BRAVE BRITISH SOLDIERS AND THE VICTORIA CROSS.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Corporal Robert Shields, 23rd Regiment (Royal Welsh
Fusiliers), finding the Body of his wounded Adjutant, Lieut. Dyneley.]
BEETON’S BOY’S OWN LIBRARY.
BRAVE BRITISH SOLDIERS
AND
THE VICTORIA CROSS.
A GENERAL ACCOUNT OF THE REGIMENTS AND MEN
OF THE BRITISH ARMY.
AND STORIES OF THE BRAVE DEEDS WHICH WON THE PRIZE
“for Valour.”
EDITED BY S. O. BEETON.
[Illustration]
_With Sixteen Full-Page Engravings and Illustrations
in the Text._
LONDON:
WARD, LOCK AND TYLER,
WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW.
BEETON’S BOY’S OWN LIBRARY, COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS.
_Handsomely-finished bindings in cloth, plain edges, 5s.; gilt edges, 6s._
1. STORIES OF THE WARS.
2. HOW I WON MY SPURS. EDGAR.
3. CRESSY AND POICTIERS. Ditto.
4. RUNNYMEDE AND LINCOLN FAIR. Ditto.
5. WILD SPORTS OF THE WORLD.
6. CURIOSITIES OF SAVAGE LIFE.
7. HUBERT ELLIS.
8. DON QUIXOTE. 300 Illustrations.
9. GULLIVER’S TRAVELS.
10. ROBINSON CRUSOE.
11. SILAS THE CONJURER.
12. SAVAGE HABITS AND CUSTOMS.
13. REUBEN DAVIDGER.
14. BRAVE BRITISH SOLDIERS AND THE VICTORIA CROSS.
15. ZOOLOGICAL RECREATIONS. By W. J. BRODERIP, F.R.S.
16. WILD ANIMALS IN FREEDOM AND CAPTIVITY.
17. THE MAN AMONG THE MONKEYS.
18. THE WORLD’S EXPLORERS.
The best set of Volumes for Prizes, Rewards, or Gifts to English Lads.
They have all been prepared by Mr. Beeton with a view to their fitness in
manly tone and handsome appearance for presents for Youth, amongst whom
they enjoy an unrivalled degree of popularity, which never flags.
LONDON: WARD, LOCK, AND TYLER.
[Illustration]
TO THE READER.
This book is written for Boys. The majority of the articles were
expressly prepared for the “Boys’ Own Magazine,” and the interest which
their appearance excited, coupled with the favourable notices they won,
encouraged the Editor to publish them in a connected form.
Boys—worthy to be called Boys—are naturally brave. There is not, so far
as we are aware, any etymological connexion between the words _boy_ and
_brave_; but there _is_ an association of ideas, which if it does not
make the terms interchangeable, is still strongly suggestive of their
being one and the same. The expression _brave_ man is easily understood,
but to us, _brave_ BOY looks like a pleonasm. A man has experience. He
has tested—if there be any good thing in him—his courage in the rough
exploits of the world’s campaign. He has tilted, mayhap, with Quixotic
chivalry against windmills, and in the encounter has been discomfited; he
has awakened from his bright dream to a sad reality; he has been tempted
to turn prosaic—inclined sometimes to beat his sword into a sickle, to
gather in for his own special use the golden wheat from _anybody’s_
cornfield, and to make those late foes of his—the windmills—grind up the
corn to make _his_ bread. Now he is no longer brave. His views of life
are taken from a new point of sight. He smiles at the _boy’s_ enthusiasm,
and counts himself wise in his _man’s_ selfishness. But a man who has
done battle, who has been thrown in the lists, who has been ready to
mount and splinter lance again, who in the gaining of experience has lost
nothing of the Boy’s boldness—such a man is _brave_.
The drift of these remarks is that experience may ruin a Boy’s
“pluck”—may give him the vulpine sagacity of Reynard in place of the
courage of Leo Africanus.
But a Boy is brave. Youth is the season of confidence. “Your _young_
men shall _see visions_” while our “_old_ men shall dream dreams.”
What visions are those which rise up before the young—what brave words
to speak, what brave actions to do—how bravely—if need be—to suffer!
“The young fellows,” said an old soldier to the writer, “are always
pushing forward in a battle charge—they are in a mighty hurry to smell
powder—_the veterans fall into the rear_!” Do they?—ah, well, ’tis the
lesson, perhaps of experience! But is it better than the Boy’s eagerness
to be foremost?—is it not—answer brave hearts—better to die planting the
colours on the wall, than to share the spoil which others have won?
This is the leading thought in this book about Soldiers—it is meant to
keep alive the bravery of youth in the experience of manhood. The editor
of the book is very sensible of the incompleteness of the work. He knows
that it is defective in many places, but it is honest. A good many of the
papers were written by one who was then far away on a foreign station
doing brave service; some of the papers are the work of dead hands. The
articles have been put together as carefully as circumstances would
allow, but there has been an anxious care on the Editor’s part to retouch
as little as possible the work of absent contributors. He offers the book
to the Boys of England—not as the best piece of work that can be done—but
as a volume they will read with delight and keep as a _souvenir_ of
pleasant hours. He is of opinion that anything which helps to make Boys
more in love with true courage is good work done—he believes that bravery
excites bravery, just as iron sharpeneth iron; and so he has confidence
in this book being useful—a record of brave deeds that shall make its
readers echo the words of King Harry—
“If it be a sin to covet honour
I am the most offending soul alive.”
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. OUR SOLDIERS AND THE VICTORIA CROSS 1
II. THE GUARDS, OR HOUSEHOLD TROOPS OF ENGLAND 14
III. THE ENGINEERS 24
IV. THE ROYAL WELSH 40
V. OUR HIGHLAND REGIMENTS 54
VI. OUR HIGHLAND REGIMENTS—(_continued_) 64
VII. OUR HIGHLAND REGIMENTS—(_continued_) 84
VIII. OUR HIGHLAND REGIMENTS—(_continued_) 93
IX. OUR HIGHLAND REGIMENTS—(_continued_) 107
X. THE PIPERS OF OUR HIGHLAND REGIMENTS 123
XI. COLONEL BELL AND THE VICTORIA CROSS 139
XII. COMMANDER (NOW CAPTAIN) FIOTT DAY, R.N., AND THE
VICTORIA CROSS 149
XIII. LIEUTENANTS MOORE AND MALCOLMSON AND THE VICTORIA CROSS 158
XIV. CAPTAIN W. A. KERR, SOUTH MAHRATTA HORSE, AND THE VICTORIA
CROSS 168
XV. PRIVATE HENRY WARD, V.C., 78TH HIGHLANDERS 176
XVI. LIEUTENANT ANDREW CATHCART BOGLE, V.C., 78TH HIGHLANDERS
(NOW CAPTAIN 10TH FOOT) 193
XVII. DR. J. JEE, C.B., V.C., SURGEON; ASSISTANT-SURGEON V.M.
M’MASTER, V.C.; AND LIEUTENANT AND ADJUTANT HERBERT
J. MACPHERSON, V.C. 207
XVIII. “LUCKNOW” KAVANAGH AND THE VICTORIA CROSS 221
XIX. LIEUTENANT BUTLER AND THE VICTORIA CROSS 236
XX. DR. HOME AND DR. BRADSHAW AND THE VICTORIA CROSS 244
XXI. ROSS L. MANGLES, ESQ., V.C., BENGAL CIVIL SERVICE
ASSISTANT-MAGISTRATE AT PATNA 257
XXII. CAPTAIN HENRY EVELYN WOOD, 17TH LANCERS 272
XXIII. SAMUEL MITCHELL AND THE VICTORIA CROSS; OR THE GATE PA
AT TAURANGA 285
XXIV. ENSIGN M’KENNA AND THE VICTORIA CROSS 299
XXV. SERGEANT MAJOR LUCAS, OF THE 40TH REGIMENT, AND THE
VICTORIA CROSS 313
XXVI. THE HEROES OF THE VICTORIA CROSS IN NEW ZEALAND 322
XXVII. THE NAVAL BRIGADE IN INDIA 334
XXVIII. THE VARIOUS RANKS IN THE BRITISH ARMY, AND HOW TO
DISTINGUISH THEM 347
XXIX. A GRAND REVIEW 362
XXX. A SOLDIER’S FUNERAL 376
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT.
PAGE
BUSHIRE 167
FINIAL, DEATH DEFENDING THE RAMPARTS 53
GIBRALTAR 24
GLENCOE 113
GRENADIER, COLDSTREAM, AND SCOTS FUSILIER GUARDS 23
NEW ZEALAND ARMS 285
OFFICERS, EMBROIDERY ON UNIFORM OF 349, 350
ROYAL ARTILLERY, BADGES OF NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICERS
OF THE 356, 357
ROYAL WELSH, INITIAL LETTER TO THE CHAPTER ON THE 40
VICTORIA CROSS, THE 1
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
OUR SOLDIERS AND THE VICTORIA CROSS.
CHAPTER I.
OUR SOLDIERS AND THE VICTORIA CROSS.
[Illustration]
It has been our lot in life to live very much among soldiers, and we
like to write and talk about them. We hope that our readers will not be
averse from hearing something of a class in whom we have all a common
interest. It is true that English boys are not quite so warlike in their
tendencies as French; they neither worship _la gloire_ nor dress like
manikin _soldats_. Swords and guns are not their only playthings, nor are
feeble imitations of sanguinary contests their only pastimes. We here
delight in all manly games and sports, for which French men and boys have
little taste, and we thus acquire a muscular development and hardiness of
frame which enable us to bear any amount of fatigue. It was a saying of
the grand old Iron Duke that all his battles were won on the playground
at Eton; by which we suppose he meant that his officers, most of whom
were Eton boys, received there such a physical training as fitted them to
be heroes in the strife. Still, it is one of those epigrammatic sayings
in which truth is sacrificed for effect; for what could the duke, with
all his officers, have done without the brave privates who composed his
forces, and to whom he rendered justice on another occasion by saying
that with such an army he could go anywhere and do anything?
A chaplain belongs, of course, to the non-combatant class in the army.
It is not his duty to appear in the field, or to take part in battles.
He has to remain at the hospital, and to administer the consolations
of religion to the wounded and the dying; but he is precluded by his
profession from being present at, or taking part in, any battle.
It is for this reason, perhaps, that we have always had a certain
pleasure in listening to soldiers as they fought their battles over in
hospital, and recounted their experience to one another. It was all
strange and new to us, as, we dare say, it will be to most of those who
read this book.
The soldiers of whom we speak all took part in and survived the Crimean
war. Their manly breasts are all adorned with the different medals
awarded to them; two of them wear the Victoria Cross. One early object
of our curiosity was to ascertain what are the sensations or feelings
of a soldier on entering battle, or being exposed to fire for the first
time. Now, the answer we invariably received will, perhaps, take some of
our readers by surprise. They felt nothing of that warlike intoxication
ascribed to the old Vikings on the eve of the combat; they had none of
that strange joy ascribed by the patriarch to the war-horse at the sound
of the trumpet, nor were they exactly afraid; but there was a certain
uneasy sensation experienced by all as the bullet whizzed past the ear,
and comrade after comrade dropped, sometimes with a sharp cry of pain,
sometimes giving no sign.
This feeling some of them graphically described as similar to that
which a bather experiences before plunging into the water; _ce n’est
que le premier pas qui coûte_; after the first dip Richard is himself
again. But our readers are not to suppose that the soldier shows the
same hesitation in advancing to charge as the bather on the brink of
the stream. If he did he would be a coward, and be scorned by all his
comrades. To make the two cases parallel, we must suppose a thousand
bathers rushing forward to the stream at once. Now, though an individual
bather standing alone might stop short on reaching the water, and pause
before taking a header, a thousand bathers rushing forward at once,
would plunge into the water without hesitation. The dread of shame, of
exposure, of ridicule, would nerve the least courageous for the final
leap. There is, moreover, such a strong feeling of sympathy diffused
among large bodies of men acting in concert that the strength of the
stronger is imparted to the weaker. Now, it is the same with soldiers
advancing to the charge. All of them feel the cold shiver like that of
the bather approaching the water, but they march shoulder to shoulder,
and with them are some old soldiers who have been under fire before. The
younger ones are encouraged by their example, and many a lad who has
trembled on first smelling powder has proved himself a hero in the fight.
We have read in books that soldiers sometimes weep while fighting hand
to hand and sorely pressed—not tears of cowardly terror by any means,
but such tears as the strongest of men will shed in hours of fierce
excitement. Wellington wept as he embraced Blucher after the Battle of
Waterloo. This, indeed, has been denied, but it is not difficult to
believe it true. There are moments in the lives of all men, even the
most reserved and self-contained, when the hidden fountains of feeling
well over and find an outlet through the eyes, and we should not think
a whit less highly of our soldiers did they shed a few tears of valiant
rage while victory was still doubtful. But these tears, we suspect, are
purely imaginary. For ourselves, we never met with a single soldier who
confessed that he had shed tears himself, or seen others weep. We are
sure that they would not have denied it if they had yielded to any such
weakness, for, as a class, soldiers are the most truthful of men. All
with whom we conversed agreed in affirming that our men were very quiet
while fighting hand to hand with the enemy. There would be occasionally a
shrill cry of pain from the wounded, or a short cry of triumph from the
man who struck down his opponent, but generally, all the dread work of
the battle-field was done in silence. All admitted that the most fearful
sound during a battle was the cry of a wounded horse; it was so like that
of a human being in his death agony—shrill, piercing, heartrending. The
horses seem to become almost human in the hour of battle, to share in all
the wild passions of the combatants, and to exult equally in the hour of
victory.
But while our men fought in silence, the Russians were very noisy both
in advancing and in fighting. They uttered the most savage yells, as
if they thought to inspire our men with terror by the mere noise they
made. They soon discovered that Englishmen are not so easily frightened;
but they still continued to shout from mere habit. Their officers also
encouraged them in this custom, giving them, moreover, drink to make them
pot-valiant. Notwithstanding this, we have always heard our soldiers
frankly speak of the Russians as “foemen worthy of their steel.” Brave
men, we know, learn to respect one another even in the field, and the
Russians are certainly one of the bravest nations in Europe. They still
retain, however, many of the characteristics of savage life; they have
not yet learned to act on the old Roman maxim, “_Debellare superbos,
parcere victis._” They often bayoneted our men when left defenceless and
wounded. It is but just to add that they expected no mercy when left in
the same condition, and seemed overwhelmed with surprise when our men
treated them with the same generous tenderness as though they had been
comrades instead of foes.
There are sometimes strange traits of character exhibited during the
excitement of battle. Men may have been living under restraint for years,
and come to believe themselves to be very different from what they are.
Xenophon relates a story of a Greek soldier who, in consequence of a
wound which had affected his brain, forgot the language he had spoken for
many years, and began to express himself in his native tongue, which,
before this accident, seemed to have entirely faded from his memory.
Something analogous to this occurred at the Battle of the Alma, in the
case of a sergeant of the Guards. He had once been much addicted to
swearing, but had been enabled to vanquish this and other evil habits,
and for many years had been looked up to by his comrades as a man of
exemplary character. His company, while charging up the heights of the
Alma, was surrounded by the enemy, and, after suffering severe loss,
was obliged to retreat. In vain the poor sergeant endeavoured to rally
them. He was borne along with the current. Overpowered with shame and
rage, he gave way to a sort of madness, and swore such fearful oaths that
we have often heard the men of his company say that it was something
awful to hear him. Those who occupied the same tent with him relate that
he spent most of the night after the battle in prayer, and was often
heard sobbing like a child. He never spoke of the strange outburst of
that day to any of his comrades, and they had the delicacy to avoid all
allusion to the subject; but it was observed that he was more humble,
kind, and considerate in his bearing towards them than he had ever been
before. He survived the war and returned to England, where he enjoyed
the respect of all who knew him, and was never known to indulge in the
habit which gained the mastery over him at the Alma. He is now dead, but
his surviving comrades speak with a sort of awe of the incident we have
related.
One soldier of the Guards became raving mad at the Alma. It happened in
this way:—The Russian fire struck down several of the men as they were
advancing. The soldier of whom we speak was a young lad who had never
smelt powder before. By his side was a comrade who belonged to the same
district, and had enlisted at the same time. The latter was hit by a
cannon-ball, and his brains were bespattered over the face of his friend,
who became frantic, roaring and shouting like a madman. He imagined that
his comrades were the enemy, and that he was fighting hand to hand with
them. The whole company was thrown into confusion, and he wounded some of
his comrades before he could be disarmed. He was conducted to the rear,
fighting and struggling the whole way. The surgeons pronounced him to be
a dangerous lunatic, and he was strapped down upon one of the beds in
the hospital, with a sentinel to watch over him. That sentinel told us
that he was never entrusted before or since with such an unpleasant duty.
Owing to the shock which the brain had received, the poor madman could
not rest for a moment. He fancied himself in the thickest of the combat,
fighting with all the energy of despair, and swearing that his comrades
should be avenged. He continued in this raving condition for about
twenty-four hours, when, with the exultant cry of “Victory!” he expired.
A similar incident occurred at Inkermann: in this case, also, the soldier
survived only twenty-four hours.
Soldiers rarely feel much pain at the moment they receive their wounds,
unless these be very severe, in which case they suffer much from thirst.
There is one very gallant friend of ours—a non-commissioned officer—who
was shot through the ankle in crossing the stream at the Alma. He knew
not that he was wounded till the battle was over, but thought that his
foot had got entangled among the vines in crossing the valley, and that
he had sprained the joint. A good soldier never likes to go to hospital
when there is any hard fighting, and our friend kept “a quiet sough,” as
they say in the North, about his wound, and marched at the head of his
company as if nothing had happened to him. His courage and endurance were
rewarded: he was present at, and took part in, the Battle of Inkermann,
where his gallantry attracted the notice of the commanding officer, on
whose recommendation he obtained the medal and pension for distinguished
conduct in the field. He was wounded also on this occasion, but his hurt
was of a far more serious character. He was shot through the head: the
bullet literally entered at one side, and came out at the other. He felt
a sharp, stinging pain, and remembered nothing more till he regained
his consciousness in hospital, and was surprised to learn that he had
been some weeks under the doctor’s hands. He suffers no inconvenience
from his wound now, except occasional dizziness and half-blindness after
any excitement or exposure to the sun. Such a man in the French service
might have risen to the rank of field-marshal, and obtained a name in
the page of history. Well, after all, the great thing is to do our duty
well in the position we occupy; and our friend, as sergeant-major of
his distinguished regiment, is happier, probably, than if he had had
greatness thrust upon him.
Though soldiers recover from their wounds at the moment, they are often
very dangerous afterwards. The brain is often injured, and the disease
goes on till the man loses his reason, or drops down dead. A poor fellow
was hit on the crown of the head by a piece of shell in one of the
trenches before Sebastopol. He was stunned at the moment, but thought
so little of it that he did not even report himself wounded. For eight
years he felt no pain, but one day, while on guard, he was seized with a
sudden giddiness, and became insensible. He was conveyed to hospital in a
cab, and on recovering his consciousness he found that he was suffering
the most intense pain on the crown of his head. His sufferings were very
great; the only relief he could obtain was through the application of
chloroform.
We write all this knowing that English boys feel deep sympathy with, and
profound admiration for, our soldiers, and to show that their powers of
endurance, when disabled, equal in heroic worth their gallantry upon the
field.
Not all our readers, perhaps, have seen the Victoria Cross. It is not
very beautiful nor very valuable in itself. A fac-simile of it appears
at the commencement of this chapter. It is a simple piece of bronze,
shaped like a cross, and its intrinsic value may be about threepence.
Its intrinsic value! but who can tell the price a soldier puts upon it?
He had rather have that piece of bronze on his breast than be made a
Knight of the Garter, and have his banner hung up with those of the other
K.G.’s in the Chapel of St. George at Windsor. To obtain that small piece
of bronze of the value of threepence he will lead the forlorn hope, be
the first to storm the breach, and ever ready to expose his life to any
danger. The Victoria Cross is as much to a soldier as the _gage d’amour_
the knight-errant in the days of chivalry received from his lady-love,
and swore never to part with. The pledge of her affection might be a
soiled and tattered glove, worth even less than the cross “For Valour,”
but it was dearer to her lover than life itself. O that the day may never
come in this country when we shall judge of things by the Hudibrastic
principle—
“The price of anything
Is just as much as it will bring!”
for badly then will it fare with Old England. When our soldiers come to
value their crosses at threepence each, the price they will fetch at a
marine store, we shall not long survive as a nation. But there is little
danger of such an eventuality. There are things—God be thanked—which we
_do_ love and value more than life itself—things which gold can _not_
purchase. The Victoria Cross is one of them; and we are about to relate
how three gallant officers of one of our most distinguished regiments
came to be decorated with the priceless meed “FOR VALOUR.” One was a
commissioned officer; the other two were sergeants. Though different in
rank, they were equal in bravery; their bravery was equally rewarded.
Most people—thanks to Mr. Kinglake’s history, and other sources of
information—are now tolerably familiar with all the details of the Battle
of the Alma. They know how the gallant Welsh Fusiliers, after forcing
their way to the heights, and seizing the colours on the Russian battery,
were so cut up by the enemy that they were forced to retire. They fell
back in obedience to orders. It so happened, however, that as the word,
“Fusiliers, retire!” was given, the Scots Fusilier Guards were charging
up the heights, and the officer in command of them, hearing the order,
thought that it was intended for his own men, and commanded them to fall
back. This fact is not mentioned by Mr. Kinglake, but there are many
witnesses still alive who heard this second order given, and acted upon
it. Now, it is very difficult to retire before an enemy without falling
into confusion; and it so happened that the Welsh Fusiliers came rushing
down like a torrent. One gallant regiment opened their ranks, allowed
them to pass through, and then closed again; but the Scots Fusiliers were
not so fortunate. They did not open their ranks, because they received no
order to do so, and were already falling back, when the crowd of Welsh
Fusiliers came rushing upon them, broke through their ranks, and threw
them into disorder; and, in the midst of this, the Russians made a dash
at the colours of the regiment.
[Illustration: Captain Lloyd Lindsay, Scots Fusilier Guards, saving the
regimental colours at the Alma.]
Now, it is not needful to dwell on the fact that it would be as
disgraceful for an English regiment to lose its colours as it would have
been for an old Roman centurion to have lost his shield. The colours are
usually intrusted to one or two subalterns and several sergeants, who
form a sort of guard of honour over them, and are held responsible for
their safety. When they are in danger the bravest men in the regiment
rally round them, and it is held unworthy not to follow them wherever
they are seen. They are the same to our soldiers as the white plume of
Henry of Navarre was to his men, or the bronze eagles to Rome’s Tenth
Legion. Knowing this, officers have sometimes thrown the colours into
the very midst of the enemy, sure that their men would die rather than
lose them. No sooner, therefore, was it known that the colours were in
danger than the bravest men of the regiment tried to reach them, but only
a few succeeded. They did not come too soon; the men intrusted with the
colours fought like lions, but one officer was struck down, and only two
sergeants survived the fearful contest. But the colours were safe, and
the men might proudly say, with Francis I. after disastrous Pavia, “_Tout
est perdu, hors l’honneur._” The regiment wiped out the memory of the
misfortune at the Alma (it was no disgrace to obey orders) on the bloody
field of Inkermann, and a grateful country did not forget the men who
loved their colours better than their lives. The officer who was struck
down died of his wounds on the voyage home; Death was envious of the
honours that awaited him. The other officer still survives, and wears on
his breast the cross his sovereign bestowed upon him. He is, or will be,
one of the wealthiest men in England, but we are sure that he values that
small piece of bronze of the value of threepence more than all the money
he has at his banker’s.
“Money is round, and rolls away,”
but the memory of a brave action has never perished.
But gallant deeds are the same whether they be done by officers or by
men; and the two sergeants demand notice who were also, for the part
they took in this affair, decorated with the Victoria Cross. We should
not dwell upon their history if it were not that it points a moral,
though it does not adorn our tale. Both of these sergeants were fine,
handsome fellows; one of them is six feet two inches in height. When they
returned to London, and walked forth in the streets, decorated with the
memorials of their bravery, their appearance naturally attracted much
attention. Foolish people stopped them in the street, and invited them
to drink. Now, no man of sense or good-breeding will drink in this way
with soldiers, and no man of good feeling will tempt soldiers to drink.
Those who thus invited our sergeants, we believe, meant no harm, but only
wished to give the sergeants a cheerful glass, and to make them light
their battles o’er again. But soldiers who know how to resist the enemy
in war are not always proof against temptation in times of peace. These
two Victoria Cross men fell into irregular habits, such as could not be
tolerated in the case of non-commissioned officers; every effort was made
to save them, but in vain; their irregularities became so glaring that
they were reduced to, and have ever since remained in, the ranks. They
are steady enough now, but it is felt that they cannot be trusted, and
they are not likely ever to regain their former rank. It seems very hard
that brave men should lose their position through the mistaken kindness
and thoughtlessness of their admirers, and we hope that those who feel
sympathy with soldiers will find some better way of expressing it than
by giving them drink. These two men, though serving in the ranks, have
still much influence over their comrades, and that influence, we are glad
to say, is generally exercised for good. The possession of the Victoria
Cross carries with it a pension of 10_l._, which cannot be forfeited
through misconduct; the pension for distinguished conduct in the field is
15_l._ per annum.
Many small pledges of affection were found on the persons of our soldiers
who fell on the battle-fields of the Crimea. Sometimes a lock of hair, or
a photograph, or a last letter from home, or a small Bible or Testament,
was found concealed beneath the tunic of a dead soldier. Many of them
carried their Bibles with them to the field as a sort of talisman to
protect them from danger; and there is a well-authenticated case of one
soldier having had his life saved from the bullet, which would otherwise
have reached his heart, having lodged in his Bible. We should think that
book would become a precious relic in his family, ever to be prized,
never to be parted with, for it was literally the Word of Life to him.
Another was found with his right hand so firmly clenched that it was
difficult to open it. He had allowed the blood from his wound to flow
upon his hand, so that, on closing it, his fingers became, as it were,
cemented together. Inside the hand were found several sovereigns he had
saved from his pay with the intention of remitting them to his wife at
home. His last thought was, probably, of her, and her heart must have
been touched when she received the money he had saved for her with his
heart’s blood. Another man, who died of his wounds in hospital, had
recourse to a singular expedient to save his watch, which he wished to
be sent to his father in some remote country village. It was known that
he was possessed of a watch, and there was no small uneasiness among the
hospital orderlies when it could not be found after his death. Search
was made for it in vain, and suspicion naturally fell upon the orderly
who had been with him when he died. As this man, however, had always
borne a good character, and there was no direct evidence against him,
he was allowed to retain his situation, which must have been anything
but a comfortable one. About ten days after the death of the soldier the
mystery was cleared up. The effects of a dead soldier are usually sold
by auction, and the proceeds, after paying all demands, remitted to his
relations at home. It so happened that this man was possessed of a pair
of good boots (a rare piece of good fortune in the Crimea), and these
were purchased by a comrade for a few shillings. The purchaser, in trying
on the right boot, found some obstacle in the toe which he imagined to be
a pebble; on shaking it out he discovered the missing watch. The dying
man, in the delirium of his last struggle, had contrived to secrete it
in the place where it was found. It would be difficult to assign any
reasonable motive for such an act; it was probably done in a moment of
unconsciousness.
Commodore Wilmot has told us a good deal in his book about the King of
Dahomey’s Amazons. These female warriors form his body-guard, and are
three times as numerous as the men, whom they surpass in strength and
bravery. They are very skilful in the use of firearms, and carry gigantic
razors for shaving off heads—a very unladylike amusement, as all will
allow. Now, in this country we have no regularly organized army of
Amazons, though there is no saying what we may soon have in these days,
when there are so many suggestions for the employment of female labour.
It may be a prejudice on our part, but we confess we should not like to
see nice young ladies firing off blunderbusses, or shaving off people’s
heads. Still, women have been found serving in the ranks, both in France
and in England, without their sex being discovered, and a good many
soldiers’ wives accompanied our forces to the East. It is painful, but
truthful, to add that most of these adventurous females had to be sent
home, for reasons which we had rather not specify; four only were allowed
to remain. These well-conducted Amazons weathered all the dangers of the
campaign, watched over their husbands in the field and the hospital, did
all the marketing, without knowing a word of “the foreign lingo” spoken
by the natives, passed through many perils, and returned to relate their
“accidents by flood and field” to their admiring friends.
Soldiers, as we have said, are very patient while enduring physical pain.
A hospital presents a fearful scene on the day after a battle. It is
surprising that no artist has selected such a subject to illustrate the
horrors of war. Our army surgeons are brave men, or they would lose their
presence of mind amid such scenes, for it requires less courage to kill
than to heal. Every form of physical suffering is to be seen there; but a
groan is rarely to be heard. It is only during the amputation of a limb,
or the probing of a wound, that a sharp cry of pain is sometimes wrung
from the sufferer, who generally turns aside his head, as if ashamed of
such unsoldierly weakness. Wounded and dying soldiers like to be visited
by their chaplains; they often say, “We have led a bad life; can there
be any hope for us now?” They may have been bad men, but they are always
truthful: they never try to make themselves out to be better than they
really are. Their last thought is generally of home. Often in India and
the Crimea a dying soldier has said to his chaplain, “You will write
and tell them all about it. I hope I have done my duty, and nothing
to disgrace my name.” If our chaplains did nothing but soothe the last
hours of our soldiers, their mission would not be altogether in vain;
and no class of men are more grateful for kindness, as our nurses in the
East will testify. And here we detract not from the excellent intentions
of those ladies in saying that, from want of previous training, they
were, as a class, disqualified for the work they undertook; yet we have
always heard them spoken of by the men with the deepest respect. We have
baptized many a Florence Nightingale, and the feeling cherished towards
this lady in the army is almost analogous to the Mariolatry of the
Italian peasantry: it borders on idolatry. “Shure she is not a woman,
but an angel of mercy,” said a poor Irishman whom she had nursed. “I
could kiss the very earth she threads.” There are many others equally
grateful, though less demonstrative and poetical in the expression of
their gratitude. Florence Nightingale and the Queen are the two patron
saints of the British Army. Our soldiers have not yet forgotten how her
Majesty visited them in hospital on their return from the Crimea, and
showed her sorrow and her sympathy as a woman best can show it—by her
tears. And, after all, be we queen or soldier’s wife, drummer-boy or
commander-in-chief, we are all members of the same family, with the same
great heart beating within our breasts. One touch of nature makes the
whole world kin. Our Queen wept for her wounded soldiers, and there was
many a soldier wept for our Queen when the great sorrow overtook her.
Such tears are not lost; they bind us all together, and give us a deeper
insight into that great law of love taught by Him who did not esteem it a
weakness to weep at the grave of a friend.
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