convention gives. A red-cross flag over a hospital renders it
sacred, and, once wounded, soldiers of all civilised nations can rely
upon rest and freedom from further injury. Thus out of awful sufferings
and loss of life we have seen that a new era of good has arisen. A
Geneva Convention has sprung into being, and our army is provided with
special departments for transport, supply, hospitals, and other matters,
each ruled by a well-ordered system.
On May 22nd the French attempted to capture a new line of Russian works
which commanded their own trenches, but were beaten back, though their
losses were considerably less than the enemy's. On the same date a
combined fleet sailed to the east, entered the sea of Azof, and took the
town of Kertch. They also destroyed and captured many ships engaged in
bringing supplies to the Russian field-army, and wound up their
operations by taking other towns, and destroying huge depots of
supplies. On June 6th and 7th the fortress of Sebastopol was again
subjected to a fearful bombardment from 544 guns, and its walls and
forts reduced to masses of debris. In the evening of the second day the
French attacked and took a position known as the "White" works. They
then, with the aid of the Turks, captured a fort of great strength, and
now for some time in existence, known as the Mamelon, while the English
stormed and took others known as the "quarries". Thus the outer line of
Russian forts and trenches was in the hands of the Allies. But still
the stubborn and unyielding enemy clung to the fortress. The
bombardment was resumed, and on the 18th the Allies assaulted the main
works of the town, only to be driven back with heavy loss. After that,
for many a day, they contented themselves with cutting their trenches
and approaches, and slowly approaching to the fortress, the object being
to get so close that their attacking-parties might rush across the open
and reach the enemy before being swept away by the guns.
On 15th August a battle was fought close to the Mackenzie heights, in
which the French proved victorious, the Russian field-army, with whom
they were engaged, retiring with heavy loss. On the 17th the
bombardment of the fortress commenced again, and continued for some
days. It was renewed on September 5th, and continued till the 8th, when
a gigantic and combined assault took place. At a terrible cost in
killed and wounded the Malakoff was taken and held by the French. The
remainder of the attack failed, the English being forced to retire from
the Redan, while the French were driven from the little Redan and
curtain bastion. Next morning, after a defence of which all Russia may
well be proud, the enemy marched over a bridge built across the harbour,
and retired in good order, leaving burning fuses to their magazines. Of
these no fewer than thirty-five exploded with terrific noise and awful
results, keeping the camp in a state of alarm for two whole days and
nights, while fires blazed in every direction and lit the skies with
their lurid flames.
And now a new phase of the campaign opened, for opposed to the Allies
there was only a field-army. The two armies sat down facing one
another, no battles of importance taking place; but in the meanwhile the
docks and arsenals of Sebastopol were blown up by our engineers.
Russia had lost heavily in men and money, and, moreover, Europe was in
conceit against her. Nicholas had died on March 2nd, and now the new
czar was prevailed upon to listen to reason. A treaty was drawn up and
signed in Paris on March 30th, by which, amongst other terms of peace,
the Black Sea should be neutral in future, and no power should interfere
between the Sultan and his subjects. On April 2nd a last salvo of
artillery from the batteries on the upland slopes announced that the
Crimean war was over.
Phil did not return to Russia, for his wound proved more severe than was
at first imagined, while Douglas was still too lame to be fit for active
service. They therefore remained in England.
There is little more to tell about them. Phil did not find Mr Western
altered. Indeed he seemed more austere than ever, especially as his
adopted son had risen instead of going to the dogs, as he had
prophesied. But Joe was jubilant.
"Didn't I tell him you'd be no disgrace to him!" he cried, taking up his
favourite position in front of the fireplace. "You've done well, Phil,
my lad, and I am proud of you. Fancy, now! It seems to me only a year
ago since you got into that scrape with the mayor. Ha, ha! what a
mischievous young monkey you were! And now you're an ensign in the
30th, and have brave deeds to boast of. But there, you'll get conceited
if I praise you. No, my dear boy, old Joe is right glad to witness your
success, and still more pleased to find that your relatives have turned
up. A year ago you were the adopted son of poor parents. Now you are
the long-lost orphan, the offspring of gentlefolks, and heir to a tidy
fortune when you come of age. Besides--I was forgetting--there are the
cousins, the girl cousins, Phil;" and with a roar of laughter he pinched
our hero's ear.
Phil had, indeed, to use a common expression, fallen on his feet. He
had learnt that he was of no obscure parentage, and in addition, he had
made some excellent friends amongst his relatives, in whose eyes he was
now a young lion, covered with no small amount of glory.
Years rolled on in rapid succession, and in due time Phil reached the
age of twenty-six, when he married his cousin Eva, Douglas McNeil's
sister.
When one meets him now, as he follows the hounds or stalks through the
streets of London, one unconsciously turns round and takes a second
look, with the muttered remark, "What a fine, soldierly-looking fellow!"
For he still stands as straight as an arrow, carrying his years easily,
while his fine face and big, grey moustache give him a most
distinguished appearance.
That Crimean veteran has many scenes to look back upon. He remembers
his youth, his struggle to rise in the world, and the lifelong friends
he made in achieving his object. He recollects with a happy smile his
marriage, the toddlers who one by one made their appearance, only to
grow up and flit away like fledglings to form nests of their own. Yes,
he remembers all--that happy, gay old bachelor Joe, and his staunch,
true-hearted Tony. Sometimes, too, when he sits in his chair and
slumbers, he dreams that he is once again in the Crimea, and that his
comrades, having heard of the laurels he has won, are still carrying him
shoulder-high, and calling him "A Gallant Grenadier."
The End.